“I will. Bye, Miss Crane. Have a good weekend.”
“Bye, Madison.”
I can’t tell if she’s sucking up for a good grade or if she’s the kind of fifteen-year-old who fancies themselves too mature for everyone else their own age. I wonder if she calls her parents by their first names. I wonder if she drinks her coffee black.
Definitely. She definitely drinks her coffee black.
I know it’s wrong for me to make snap judgments about students, especially the only one who has gone out of their way to be nice and treat me like a human being. It’s a lousy coping mechanism I default to. Being a teacher is hard in ways I can’t explain. Being around teenagers is a particular form of torture. I have so many sets of critical young eyes on me. It’s a constant barrage of judgment. Sometimes it’s too difficult to rise above it.
After school, I stop at the supermarket to buy cartons of ice cream, sugary cereal, a few bags of tortilla chips, hard caramels and a sack of shredded cheese. I go to the self-checkout to avoid the shame of having someone bear witness.
Mr. Frog greets me when I get home.
“Sir,” I say.
This is where I’m at: greeting a ceramic frog.
I climb the stairs up to my apartment. It’s remarkably humid, and when I get to the landing, I have to pause to wipe a bead of sweat before it drips into my eye. I let my head back so the rest of the sweat will recede.
There’s something hanging from the ceiling. It dangles just beyond the lightbulb, over the door.
It’s some kind of plant. Branches. Green leaves. Little white buds.
Mistletoe?
It looks like mistletoe. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. Maybe the previous tenant had it up and left it there?
It’s too hot to linger on the stairs, staring up at this weird mystery plant. I let myself into my apartment and set my groceries down on the kitchen counter. I open the cabinet to get myself a glass. I’m about to fill it when I notice a dark spot haunting the bottom.
A spider.
I give an exaggerated sigh and ask, “What am I going to do about you?”
I know I must imagine it, but I swear, it really looks like he shrugs.
CHARMING NEW FRIEND
The sun greets me, sweet and yellow. A gentle breeze swims through the open window. I pop out my retainers and set them on the nightstand, a thread of saliva glistening in the morning light.
The weekend looms ahead of me like this. Sunny and pleasant and utterly blank. So many empty, lonely hours. I imagine the time taking human form, standing there at the foot of my bed, a cute but malevolent child, ringlets and overalls, and a knife behind its back. Something that should be good but isn’t.
There’s nothing for me to do. No one for me to see. I’m relieved not to be at school, but I don’t want to be alone.
I think about my last conversation with Sam, about how he couldn’t tell me that he missed me. I hear echoes of chirps and cawing. I drop these things on the conveyor belt of embarrassing moments that’s consistently cycling inside my head. I wonder if everyone has this, experiences this constant loop of past shame and humiliation, both large and small, replaying over and over again or sometimes popping up randomly when least expected, like in the middle of spin class or while caramelizing onions.
It must be exhausting to be in your head, Sam told me once.
I think what he must have meant was, it was exhausting for him to hear about it. I exhausted him.
When we broke up, he said that our spark had fizzled. I must not be sparkly enough. I must be pretty dull.
I get the idea that doing my hair and makeup will make me feel better about myself. I stand in front of the mirror braiding my hair. If I can get it to grow long enough, I can toss it out the window and whistle for a prince.
I put on some mascara and a berry-colored lipstick. I look marginally more alive. I put music on shuffle, but “Eleanor Rigby” is the first song to come on and I decide silence is best. I start to clean my apartment. Take out the trash and the recycling. When I do, I notice the empty wine bottle and am reminded.
I do have plans this weekend. I have plans today!
I’m going to the farmers market to meet Sophie for coffee.
I dig through my closet for an outfit that might trick Sophie into thinking I’m cool. I pick out a sage eyelet dress with cap sleeves and opalescent buttons. I pair it with black Chelsea boots and a gray knit shawl.
I shove my credit cards and some cash into my small envelope bag and throw the fraying strap over my shoulder.
As I leave, I notice the strange plant hanging from the ceiling in the stairway. A spray of green leaves tied with twine. I really don’t remember seeing it before yesterday.