“That’s fine, Mrs. Mayfair,” she says, raising the paper in her hand. “It’s just, I finished my rough draft last night.”
Of course, you did, Melanie, I think. “If you’re happy with it, go ahead and place it in the basket by the door.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mayfair,” she says, returning to her computer and pulling up what looks like an incomplete PowerPoint.
Because it’s Friday, I’ve arranged for students to work in the computer lab. They’re starting their final research essay relating to The Crucible. I’m already dreading grading them. Classic literature doesn’t get old to me but reading my students’ varied analyses eventually does. I’ve had my fill of reading essays about the Salem Witch Trails. Who knew the Puritans were such avid hikers?
I stroll around the room. All around me, students type on their keyboards. Adam didn’t come to school today. I suppose two days was all he could handle this week. I worry about him grieving Darcy while simultaneously defending himself against the whole school.
“How long does this have to be?” asks Ben.
“As long as it needs to be,” I say, wishing my students would focus more on content than word count. But I know, in their impatient minds, they need parameters for when the job is done. “Think around fifteen hundred words.”
“All right,” Zoey says, typing away. “When is it due?”
“You should finish the rough draft today. I’ll read them over the weekend. Depending on our schedule, we might look into revising them sometime next week.”
I realize, after I’ve shared the timeline, that Darcy will be back by then. This already seems like the longest week ever. I’ll have to come up with an alternate assignment for her. I can’t have her writing about women who weren’t believed—or in some cases, women who were believed for the wrong reasons. I hope other teachers will make accommodations and acknowledge all the triggers she’ll be hitting throughout the day.
When I return to my seat, I see Zoey is still watching me. She senses something is wrong. I’m sure all my students have picked up on my attitude, but Zoey is lingering around it. Poking it. Trying to figure me out. I hold her gaze until she returns to typing.
When class dismisses, only half the group has complete drafts. The other half whine about wanting more time. It’s always the students that waste the first twenty minutes of class who demand an extension.
“The bell is about to ring,” I announce. “Place your essays in the basket by the door.”
The sound of groaning doesn’t leave me very optimistic about what I’m about to grade.
“Have a good one,” Ben says on his way out, tipping his head as though he’s wearing an invisible hat. Devon’s staring at her phone, shuffling her feet.
“Happy reading,” says Zoey. I smile instinctively, the grin dropping as soon as she’s gone. I don’t trust this girl. I’m fearful of what she might know.
My second and third blocks complete the same assignment and turn in their papers. By the time my planning begins, my ass is sore from sitting in the tight computer chair all day. I gather my belongings, around sixty essays and my coffee tumbler to make the trek back to my classroom for my planning period. I’m not ready to start grading, though. Instead, I log into my classroom computer and start googling potential locations for our summer vacation; it’s been over a week since I told Danny I’d create an itinerary, and all that I have produced is a paper labeled: France and Spain.
Normally, I look forward to organizing vacations. I put more time into planning our honeymoon than I did our wedding. The ceremony was small, with less than twenty guests in attendance. We married in a chapel near Danny’s medical school campus. It seemed like the perfect excuse for avoiding a hometown affair. Danny was already so busy with his studies, and I’d recently graduated and moved there to be with him.
Most girls dream of their wedding day, and maybe I used to be one of those girls, too. But once the day came, I no longer cared about some fancy social gathering. More than anything, I wanted the day to be over. I think I would have avoided a wedding entirely, but Danny’s parents wanted a reason to celebrate. It wasn’t fair for me to rob them of the experience simply because I wanted to avoid attachments to Wilsonville. One of my sorority sisters, a girl I’ve not spoken to in over five years, served as my Maid of Honor. Mom was my only family member in attendance. The entire day was a bubble of anxiety waiting to burst.
But the honeymoon, that was my opportunity to truly celebrate. Of course, we had to schedule it months after the wedding, when Danny’s school schedule allowed him a two-week absence. Then we took off. We flew to Paris for a few days. We took all the typical pictures at the Eiffel Tower and strolled the historic streets of Montmartre. Then we flew to Rome, which had been Danny’s favorite. After we’d had our fill of museums and history tours, we spent our remaining week exploring everything from Tuscan vineyards to Venetian shorelines.
Remembering the trip still produces a smile. I think that was when I felt I’d truly made it as an adult. Made it as a wife. Made it as a person other than Brian’s sister. And every vacation since then, whether it’s spring break in Hilton Head or a long weekend trapped away in some Virginian lodge, has reinforced the person I’ve become.
After several minutes of lazy daydreaming, I pull out the essays and decide to grade them. I’m still not inspired to make any concrete decisions about the trip. And frankly, fantasizing about such glamorous possibilities seems unfair given the climate of the past week.
I figure, if I start a rapid reading session now, I might be able to get through at least half of the essays before the weekend
