Page 4 of Between the Lines

I shrug. “Zo moved into STEM when she was in fifth grade, so I might recognize a few faces. She didn’t bring a lot of friends home back then, though.”

“Oh, really?”

I nod. “She was…” I hesitate to say it, but tell her the truth. “Zoey’s always been a little awkward. She’s found her place in STEM though. I think she just needed an environment more conducive to making friends that had similar interests.”

I think back to my sister’s time in public school, when her candor about her intelligence was construed more as bragging. When she would come home in tears, and have nothing more to say than,Well, I was right, wasn’t I?

The warning bell rings, catching us all completelyoff guard, which is maybe for the better. My new friends took away all of the time I would have otherwise used to panic.

“AlrightTEAM!” Penelope shouts, putting her hand between us like we’re in a sports huddle.

“Penny, we aren’t even on the same team,” Aaron says, rolling his eyes, but putting his hand on top of hers anyway.

“Technically, we’re all on ‘Team Survive the Tweenagers,’” Lucy supplies with a shrug. She puts her hand on top of her boyfriend’s, and with their eyes on me, I lay mine on top.

“No-bull-shit on three. One, two, three!”

We all laugh and echo Penelope’s cheer, pop our hands in the air, and meet the flood of students in the hallway.

As I step into the sea, watching as these veteran teachers and counselor greet students they’re familiar with, I smile, knowing that I at least have a support system this year.

It’s a lot less scary to be thrown into the deep end when you have people to pull you up. Then again, it’s not the students I’m afraid of.

It’s the thought of taking on the challenge and simply not being good enough.

That thought prickles at the base of my neck, a constant, tingling reminder of what I’ve always been missing. Independence of my own. This job as a long-term substitute teacher is going to be my first taste of it, and the fact that I could fail has been nagging me since I signed on the dotted line. I reach back to itch the discomfort, but I don’t have the time to focus on what Idon’thave. Because right on cue, two seventh-grade boys start up a game of catch in the middle of the hallway. I intercept the faded blue and red Patriots football with two hands, and pop it on my hip.

“Is that all you’ve got?” I ask, tilting my head as the two stunned boys approach me. “Brady and Gronk would be disappointed.”

With wide eyes, they look to one another, then back to me. I cradle the ball’s point in my hand, then spin toss it basket-style to the boy who threw it.

“Keep it in your locker, please.”

They both nod rapidly, and turn to finish unpacking. I’m satisfied. Homeroom hasn’t even begun, and I’ve already deescalated my first situation—which wasn’t difficult at all. Zoey and Ryan have nearly killed each other more times than I can count, and who stopped numerous squabbles from turning into ER trips? Yours truly, of course.

I don’t get to linger on my pride for too long, though, because standing at the end of the hall, his narrowed gaze clearly still taking in the aftermath of what just went down, is Nathan Harding.

The man to whom I served as a wake up call this morning.

Embarrassment fills me as I remember the way he’d looked so annoyed with me earlier. Hoping I can turn his day around, I curl my lips into a shy grin, lift my hand, and wave. The divot between his brows, settled atop the bridge to his horn-rimmed glasses, deepens, and he leaves me with a scowl before he turns on his toe and walks the other direction.

This is entirely my fault. A rookie mistake. I should have known better.

I could have just taken attendance from my computer. Used the seating chart. Instead, I passed around a roll sheet, and told each student to list their name and an adjective to describe themselves. I thought I was beinghipandcoolandcreative. But I gave that direction right after I introduced myself as their substitute teacher.

And I gave that direction to a bunch of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds.

Oh well. At least I learned my mistake with my homeroom and got it out of the way.

I certainly can’t markHugh JassandBen Doveras “present.”

“Wooooow,” I say, holding the clipboard. The two boysnear the front of the room, with heads bowed sharing snickers into closed fists, do not help their cause at all. “I guess I have two absences on the first day of school.” I make atsksound, and make a big show of clicking them as absent on my roster.

“Are you sure?” Hugh chuckles, his face red.

“I am,” I say wide-eyed, totally committing to the bit. “I mean, I only asked you to use an adjective to describe yourself on the attendance sheet. If you wanted to tell the class what aHugh Jassyou have, I certainly can’t stop you from using that to describe yourself.”

I say it as I walk slowly to the front of the room, cross my arms, and smile at him slyly. Some students gasp at my language, others giggle nervously, and Hugh himself turns beet red.

---