After that I signed on with a temp agency. I spent my days filing invoices, sorting shipping manifests into color-coded piles, making copies of annual reports. One week the agency sent me to an insurance company in the World Trade Center—the only time I ever set foot in those doomed towers—where I typed rejection letters to heartbroken people, explaining that the cause of their loved one’s death—lightning strike, small plane crash, hunting accident, suicide, avalanche, every sort of random tragedy—was not covered by their life insurance policy, which meant that no payment was forthcoming, and no appeal was possible.
Substitute teaching felt like a big step up from that. The pay was okay, the hours were decent, the schedule was flexible. More important, it seemed professional in a way that temping hadn’t, and more personal too, like I could be my true self again, and not just an anonymous cog in a commercial transaction. School had always been my chosen arena, the place where I shined the brightest. I still remember my first day on the job, standing in front of an Algebra 2 class in Grover Township, writing Tracy Flick on the board like an autograph. It felt like a homecoming, like my exile was over.
* * *
You failed.
That one blinked in my mind like a neon sign.
You failed.
It was irrefutable. I wasn’t a Congresswoman. I wasn’t a Senator. I wasn’t the President. I wasn’t even the Principal of Green Meadow High School. But I also understood that failure wasn’t the whole story.
You did the best you could.
I was a dedicated, hardworking sub, and they liked me at Grover. I got certified and taught there for eleven years. I advised the Student Government, supervised Mock Trial, and helped create a Model UN program that’s still going strong. All that time, I was caring for my mother, and attending graduate school on nights and weekends. I had a child, earned my PhD in Education Administration, and took the job I have now. That’s not nothing.
I’m not ashamed of the life I’ve made for myself. Or at least that’s what I thought, until this Hall of Fame thing started up. It saddened me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. I kept imagining what would happen if my old high school started a Hall of Fame and my name came up for consideration. What would people say? She’s an Assistant Principal. She helped her mom when she got sick. That wasn’t gonna cut it. Nope. Not good enough. No Hall of Fame for you, Tracy Flick.
You’re a nobody.
* * *
After thirty minutes, the timer went off and I blew out the candle. I had a few things to do before bed, but I wasn’t ready to move yet, so I just sat there for a while, breathing quietly in the darkness.
You failed.
You did the best you could.
You failed.
You did the best you could.
Both those statements were true, and I accepted the mixed verdict. I was an adult; I had no choice. But I desperately wanted to go back in time, to find the girl I used to be and tell her how sorry I was for letting her down, that fierce young woman who never had a chance, the one who got crushed.
- 13 -
Vito sat up and rubbed his eyes. He had no idea what time it was. Breaking Bad was on TV with the sound off, the end of season 2 or the beginning of season 3, he wasn’t sure which.
The place was a mess. Clothes on the floor, a pizza box flopped open on the coffee table—two sweaty slices remaining—next to a tipped-over container of ibuprofen and a partially disassembled handgun.
It was creepy to see the pistol—it was a good one, a Sig Sauer P320, a Christmas gift from his soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law—sitting right out in the open like that. All he’d meant to do was clean it, because it had been years since he’d fired the thing, and the maintenance was long overdue. Only problem was, he couldn’t remember how to take it apart. He’d sat through a tedious instructional video on YouTube, but the process turned out to be more complicated than he remembered, and in the end, he just said fuck it and took a nap.
I’m unwell, he reminded himself, and for some reason, the word made him feel a little better.
Unwell.
Not sick, exactly, though that was what he’d been telling the school for the past three days—bad flu, maybe strep—and he’d given the same excuse to Wesley, who’d been texting repeatedly, trying to figure out why Vito had skipped the last two meetings.
Have you been drinking?
Jesus Christ, Wesley. Give me a little credit.
But the sad truth was, he had been drinking. Just once, a few days ago, on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and it wasn’t even because he was that desperate for booze. It had just been a really shitty day, the capstone of a really shitty long holiday weekend. Susie wouldn’t even let him stop by for a piece of pie and a fucking turkey sandwich with his kids, supposedly because they didn’t “feel safe” with their own father, which was a crock of shit, because he would never do anything to hurt them, and she knew that just as well as he did.
He put on his coat, walked down to the Last Call, and drank himself into oblivion along with three old-timers in their usual spots at the bar. They all nodded politely when he sat down, as if they remembered him well and weren’t the least bit surprised to see him.
* * *
It was harder than he expected to put the gun in his mouth. There wasn’t any danger—he’d removed the magazine—but it was just one of those things your body rebelled against, like standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down.
His idea was to take a selfie and email it to Susie, along with a humorous caption.
Season’s Greetings.
Thinking of you.
I’m a little unwell.
Is this what you want?
The first picture was a disappointment. The lighting was too stark and his hair was a mess, but mostly it was just the expression on his face. His brow was deeply furrowed, and his eyes looked glassy and a little desperate, like maybe he wasn’t fooling around.
He scooted away from the lamp, fixed his hair, and wrapped his lips around the barrel. Like a lot of things in life, it was easier the second time. He raised his left arm and gazed up at the screen with a cool, defiant expression. He was just about to snap the photo when the phone vibrated in his hand, shocking the hell out of him. He took the gun out of his mouth and checked the caller ID.
GMHS, it said. Green Meadow, NJ.
- 14 -
Dear Committee:
I’m sorry if I missed the nomination deadline, but I hope it’s not too late to put in a good word for Reggie Morrison, who was one of the superstars of Green Meadow football during the glory years of the early 1990s, when Larry Holleran was Coach and Vito Falcone was quarterback.
Yes, everyone remembers Vito, but what about the other member of the so-called “Dynamic Duo?” Unlike Vito, Reggie didn’t make it into the NFL, but that was just bad luck. Bad luck and racism. Nobody likes to hear that about their hometown but it’s true. And I’m just gonna say it flat out—Reggie was the better athlete and the better person. He made Vito look good, not the other way around.
I know—Reggie did something wrong and everyone wants to erase him from history. But there are two sides to every story—more than two sides—and Reggie deserves better from Green Meadow. If there was any justice, you would put him in the Hall of Fame.
Sincerely,
A Concerned Alum
- 15 - Jack Weede