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I exhale for the first time in about a minute, reaching for the suitcase.
He pulls it closer to himself.
“My mistake that you’re not a child. Not that this isn’t my bag.” He does a little half-bow that feels utterly mocking. “Find your own suitcase, ma’am.”
Wow. I have never hated a word more in my life than that “ma’am.” Disdain drips from his (unfortunately, still excellent) face. I feel every dismissive glance of everyone who has ever decided I was too small, too blonde, and unworthy of adult respect.
“You have my suitcase,” I say again, attracting the attention of at least a few of the people standing near us.
He rolls the bag in front of him, gesturing to the dark gray canvas. “Are you blind?” he asks.
It’s my turn to stiffen now, breath gone from my lungs. Before I can make another horrible squeaking sound, he continues.
“Unless your bag has my initials stitched into it, you’re wrong.” He makes a gesture at his case, and I can almost make out some letters sewn into the heavy fabric.
It’s not mine.
It looks exactly like mine. As far as I can tell. I turn away, and expect that he will, too.
But he’s not done with me. “Maybe people would treat you with a little more courtesy if you didn’t look and act like a spoiled child.”
I feel my mouth hanging open and instinct tells me that this is not helping my appearance. Turning from his judgment and my humiliation, I face the creaking conveyor again, my face hot and heart pounding to the rhythm of what-a-jerk, what-a-jerk, what-a-jerk. I don’t even look at the carousel of suitcases rolling in a circle in front of me until most of the crowd has cleared out. When I collect my bag and my photo case, I double check the tags. And hope no one notices.
Not an auspicious beginning for my new home, my new career, and my new best chance for job security. I make my way out to the curb and find the Chamberlain Academy shuttle waiting there. For a painful second, I worry that any of the passengers who witnessed my mortification at the baggage return might be heading to the same school, but to my relief, the shuttle seats are empty.
“Miss Harker?” the driver says, checking his list and then standing to help me lift my cases into the racks.
I nod but can’t bring myself to say anything. I’m grateful I made a reservation for this ride and that I don’t have to convince him I’m coming to Chamberlain as a teacher. I’m not sure I could say the words “I’m an adult” with anything approaching confidence.
When I take the seat farthest back in the shuttle, the driver gets the hint that I don’t want to talk, and we roll through the curving, wooded hills of Vermont in silence.
