The Lakes – Taylor Swift
week slowly eased by, my classes feeling torturously slow as the classwork I needed to make began to pile up. I’d given up on finding a focus point for this year, the special something to focus on outside the regular curriculum to make the subject that bit more exciting and relevant for students. I’d considered a bunch of different ideas, but none had given me that feeling, that buzz of inspiration. But to be fair, I wasn’t even sure I remembered what that feeling felt like anymore.
It didn’t help that I’d been barely able to pick up a brush to paint at home, barely able to find a starting point–and in fact completely and utterly unable to see anything in my head to put onto canvas. Sometimes during the day I’d feel that familiar jolt, see a fuzzy outline of a painting, sometimes a memory–mostly of Mom–and no matter how painful it would be to paint her, I’d promise myself I’d do it when I’d get home. That tonight would be the night I broke through this dry spell, my longest since I’d started painting.
But then the end of the day would roll around, something would inevitably have gone wrong at work, and I’d have to use that last drop of energy to solve it. I’d be left drained and overwhelmed and utterly exhausted, and that jolt would be long forgotten.
“Hey, are you okay?” Hanna asked, her gaze focusing on my face as if she was reading the dark rings under my eyes. My body slumped, realizing I had been completely ignoring what she had been saying.
“Yeah, sorry. I don’t feel too good.” I looked down at my barely half eaten lunch, stomach turning at the thought of taking another bite. Not to mention the fact that my period was in full swing and was not going easy on me this month.
The teacher’s lounge was filled with the usual lunch buzz, teachers crowded around the tables and sofas set up, probably gossiping and sharing their plans for their upcoming weekends. Another wave of nausea hit me as I looked past Hanna and over to Carly who was at the counter behind her. The smell of leftover curry hit me as the old microwave buzzed loudly, and I swear I turned two shades paler.
“I was going to say, you look terrible.”
I looked up at her, eyebrow cocked up, the pain in my head buzzing that little louder. “Gee thanks.”
“You know I say it with love,” she smiled, the worry not leaving her eyes.
I knew the look well. I gave it to my dad every time he complained about the odd acid reflux or headache. What Mom had… it wasn’t genetic or something that could be caught, but that didn’t stop the niggle in the back of my head that kept me vigilant, watching him and making sure he called a doctor, even if it felt like I was being overbearing. I needed to hear it was okay, that everything was okay.
I took a deep breath, trying to soothe the deep hurt that stirred under my skin, before looking up at her, forcing a small but reassuring smile onto my lips. “It’s probably one of those bugs going around school. I’ve had a few students off this week.”
She nodded in response. “It’s always the same around here. First few weeks back and we all get struck down by the new plague.”
I let out a small noise of agreement, before going back to staring at my lunch, stomach lurching again. I knew I had to eat, even just a few mouthfuls. I’d barely eaten anything over the past day, despite my dad’s irritation at dinner last night, but when the thought alone was enough to turn my stomach, I knew pushing it would be a terrible idea.
It was then Ben caught my eye as he stormed in, looking furious about something. I recognised that look on his face, so used to it being directed at me, but he didn’t even look my way. Instead, he marched over to one of the math teachers and began arguing with him, both looking quite frustrated with each other.
It was a true sign of illness that I couldn’t even bring myself to wonder what exactly was irritating the stick up his cute butt today. Instead, I found myself looking at him, my head resting on my arms as I watched the way he moved, the way the dark navy shirt hugged his body, the way that stormy expression of fury reminded me of our night, the one that played all too easily through my mind.
“Jesus, you must be turning delirious if you’re looking at Ben like that,” Hanna piped up, pulling my attention back, dirty thoughts instantly vacating my brain as quickly as they had appeared.
“Huh?” I took in her narrowed eyes, lifted eyebrow, and felt my gut wrench as she answered my confusion.
“If I didn’t know you better Ol, I would’ve said you were checking him out there.”
When she’d asked me how my weekend had gone, I may have left out the little detail where I left the bar with him. At first, I’d wanted to, the secret almost eating me up inside. I was dying to share this little snippet I’d seen of Ben, to share the details of how his skin had felt on mine how deliciously hard his grip had turned when I’d requested–how he’d fucked.
But then I saw her and… the desire to share folded in on itself. I knew there’d be no judgment, maybe some light–okay, heavy–teasing. She’d be supportive, enjoy this little development. When the opportunity arose to tell her, when she’d finally asked when I’d gotten home after the night out, I’d answered around midnight instead of the truth. Some things were better kept to myself and forgotten as soon as possible, whenever that would be.
“Th-th-that’s ridiculous,” I stuttered, breaking her gaze. My eyes burned to look back at Ben, but I knew better than that, knew that would confirm what she’d suggested, so instead I took a forkful of my prepared salad and stuffed the food into my mouth.
I practically gagged on the food, my stomach fighting against the mayonnaise covered carrot and lettuce but I continued chewing, ignoring the sinking feeling I’d made yet another terrible choice. I felt Hanna’s eyes burning into me, probably analyzing whether I was about to choke to death or not.
“So as I was saying,” she went on, still eyeing me suspiciously. “I think we’re all ready for the Homecoming set up next week.” She dug back into her own lunch, a pasta salad, as she thankfully changed the subject, all the while still watching me push my salad around the container.
“That’s good, what’s the theme?”
“As cheap as possible, according to Rob. We’re hoping to use the money raised from tickets for other things around the school because funding is so tight this year.” She pressed her lips together, her shoulders slumping.
“Ah,” was all I managed in way of support. What could I say? We were all feeling these cuts, all finding it harder and harder to figure this year out and it had barely begun. I already had students coming to me for supplies they couldn’t source themselves, and I wasn’t even sure what to do this time around.
“It’s so hard because all I want to do is complain about this to Rob, but I feel so bad–like I’m complaining about him when it’s just the situation.”
I nodded, really hearing her this time. She frowned and stopped eating for a moment.
“I’m sorry, that sounds really hard.” I felt terrible not having a solution, not being able to give the answers and be able to fix this for her, for everyone. How could we keep going like this?
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” she reminded. “It’s good to vent.”
“I’m always here, even if it’s outside of hours, you can just call if you need to talk.” I sent her a small smile, attempting to be reassuring. She returned it, but it was like looking in a mirror when it disappeared, the exhaustion quickly replacing the forced expression.
“Thanks, same for you.”
The moment should’ve been nice, a shared space between friends who could rely on each other in a tough period. But this tough period was our lives, it was our jobs, day in and day out with no possibility of relief.
How much longer would we cope? Or, perhaps the question wasn’t how long we could cope, or how long we could survive the strain, the pressure; but instead how long until we were finally crushed, left in nothing but pieces shattered on the floor.
Maybe we already were.
I didn’t feel any better by the end of the day. The smell of fresh paint from the last class of the day’s work still hung strongly in the air despite the open window. I’d been trying to tidy up for the day, slowly rewashing the equipment the students hadn’t put back and making sure everything was laid out properly so it could dry over the weekend. Progress had been slow, nausea keeping me from getting through the tasks quickly, and instead had me taking a seat every few minutes so I could pull myself back together–but it was finally all done.
I took one last look around the empty room, checking the chairs were pushed into the desks correctly, each one of the tabletops clear of equipment ready for lessons on Monday. My desk was organized, a stack of papers I still needed to mark sitting to the right where there was a pile of textbooks I had collected for information on art history.
Weakly, I shouldered my bag, hit the light switch and gently closed the classroom door turning to head down the hall.
I was glad it was the weekend; I needed time to rest. The sooner I could get this bug out of my system, the sooner I’d feel better. Maybe having the two days off would give me a chance to heal. Although the thought of food made my stomach twist like circus acrobatics, I could always try some soup. There was something about a nice bowl of soup that could be so healing. The weather had been rainy for days now, fall in full force, and it was officially soup season. More than anything, I just wanted my bed, wanted to snuggle up in those cozy sheets and let myself sleep for hours on end. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep where I hadn’t woken up restless in the middle of the night, unable to find sleep again until the early hours of the morning.
No wonder I felt like crap.
I was just turning away when I heard voices coming from across the hall. Wobbling slightly I peered into Ben’s classroom. Only now did I notice his lights were still on, the door left slightly ajar. I had expected to be one of the last staff members in the building. It was Friday, after all, and like the cool kids, most of the faculty fled shortly after the last bell.
With a knock on the door, I called out, “Ben?”
Maybe I should have waited for a response but instead I gently pushed the door, which creaking on its hinges as it opened, and I peered inside.
“Olive, you’re still here?” Ben’s gaze was assessing as he spoke, those dark eyes narrowing on me.
But it wasn’t him that caught my attention for once. Instead, I looked to the man who was on his right. They both stood at the back of the classroom, side by side. Approximately the same tall height as Ben, maybe a little shorter and dressed in a fitted black suit. He looked vaguely familiar, but placing him was hard, especially as I swayed on my feet again, still feeling quite weak from whatever plague was sure to send me to my death bed.
“I was just wrapping up for the day,” I explained, still assessing the man, almost waiting for an explanation of who he was. It was strange to have people in the classroom who weren’t members of staff or students–not without a valid reason anyway.
“Is this the Ms. Davis I’ve heard so much about?” the man asked, looking away from me and over to Ben for an answer; he barely grunted a reply. “Ben told me about all of your work with the after school clubs. I think it’s great how much effort you’re putting in to save the clubs. They’re a credit to the school.”
“Oh… thanks?” I sounded stupid but it was all I could manage in the moment, my clammy hand still holding onto the door handle for support.
“It would be a shame to lose them, I know budget cuts have made things hard but the district’s doing all it can to get through this tough financial period.”
Where had I seen this guy before? Why did he look so familiar? I tried to place him, but even in good health I struggled with faces, my memory terrible without a name. I was about to officially introduce myself to the man and get a name for him since Ben seemed to be doing nothing, when Rob ran up behind me, his phone in hand.
“Oh, hi Olive. l I thought you’d be home by now.” His smile faltered as he took me in, concern clear on his features. Good to know I looked as shit as I felt.
“I was on my way out,” I explained as he slid by me, entering the classroom and standing at the front of the room.
He motioned to where Ben and the man stood, looking back at me. “Glad to see you’ve met Dane, our district head.”
It was one of those movie perfect moments when the camera zooms suddenly in on its subject, a whooshing noise indicating that all the air had suddenly evacuated the room as the pieces of the puzzle finally slide into place. It was a surprise that the handle of the door didn’t break off under the pressure of my grip as I realized who I’d discovered, in Ben’s classroom of all places, who’d seen me looking so stricken and pale faced, a feverish sweat gleaming on my forehead. This was one of the men who held my little teacher dreams in their hands, dangled the school budget in front of me like a cat playing with a mouse, and most importantly, one on the board who would decide who took the role of vice principal at the school.
And somehow, he knew my name.
“Yes, it’s nice to finally meet you.” My voice was so shaky, so unsteady. I knew I should go and shake his hand and try to give the best first impression I could, but my stomach was doing backflips, the nausea building so high I thought I’d lose my balance if I let go of the door. I had to find a way out.
“I was telling her how impressed I was with her work on the clubs.” Dane smiled, finally turning his attention to Rob. I kept my eyes on Ben, however, who seemed to be shrinking away from the conversation, willing himself to fade into the background as he leaned against a desk, stretching up and rubbing the back of his neck. It didn’t escape me that it was still weird Ben and the district head had been casually hanging out, the questions burning at the back of my throat.
“Both Ben and Olive are currently trying to take part in a competition that I think we’ve got a great shot at winning,” Rob said, pulling my attention to him at the mention of my name.
“Really? Ben, you never said,” Dane looked to him; Ben’s gaze shot up from the floor.
“It didn’t come up.” His voice was low and moody, his shoulder slumped as he continued to avoid looking at me. What was going on with him?
“Well, I’d love to know more,” Dane replied, looking undeterred by Ben’s weird mood. He turned to me. “Olive, maybe you could tell me more during our interview?”
My furrowed brows and tilted head probably gave away that I had no idea what he was talking about. Not losing any of his sunshine smile, his hands waving in mid-air as he spoke, Dane explained. “I’ve probably spoken too soon. My assistant will be setting up the interviews for the vice principal role next week. It’ll be great to sit down and discuss all your work with the school–it was quite extensive.”
“Oh,” was my educated response, before I managed to string some intelligent words together, a soft smile forming on my lips. “I’ll look forward to sitting down with you and going through the program.” I barely had time to consider what this all meant before he was launching into his next point, his words sending me reeling.
“I can’t tell you how excited I was when I found out Marie Davis’s daughter was going for this role–not to mention already working in one of my schools. I’ve never met a more passionate teacher than your mother.”
The room tilted on its axis as the world came to a grinding halt, that acid taste returning to my mouth as my smile slipped, fading slowly like the dying embers of a fire.
“She was great.” The words tasted disgusting, an understatement if there ever was one, but I was sure I was about thirty seconds from passing out.
“I was sad to hear about her passing. I did make it to the funeral b–” The rest of his words sounded more like the high pitched static buzzing of an old fashioned television.
Numb. I had to be numb. It would be better to feel none of this, be a duck, let it wash off. How did we go from talking about an interview to my mom? Ben looked at me then, that stony stare melting away into realization. But I could barely see him, my focus everywhere and nowhere at the same time–though I knew he was looking at me, putting that puzzle together, finally figuring out what all the sad looks and tired mornings and panic attacks had been about. What our night had been a distraction from.
“Please pass on my thoughts to your father. Joseph and I go way back to when Marie first started teaching.”
“I’ll do that.” The words felt heavy and impossible as I had one clear thought, one clear urgent action: run.
The men fell into light conversation, but I didn’t hear a word. I couldn’t even properly dismiss myself as I knew what I had to do next. I turned away, practically stumbling out of the classroom as I clutched my stomach and mouth.
Had to go.
Had to go.
Had to go.
The next thing I remembered was crashing into an empty bathroom stall and emptying my guts down the toilet, my fingers gripping the cold porcelain. I don’t know how long I was there before somebody found me, holding my hair back as I dry heaved into the toilet, sweat rolling down my forehead as my eyes watered.
It was Hanna, and I rose my head weakly to look at her. She passed me something to wipe my face with, concern written over her own face as she did, but I didn’t deserve it. I almost told her so, but another wave of nausea crashed into me, forcing me forward again.
“She didn’t look so good earlier.”
“Maybe we should drive her home.” And I knew that was Rob.
Their voices faded out as I threw up again. Eventually, I slumped back, certain my body was empty and done. Hanna passed me a plastic cup, and I took a sip of the cool water, thankful to have a friend like her.
“Do you think you can get up? Rob’s getting the car, I’ll drive you home.”
Reluctantly, I pushed myself up the wall to my feet. I was unsteady, and weak but the desire to get home and crawl into my bed as soon as possible was strong.
She helped me down the hall, making a passing remark about how hot I felt as she clutched onto my arm, taking a moment to raise her hand against my forehead. I felt entirely thankful for her friendship again when I found that Rob had driven the car to the school entrance so I wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the parking lot.
Wordlessly, I slid into the passenger side and let Hanna drive me home. I rested my head against the window, almost wincing at the coldness of the glass. My empty stomach twisted, and I was sure that if I had anything left, I would’ve vomited all over the car. I pulled closer, shivering uncontrollably despite the warm air blasting through the car vents.
“When does your dad get home?”
I looked at the clock.
“Not till later tonight.” My throat still felt like hell, my voice coming out all strained. I shut my eyes as another wave of nausea washed over me again, but this time it was followed by a painful realization.
The last time I’d been sick, Mom was here. She’d made a pot of her chicken noodle soup, despite Dad being the elected chef in the household. It tasted too strongly of ginger for my liking, and I could’ve sworn the noodles weren’t supposed to be that mushy, but eating the entire bowl was not optional. She’d claimed it was her mother’s recipe, a grandmother I’d never met, but I always joked she must’ve strayed far from the original instructions. I could always count on her to bring me the soup, whether I was living in my dorm hours away at college, or across town bundled up on my old sofa with a cold. She’d come round, put the soup in front of me, and get to work disinfecting all the surfaces of my apartment. Then she’d have a go at me for not taking the strange multivitamin she’d bought me months ago after finding it unopened stuffed away in some random drawer, claiming it almost certainly would’ve stopped me from catching this cold.
Then she’d snuggle up next to me, despite the possible virus, and watch whatever trashy tv show I was watching with me, the warmth of her almost sending me to sleep.
I fought back tears as Hanna drove through the dark streets, keeping my head turned away from her so she wouldn’t notice. The renewed grief washed over me in thick waves as I stopped myself from whispering the words that clung so closely, so painfully to my heart.
I miss my mom.
I want my mom
I need my mom.
And as she drove up to the house, the home I’d been raised in, the home that still smelt like her, I realized how desperately I’d do anything for another bowl of the soup I used to detest so much, mushy noodles and all.
