See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Not until you let me explain.”

  “What’s there to explain, Arlo?” I say on a sob. “They asked you what you thought of my teaching. You told them.”

  “I said there was potential.”

  “Potential? As if you dust some of your stodgy teaching on me, I might be able to keep it together long enough to help a student?”

  “No—”

  “Well . . . fuck you,” I say, the words slipping past me before I can stop them. “God . . . fuck you, Arlo. You’re such an asshole. I should have known that from the very beginning. I did, actually, but I let my heart get the best of me. Well, not again. You might have been important to me ten minutes ago, but now, you’re nothing to me. This job is important. Helping kids is what’s important. And my confidence in my ability to shape young minds is important, and I don’t need shitty people like you trying to tear me down.” I point to the door behind him. “Leave.”

  His eyes shine, his expression nearly breaking me, but I turn away.

  “Greer, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “Sorry means nothing to me.” I gather my things, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. “If you’re not going to leave, then I will.” I blow past him, my shoulder bumping into his just as I realize what I have in my purse. I pause as my lip trembles. I reach into my purse and pull out the key to his house. Turning around, I hold it up to him and say, “I don’t need this anymore.”

  A single tear falls down his cheek as he takes it, and before he can shred my heart apart anymore, I take off.

  It’s over.

  It’s so fucking over.

  * * *

  “I don’t quite understand why you’re mad. He told the truth,” Keeks says while unpacking one of my boxes.

  The room stills, and Stella and I look at her.

  “Keeks, read the room,” Stella whispers.

  She looks around, confused. “Read what? There’s no literature on the walls.”

  “Good God,” Stella says, going to my dresser and putting my sweaters back in the drawer.

  Thankfully, I hadn’t packed much because Arlo was supposed to help me, but I’d gotten a jump-start on it. When I got home, I realized I couldn’t do this on my own and called the girls over, forgetting how Keeks’s brain functions. She sees logic, not so much emotion. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much, but right now, I don’t want logic.

  I want all of the emotion.

  “He hurt her,” Stella says. “What would you do if Kelvin wrote up an evaluation on you and said you weren’t a good chemist?”

  “That would be preposterous. He’s not in the same field of study as me, which renders his evaluation baseless.”

  Stella pinches the bridge of her nose. Somewhat humored by her distress—only a little—I take a big gulp of wine from my glass while I sit on my bed, cross-legged.

  “Pretend that he’s in your field of study.”

  “Is he a chemist? Physicist? Biologist? Or floating around in general science, unable to figure out which direction he’d like to take, so decides to dabble in every topic?”

  “For the love of God, he’s a chemist, like you,” Stella answers exasperated.

  Keeks considers the notion and shakes her head. “Kelvin would never be a chemist.”

  “I give up.” Stella flops on the floor, arms spread, as there’s a knock at the door. “It’s open,” Stella calls out.

  The door cracks open, and the first thing we see is a box of Frankie Donuts. Then a voice calls, “I swear, it’s just me. I bring donuts. Please don’t hate me because my brother is an idiot.”

  “Come in,” I say.

  Cora peeks around the door, and I can tell she’s been crying from the red around her eyes and the blotchiness in her cheeks. When our eyes lock, her lips tremble and she says, “I’m so sorry.”

  I pat the spot next to me on the bed. “Sit. There’s nothing to be sorry about. This isn’t on you.”

  She steps over Stella and takes a seat. “I know, but I still feel awful. We share the same blood, after all.”

  “To be specific, siblings most commonly share fifty percent of their DNA, but half-siblings—”

  “Keeks, why don’t you grab napkins for the donuts?” I ask kindly. She nods. Turning to Cora, I say, “I’m sorry I’m not moving out. I know you were looking forward to moving in here.”

  “Why are you apologizing? Don’t apologize. This is Arlo’s fault. When he told me—God, I’ve never been so upset at my brother. I wanted to yell and scream at him but there was no chance I could. He was crying, and that just about broke me. I had to leave, or else, I’d have felt sad for him and I didn’t want to feel sad for him.”

  “He was crying?” Stella asks.

  Cora nods. “Yeah, he came into the house like that. I thought maybe someone died, but I guess it was your relationship.”

  He cried . . .

  Hard.

  Oh God, that makes me feel—

  No, it makes me feel nothing. I don’t care if he cries. He brought this upon himself.

  I flip open the pastry box and pick up the first donut I see. Not caring about the flavor, I shove half the thing in my mouth, taking a giant bite. Cora does the same, followed up by Stella. Keeks is the only one who doesn’t partake in a donut; instead, she stands over us, a confused look on her face.

  “Why aren’t you having a donut?” Stella asks.

  “If Arlo cried, then maybe he feels true regret over the evaluation,” Keeks says.

  “Of course he’s regretful—he lost his girlfriend over it.”

  Still confused, Keeks takes a seat on the floor and says, “But he evaluated you fairly.”

  “He evaluated me by his own rules, without looking outside his unadaptable and inflexible technique.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but he’s the department head. He evaluates everyone. That’s part of his job. Is he supposed to lie because you’re now romantically involved?”

  Stepping in, Stella says, “Keeks, it’s about how he’s always thought her teaching techniques don’t match up to his expectations. He’s always thought that.”

  “Okay.” Twisting her lips to the side, brow furrowed, she asks, “Then why are you surprised by his evaluation? Shouldn’t you have already known what he was going to say?”

  Why am I starting to feel like I’m in the wrong here? Why is her argument sounding logical?

  I don’t like it.

  This isn’t on me.

  This is on Arlo.

  “I’m not the one who did something wrong,” I say, growing irritated.

  “You’re mad,” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend on making you angry. I’m trying to gain an understanding. My first-year evaluation was impeccably difficult to listen to. George Calhoun was head of the science department at the time. Vastly intellectual, quite a curmudgeon, didn’t acknowledge contemporary science. I was appraised as frigid with students, awkward while lecturing, and inadequate in expounding knowledge. The school board agreed my personality was ill-fitting for a teaching role.”

  “Oh God, Keeks, that’s awful,” I say, my heart reaching out to her.

  “I didn’t know what to make of the criticism.” She pushes her glasses up. “Principal Dewitt graced me with her tutelage and advised me on how to express myself better around the students and how to educate them with my quirks, rather than alienate them.” She clears her throat. “Although, as the human race, we consider our individual selves to be astute in our daily practices, perhaps the truth is, we’re not. Growth is key to happiness. Growth might hurt at first, but the anguish is worth it in the end.”

  Hell . . .

  “But he told her he loved her,” Stella says, letting Keiko’s profound words roll right off her. “They were going to move in this weekend. There’s a difference. You weren’t in a loving, committed relationship with George Calhoun.”

  “Perhaps not. So what does that say about Arlo?”

  “That he’s
a dick,” Cora says, taking another bite of her donut.

  “Or that he didn’t let his feelings blind him. Instead, he showed true character. I’ve seen lack of character in a man, and it’s unappealing. Intellectually, Arlo Turner isn’t blinded by sexual compulsion but rather driven by the impulse to improve. From the inward pucker of your supraorbital ridges, I can observe that I hold the unpopular opinion, but I trust Arlo’s intentions were not meant to be ill-willed, but for the betterment of our dear comrade and the school.”

  The room falls silent, and I wonder if the girls are all thinking the same thing I am . . .

  That Keeks sounds like she’s making sense right now. And maybe . . . I can’t see anything past my humiliation and shame.

  Because I’ve never been told I’m not good enough.

  * * *

  “Good morning.” I don’t have to turn around to know who just walked into my classroom. I could feel his presence before he opened his mouth.

  I spent the weekend wrapped up in a pair of old sweatpants, nursing a gallon of ice cream, and binge-watching Friends because it was the only thing that didn’t make me want to start crying all over again.

  After the girls left, I felt even more confused than before.

  I wanted to be mad.

  I had the right to be mad.

  But for some reason, what Keeks said made sense, and that was a tough pill to swallow. One I’m not ready to acknowledge.

  “I’m busy,” I say while writing out essay questions to be answered during class today.

  “I know. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I was just hoping that we could speak tonight.”

  “I’m busy tonight.”

  “Greer, you can’t just shut me out without talking to me.”

  I glance toward him, and it’s the first time I’m catching his distraught appearance. Dark circles under his eyes, hair barely done, and instead of a cardigan, he’s wearing a half-crumpled button-up shirt.

  Good. He had a bad weekend just like me.

  “I can actually do whatever I want. I’m an adult and in charge of my own life.”

  “Greer, we love each other.”

  “Yeah, well, that was before you went behind my back and tried to ruin my teaching career.” The anger starts to make an appearance again—thank God—and Keiko’s words quickly fade into the background.

  “I wasn’t trying to ruin your teaching career. I’d never do that to someone. They asked my honest opinion. I told them. The intention was to help you.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help,” I yell.

  “Hey.” Gunner comes into my classroom. “I can hear you two down the hall.”

  I press my hand to my forehead in distress. “You need to leave before I lose my shit.”

  “Not until you agree to talk to me.”

  Looking at Gunner, I say, “Get him out of here, now, or I’ll cause a scene, and I don’t care what happens to me after.”

  Hand to Arlo’s chest, Gunner says, “Come on, man. Dewitt won’t tolerate this scene. She’s been cool with teachers dating because there’s never been drama. Don’t let it start now.”

  His eyes plead with me one last time, but I turn away from him and focus on the whiteboard in front of me.

  “Greer . . . I’m sorry,” he says, his voice full of regret. “I hope you know just how fucking sorry I am.”

  I don’t look at him. No, I swallow back the wave of emotion that hits me and will myself not to cry.

  Today is going to be exponentially harder than I thought.

  Not just today . . . but being here in general.

  Especially since I can’t get the defeated look on his face out of my mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ARLO

  “Dude, what the fuck happened?” Gunner asks, shutting the door to my classroom. “Last I knew, you weren’t yelling at each other, you were in love, and she was moving in.”

  I grip the back of my neck, completely distressed.

  I spent the entire weekend trying to talk to her. Texts, phone calls . . . at one point I attempted to go to her place, but Coraline stopped me at the door and told me to give her some space.

  I didn’t want to give her space. I wanted to talk to her. I didn’t want her thinking I went behind her back to be manipulative or to ruin her career, which she seems to believe. I wanted to fix things. I wanted to pack her up. I wanted her living with me, damn it.

  And now that the weekend has gone by, I can see not going after her was a huge mistake, because when she looked at me, her eyes were lacking the usual sparkle. They were blank, empty, lifeless, and that was scary.

  She’s vibrant, excited about Monday mornings, ready for a new week of teaching . . .

  Fuck, what have I done?

  “Arlo,” Gunner snaps. “What’s going on?”

  “We broke up,” I say, sitting on the edge of my desk. “At least, that’s what I think happened.”

  “How? What the hell changed?”

  “She had her mid-semester evaluation. Nyema referred to my evaluation—”

  “And? That’s your job as a department head. You told me the other week that you could see some merit in how she structured her lessons.”

  He’s right. I had told him that. But in the midst of getting to know Greer, learning who she is, how she grew up, fucking her every other available moment, falling in love . . . I hadn’t even thought about the evaluation or that we butted heads on her style. It didn’t seem as relevant.

  “Yes. That’s correct. But I submitted my evaluation probably four weeks ago, Gunner.”

  “What did you say?” Gunner asks, taking a seat on one of the desks.

  “I don’t remember.” I pull on my hair. “I mean, nothing that I thought was going to have the school board want to fire her.”

  “What? They wanted to fire her?”

  “Apparently. But Dewitt wouldn’t let that happen. I spoke the truth—the only thing I can honestly remember writing is that using techniques like CliffsNotes didn’t settle well with me.”

  “You need to figure out what you said.”

  “I know. But does that matter now? I can’t take it back. I have no idea what to do. I’ve tried apologizing, I’ve tried talking to her, explaining myself, but there’s nothing I can do. The damage has been done.”

  He winces.

  “What?” I shoot at him. “Should I walk up to Dewitt and ask her if I can see her evaluation so I can refresh my memory on what a dick I was?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That’s not helpful.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “I have no ideas. I honestly still can’t believe this is happening.” I press my fingers to my brow. “Fuck. I love her—and, what, we’re just done now?”

  “Only if you give up,” Gunner says.

  The bell rings, indicating school is starting and kids are going to start filing in.

  “Shit,” I mumble.

  “I have to go, but think about it, okay? This isn’t over.”

  “Then why does it feel like it is?”

  * * *

  “You look like you want to cry,” Coraline says, walking into the kitchen.

  “I feel like shit.”

  “Good, you should.”

  Living with your ex-girlfriend’s friend who knows how to hold a grudge does not make for a good time. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemies. Coraline has been relentless about making me feel like the piece of trash that I am. It’s bad enough that I already carry around immense guilt and self-hatred, but she loves to pile it on every chance she gets.

  “Coraline, I don’t need this from you.” I press my palm to my eye, not in the mood for food, so I go to the living room couch.

  Grabbing a banana from the counter, she joins me, not that I invited her. When I reach for the remote, she kicks it away.

  Sighing, I lean my head back against the couch and say, “What?”

  “It’s been a week.
A week, Arlo, and you’ve done nothing to fix this.”

  “There’s nothing I can do. She won’t talk to me. Pretty sure if she won’t talk to me, there’s no way I can solve this. She doesn’t want to hear me out. She’s done, so that means I’m done, too.”

  “Oh, so you’re going to act like a petulant child and just give up because you’re not getting your way?”

  “I’m not acting like a petulant child. I just know when something is over. I’m not about to—in crass terms—beat a dead horse. It’s over.”

  “Let me ask you this. Do you love her still?”

  “No, in a matter of a week I’ve been able to forget about the only woman I’ve ever loved and move on,” I answer sarcastically.

  “Your rude tone isn’t going to get you anywhere with me.”

  “I’m not trying to impress you.”

  “You should. I’m Greer’s good friend. I could put in a good word for you. Mind you, I’ve been saying some pretty shitty things about you, but I can change that all around.”

  “Wow, thanks, Coraline.”

  “Well, don’t be a dickhead, and I won’t have to try to protect my name because I’m unfortunately associated with you. Trust me, I’ve bought a lot of apology donuts in the last few days to help hold down my relationship with her. Do you know how awkward it is hanging out with her knowing my brother is the reason she’s working her ass off to keep her job? It’s not fun. Do you know what else isn’t fun? Watching Greer quietly cry to herself while we try to cheer her up. It’s painful, agonizing, knowing how much she’s hurting.”

  “She’s crying?” I ask, my heart nearly wrenching out of my chest.

  “What else would she be doing? Yes, she’s angry with you, Arlo, but she also loves you, still does, and that love was shattered. You broke her trust. You made her believe she’s not good enough to be an educator. Could you imagine, if the person you’re head over heels in love with blindsides you and tells you all the hard work you’ve been putting into your job isn’t good enough? Pretty sure you’d be crushed, too. Honestly, I don’t think she’s mad about what was said, but more angry about who said it.”