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“How? How when Mr. Ulster was the art teacher here for fifty years and I’ve barely made it five? I was just getting started…”
“Honey, time does not a teacher make. It’s passion. And you have that.” Glenda lets out a long sigh. “I’m just sorry I can’t give you what’s needed tocontinueexercising that passion.”
I blink and feel a tear run down my cheek.Dammit.
Mr. Ulster was the whole reason I wanted to be an artist. And when I realized artists never made money unless they were selling furry porn on the internet, why I wanted to become an art teacher. It never felt like a downgrade. Screw “those who can’t do, teach.” No one would have said that about Mr. Ulster. He was everyone’s favorite teacher, known for his springy gray hair sticking out in all directions, his effervescent laugh and smile, and for perpetually having paint on his hands.
Even after I moved on to middle school, I’d visit Mr. Ulster’s classroom. He let me read all his big books about various artists, gave me the extra clay leftover from the sculpture unit, and talked with me about not just art, but life.
“Every day is a risk, Judy.” I went by Judy back then. Chose Jude in college because it sounded edgier and more serious. “Just getting out of bed and deciding to be a person. Once you figure that out, you’ll never be afraid to take the leap when you need to. Life is just a lot of little risks. And sometimes big ones.”
I’ve never forgotten those words. They’re what pushed me to apply to art school even though my parents forbid it, what got me to apply to take his position when I was barely done with student teaching, and what got me to just ask that guy in my drawing class out on a date. That last one might have been the only regrettable risk, but hey, you can’t win ‘em all.
That’s life.
Mr. Ulster worked until his memory started to go. Now he lives in a retirement community in North Carolina near his son. I’ve been meaning to write to him. Or give him a call. But the idea of him not remembering me would be too hard to bear.
Especially now that the program he worked so hard to create has just crumbled like a day-old sandcastle under my feet.
“Oh, Judy…” Glenda says. She’s usually good about calling me by the preferred version of my name, but when she sees the little girl in me, it just comes out. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Now that she’s pitied me, there’s no reason to hold back any longer. I let the tears stream down my face as she explains what the next steps are. As soon as school is out for the summer, so am I. Permanently.
“Whatever you need from us, we will be happy to give. Recommendations…” She fails to find anything else she can offer me. “You name it.”
I thank her, although the voice doesn’t even sound like my own. It’s that of a chain-smoking frog. I need to get out of here and go home so I can bury myself under the covers into oblivion.
Before I can leave, Glenda adds insult to injury by giving me a big hug. “You’re such a talent, Jude. Maybe you can go back to school and get some more secure skills. Then they could never get rid of you.”
Ugh. More school. More loans. Plus, the idea of leading a first-grade classroom and teaching kids how to count syllables sounds like hell. “Maybe I’ll do that. Thanks.”
As soon as she releases me, I rush out of her office and down the main hallway of Quinn Elementary. On either side of me are thumbtacked pieces kids made in my art class. The Pollock unit when I got complaints from parents that kids came home with ruined clothes from our splatter painting. It was worth it to see the kids’ smiles. Even the most jaded of kids got into it.
Quinn needs some work, this much is true. The tile floors have cracks all over, pieces coming up revealing the dirt underneath. The water fountains never bubble high enough to fill up a water bottle. And some of the windows are stuck, so we’re unable to let the fresh air in.
Still, though. A school is a school. The kids don’t just need a building. They need education. And more than education, they needexpression. The thing Glenda complimented me on. We’re not raising robots. We’re raising well-rounded individuals.
School districts and boards don’t give a rat’s ass about that, apparently.
As I blow through the double doors, I reach into my leather satchel and grab my car keys. I don’t even want to think about continuing to pay off the car while I look for a new job. Living on a teacher’s salary is hard, so I’ve been supplementing my income by watering plants and housesitting, but that doesn’t come with a significant paycheck or any benefits.
The fucking jalopy is one of the only cars left in the parking lot, a discontinued Saturn sedan. It still requires me to open the driver-side door with a key instead of a fob. It was the only car on the lot I could afford. I swipe my hand across my face once more to make sure there are no tears left and shove the key in the lock.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. At first, I think it’s a text, but it’s a call.
I throw open the car door and answer the phone as I drop into the seat, accidentally tangling myself in the strap of my satchel as I do so. “Hello?” I answer, trying not to sound irritable as I pull at the strap.
“Is this Jude Parry?”
“Yes this –”This fucking strap is going to be the death of me. “That’s me!” I finally pull the strap over my head and throw the purse into the passenger seat. Then I slam the door closed. Damn, that felt good.
“This is Dr. Mason’s office. We wanted to reach out about your upcoming appointment and let you know that Dr. Mason is incredibly sorry, but she has to reschedule.”
My entire body goes numb. I was supposed to have this appointment in just a couple of days. “W-when do you need to reschedule to?”
“Could you come in July 2nd?”
My insurance will have run out by then. “You can’t do any earlier?”
