by Kelly Myers
She’s smart, and she always does her assignments. However, she’ll often be withdrawn and sad. Some days, she’s energetic and smiling and chatting in class, but other days she’ll be dead silent.
Amy never misbehaves, and I know she has good friends, so I’m not sure what the issue is. With twelve-year-olds, it could be anything.
Fortunately, her grades are very good, and she likes me as a teacher, so I think the conversation with her dad should go well.
I open my desk drawer and pull out my phone. I usually keep it hidden away at school because I don’t like to encourage students to be glued to their screens, but David Russo isn’t due for another five minutes, and I want to check my email.
I slump in my chair when I see my inbox.
Logan sent me an email thirty minutes ago. The subject: Pick up stuff?
My chest contracts as my finger hovers above the unread email. It’s been six months since the break-up. It shouldn’t still hurt this much, right?
Calling it a “break-up” doesn’t describe it with any accuracy. It was more like a slaughter. A sneak attack. I was totally and utterly blindsided when Logan, my boyfriend of three years, told me he needed space. At first, I thought he just wanted to spend more time with his college friends or something. We had fallen into the couple habit of being practically attached at the hip. I didn’t mind, but I told him he could totally have more space to hang out with other people.
Then he clarified. By “space,” he meant he wanted to date other people. He wanted to not be in a relationship with me.
It still bugs me that he didn’t just come out and say that right off the bat. I’m an English teacher, words are important to me. They matter.
I shove my phone aside. I’ll look at the email later. He clearly just wants to grab his clothes that are still at my place, and I hate myself for hoping, even for a second, the email might say something else. Something about how he’s changed his mind and wants me back.
I think of the box of his things tucked into the corner of my closet. A pair of sweatpants. Some jeans. One of his frisbees he liked to bring to the park and toss around.
I cringe as I remember his oversized college T-shirt. For a month after the break-up, I slept in it every night. It was pathetic, but no one, not even my close friends, knew. It smelled like him, and so when I woke up each morning, I could convince myself, just for a brief second, that he was still there. I have no problem being pathetic if I’m the only witness.
Over the last few months, I’ve managed to wean myself off the T-shirt. But after a rough day, when I’m tempted to order from the ramen place both Logan and I loved, or if I open social media and see a picture of him smiling, I sometimes have to pull out the T-shirt.
We never lived together, that’s the one silver lining. I wanted to be engaged before I moved in with anyone. Six months ago, I was already planning what our apartment together would look like. It wasn’t a daydream; I was convinced Logan was my future. I spent half my time at his place, and if I wasn’t there, he was with me.
I blink and force myself to focus back on my classroom. My job and my friends were the only thing that got me through the break-up in so-so shape (I’m not delusional enough to say I’ve been in “good” shape). Being at the school from early in the morning until almost 6 kept me busy. I threw myself into not just my classes, but into the extracurriculars I advise as well. And, then on the weekends, I hung out with my best friends from college. Zoe Hamilton, Beatrice Dobbs, Marianne Gellar and I have been inseparable since freshman year. Even when I got serious about Logan, I made sure to keep them close. That turned out to be a saving grace. Logan is gone, and now they’re all I have in terms of a social life.
I push my long dark hair over my shoulder and stand up to straighten my dress. I’m usually not one to care that much about my appearance, but it’s important to present a polished front to parents. I’m 27, but I look younger thanks to my round cheeks and petite stature. This morning when getting dressed, I tried to compensate for my youthful looks (which parents often take as an indicator that I can’t control my students) by wearing shoes with a small block heel and a long green dress, as well as a bit more makeup than I usually wear.
I pull a small mirror from my purse and check to make sure I look ok. My curly hair is a little frizzy, but that’s the norm for me. I brush away a bit of smudged mascara from beneath my brown eyes.
I glance at the time. It’s past 3, so I poke my head out in the hallway. No sign of him.
I walk back over to my desk. He probably got held up in a meeting with another teacher. I’m not the only one who is concerned about Amy’s moodiness.
I wonder why David is coming alone. Usually both parents attend all the conferences. And, if it’s one parent, it’s almost always the mother. Even when parents are divorced, they usually come in together for the parent teacher conferences.
Of course, if Amy has siblings, the parents might have divvied up the meetings. I have the kids write journal entries in a notebook to read aloud sometimes, and I remember Amy mentioned a younger sister. That must be the case; the mother is going to the sister’s meetings, while David takes Amy.
Just then, I’m startled from my thoughts by a light knock on the open door. I look up and freeze for a second.
“Mr. Russo?” My voice comes out an octave higher than usual.
“Please, call me David.” He walks into the room and gives me a smile that’s as warm as the summer sun.
I stand up and reach out to shake his hand. “Have a seat.”
David Russo does not look like the other fathers I’ve met with that day. For one, he’s insanely handsome. He’s well over six feet tall, with light brown hair and broad shoulders.
He folds himself into the chair across from my desk, and it makes my stomach flutter at how at ease he looks.
He’s young too. Definitely not my age, but I would guess he’s only in his mid-thirties. There’s not a hint of a receding hairline and no wrinkles on his face, although I spot bags under his eyes, and his face is a bit pale.
“So you’re the famous Miss Ramirez.” His green eyes seem to glimmer as he looks around at my classroom, and suddenly I’m self-conscious. I want him to like what he sees.
“Excuse me?”
“Amy adores you,” David says. “She’s been way happier since she switched to your section.”
I try to hide the surprise from my face. Amy has seemed comfortable with me, but she is often reticent. And if the past semester has been a “happier” version of Amy, I’m worried about what she was like before.
“Well, she’s a wonderful student,” I say.
David nods, but I see a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and it’s clear how proud he is of his daughter.
I look down at my notes. I need to focus. Just because he’s good-looking doesn’t mean I should get distracted. It’s unlike me. As a rule, I’ve never really trusted attractive people.
I know that sounds silly, but I think it’s the result of being shy all my life. Attractive people always made me more nervous in social situations. Not that I think I’m unattractive. I just always assume that most good-looking people are way more confident and extroverted.
Logan wasn’t traditionally good-looking. He was too scrawny, and his hair was thin and wispy. But I adored him. I was comfortable around him.
I look up at David and force myself to hold his gaze. I got past my severe shyness a long time ago. I’m perfectly capable of holding a professional conversation, no matter how handsome this guy is.
“Here’s a recap of her assignments and grades.” I hand David a sheet with all of Amy’s information. “I was particularly impressed by her essay about her basketball team. She can be very funny in her prose, which is a rare skill.”
David glanced over the sheet with careful eyes. It struck me that he was not one to miss details. “I haven’t read that, I’ll have to ask her to show me.”
“I have a copy.” I shift through m
y papers. I always keep a few copies on my desk of students’ best work so the parents can read them. Not all parents want to, but I’m happy David asked.
“Thank you.” He gives me that sunny smile again, and our hands brush as I hand him the paper.
While he bends his head to read over the essay, I feel a warm blush spreading over my cheeks.
I dig my nails into my palm. I haven’t looked at a guy in six months – despite the best efforts of my friends to “get me back out there” – and now all of a sudden I have a crush on a parent of one of my students.
My eyes widen. I need to stifle my strange attraction immediately.
Because it hits me all of a sudden: this man’s wife is probably right down the hallway, chatting to another teacher about Amy’s sister.
He’s not at all for me. And, for some reason that makes me ridiculously sad.
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