Page 6 of The Love Simulation

My office is remarkably smaller than Principal Major’s and pretty much every other administrator who gets their own space, so I have to squeeze between the wall and my desk to get to my chair. When I land in my seat, I let out a deep sigh. The fact that the library remodel isn’t happening is still sinking in, but I don’t have time to sit with it fully yet. There are still teacher evaluations that need to be completed, I have a scheduled meeting with Principal Major that I may accidentally forget to show up for, and I need to call back two parents who are concerned about the need for their kids to take summer courses. And that’s all before lunches start.

First things first. I pull up my email and see I’ve received thirty-five new messages since checking it while in the teachers’ lounge. One would think that the emails would lessen as the end of the year rolls around, but nope. My inbox stays consistently flooded. While I do a quick scan of the subject lines to see what I can get rid of without opening, a new message from Principal Major with a blank subject line pops up. I have no choice but to open it in case it’s something important, then grind my teeth when I see it’s full of attachments of all the contractor receipts for the football field upgrade.

My mom used to get on my siblings and me wheneverwe’d use the wordhate, but I swear (something else she’d get on us for) there are days I absolutely hate dealing with Principal Major. When he follows up with a link to Angelou School of Arts, at least I get the satisfaction of steering that one right into the trash.

And that’s enough of that.

I exit out of my email. There has to be something I can do to stop this madness about a football field and make Principal Major stick to what we originally agreed on. This calls for a conversation with my mentor. I pick up the phone on my desk and hit the number programmed for Superintendent Watts’s office.

I’m sure most vice principals don’t typically call up the superintendent so freely, but Jeanine Watts has been my mentor for years and went to the same alma mater as my parents. She’s always shown her unshaken faith in my ability not only to succeed in this role but to keep moving up. Principal Major said she already signed off on the football field, but my hope is that once I explain the original plans for the library remodel, she’ll see it’s a better use of the school’s money and make him go back to the original agreement. While I’m at it, I may even ask her to find a new school for him. If anyone needs to transfer, it’s him, and preferably far, far away from here. But the conversation doesn’t happen. The answering secretary lets me know the superintendent isn’t available. I’ll try calling her again, a hundred times if I have to, but as I set the handset back on the receiver, my chest tightens and I know I’m on the verge of giving in to my emotions.

God. If I lose the library, what was even the point of this whole year? I didn’t abandon my old school and position with the intention of battling with my principal every day or floundering my way through disciplinary action meetingsor holding off parents from attacking teachers (and sometimes vice versa). I came here to make my mark and make a difference. And now it all seems to have gone up in smoke.

I scrub my hand over my face, then reach for my cell phone to send a message to my sister.

Me:Code Yellow. Can I come by after work?

Code Yellowmeans one of us is about to have an emotional breakdown. Seeing as out of the two of us, I’m the emotionally volatile one, it’s always me using the code. But my sister never lets me down. Within a minute of sending the message, my phone vibrates with a response.

Camille:I’ll have the wine ready.

Already I feel the weight on my chest lighten. All I need is a good cry and sister time, then I’ll know how to proceed.

Chapter Three

“Have you ever thought of investing in a handkerchief? Or maybe several?” Camille asks.

I use my fingers to wipe away the remnants of tears, having long given up on the tissues. They kept falling apart in my hands, making me wonder if Camille switched from the brand she normally keeps around for these sessions. I must look a mess, but God, how I needed this.

After this morning’s revelation, my day didn’t get any better. I still had to suffer through meetings with Principal Major. Now that the cat’s out of the bag and I know his real plans for the budget, he was only too happy to delegate to me the task of taking over communications with the contractors. I also had to break the news to Mrs. Yates that the library remodel isn’t happening. The conversation was hard for both of us, and I hope this isn’t the nudge that pushes her into retirement. She’s been great at making do with a less-than-functional library, but if I’m disappointed, I can’t imagine how she’s feeling.

“I don’t need any handkerchiefs,” I grumble at Camille. “You just need to stop skimping and get the good stuff. Look at this.” I grab a handful of tattered wet tissue from my lap and give her the stink eye, but the effect is lessened by the involuntary double-hitched breath I take.

Camille watches, unimpressed but not impatient. Maybe it’s the effect of being the baby in a family of six, but outside of a professional setting, I’ve never felt the need to hide my feelings. Hurt, happy, sad—I grew up knowing it was safe to let my emotions out. After sitting here on Camille’s rattan lounge, crying for the last half hour and blubbering my way through the day’s events, I must admit I feel ten times lighter.

“Can you try going above the principal?” Camille asks. “Contact Jeanine or try writing a letter to the school board.”

I take in a shuddering breath. “I already tried that. I spoke with Jeanine this afternoon. First, it took hours just to get her on the phone, and when I finally did, she told me the library remodel would be reconsidered next year. Her contract is almost up, and if she wants the school board to renew it, she can’t afford to look wishy-washy. The school board has already closed their offices for the year, so even if I reach out, nothing will be decided until it’s too late. And you should have seen how the principal was gloating down the halls today. He really thinks this last stunt is going to run me off for good.” I start pulling the tissues apart even more.

“First of all, eww. Watching you play with those is giving me the ick.” My sister wrinkles her nose and eyes my lap, appearing every bit the bougie, stuck-up princess her peers in school used to accuse her of being. When I hold one tissue up and make a point of looking her dead in the eye as I pick tiny pieces apart, starting at the edge and not caring if the little confetti-like pieces fall back into my lap or land on the porch, she gives me a look that saysbougie or not, you’ll catch these hands if you keep trying me. Then we hear a soft cry from the baby monitor placed on the closed firepit, and she gets up, pushing my head to the side on her way to get Zara.

“Hey!” I protest, but she’s gone before I can do anything.

Three minutes later, Camille comes back with my three-month-old niece held to her chest with one hand and a small wastebasket in the other. She lets the wastebasket fall to the ground beside me with a hollow clang before settling back into her spot to nurse.

It’s only the momentary wash of guilt that settles over me as I look at Zara’s chubby little form that urges me to pick up my trash rather than anything Camille’s attitude could do to move me. Envy is part of the human experience, but I can’t help but feel like crap because I’ve been so envious of my sister for years. She’s got everything—the house, the wonderful job where she’s her own boss (though she does work with our mom), the loyal and protective husband, and now the perfect angel of a baby. We’re only two years apart, but Camille has always been so sure of herself and what she wants out of life, it feels like she’s decades ahead. Her, and our older brother, Vincent. I’m behind, stuck in this rut, trying to find a life and a career that’s half as fulfilling as theirs seem to be.

My eyes start to water again, and I grab two tissues. Maybe layering will help with their durability.

“Well, if the library isn’t happening, what are you going to do?” Camille asks.

I let out a bitter laugh. “There’s nothing I can do. I guess I’ll go back to school on Monday, suck it up, and do my job.”

“You could always apply for the school of arts.”

I gasp and cross my arms over my chest, waiting for Camille to take her traitorous words back. “Don’t get mad,” she says. “Just hear me out. And don’t do that thing with your chin.”

The thing with my chin—opposite to the thing with mylip—where the bottom of my chin scrunches and makes my lower lip disappear into a line. There’s usually chin trembling involved, and Camille knows I can’t control it. Not that I’m trying to right now. If she’s going to agree with Principal Major, best believe she’s getting the full impact of my disappointment.

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