Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(5)
I take a deep breath, put my foot on the gas, and count to ten. Even with fifteen years of therapy under my belt, I find that the simplest coping strategies prove to be the most effective tools for calming myself down. And they work best on the kids at school, too. There’s no telling how many blocks I’ve prevented from being thrown across the room by simply prompting a child to take three big sips from their Frozen-themed water bottle.
At least that’s one thing to look forward to, I think as I make the left onto Wilshire Boulevard.
Today is Labor Day, which makes it the last day of summer before the school year officially starts. I’ve spent the past three weeks labeling cubbies and take-home folders, stocking bins with fresh art supplies, and organizing the classroom reading nook for the first day. Tomorrow morning, I’ll get to school early and add the finishing touches to the “Welcome to Pre-K” bulletin board I’ve been working on, which will mark the end of a monthlong toxic situationship with my Intro to Crochet kit. Imagining the kids hanging their backpacks in their new cubbies and finding their spots at the lunch table fills me with the first wave of contentment that I’ve felt since opening the letter.
I know Sandy is right. I do have things to be proud of. Like my job. I love what I do. I’m good at what I do. But even so, there’s a persistent nagging in the back of my mind, hounding me that I’m not qualified to be teaching young children to try new things when I run away from a challenge the moment my palms start to sweat.
No one likes a hypocrite.
And then there are my friends. My other greatest accomplishments: Jonathan, Meg, Alex, and Nora. Even though the five of us didn’t meet until our freshman year of college, I think of them as my family. It’s not lost on me how rare it is to have friends like them as an adult. Maybe they’re what Sandy wants me to focus on? But no matter how great they are, there’s a small part of me that feels disconnected from them. I can’t relate to their stories of sex and dating, and they can’t relate to my lack thereof.
So yes, I have things to be proud of, but everything feels tainted by the absence of the one thing I want the most.
I look over at the passenger seat, where my tote bag rests. I can practically hear my unopened set of felt-tipped markers begging to be used.
“Not yet,” I tell them. “I’m saving you for something important.”
These markers sat in my Amazon cart for months, and even though they were named “Writing Utensil of the Year” in 2023 by Teachers Digest, I couldn’t justify spending fifty dollars on a set of twenty. When Meg bought me a supply for last year’s Secret Santa, I was moved to tears by the gesture. (I cry a lot. Something I get from my dad.)
I promised Meg that I would only use them for something big. A project of all projects.
“Pheebs, I bought them for you to use all the time,” she had said. “For anything!” But her gift meant far too much to me to use them “for anything.”
“I have to save them for something special,” I’d said back to her.
What exactly it is I’m waiting for…I have no idea, but it definitely won’t be Sandy’s assignment. No, Sandy’s assignment feels counterproductive. It doesn’t motivate me. It doesn’t lead to action. It’s pointless. It’s an insult to the art of list making. The day I finally use these markers, it will be for something life-altering.
I only wish that whatever I’m waiting on didn’t feel so far away.
2
The heat from the late afternoon sun is oppressive, and my steps feel heavy as I make my way to the front door of my apartment. Thank God Jonathan’s home. He was away for the weekend, some work conference up in Sacramento, and I can breathe a bit easier knowing that he’s back. I find it hard to fall asleep when he’s not sleeping in the room next to mine, or sitting on the couch downstairs watching TV too loudly. Hopefully, just seeing his face will be enough to get me out of my funk.
The smell of his cologne is the first thing that hits me as I step into our entryway. Musk and sandalwood, his signature scent.
“Jonathan!” I scream up the stairs.
“Greased Lightnin’,” his favorite song from his favorite soundtrack, blasts from the speakers in his room at full volume. I scream again, this time loud enough to overpower John Travolta.
“JONATHAN!!!”
“Pheebs!” Jonathan turns the music down and makes his way to the bottom of the stairs.
I owe everything to the Grease soundtrack.
* * *
—
I had just finished moving into my freshman year dorm at UCLA when I recognized the familiar tune of “Summer Nights” coming from a room at the end of the hall. Grease being one of my favorite musicals (I’m pretty sure John Travolta as Danny Zuko was my sexual awakening), I took it as a sign that my first college friend had to be the room’s occupant. I gave myself a quick pep talk and mustered up the courage to knock.
Nothing could have prepared me for who opened the door.
I was face-to-face with the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen. He had a thick mess of wavy dark brown hair that was just long enough to tuck behind his ears, and a tan that made him look like he had spent the entire summer living on the beach. His hazel-green eyes were kind as he angled them down at me, and my neck protested as I met his gaze. He had to be at least a foot taller than my five feet, three inches. Maybe more. He arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, an invitation for me to introduce myself, perhaps.