Page 66 of The Thought of You

Nathanial Hawthorne.

The Scarlet Letter.

It all comes roaring back as if I’ve emerged from a coma, and I release the hold my teeth had on my bottom lip.

We’re discussing the scarlet letter Hester wore in the novel and the different symbols it serves, but my head drifted off to the PE teacher on the other side of this godforsaken gym.

Mary Ellen continues, “Comparing a YouTuber to one of the most respected authors in history is ridiculous.”

“MadGamerMax is influential in his own time. Why do we have to talk about the sixteen hundreds? It’s literally old news.” Cody fist-bumps the kid sitting next to him.

I open my mouth to add to this conversation—aka do my job. After all, Cody poses an excellent question. It’s one I’m frequently asked, and I always have such an insightful response.

But right now, nothing comes to mind except for the parallels between me and Owen to Mary Ellen and Cody. Those points smack me between the eyes.

The way these two go back and forth is excessively familiar, and suddenly, I’m thrust back into high school myself, where I’d often argue with anyone willing to jump into the metaphorical ring with me.

I dominated discussions in my English class with similar passion as Mary Ellen, and Owen was only heard when comparing the pace of a book to the speed of a baseball pitch.

Looking back, he wasn’t wrong, and neither is Cody, although I don’t know this MadGamerMax person. This line of thinking just lies outside the box, and is that really a bad thing?

Chantal chimes in, “Actually, The Scarlet Letter is still relevant. Women are judged left and right for their sexuality and supposed sins. Dragged through the mud until they’re blue in the face.”

“Exactly!” Mary Ellen bursts. “But just like Dimmesdale, men hide behind their power, insecurities, and long history of escaping public criticism. They’re never vilified for their indiscretions.”

“Not until Taylor Swift came along to rip them in half.” Chantal reaches up to high-five a proudly smiling Mary Ellen, and my heart soars.

This is the kind of moment that reminds me why I love my job so much.

My goal is to eventually progress to hold the coveted position of principal, but that’s not to say it’ll be easy. Missing these moments with these scrappy and mindful kids will be gut-wrenching, to say the least, which is why I rock back onto my heels and soak it all in.

I fold my arms over my chest as the students continue back and forth, and I only jump in when we veer off from a lively discussion and onto the cusp of chaos, as Cody brings up MadGamerMax’s ex-girlfriend who may or may not cyberstalk the apparently famous YouTuber.

“All right!” I clap my hands, and their attention snaps to me in sync. “Let’s stick to the novel, okay?”

For the rest of class, we keep the discussion focused without interruption from the volleyball game, and my eyes drift to Owen a total of six times for the hour, which is better than yesterday’s count of thirteen.

By Monday, I hope to get down to three, until he’s no longer driving me insane, but deep down, I know those goals might not be reasonable.

The quick blow of a whistle and the stampede of hurried footsteps that follow from Owen’s class dispersing into the locker rooms to change alerts me—we have five minutes left.

It’s been his MO all week. The first time he blew the whistle, I jumped out of my skin and threatened to flush the damn thing down the toilet.

It didn’t stop him from doing it again and again. It’s a habit, as he claimed, but I haven’t brought it up again since the first day. The truth is, I surprisingly appreciate the last call, of sorts. It lets me stay present for the discussion without worrying about checking the time so often.

I don’t need the clock when I have him.

“I think that’s a good place to end what was a rather impressive discussion. Thank you all for participating.” I pace in front of the bleachers.

I have just enough time to remind the students of their reading assignment for the next chunk of The Scarlet Letter when the bell rings, and my palms have never been sweatier.

“Good job today.” I clap like this is the end of a show, and I internally roll my eyes at myself. I’m officially losing it.

Once the coast is clear, I shake my wedgie loose and smooth the front of my pants down, vowing not to pace again for the rest of the day. These high-waisted trousers inflate like I unleashed a parachute in them.

“Is this dance new?” Owen’s voice sounds from behind me, and I snap upright, freezing as if he caught me with my hand down my pants. “I must’ve missed it the other night.”

I turn around, using my finger to swipe the loose hair stuck to my lips. “I call it the bad-decision dance. Like it?”

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