Page 77 of More For Me

Bodhi

“There you are.”

I look up from the sandwich I’ve been listlessly eating at my desk to see Jordan, the seventh grade English teacher, smiling at me from the doorway to my classroom. “I haven’t seen you in the lounge all week,” she says, crossing over to my desk.

“I’ve been eating in here,” I say, gesturing at the mess of papers all over the surface of my desk. I manage a weak smile. “You know how it is this time of the year, not enough hours in the day.”

She laughs, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty classroom. She must realize that as well, because her cheeks go a little pink.

“Sometimes I grade papers at the coffee shop over on Franklin after school,” she says, her cheeks going even pinker for some reason. There’s a pause. “You should join me sometime.”

My stomach clenches. Usually I spend my after-school hours grading papers in the back room at Everly’s store, like the pathetic little puppy dog I am. I’ve always enjoyed that time with her. When the store is busy she rushes around, animated while she talks to customers, works the register, makes styling suggestions to people in the dressing room. She looks so alive in those moments, so happy, like she’s exactly where she wants to be, doing exactly what she was meant for.

When the store is slower, she usually sits in the back with me, bent over a sketch pad or her sewing machine while I try to distract her with lame jokes and inane conversation, just for the chance to see her smile.

I wonder if we’ll ever have those afternoons together again.

“Maybe I will,” I tell Jordan, doing my best to make the smile on my face more genuine.

She nods, looking inordinately pleased at my tepid agreement. The lunch warning bell sounds in the hallway and I look down at my turkey sandwich, feeling not the tiniest shred of regret that it’s only half-eaten. It tasted like sawdust anyhow, like pretty much all the food I’ve managed to force down these last few days.

You sound like a character in a Victorian novel,I tell myself, rolling my eyes as I toss the remains of my lunch in the trash while a few of my students start filtering into the room. I glance up to see Jordan still standing at my desk, cheeks still pink. Now she’s fiddling with one of the pens in my pen cup, that nervous look back on her face.

“What about tonight?” she blurts out, and it takes me a second to remember what she’s talking about.

“You’re going to grade papers tonight?” I ask, mildly surprised. “You’re not going to Hurley’s with the others?” Hurley’s is a gastropub a few blocks from the school and very popular with the entire faculty. Wednesday has long been designated the unofficial bar night, mainly because it’s the day the owner offers happy hour pricing to the teachers and staff until six.

“Are you going?” she asks, sounding hopeful. “I can do either. Hurley’s or coffee. I like them both. Um. Were you planning on going to Hurley’s?” She’s rambling and I have no idea why. Jordan and I have always been fairly close—she’s a year or two older than me and we went to the same university, though we were in different graduating classes. Why she seems so nervous around me right now, I have no idea.

“I’m not sure yet,” I tell her, even though I had zero plans to go to the bar with the others tonight. The prospect of trying to put on a happy face and make small talk does not seem like a good time.

She looks disappointed. “Well. I hope you decide to come.” She gives another too-loud laugh, her fingers tracing over the edge of my desk while she stares right at me, something meaningful in her eyes. “It’s always more fun when you’re around, Bodhi.”

Something about that look, about the way she’s been acting for the duration of this somewhat-strange conversation, makes me shift in my seat, uncomfortable. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

She nods. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” Then she spins to go, startling a little when she realizes that my classroom is almost full, the kids in my next hour taking their seats and chatting with friends. She seems to shake herself before walking quickly from the room.

That was weird,I think, pulling my lesson plan book from the mess on my desk. I glance over it quickly as I stand and call for the class to get settled.

“Mr. Lakra has a girlfriend,” Justin calls in a sing-song voice, and my stomach crashes to my knees. I really don’t think I can handle these kids teasing me about Everly right now. I have no idea what re-run of the show might have aired last night but—

“Miss Stewart totally likes you, man,” Diego adds, and there are a fewooohsand an attempted whistle.

“Inappropriate, Diego,” I say, even though there’s a part of me that’s secretly relieved they’re talking about Jordan, and not Everly.

“She just asked you out,” he argues, pointing to the spot where Jordan stood a moment ago. “I heard the whole thing.”

“No way,” Annabelle says from a few rows back. “She was just asking him if he was going to Hurley’s. All the teachers go on Wednesday.” She gives a little shudder. “I had dinner there with my parents one time and I saw them all, like, drinking and stuff. It was so weird.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why was that weird?”

“Because you’re teachers,” she says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re not supposed to have lives outside of school. It’s creepy.”

“Do you think we sleep in our classrooms in pods or something?”

She shrugs. “I mean, I know you have lives. I just don’t want to see it.”

“Seeing a teacher in the wild is like seeing a dog walking on two legs,” her friend Maria agrees. “Totally weird and unnatural.”