Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

“I am so sick of people telling me how to do my job,” Blaire says as she bursts into my classroom during our planning period.

“Well, hello to you too.”

She sits on top of one of the student desks in front of mine. “Seriously. Everyone and their mother thinks they can tell us how to do our damn job. Oh, I’m sorry, did you go to four years of college to learn how to individualize instruction for twenty-five plus different learners in one room? No? Then maybe you should sit down and shut up.”

She growls, literally growls, and I sit back in my chair laughing, which only seems to make her ire rise. “How are you not pissed off by these new ‘standards’ they’ve thrown at us that are basically the old standards repackaged and with a bunch of fancy words that don’t actually mean anything but come with a truck-ton of extra paperwork for us?”

I shrug. “Because I know what’s best for my students, and the test scores for my kids prove it. Every year, they show growth, and since those numbers back me up, no one bothers to ask me how I’m doing it.”

“How are you doing it?”

“I teach them the basics and then we go from there. They’re meeting those standards whether I package it that way or not. I also adapt the lessons for my kiddos in a way that can also be helpful for all my students.”

“That’s why you only take Friday nights off. Damn, that’s a ton of work. I didn’t realize you were doing so much extra.”

“I’m going to need to find a better way to do it once the baby is here. I can’t sacrifice my own child for other people’s, no matter how much I love my students.”

Her gaze falls to the floor. “I don’t know if I can do this profession forever,” she whispers like she’s confessing a sin. “I got into teaching because I wanted to make a difference, and if it were just the students, I would teach forever. But it’s the damn adults. All the politics and administration bullshit that we have to deal with. It’s crushing.”

I don’t admit it, but I’ve had the same thought. As teachers, we give and give and give, and then when we have nothing left to give, we’re expected to give more. It doesn’t make sense. And what’s the most disheartening about it all is that the kids are the ones who suffer the most because of it.

But at some point, we’re going to have to put our oxygen masks on first or else we won’t be able to help anyone else.

“I’m thinking of starting a nonprofit,” Blaire announces out of nowhere.

“For what?”

“For kids. I don’t know the specifics, but if things keep on like they are, I’m going to rip all my hair out, and I love my hair.”

I chuckle and shake my head.

“You’d join me, right? We could fill the gaps or start our own school or something.”

I arch a brow. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”

She tips her head, and her eyebrows reach her bangs. “ Anything is easier than being a teacher.”

“But we get summers off!” I tease sarcastically.

Her eye roll couldn’t be any bigger if she tried. “God, I hate people sometimes. If getting summers off means going to trainings that are sometimes paid for and sometimes aren’t—but expected for us to go to—or planning for the following year, or picking up a seasonal job since my salary barely covers the cost of living, then sure, we get summers off.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “That nonprofit’s looking extra good right now, isn’t it?”

She drops her head back, staring at the ceiling. “I know this is probably just the October lull that comes every year, but seriously, this is not what I expected when I decided to become a teacher. I feel lied to.”

“But you won’t quit.”

She lets out a heavy sigh. “No, I won’t quit. Because I love my students, the little fuckers.”

“Blaire!”

“Well, it’s true. They’re complete stinkers half the time and then they have that light bulb moment, and it’s the best feeling in the world.”

“Sounds about right.”

She shakes her head. “Okay, talk to me about something else, anything else, since we only have”—she glances at the digital clock next to my door—“twenty minutes left of our planning period, and I need to get out of this funk before my next class.”

“I haven’t puked today,” I say with a shrug, although I’m desperately hoping it’s not a one-off but a sign that my morning sickness might be abating.

“ That is what you have to distract me? That’s terrible, but also, congratulations.”

We stare at each other for a beat before we both break out in smiles.

“What are you calling it?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“The baby. Do you have a nickname? Like bug, or bean, or something equally weird and cute.”

I unfold my arms and rub my flat belly. It’s still weird to think I’m pregnant. If I didn’t feel so awful all the time, I wouldn’t believe it. “I’ve been calling him or her Peanut in my head.”

Her face goes soft. “Peanut. It’s perfect.” We’re both silent for a minute before she breaks it. “You’re going to be an incredible mom; you know that, right?”

“You think so?” I have my doubts. I didn’t exactly have any positive female role models in my life, and I remember so little of my own mom. Can I be a good mom if I don’t even know what that looks like outside of movies or TV shows?

She pierces me with her fierce and serious gaze. “Lexi, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met with the biggest heart. Your kid is so stinking lucky that it gets to have you as a mom. I have zero doubts you’ll be the absolute best.”

Tears flood my eyes, and I don’t bother getting frustrated with my overly sensitive hormones. I’m too filled with gratitude for this woman who has never given up on me, even when I was arguably quite prickly when we first became friends.

“You’ll be a great aunt,” I say, my voice choked and hoarse.

She smiles wide, her own eyes glistening with a sheen of tears. “You’re damn right, I will.”

We both laugh, and it cuts through the emotional weight that had fallen on the room. And for the first time since I found out about my baby, my fear recedes, and I finally start to believe that things are going to work out exactly the way they should.