Page 1 of Apparently, I’m Torture

Chapter 1

Lilly

Monday afternoon

South Bronx Classical

Bronx, NYC

“Lilly, you’re not a bad teacher.”

Murmuring to myself and squeezing the picture of my mom tight, I ran my thumb over her smiling face.

“You’re not. Trevor can say whatever he wants, but you’re not a bad teacher,” I whispered as my chest tightened.

Shutting my green eyes, I ran lyrics through my head, mouthing the words. My shoulders dropped, my breathing relaxed, and I swallowed against the easing nausea.

If someone were to ask me what my favorite movie was, I’d say My Little Pony: Equestria Girls.

I liked other movies, but as a young girl growing up with social anxiety, my mom taught me to embrace anything and everything that made me feel calm. That included fixating on animated movies about colorful teenage girls traveling through portals and singing songs to save the day. After my mom died, I held tight to that.

When I felt a panic attack coming, the ‘Cafeteria Song’ from that movie was the silver bullet that calmed me. If I couldn’t plug in my headphones and listen, I sang it.

The hook became my coping mechanism, and that was all there was to it.

But some people didn’t get it.

When others admitted to being a nostalgic adult, they committed to loving things that were timeless. Like classic Disney movies. Or maybe they vied for the pride that came with being a Star Wars fan, turning space opera nerdism into a central pillar of their personality.

But My Little Pony? Who would love that series well into their adult years?

Me, I guess. And I wasn’t ashamed of it. In fact, I embraced it.

My fondness for the franchise actually came in handy in the years I taught high school language arts, or literature, at South Bronx Classical. My classes often focused on diving deep into classic texts, and anytime I thought my students were bored out of their minds, I pulled out something they could relate to.

Who said school had to be boring? Whoever invented soul-sucking exams, that’s who.

I didn’t have the best history of teaching to the test, and my head teacher didn’t exactly love me for it.

But my students loved me. I put their learning needs first, and liked to think I always would. I was proud of the connection I made with the students I taught, and loved that they looked forward to my classes each week.

This knowledge was exactly why I was able to pocket my mom’s picture and walk into my staffroom team meeting, ready to look my faculty leader in the eye.

“Miss Fares. Nice of you to join us.” Trevor’s receding hairline greeted me as I carried my short self into the too-bright office.

I made my way to the vacant, mustard-yellow chair next to Mia, my British-born best friend, and plopped into it. Brushing my brown bangs from my eyes, I took a breath and flashed Trevor my perkiest smile. “Did you know people who are chronically late tend to be great multitaskers? I’m not chronically late, but isn’t it nice to know there’s an upside to that kind of thing?”

“Miss Fares,” he snapped, his blue eyes narrowing. “If I hear another fun-fact-turned-excuse from you, I’m assigning you sub-duty.”

I held in a gasp as Mia snickered next to me. I had sub-duty last week and wound up teaching ninth grade math to kids who solved every equation before I could put my pen to paper–they were so bored waiting for me to catch up. Substituting for absent teachers was the worst.

Our staffroom was shaped like a box, and our plyboard desks were braced against all four corners. We were sitting at the round table in middle of the room, surrounded by old, worn-out furniture. It wasn’t the most glamorous place to work, but all things considered, it was actually fun sometimes.

Mia’s mini fridge was the reason for that. She kept it stocked with snacks and sodas, so when the bell rang at three in the afternoon, we could chow down while we marked assignments. Small things like that got us through the day.

Today, around our small, circular table sat:

Me, Lilly, the freckle-cheeked, anxiety-riddled, literature nerd.