Page 19 of Check You Out

“Marvelous.” Charlotte laughs. “Look, I’ll order two pizzas just to make you happy. One sausage and pineapple, the other pepperoni. You good with that?” She waits until I nod before she pulls out her phone and taps on it. “How’s it been?”

“A little slow,” Sarah replies. “But it’s still early.”

Charlotte shrugs in between tapping. “It’ll pick up later.”

As if on cue, a group of older women walk into the bookstore, giggling and talking loudly. Panic rises in my belly and buzzing forms in my ears. These women act like they know Charlotte, which means that they’re going to talk to her, which means she’s going to introduce me, which mean I’m going to have to take part in small talk.

I hate small talk.

A hand on my arm brings me back to reality. I look down at Charlotte’s face as she smiles at me. “There’s an office in the back if you want to get away. I’ll bring the pizza back for us,” she whispers and points toward a red door at the back of the store. “First door on the left.”

I nod stiffly and duck away from the approaching ladies. The office is exactly where she says it is. Small, but cozy, with bookshelves and filing cabinets along the walls and soft furnishings. There’s a small window behind the desk.

It’s quiet. Beautifully quiet.

I breathe in the calm and peace as it washes over me. The weight on my chest recedes, the buzzing dissipates, and my vision clears.

Letting out a sigh of relief, I drop my backpack on the floor next to the desk. I absorb the scent of pine, mint, and something else from the wax warmer sitting on the desk as I plop down in the chair. Closing my eyes, I relish the fact that I’m alone.

After a moment of centering, I pull out my laptop and start working on grades. That’s what I was originally supposed to do today: grade papers. I yank a stack of several folders out of my backpack and open the top one, which contains thirty handwritten essays from thirty students in my first period class.

I’m in the middle of deciphering barely legible scrawl, when there’s a knock on the door. I look up to see Charlotte sneaking through the door, carrying a pizza box and some plates.

Is the pizza here already? Where did the time go?

“Hey,” she says. “I left Sarah with the pepperoni. I hope you don’t mind sausage and pineapple.”

“It’s fine,” I say as I gather up my papers. I only graded ten essays.

She sets the greasy box on the desk and then grabs a chair from the side wall. With a raised eyebrow, she scrutinizes me for a heartbeat. “Are you really neutral on pineapple?”

“Yes.”

She sinks into the chair. “Nearly every person I’ve met has either loved or hated pineapples. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered someone who is Switzerland in that war.” She opens the box and pulls out a slice. “I brought some napkins too,” she says as she tosses them onto the desk.

I reach to grab a slice of pizza, but Charlotte’s voice interrupts me. “You’re not a big talker, are you?” she says with a concentrated look on her face. “Why is that?”

I blink and look at her. Sweat pools on my palms, and not just because the pizza is hot. Words start to take shape on my lips, but then my mouth just gapes, nothing comes out.

I expect her to make fun of me or look annoyed when I open my eyes, but she just looks at me with a calm, placid expression on her face. Like she could just sit there this entire afternoon, waiting for me to work up the courage to finally say something coherent.

I finally say in a soft voice, “I have a hard time talking to people. I was diagnosed with social anxiety as a teenager.” My chest feels lighter now that the burden of keeping that from her is lifted.

“I see,” she says while nodding. “People are intimidating, right? Especially new people.”

I nod.

“Sometimes it’s easier to say nothing or go along with what everyone else is saying because you don’t want to cause a ruckus?”

I nod.

“Makes sense.” She takes a slice of pizza. “Out of curiosity, how are you a teacher? Don’t you have to talk to people all the time? Teenagers are the worst. How do you even handle that?”

I chuckle. “Teenagers aren’t as intimidating as adults. They’re easier to connect with and easily distracted, which is both good and bad,” I say with a little bit more confidence in my voice. Something in me shifts because Charlotte didn’t laugh at me.

“Gotcha,” she says. “How were you able to handle Bridgett Hartlett so well? She’s an adult.”

I press my lips into a thin line and shift in my chair. “I put on a persona. Like when I’m talking to parents, I’m no longer just Aidan. I’m Mr. Talbot, and Mr. Talbot doesn’t take shit from parents.” I open my mouth, breathing. “But it’s exhausting to put on that persona.”