34. Georgia

THIRTY-FOUR

Georgia

Remember my therapy homework? Great. I didn’t either.

I’m on a video call with my therapist, and seeing her face reminds me of said homework, but I don’t think it matters anymore.

“I’m happy,” I tell her.

“Well, that’s really great to hear, Georgia. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Sure. Remember that asshole? Well, we’re together now.”

“Hmm. How’d that happen?”

“Sex. Lots of it. Well, at least that’s how it started.”

“Okay… How long ago?”

“Since mid-November, maybe.”

“So, a little over a month?” She asks it without judgement in her voice, but I can still feel it.

“Closer to two.”

She looks down at her notes. “Didn’t you tell me he’s your boss? Have you disclosed the nature of your relationship at work?”

“No, we haven’t. It’s still a secret. And yeah, he’s my boss. ”

Her eyes bore into mine through the camera screen. “How do you feel about it being a secret?”

“It’s fine. I feel fine. It’s working for now. Besides, he’s up for a promotion, and when he gets it, he’ll be moved up to the District office in the spring. We’ll be removed enough that we won’t have to hide our relationship anymore. We won’t have to sneak around.”

“What’s the nature of his promotion?”

“We both basically have to keep our heads down. Get our test scores up. No drama. Stay off the radar. Seems pretty easy, if you ask me. We’re on track.”

“But, if he moves up to the District office, my understanding is that he’ll still be your boss… am I correct when I say that?”

I think for a second. “Yeah, I guess, technically. But like, not my immediate supervisor. I don’t know, it just seems like it won’t be as taboo if we don’t work in the same building.

She nods again. I’m starting to get irritated. “Georgia… I’m a little concerned about this power imbalance. A relationship like this didn’t work for you last time. The circumstances were different, of course, but the underlying idea was the same. Jake held power over you, over your life and your finances. This new gentleman?—”

“—Oliver,” I say impatiently.

“Apologies, Oliver, also holds power over you, but this time, in a more literal, concrete sense. He is literally your boss. Your successes, even your failures, lie in his hands?—”

“It’s different this time,” I cut her off, very annoyed now. “I trust him. Oliver… He doesn’t use his power against me.”

“I understand that Georgia, but?—”

“Oliver doesn’t brush me off. I like that he embraces who I am, instead of being embarrassed, like Jake was. I like that he just lets me be. ”

She watches me with calm eyes through the laptop screen. “Okay, Georgia.”

“He’s like the… the rock that keeps me tethered to the earth, while I’m at the other end of the rope, floating around in space. This is a good thing,” I whisper.

“I understand why you may think so, but remember that your work with me is entirely about you being able to do those things on your own. To be your own rock, so to speak.” She writes something down in her handy dandy notebook. “Georgia, I have new homework for you. My homework is to have an honest conversation with Oliver about everything we’ve just discussed. A full one. About the power imbalance. About why there is a power imbalance, and the power he holds over you.”

An image of Oliver tying my wrists to my headboard pops unbidden into my head. I snicker. Distracted now, I respond, “Yes, yes. Will do. Sounds great.”

A few days after our return from winter break, I walk upstairs to my classroom, but I’m surprised to see Dorothy and her parents standing just outside, her mom Sandra holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Morning, everyone! How’s it going? To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Sandra raises an eyebrow. “Principal Flores didn’t tell you?”

I frown. “Tell me what?”

“He’s moving Dorothy from your classroom,” Nikki says, but puts her hands up when she sees my face fall. “But not because of you! Dorothy told us that Max’s dad is back in the picture, and we just can’t take the risk anymore. He doesn’t make Dorothy, or us for that matter, feel safe. This was the solution Principal Flores came up with. ”

“Oh, okay. Yes, I understand,” I say, taken aback. “We have to do what’s best for you and your family.”

“We’re here to help Dorothy move her things over to Ms. Stewart’s classroom. But we’re also here to give you this,” Sandra says, handing me the bouquet, “and to thank you for everything you’ve done for us this year. You’ve gone above and beyond to make us feel safe and accepted here. We’re forever grateful,” she says, stepping forward to give me a hug.

I hug both her and Nikki. I look down at Dorothy, who is silently crying. “Hey, you. I’m really gonna miss having you in my class. You’re just gonna be right across the hall, though, so don’t worry. We’re still gonna see each other every day.”

She looks up at me. “You were the best teacher I ever had,” she whispers.

And cue the waterworks. “You rock, girl,” I tell her, with tears streaming down my face and snot running down my nose, gathering her in my arms and squeezing her tight. “You’re brave. You’re bold. You’re brilliant. And you’re going to do great things.”

I help them gather Dorothy’s things from her desk and move them into Tamika’s room. She’s already there to greet Dorothy with a huge smile on her face, Dorothy’s name tag already taped on a desk and her name added to the class job list. He told Tamika? Tamika shoots me a look while Dorothy unpacks.

I shrug.

I send Oliver a text.

Dorothy??

Shit, sorry, I forgot to tell you. Mom called me. I switched her class. Figured that was the best solution for everyone. Everything go ok?

yes, but wish you would’ve warned me

Sorry. I was distracted

by what

your tits

I’m sad when only twenty-nine students walk into my classroom that morning.

Max comes in a few minutes after the bell. He’s been great the past few days, and I think he’s still staying with mom. He bounds into the classroom with his usual effervescence, but stops short when he sees that Dorothy’s desk is empty.

He walks up to my desk while everyone quietly works on their morning work. “Where’s Dorothy?” he asks me, eyebrows furrowed.

I sigh, irritated that Oliver has put me in this position without warning, not giving me any time to think about the consequences for the rest of my class. “Hey bud. She’s been moved to Ms. Stewart’s class,” I tell him.

“For the day?”

“No, for the rest of the school year,” I say quietly.

It’s like watching a flower wilt. His little shoulders and head draw downwards. “Is it because of me?” he whispers, barely audible.

Heart breaking, I try to draw him in for a hug. He’s mostly resistant, so I just let him be. “No, Max, no way. Not because of you. You’ve been so kind to her lately. You two were becoming great friends.”

He sniffs. “Is it because of my dad?”

My skin wants to crawl from all the feelings I’m currently feeling, so I can only imagine how Max feels. How can this little boy be so perceptive? Why isn’t Oliver here to have this discussion? I truly don’t know what to say, how much to disclose. “Umm… I think so, Max. Yes.”

He nods once. I watch him as he gathers himself, shoving all the negative thoughts and feelings deep inside. I watch as his eyes clear and his spine grows straight. I’m uncomfortable watching him. It’s like watching myself in a mirror. I know this look. I’m personally very familiar with this strategy.

“Max…”

He strides away, sits at his desk, and begins his morning work.

“You did the thing again,” I tell Oliver that night, with a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Huh?” Oliver says, or grunts. It’s hard to tell around the toothbrush.

I spit into the sink. “You did the thing again,” I repeat

“Wa tha?” Oliver always brushes for the full two minutes, while I lose patience around the first.

“I wish you told me you were switching Dorothy out so that I could’ve prepared my class. Or prepared myself to respond to questions from my class. Especially from Max.”

He finally spits, looking apologetic. “I know. I’m sorry. I just did it a few days ago, and I forgot to tell you about it. Her parents were really worried.”

“I get they were worried, but that’s not the problem,” I insist.

He comes to stand behind me, wrapping his huge body around me. We look at one another in the mirror. “I’m sorry,” he tells me again, with a kiss to my temple.

“I’m worried about Max. He’s been doing great, but after today… I don’t think he’s going to handle it well. His new fr iend being moved out of his class because of reasons related to him?”

“You’re right. Why don’t you send him to my office tomorrow, and I can talk to him?” He moves to wipe down the water splashes from the sink counter.

“That’s a terrible idea. I’m not going to send him to the principal’s office. He’ll think he’s in trouble.”

Oliver hums. “Probably true. Okay, want to come up with a plan to handle it?” He drags me into the bedroom, pulling my sleep shirt up over my head.

“Yes,” I sigh, as he peels my panties down my legs.

He lays down on the bed and pulls my body up to perch over his head. “Okay. After you sit on my face.”

We don’t get to make a plan.

The school days go on, and Oliver and I settle back into our covert little routine. We spend most nights at his, because Weezy puts her foot down after returning to our apartment one evening and hearing a particularly vivacious round.

So most nights and weekends, basically all the fucking time, I find myself James Bond-ing (the feminist version) myself into Oliver’s apartment. Scanning the lobby, dashing past the elevator, scanning the staircase, scanning the hallway, sprinting to his door and letting myself into his psychopathically neat and clean and organized apartment. Being rewarded with the hottie with the body.

This is worth it , I tell myself, after almost breaking my face while tripping over a step on his concrete staircase. Who needs the elevator for a 6 th floor apartment? I’m getting my steps in.

I feel like I’m crushing it at work, though. My students are doing well, and their data is looking good. Great, even.

All my students are doing well, except for one .

I’ve gone through all the steps of a hastily constructed plan. One to one check-ins. Lunch hangs. Preferred tasks. Lots of choice and independence. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.

Today is one of those “not working” days. Max is feeling particularly lashy-outy today.

Since the day has started, he’s already:

Exploded his cereal all over the floor.

Overflowed his milk, getting it all over his desk.

Poked Kyrie with the broom handle after I asked him to sweep up his mess.

Stolen our class mascot, Sparkles the Unicorn, (originally named Horny but quickly vetoed by me) and stuffed it down his pants.

Asked to go to the bathroom every fifteen minutes.

Drew all over the third grade portion of the hallway with Sharpie on his one approved trip to the bathroom (reported to me by an irate Emmanuel, as Max had colored over his bulletin board).

“You’re going to have to do some community service tomorrow morning with the custodian to get that off the walls,” I tell him in a private conference in the hallway.

Max rolls his eyes.

“What’s going on, dude? I thought we were doing okay, you and me. I thought you were really working on being a good friend and a member of our community. You’ve been doing great work.”

He rolls his eyes again, not responding.

“Is everything okay, Max?” I squat down to meet his eyes, trying to make eye contact. “Remember, you can always come to me if you need anything. I’m always going to be here for you.”

He huffs a laugh. “Can I go back inside?”

I sigh. “Okay, Max. Please try to turn your day around.”

Cue narrator voice: he doesn’t .

7. Cut off a piece of my hair. With a pair of adult scissors. Pilfered from who knows where.

At dismissal, I try to tamp down my rage when I see Max’s mom standing outside looking as frazzled as I do. Except, less infuriated Archangel-of-Violence like me, and more sad, dehydrated flower.

“What happened?” she asks immediately, as I drag Max by the hand to speak to her.

“Why don’t you tell mom what happened, Max?”

He scoffs.

“Okay, well, luckily for you, I’ve been keeping a list,” I say, pulling out my Post-It. Because I’m petty as fuck . I hand it to mom.

“Max…” she starts, but he darts away to join an ongoing football game.

“Max,” I growl. “Get your little behind back…”

He’s gone.

She turns to me. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Baker. He’s… we’re ha ving a really tough time right now. We were doing okay, but then his dad came back. There’s been an ongoing custody battle. I’m trying to get full custody. Max hasn’t been handling it well. He’s confused about why he can’t see his father.”

Her body crumples, like she’s exhausted. I squeeze her hand. “For what it’s worth, though, he’s doing the same thing to me at home. He’s really pushing my buttons.”

I’m really feeling like a Rage Tornado as I get my classroom ready for the next day.

I’m not pissed at Max, and I’m not pissed at his mom, and I’m really pissed at his dad, and Oliver, a little, and there is no outlet for my frustrations, so I take it out on the pencils I am sharpening. Maybe I can get them sharp enough to be useable weapons.

Later, I get a text from Oliver. Home. Come over whenever you’re done.

At least I’ll be able to work out some of this rage on the six flights of stairs up to his apartment.

I do just that, even taking stairs two at a time for an extra workout. I’m out of breath by the time I reach his floor.

“Exercise…” I pant to myself, “is sustained and prolonged torture…”

I’m so busy trying to catch my breath at his door that I forget to check the hallway.

“Ms. Baker?” a little voice says.

My soul leaves my body.

I whirl around and see a second grader from our school, his mom a familiar face behind him. Board , I think. She’s on the PTA board.

“H-hi?” I squeak .

“What are you doing at Principal Flores’s apartment?” he asks, in that blunt manner that is so typical of seven-year-olds.

“I-uh-we-we’re… grading papers.” I say weakly.

“Cool. Bye!” he skips away and gets in the elevator. His mom follows behind, giving me a strange look.

I use my forehead to bang on Oliver’s door. Bang . I fucking hate this shit. Bang. This fucking day. Bang. This is so fucked up. Bang. What the fuck is happening? I’m about to fucking lose my fucking shi…

Oliver swings open the door.

Oh look, the perfect target.

“You—” I start, storming in.

He holds his hands up, eyes wide. “What? What’s wrong?!”

Wait . I stop and take deep breaths, in and out, focusing on Oliver’s beautiful, alarmed face. I am calm. I am in control. I love Oliver. I will not scream at him. I decide that the healthiest thing to do right now is to kick over the stupid fucking umbrella organization structure next to his door. So I do.

Oliver raises an eyebrow at me.

“I feel better now,” I tell him. “What’s for dinner?”