Faking Christmas(2)
To: [email protected] From: [email protected]
You did this to me. You got in my head! They were all your phrases. I was throwing all the things you said about him back at you. SARCASTICALLY.
DATE: NOV 17
To: [email protected] From: [email protected]
In my defense, it is a nice butt. We both agreed on that.
Maybe this should be a lesson for us to text each other instead of emailing.
DATE: NOV 17
To: [email protected] From: [email protected]
I can type faster in an email.
What do I dooooo?
DATE: NOV 17
To: [email protected] From: [email protected]
FOR THE LOVE, send me a copy of this email. I am DYING to read it. It sounds…JUICY.
DATE: NOV 17
To: [email protected] From: [email protected]
You’re dead to me.
I just sent it. Double-checked the name seven times before sending it.
DATE: NOV 17
To: [email protected] From: [email protected]
Just read it and…I just…I…
WOW.
DATE: NOV 17
To: [email protected] From: [email protected]
Celery Stick,
I was surprised to get your email. Regardless, it was a most insightful read.
I was a bit shocked by all the errors, however. I thought the English Department at Stanton had a higher standard of quality. I’ve taken the liberty of pointing these out to you, for your own study. You’ll find the corrected document scanned and attached to this email.
Your man with the fine pair of hams, Miles
ONE
One Month Later
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you.”
Jane Austen - Pride and Prejudice
“Olive.”
I looked up from putting the end-of-semester grades into my computer system to find Mrs. Barnes, the school counselor, poking her curly blonde head into my empty classroom.
I smiled, leaning back in my chair and stretching my back for a moment. “Hey, Jill. Excited for the break?”
Her long skirt swished against the floor as she approached my desk with papers in her hand. “So much. This past week has been crazy getting everything lined up for next semester. I had so many kids wanting to switch out of classes at the last second, which makes for one tired and annoyed counselor.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t envy her job in the slightest. And that was with me having just survived two and a half weeks of teaching in December—that magical month where all of the students get high on some sort of Christmas crack they must filter through the hallways, leaving the teenagers overly hyper with zero attention spans. The Christmas music the secretary insisted on blasting through the intercom in between classes didn’t help. Students somehow struggled to concentrate on the poignant words of William Shakespeare with “Jingle Bell Rock” stuck in their heads after their walk from Spanish class.
“It’s all over now, thank goodness,” she said, handing me a small stack of papers. “I emailed all the teachers their classes for next semester a week ago, but with all the last-minute changes, I decided to print everyone off a fresh copy.”
I glanced through the papers, about to toss them onto the corner of my desk, when something made me pause. My brows furrowed as I flipped to the next paper.
“My British Lit class is so small. Only fifteen?” I looked up to meet Jill’s sympathetic gaze, then shuffled through another page. “Seventeen in Basic English?” I was used to nearly twenty-five in each class. A sudden thud hit my stomach. Were my classes the ones kids were transferring out of?
“Apparently, there was a spike of interest in creative writing for next semester.”
I rifled through the papers again. Attendance was down in all my classes, not just the electives. Embarrassment heated my face as I tried to make sense of the numbers in front of me.
Jill spoke again, her voice soft and kind, which made my face burn even hotter. “I think Miles is having his class study Harry Potter this year.”
I held back the snort, desperately wanting to scoff at that. Harry Potter? What was he going to teach the kids about Harry Potter that they wouldn’t already know? I loved the books as much as any other Potterhead, but for an English class? What kid hadn’t already read it? Or at least seen the movies? How about broadening their literary horizons just a tad? Miles was stealing my students through nostalgia. My kids had to work for their grades while learning the classics—the OLD classics.
Jill cleared her throat and began to edge toward the door. “Well, things are always crazy the first week of school. I’m sure you’ll have a few more join your classes than are listed here.”
I took a deep breath through my nose and gave Jill a smile. “I’m sure.” Laughing lightly, I added, “Fewer kids, fewer problems, right?”
Her eyes lit up, relieved at my acceptance. She made a beeline for the door. “Right. Well, I’d better go deliver the rest of these lists. Have a great Christmas!”
I sat in stiff silence after Jill left, trying to rein in the mountain of feelings threatening to escape from inside of me. Over the past few years, I’d had ample opportunity to really fine-tune my skill of suppressing all emotion. I knew from painful experience that the key was to act quickly when you felt that first rush of overcharged, hot-blooded energy. You had to tamp it down with some fierce self-talk. Be firm and resolute. It generally went something like this: