Page 8 of The Love Simulation

A week later, I’m on my way to monitor first lunch. The scent of baked cheese enchiladas smothered in canned chili has been seeping through the vents and cracks of my office door for the last hour, and I am almost salivating in the hope that the kids won’t try wildin’ out today so I can enjoy a plate.

“Excuse me, where is your hall pass, little miss thing?” one of the gym teachers, Paul, says while coming in the opposite direction holding a tennis racket.

I don’t waste time looking around; I know he’s talking to me. As the distance between us shortens, I wait for it to hit him. When it does, his eyes bug out and his face goes red.

“Oh, Miss Rogers, sorry! I didn’t realize it was you,” he says in his country drawl.

I nod and offer him a tight smile. “It’s okay, Paul. I get it.” Today’s spirit day theme is Dress like Your Principal, and while most of the kids who participated are in slacks and a button-up to imitate Principal Major, the eighth-grade girls took it to the extreme in dressing like me. I’ve come across countless mini-Briannas walking around with their cute goddess braids in varying colors from jet black to honey blond, and maxi skirts paired with cowboy boots. Add in the fact that today I’m wearing a yellow maxi skirtwith brown cowboy bootsandI forgot my lanyard at home, and it’s been a hilarious morning of confusion watching the teachers try to figure out who the real me is. So Paul thinking I was a student walking around is understandable.

“Little Miss Thingthough?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, ah.” He flushes even redder. “Yeah. It won’t happen again.”

I nod and Paul goes on his way.

When I walk into the cafeteria, it’s already at full volume, with kids shouting at each other across tables and claiming their spots while still in line.

Angie is on lunch-monitoring duty as well. She passes me with her upper lip raised to her scrunched-up nose, signaling that she’s smelled something bad. Before moving on, she complains, “Why is it so chaoticandmusty in here?”

I cover my mouth before I can bust out laughing. She really should be used to the smell of teenagers still learning about self-care by now. I’ve become pretty much nose-blind to it, which is why I can only smell the food.

“Miss Rogers!”

I scan the crowd and see Monique waving me over from her seat at one of the long brown tables. I walk to her and bend down. “Hey, Miss Monique. How can I help you?”

“I don’t need help today. I just wanted to show you the book I picked out!” She reaches into her backpack and holds out her book like a trophy. “Nic Blake and the Remarkables. And look, she looks just like me!” Monique holds up one fist like the girl on the front cover with a high puff, then goes on to tell me how she put her own hair up this morning and even managed to get the edges just right. “I asked Mrs. Yates if she can get a copy ofThe Hate U Giveso I can check it out next year. She didn’t seem too sure, but I hopeshe can. I read all the good books already, there’s nothing left. I’ll probably end up donating this one to the school when I’m done so y’all can havesomething.” She shrugs and I fight to quash the lump in my throat.

It’s a shame that donations from a child is the best our library can hope for. I don’t want to think about the canceled upgrades anymore, but how many great books are these students missing out on by not having a fully functional library here? How many of these students would benefit from seeing characters on book covers that look just like them? Camille made the point that there are thousands of kids all over the state losing access to libraries. Instead of helping me accept that I can’t help everyone, the desire to do something about it is even stronger. Without the budget approval, I just don’t know what that “something” would be.

I stand up straight and take in a slow breath. “Let me see that pose again,” I insist, and Monique crosses her left arm over her chest. “Yass, that’s what I’m talking about!”

Monique grins and I give her a high five, the only acceptable form of contact with students, before continuing to move through the tables. Eventually I stop walking and lean against a wall where I still have a good view of the whole cafeteria. Jordan, a math teacher, stops a few feet away from me. He’s talking to Roman’s friend Kareem. I would move along to give them privacy if it weren’t for two points: One, I’m nosy. It wouldn’t be professional for me to gossip with the teachers, so I have to listen in when I can to keep a finger on the pulse of what’s going on with everyone. Two, a small part of me hopes they mention Roman. But I try not to dwell on that.

“But it won’t be a waste of your summer,” Jordan is saying,and I don’t need any other context clues to know what they’re talking about. Jordan is trying to recruit Kareem for a Mars simulation program.

After Christmas break, Jordan asked permission to represent the school in a six-week challenge where teachers try surviving in a Mars-like environment. It was easy enough to get the okay from Principal Major and the superintendent, but the real challenge for him has been assembling a team. Jordan, who loves all things space but for whatever reason decided to become a math teacher instead of pursuing a career with NASA, thinks I, as the sister of a real-life astronaut, walk on the moon. I was one of the first people he tried to get on board, but even if I wasn’t adamant about boundaries with the staff, I’m not willing to give up my summer break for anybody, especially after the year Principal Major put me through. Unfortunately for Jordan, most of the teachers he’s asked feel the same way.

I continue scanning the cafeteria and only halfway listen in as Jordan tries pleading his case.

“Come on,” Jordan says. “Teachers who participate in the simulation and make it through the full term get twenty thousand dollars. Easy money, bro. And if the team successfully completes all of our tasks before time is up, the school gets five hundred thousand.”

Wait a minute. I come to attention immediately at his words. Jordan didn’t tell me anything about getting money for participating, and he sure as hell didn’t say a word about earning money for the school.

If our school had an extra five hundred grand, Principal Major wouldn’t be able to justifynotusing it for the library.

Kareem apologizes to Jordan after making it clear, Dr. Seuss–style, that even if the grand prize were a milliondollars, he would not, could not be caught dead in an enclosed space with five other scholars. Just thinking about it makes him shake his head and want to holler.

As Jordan sighs as Kareem walks away, I slide right into his personal space.

“If you’re about to ask me if you can leave because you finished lunch early, the answer is no. You know the rules…Oh.” Jordan blinks when he gets a good look at my face. “Sorry, Brianna. I thought you were a student. What’s up?”

“I couldn’t help but notice that when you told me about the Mars simulation, you didn’t mention anything about the money.”

He frowns and scratches at his short locs. “I didn’t? Dang, I guess it must have slipped my mind. What can I say, you know? I’m doing it for the journey and not the money. Some experiences are priceless, am I right?”

“Oh yeah, no doubt. I love experiences. Anyway, so what you said about the money is true then? There’s a prize for teachersandthe school?”

“Yeah, there is. Wait—did I forget to tell everyone else about the money and that’s why they turned me down?” He gives a self-deprecating shake of his head.

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