I turn my back to Olivia as I retrieve the cooler from the ground and a picnic blanket from the canoe. When I face her again, she sports a laid-back smile. “What did you pack for lunch?” she asks breezily.
I list the food I gathered from the mess hall as we spread out the picnic blanket. We sit in the sun so our clothes can dry while we eat.
Olivia and I so often end up soaked when we’re together—water fights, water parks, accidental dips in the creek. I can only assume it’s because of how desperately we need to cool down when we get within a hundred yards of each other.
We’re quiet while we eat, but it’s a comfortable silence. I chew my sandwich, rolling through memories of the summer so far. Even though these weekends with Olivia have been the highlight, I’m captivated with Olivia in work-mode during the week. The way she organizes the activity schedule for each cabin every week. The firm command she has when orienting each new group to the swimming hole rules or canoe safety.
“Had you done much canoeing before this summer?” I ask her. We’d kayaked together back in high school, but I don’t remember canoes featuring much in her past.
She hums. “In college,” she confirms. “The student rec center emphasized outdoor programs and students could rent all sorts of equipment cheaply. Canoes, but also camping gear, kayaks, paddleboards. When it wasn’t soccer season, my teammates and I liked to paddle in Brays Bayou or Buffalo Bayou.”
She’s quiet for a few minutes, staring out at the lake. “I felt like I had to move, I had to be outside, you know? Or else I would go crazy sitting inside classrooms all day.” She blinks and shifts her focus back to me, smiling wanly. “That burn in my muscles is like a kind of therapy for me.”
I imagine Olivia with her friends paddling down the marshy rivers in Houston, smiling, her face turned toward the sun. The images combine with how I’ve seen her this summer, working with the kids. An idea strikes.
“Olivia, you should be a teacher!” I pause. “You’re so good with the kids. Patient and encouraging. They all love you.”
She puffs out one loud, quick laugh, then goes quiet. She can’t seem to find the words to respond, leaving her mouth gaping while she blinks rapidly.
Meanwhile, the more I think about this idea, the more I like it. She already has experience through coaching and the work she’s doing at Camp Prairie Star this summer. She has a college degree in exercise science, not to mention her impressive résumé as an athlete.
“A teacher?” Olivia finally sputters. “Are you crazy? I’m not smart enough to be a teacher.”
I frown, and my eyebrows pull together.Why would she say that?“Of course you are. Listen, though. You should be a PE teacher.”
Olivia sits up straighter. “Huh. A PE teacher?”
“Yeah,” I say, warming up now. “It’ll let you be outside and continue to work with kids, coaching them and watching their confidence grow, but in a stable job that pays … well, not a lot probably, but at least enough for you to get your own apartment, if you want.”
She narrows her eyes as she considers my words. “That’s actually not a terrible idea.”
I laugh. “Well, thanks very much.”
“Don’t you need a license or something to be a teacher?” She grimaces.
I lift a hand. “Probably? We can look up the requirements when we get back to camp.”
I reach across the blanket to squeeze Olivia’s hand. I know this has been weighing on her, trying to figure out what to do with her life, and more immediately, what to do after this summer job ends.
The spark in her eyes now makes me think she’s considering this possibility, maybe even getting excited about it. She’s buoyed by the idea, at least.
A solid, satisfied warmth settles across my chest. Maybe if Olivia can imagine a future beyond this summer for herself, she can picture me in it, too. Permanently.
Chapter twenty-five
Olivia
Afterourcanoetripand picnic, Gage and I use the computer in the front office to search up the requirements for teaching in Texas. We could use our phones—we’re not so remote at the camp that we don’t have a data connection—but this feels like a big internet kind of task. Even with Gage here looking over my shoulder, I’m nervous about misreading something and drawing the wrong conclusions.
When we find the information, the excitement I felt only a few moments before leaks out of me. It’s complicated, and there are a lot of steps.
If, like me, someone has a bachelor’s degree that’s not in education, they need to apply to an educator preparation program. There’s also a certification content exam I’d need to pass. Admittance to a program and passing the exam is required before I could get a probationary teaching certificate, and that’s assuming there are schools willing to accept teachers with only a probationary certification.
“Well, you won’t have the probationary certificate in time for this school year, but you could start working on it after the summer,” Gage says optimistically.
Honestly, though, the thought ofmoreclasses and exams makes it hard to breathe. I envision the hoops I’ll need to jump through to get accommodations for my learning disorder and the constant fight of making sure the teachers and exam administrators actually provide those accommodations. I’m exhausted thinking about it.
“Yeah, maybe,” I mumble.
