AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Norah
I never in a million years thought I would be back here. I left Waverly, Texas behind after high school, thinking I’d never come back—at least not permanently. Short visits with my family for birthdays and holidays? Sure! But making it my permanent residence again? Never. But here I am, in my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house, surrounded by boxes of my belongings, trying to figure out where to cram everything in the moderately sized room. My mom never got rid of any of my junk I left behind when I moved away. My old Orlando Bloom poster is still on the wall right where I left it, and that celebrity crush ended at least ten years ago.
How disappointing to be thirty-one years old and living with my parents again after a decade of complete freedom. My dad is already asking me questions about my car’s maintenance, if I remembered to cancel the utilities for my apartment, and what time I need to be at work on Monday. My mom is rushing around, trying to make sure I have clean sheets and towels. I’m tempted to call up an old friend and beg them to go to dinner with me so I can have a few minutes without their obsessive badgering. But then I remember I didn’t bother to stay in touch with anyone here after I left. I’m now regretting that decision. A friend would be really nice right about now.
I know my parents act like this because they care. After the year we’ve all had, I can’t blame them at all. It’s been one for the books, that’s for sure. But I’m exhausted and in desperate need of some peace and quiet. Car maintenance and towels can wait until I’ve gotten settled.
“I’ve got lasagna in the oven. It’ll be ready soon, so wash up and come down. Your sisters and I are very excited to have you back home for good,” Mama says from the doorway. She looks like she wants to hug me, but she turns around and rushes out of the room before the tears in her eyes have a chance to run down her cheeks. I restrain the urge to curl up in my bed and sleep until tomorrow morning. My sisters have been ecstatic about me moving back. They’d be furious if I slept through dinner on my first night home.
I go to my bathroom and wash the grime from my hands and face. Moving is a messy business. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I can’t keep my eyes from roving over my long curly hair, my round face, and my healthy body. I’m so thankful to be here and whole, and I’m so lucky my parents are letting me crash here while I get my life back on track. This may not be the most ideal situation, but I am grateful to have them to fall back on. I don’t know what I’d do without them.
I hear all three of my sisters’ boisterous laughter and chatter downstairs and make my way down to join them. I stand at the top of the stairs and watch as Chelsea, my older sister, fusses at her two kids for running in the house. Her husband, Brian, stands off to the side with his hands in his pockets, looking like he just wants a quiet evening at home. Instead, he gets an evening with the Sullivans, the noisiest, most intrusive family in the world. They drive me crazy. But they’re mine, and I wouldn’t have them any other way.
Madeline, my sister who is three years younger than me, argues with her boyfriend, Chad, over the phone. From what I hear from my mom, they fight more often than they get along these days. No one knows what she sees in him. Right now, they’re fighting about him not showing up for dinner to see me. Honestly, the guy’s a bum, so I have no interest in seeing him tonight.
I rush down the stairs, and I’m immediately wrapped in a hug from my youngest sister, Layla. “I’m so happy you’re here. We have to go get lunch and pedicures tomorrow. And the cutest bookstore opened up downtown a few months ago. You’ll absolutely love it, so we have to go there, too!” she says.
“It might have to wait. I need to get all unpacked this weekend so I can be ready to start work on Monday. I’m pretty nervous.”
“You’ll do great. The kids will love you,” Layla says. I’m not so sure she’s right. I’ve never taught high school, and I don’t know what to expect. Before my life got flipped upside-down, I taught middle school. Now, I’m coming into a new school with older kids—and right smack-dab in the middle of the school year, no less. It’s a lot to take on.
I’ve been told that the teacher I’m taking over for was loved by everyone. The type to always go above and beyond for her students. How am I supposed to fill her shoes while I’m shaking in my boots with fear? And I have to take over her other duties as well, like overseeing the club that she helped run. I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m not even sure if the middle school I taught at had clubs.
I’ll figure it all out. One day at a time, I remind myself.
Dinner with my family goes much like every other dinner has gone with them over the past year. It’s one long interrogation. Were you able to make your hospital payment this month? When is your next appointment? What do you need from us? I know they all mean well, but I just want to eat my lasagna and let my mind go blank. If I’m not thinking happy thoughts of melty cheese and garlic bread, I don’t want to think at all. The food is making their questioning more bearable than usual, though.
I finish eating as quickly as possible and make excuses to head back up to my bedroom. It’s not an absolute lie. My room is a disaster, and it does need a lot of work before I’ll be able to function in it.
I run up the stairs and flop down on my bed with an exhausted sigh. It’s all still so new. The never-ending questioning will all stop once they’re used to seeing me every day. They’ll see that I’m not ten seconds away from breaking, and then they’ll give me peace.
Is it normal for hands to be this sweaty? I don’t think so. I can barely hold onto the steering wheel of my car as I drive to the high school. They’re slipping all over the place, like a Slip ‘N Slide. It’s a good thing my nerves had me awake obscenely early this morning, and I ended up leaving my parents’ house before the roads got busy. With the way I’m driving right now, I probably would have caused a fifty-car pile-up if I hadn’t.
Other than the cross-country team getting their early morning run in, the parking lot is mostly empty when I pull into my parking spot. I take a moment to check my hair in the mirror (I refuse to go in there on my first day with any rogue curls), and I apply my favorite red lipstick. It’s the perfect confidence boost. If I’m wearing red lipstick, I can do anything—even face a room full of terrifying teenagers.
I put my teacher’s ID around my neck and climb out of my car. The flowy skirt I’m wearing may have been a terrible idea. It’s an abnormally cold day in Texas, and the wind is blistering. I know it’s January, but it’s still Texas. I wasn’t expecting thirty-degree weather. Thank goodness I did have the forethought to squeeze myself into some tights.
I grab onto my skirt to keep it from flying up in the wind and shuffle into the building. I shake out my frozen limbs when the warm air of the front office hits me. At first, it makes my nerve endings tingle, but soon, I start to thaw out. The secretary greets me with a smile on her face, and I walk through to sign in for my first day.
The hallways are empty and quiet as I make my way to my classroom. I came in last week to get everything ready. There wasn’t much for me to do, but it was good to get acquainted with the room. The previous teacher was so kind and left all her books and the lesson plans she had used for her three decades of teaching. Some I love, and others will be replaced.
I’m turning the corner into the main hall, and my eyes land on a tall, broad figure walking in my direction from the opposite end of the hall. Even from this distance, it’s easy to tell that this is a beautiful man. His blond hair and beard are neatly coiffed, and his navy-blue slacks hug his thighs just right. His sky-blue eyes meet mine, and he stops dead in his tracks.
My admiration for his fine figure turns to deep-rooted disgust as I realize exactly who I am looking at. A pit forms in my stomach. I haven’t seen Colby Stuart in thirteen years, and I could happily go another dozen or so without looking at his smug, irritable face again. But alas, it’s not to be, because here he is with those icy-blue eyes glaring a hole into my soul.
I wish I could wipe the memory of him from my mind. I wish when someone said the name ‘Colby Stuart’, I could ask, ‘Who?’ Instead, whenever I accidentally see a picture of him on social media or hear his name in passing, my blood boils. I nearly crack a tooth from grinding my teeth as I stare at him. I want to throw my phone against a wall.
We’re standing at an impasse, like an old western movie when two opponents are about to draw weapons on each other. Neither of us says a word. I ball my hands into fists, refusing to be the first to relent. I straighten my spine to stand a little taller and give him the most evil smirk I can manage. I have to let him know he’s not getting to me—even though he really is. But he doesn’t need to know this is all a show. His eyes narrow into slits.
I have despised this guy since our very first interaction when I walked into our seventh-grade history class on the first day of school, excited to see my friend already sitting at a desk. I ran over to her, where she was talking to him. I threw my bag down and sat at the desk in front of her. I thought he was the cutest boy I’d ever seen…until he opened his big, fat mouth to speak. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t sit there,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he owned the place. Hello! It’s a school. No one owns it! I’d never even met the boy before that day, and he had the audacity to speak to me like that?
“Who do you think you are?” I asked in complete disbelief. “I will sit here if I want.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but the teacher came in and began putting us in seats alphabetically. That’s when I learned that I’d be forced to stare at the back of his head for one whole hour, five days a week, for the entire school year.
That’s right, folks. Colby Stuart and Norah Sullivan, doomed to be seated right next to each other in class after class after class for six agonizing years. What a cruel twist of fate. Why must teachers always put their students in alphabetical order? It’s just wrong. Because of this, I have vowed to never do alphabetical-order seating charts. I start the year by letting them choose their seats, and then I periodically move them around throughout the year when needed.
Colby clears his throat, and I’m finally ready to admit defeat. I turn back the way I had just come and walk away. I’m so tempted to run as fast as my short, chubby legs will take me, but I resist the urge. I can’t let him know that he’s still getting under my skin thirteen years later. And I’m wearing heels, and I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself on my first day by falling flat on my face. That would be my luck.
I should be mature enough to look past the mistakes of his youth, but goodness gracious, the guy was insufferable. And judging by the enraged look on his face just now, he still is. Who glowers at people like that first thing in the morning? Drink some coffee, for crying out loud.
