Page 8 of The Cupid Chronicles
I’ve only been here at Spring Brook for a few months, and I am still finding my footing. But I already have a soft spot for a few kids—usually the ones everyone else has given up on—and some who still think art is dumb and they’re too cool to finger paint. I’m also getting used to the fact that the point of this job change is to also change my direction in life.
“You’re in a holding pattern, Iris,” my best friend Charlotte said on one of our FaceTime calls. “Stuck. Doing thesame things and expecting a different result. That’s the definition of insanity, you know.”
I groaned. “You sound like one of those twenty-year-old influencers trying to be a life coach.”
She smiled. “You know I’m right.”
And I did. Because she was. I was in a rut, and while I had a decent job in the Boston suburbs, it was too same-y. Too routine. No inspiration. Plus, my personal life was a mess. Searching for the right person while surrounding myself with the wrong ones.
“Maybe it’s okay to take time and figure out what you really want,” Charlotte said. “Stop trying so hard to fall in love and just be open to whatever life brings your way.”
I suppose she would know. Over the past year, she’d married the love of her life and moved to Chicago to start her dream job. I was happy for her, of course, but I couldn’t deny that a part of me was feeling sad for myself. Charlotte was like family to me, and while I wanted her to go and live her life, it still seemed to prove what I’d believed since I was thirteen—people always leave.
As I watched her drive away in the U-Haul, I thought about what she’d said. I thought about how staying where I was felt . . . repetitive, somehow. A hamster wheel.
So, I made a decision.
Time for a change. Not just a mental change, but a location change too. This time, I’m doing things differently. No more jumping into relationships. No more desperate pleas for love and attention. No more believing I can love someone enough for the two of us or inventing excuses to make cruel people seem sympathetic.
So far, my plan hasn’t exactly worked. I still feel like the old Iris, and I still feel the pull to be everyone’s friend, and Idefinitelyfeel the urge to find out more about Matteo.
Blech. Thinking about his jerky face makes me mad that I like thinking about his jerky face.
Do not make up reasons for his behavior, Iris.Some people are just jerks. Full stop. I’ve spent years excusing bad behavior like his—and I’m not doing that anymore.
Still, I wonder if it’s lonelier to keep everyone on the perimeter, at arm’s length, or to try really hard to pull someone in and never quite succeed.
I’m so lost in thought as I walk down the hall toward my classroom that I don’t see Mr. Charles Kincaid—I guess I’m calling him by all of his names now—until he says, “Alarm malfunction this morning, Iris?” He’s standing in the doorway of his office, holding a cup of coffee and watching me.
Charles is an older man who started as a math teacher, and his promise to stick up for his staff and his dedication to value his teachers were the reasons I felt comfortable taking this job.
Also, he told me he knew nothing about art and gave me permission to pretty much do whatever I wanted to do in class.
He has a smile on his face, but he has every right to point out my tardiness, especially since it interrupted the staff meeting. I haven’t worked here long enough to know whether it will go on my permanent record.
“Mr. Kincaid!” I swipe my mental whiteboard clean and focus. “I’m so sorry I was late this morning. It was an off morning, for sure. There was a pant leg issue, and a rogue travel mug, and . . .” I point at my stained shirt.
He holds up a hand, chuckling. “Fair enough. Just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay,” he says kindly. “I should’ve checked in sooner to make sure you’re settling in and have everything you need.”
“I am, and I do.” I say this in my most professional,reassuring voice. I really have been loving my job. Big feelings are welcome in elementary school, so it’s a good fit.
Sometimes it feels like the only time I’m really myself is when I’m talking to my students.
I force myself to smile at Charles. “It’s just another . . . manic . . . Monday.” I manage to stop speaking before adding the “oh-ay-oh.”
Mr. Charles Kincaid might be from the right era, but by the blank expression on his face he never had a Bangles poster in his room. He studies me, and I can practically feel him trying to convince himself I don’t need a mental health day.
He gives his head a little shake, then says, “Have you landed on a date for the art show?”
The words are so uncomfortable, it’s like I’m being fed through a high-powered sewing machine. “Oh, no, not yet.”
“Still not convinced the students need to display their work?” He takes a sip of coffee.
“No, it’s not that, they’re brilliant—a few who are actually really,reallytalented.” I already tried to get out of this, but clearly it didn’t work. Spring Brook likes to have a dedicated art show. I should be thrilled. They want to celebrate the kids and art! How many schools do that anymore?
A memory resurfaces. I’m standing in the lobby outside my high school gymnasium. The one day all school year when this space isn’t about sports. I’d been awarded first prize in a local art competition, so my teacher, Mrs. Akers, created a whole section dedicated to the pieces in my senior portfolio. Every single piece I’d created was on display.
Mrs. Akers was so proud. And so excited. It was the first time someone from my school won this award, which came with a scholarship and a beautiful blue ribbon.
