Seashore

"Cabeza, nariz, hombros, rodillas...."  I sang with the three year olds, shaking my knees together in a fake Charleston dance while we sang our song.
"NOSE!"  a little boy growled, pointing at his nose, which was filled with a solid looking green substance.

Alec, Lola and I drove to the beach the next morning, to the panhandle of Florida, where his family was vacationing.  The sand was powdery and the water clear.  Lola ate all of the Whataburgers that I no longer eat on the way home, making the most of our vicarious eating habits.
Most of the area west of there was destroyed about two days after we drove home.

"Hey, thanks for your time, but I've accepted another offer..." I emailed a school, in lieu of sitting through another interview.  It looked like a good school, but I thought the coordinator sounded bitchy.  So, I said fuck it.

"Hilary, his dad has been put on life support.  He really needs to be up here."  I could feel my throat quivering and got off of the phone.  I booked Alec on the same connecting flight his brother was taking through Atlanta.  He flew the morning of his birthday.

"Look, I've turned down offers.  Pay raises, schools that were walking distance from my house."  I said to the guy, taking a drink of my coffee.
"I'm not willing to go just anywhere.  It has to be good."
"How many are we competing against?"

"I'm interviewing a lot.  I can wait until January.  Or next school year.  It just has to be right."

The Air That I Breathe

I was driving for a really long time.  It felt like I was going to enter Alabama at any second.  The topography changed over and over again.  Highway, historic West Side, changing to strange supermarket chains that I had never heard of.  All of the signs turned to Spanish and a series of Mexican and Caribbean restaurants popped up.  The houses were made of cinder block.  My mind filtered through all of the implications of teaching in that area.  If only it wasn't so fucking far away...

After driving in the out way, I accidentally pulled into the bus lane and nearly hit a metal gate trying to make a u-turn. I casually pulled into a parking space at the giant, empty, elementary school.  I rang the bell.  A man made his way through the dark office.
"Hey, come on in, I'm the principal." he announced, friendly enough.
"Where do you live?" he asked, the minute we arrived at a conference room.
"Atlanta..." I said hesitantly, knowing it sounded very far away.
I saw three covered bridges on my drive back to the big city. 

Classical music was playing.  A friendly guy asked me a few questions.
"What drew you to apply?"
"The show.  The exhibit.  It sounds exciting."
"It really is..." he breathed, "it's huge..."
"We'll be in touch!"  he told me brightly, sending me away with my Yayoi Kusama flyers and pins.
The interview lasted ten minutes.  But I felt different.  In the world again, in some way.

I stood on the recess field, watching the goats in the neighboring yard while I monitored the students.  It was my first day ever as a sub.  My first day ever in a private school.  I was stunned to find out that I was subbing for a recess monitor and basically spent the day hanging out outside watching goats.
"Hey, Hilary.  My name's Blake!"  a kindergartner informed me. 

Then, I drove to the projects.  I greeted my group, throwing genuine compliments everywhere.  As we played multiplication bingo, I chuckled and spoke to my group, feeling free of cloistered private school decorum.

"9x5"  I announced while they scrambled to do the math.
"Fingers!  Count on your fingers if you have to!  That is nine added together five times!  I have scratch paper!"
We digressed for a minute, when I explained that a rhetorical question is a question that doesn't require an answer.
"You know, when your teacher says 'Why do I hear talking?' she doesn't really want an answer, she just wants you to be quiet!"  I said, laughing.

For once, they laughed too.  We were bonding.
I left, after having made about half of what I usually make in a day.  But I felt okay, actually more than okay.
Alive.