While I shudder for turning into that girl, the one who takes kissing photos and brags about how great her relationship is, at least I have good taste in snacks. I’m about to gorge a Halloween-size Snickers bar and scroll through the unhelpful results of my Google search, Help I’ve fallen into a wormhole and can’t get out, when Leigh, the student administrative assistant, pokes her head in. We met when I needed help signing into my computer. Apparently, future computers rely on iris recognition.
“Ms. Wu? Your nine o’clock appointment is here.” She sounds like a Pixar character, not a high school student volunteering for community service hours.
I cough, swallowing a hunk of stale chocolate. “My what?”
“Your nine o’clock appointment,” Leigh says sheepishly, adjusting her plaid headband.
Appointment? Shoot. There goes my plan to barricade my office door, hide under my desk all day, and self soothe by eating my way through my stockpile of snacks.
“Uh, sure. Send them in,” I say, nervously straightening a pile of papers next to the computer.
Before I have the chance to confess that I’m a fraud, a dude wearing frayed denim shorts and a T-shirt three sizes too large with a photo of his own face across the belly collapses into the chair opposite my desk. “Hi, Ms. Wu.”
Kyle, my nine o’clock, tells me his name about five times before I remember it. Just like the hedgehog-loving teacher, he asks if I’m okay. He seems like a nice guy, despite his questionable fashion sense and the fact that he smells like he bathed in Axe body spray. Boys of the future still haven’t learned.
Turns out, he needs help planning his class schedule for his sophomore year. I have no idea how to pull up the list of potential classes. But Leigh saves the day, working her magic to project Kyle’s schedule on the wall.
Luckily, the curriculum is essentially the same. Kyle says he wants to be a welder when he grows up, so I convince him to take all the shop classes he can, as well as math. He leaves the appointment hopeful and optimistic about next year, which makes me feel marginally better about my general ignorance. Maybe I am good at my job, after all.
My eleven o’clock appointment never shows, which gives me ample time to root through my phone. It’s full of unanswered texts and emails from wedding vendors. I really should have invested in a wedding planner. Then again, I’m not surprised my adult self doesn’t trust anyone else with the logistics.
One text from yesterday catches my eye. It’s from Alexandra, Dad’s girlfriend.
Alexandra: Hi Charlotte. I just wanted to let you know we won’t be able to join you for your party tomorrow night. Both Marianne and Lily caught a nasty bug that’s going around at school. We’re recovering, but not fully healed. I’m really sorry. We really wanted to be there. But can’t wait to see photos and will see you on the wedding day.
I’m shocked. Dad is still with Alexandra after all these years? After his second marriage imploded, I pegged him as a noncommittal guy. But what’s even more shocking is that I have sisters. Two, from the sounds of it. And while I knew Alexandra was pregnant, seeing their names in text is entirely different. They’re real. They’re living, breathing humans.
As I digest that information, it occurs to me that Alexandra is the one texting me. Not Dad. From my phone’s history, it looks like Dad and I don’t text at all. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked that he won’t be at my party either. I wonder how many other life events he’s missed out on. Frankly, it would be a miracle if he came to my wedding. Not that I’m having one.
Before I can formulate a response, another young teacher slips into my office to vent. Apparently, a nasty girl in her English class created a social media post about her that went viral. She had unknowingly spent an entire class teaching with the back of her dress tucked into her period panties. The girl caught it all on her phone.
“She even hashtagged #missperiodpanties. I swear, I’m at the end of my rope with these little twits.”
Her candor catches me off guard. I’ve never witnessed a teacher reveal their honest feelings about students before.
Before I can offer adequate sympathy, she begins explaining （in detail） the proper technique to express her hairless cat’s anal glands with piercing eye contact. What is with teachers at MHS and their strange pets? Then she quickly pivots, asking if I want to go out for lunch since she “owes me” for taking her after-school detention duties all last week. To be fair, she seems cool （despite said cat details）， but I politely decline to avoid embarrassing myself or ruining my reputation and rush out to find Renner.