“I thought you?—”
“I just assumed that since your engagement…” She trails off. I don’t have to hear the rest of the sentence to know that she thought I wouldn’t be coming on this trip because my engagement ended—and that I would be able to do the school art camps.Oh god.
I rest my head against the dresser. I feel terrible. I should have communicated better, should have sent a reminder email.
“Yeah, no I…I came anyway. Listen, is there anything I can do to put your mind at ease? Kayla is great and the kids are going to love her. She has all the plans, we went over them together and?—”
“All good, Abby. Enjoy your vacation. We’ll see you in August.”
She hangs up, and I’m left with a sinking feeling and a new boulder to add to the mountain of stress on me. This whole year at school has been the hardest one yet. The emails from parents, the pressure from the school administration, it’s been worse than ever, and all of it on top of never feeling completely safe.
In January, merely two months after Todd broke up with me, we had an active shooter scare.
We started doing drills about four years ago. We didn’t have to do these when I started teaching elementary school art, but the world changed and the danger became more and more real, and two years ago, our school started requiring quarterly active shooter drills.
The very first one fried my nervous system. After the first one, it took me a full two weeks to feel like myself again. I had a migraine that lasted a full week and wouldn’t respond to my normal pain meds. As I’ve grown accustomed to the drills, they don’t take quite as severe a toll on me physically, and it helps that the school communicates with us about when they’ll happen. It gives teachers, parents, and students time to prepare and helps everyone stay calm during the drill. The noise of the alarm can trigger a migraine, but I’ve learned to deal with it on drill days.
On this particular January day, the alarm went off. I panicked, worried I’d missed an email about a drill day, but the fear on my young students’ faces slapped me back to reality—this was not a drill.
We went through the routine, securing the door, barring the room, but my heart never stopped hammering in my chest. Even when the school was declared safe, and the whole incident was announced to be a false alarm—we were never really in any danger—my body could not come down from that experience. My mind could not wipe away the whimpers of my students.
After a week, I still felt as shaky as if it were still happening.
Heartbreak and anxiety turned out to be potent motivators for me. One sleepless night, days after the false alarm, I did two things. I emailed a therapist, and I applied to be a student at the community college. I’d been toying with the idea of going back to school on and off for years to pursue graphic design, but I always dismissed the idea. I wasn’t going to abandon my career, or put the administration in a bind, and I certainly couldn’t leave my kids.
But I also couldn’t continue to live the way I was living.
Long before I ever wanted to teach, I wanted to make art. And while I’ve found it fulfilling introducing my first love to young kids, lately it hasn’t felt as fulfilling as it used to. I find myself reaching for my sketchbook more these days, eager to make something beautiful with my hands again.
And now I have an opportunity to do it. There’s an acceptance email in my inbox that I received on March 1 requiring a response from me by July 1.
I’ve been trying to pretend like it’s not there, like I never applied and got accepted. It would be easier to just go back to school in the fall and forget I ever considered leaving. But the email taunts me. Begging to be opened and reread and considered.
I am hoping this vacation cures whatever burnout I have from teaching and I can just ignore this email and pretend this little dream of mine was just that…a dream.
I think the best way to ignore this email is at the pool.
I’ve almost unpacked my whole suitcase when I find a present from Hazel.
I fight a smile and grab my phone to call her. She picks up after the first ring.
“My jet-setting bestie is calling me, oh my god! Did you make it to Cabo? How’s the weather? How’s your head?”
“No migraine yet, but I am feeling a bit confused by a present I just found in my suitcase.”
I hold up a box of condoms.
Hazel cackles, loud enough that Winnie shouts from the background.
“What is so funny?” Hazel’s wife asks. She must have me on speakerphone, because I can hear Winnie clear as day.
“She found the condoms I put in her bag,” Hazel says around her laughter.
“You’re a menace,” Winnie says. “Did you feed the dogs?”
“Not yet.”
Hazel and Winnie are big softies hidden in the bodies of tough-as-nails career women, especially when it comes to their animals. They’re currently fostering a beagle mix named Old Sport and a gray British shorthair cat named Captain, and that’s on top of the four animals they already foster failed—three cats and a dog. This is not a pair who can say no to homeless animals.
