I don’t have time to think about a hobby, not when I need a real job as soon as possible. Still, as I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but wonder if it would really be that terrible to try both.
THREE
“Why are you coming with me again?” Grant asks on Friday morning as I slide into the terribly oversized truck I constantly make fun of. It might make sense for him, since he owns a small contracting company and does a lot of the work himself with his small crew, but I am his little sister, which means it’s my job to constantly make his life more difficult.
"It’s take your sister to work day. Duh."
He glares at me. “That’s absolutely not a real thing.”
“Like you would know. You never even remember when Halloween is.”
“Why would I? I don’t have kids,” Grant says.
Every year, I bring two bags of candy to his house on the thirtieth, knowing damn well he is not going to have any for the next day. Since he lives on a cul-de-sac in the suburbs, he always gets a ton of kids coming to his house. If it weren’t for me, he’d probably be a big target on Mischief Night.
“Because it’s the same day each year!” I argue, and the very edges of his lips tip up, signaling he’s purposely trying to irritate me. I sigh and shake my head. “What I’m saying is, you don’t know holidays, so why would you know if Take Your Sister to Work Day isn’t real?”
“Because I have two brain cells and I’ve known you your whole life. I know when you’re bullshitting me to avoid talking about something that you’re reluctant to address.” Unfortunately, he had more to do with raising me than our parents did. This often meant sifting out untruths and lies—not that I did that too often—but if anyone can read me like a book, it’s my older brother. "So, tell me why you’re really here?" An anxious flutter twists in my stomach as I force myself to sound casual.
"I just wanted to see what it would be like working for you," I say, focusing on my nails and avoiding his gaze. I spent last night painting them a pretty pale pink to distract myself while filling out job applications, all the while dreading having this conversation with Grant.
“Why would you want to do that?” he asks, rightfully confused since physical labor and I have never been friends.
“In case I want to work with you.”
He starts to creep through the parking lot, moving forward as he gives me a puzzled look.
"Why?"
I bite my lip instead of meeting his eyes. “Because I quit my job, and I’ll need a backup soon.”
He slams on the brakes, making me test the crash resistance of his seatbelt.
“Jesus, Grant,” I grumble, rubbing at my neck where the strap rubbed it.
"What did you just say?" He turns in his seat to face me.
“Okay, so, I didn’t quit.” I roll my lips into my mouth. “Technically, I’ve been laid off. But only for a year,” I add, trying to sound upbeat. “They needed to reduce the number of teachers, and I’m the newest addition. I’ll get my position back when Mrs. Evans retires. I could have gone to Bridgeville toteach, but I chose to be laid off and come back next fall.” Might as well just rip the Band-Aid off all at once.
“June. Why would you choose to quit instead of taking the other job? That’s reckless, and you know that.”
“I didn’t quit. I was laid off,” I say, my voice low and childish sounding even to my own ears.
“Laid off, quit, whatever. June. What were you thinking?”
I was thinking that each morning I woke up dreading the hours ahead, and I couldn’t live like that forever.But saying that out loud would trigger exactly the kind of alarm I'm trying to avoid. Better to keep that to myself—at least for now.
Or concern him more than how alarmed he already looks.
"I just wanted a change," I say. Wrong answer.
“Then dye your hair!” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “Get a tattoo! You don’t just up and quit your job. I can’t believe this, June. What are you going to do? You’re just throwing everything you worked for all away?”
"It’s just a year," I mumble, doubting myself.
"What will you do for that year?" he asks.
"I don’t know. I just…I saw the chance to catch my breath, and I took it. Some days…" My words trail off as I stare out the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Nerves pull tightly at my stomach. "Sometimes, I don’t know if I want to be a teacher anymore," I admit, the confession escaping before I can stop it, my voice trembling.
