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“I know I have a great job, and am grateful to have it. But”—I swallow—“I don’t feel like I’m having enough of an impact. I’m going to keep my eye out for . . . something else maybe.”
Yep, she’s confused.
“Not teaching?”
“I’m not sure. I want to do something to help kids, for sure. But in the public school system? I don’t know. All I know is that it’s not working for me here.”
“What about your pension?”
The golden handcuffs. The idea behind the pension is that teachers make most of their salary after they retire. Yeah, it’ll suck not to have that security blanket. But it’s no reason to stay.
“I know. But I can’t do this forever for that reason alone.”
I can tell Mom is concerned, and maybe I am too. Just saying it out loud is scary. But I know myself, and I honestly don’t think I can work in this environment forever. I have crazy respect for my colleagues. Teachers work so much harder than most people realize. Especially the good ones. But I’m not a good fit for the system.
“Don’t quit because of your boss. He’ll move on . . .”
“It’s not just that. I mean, yeah, he’s a total douche, but even with someone great in that position, I still feel like I’m in a constant battle, and I don’t want to put armor on every time I go to work. I want to actually make a difference.”
“I can understand that. Maybe you’ll find yourself somewhere a little bigger than Bridgewater?”
How many times have I said this town was just too small for me? My mother smiles, supportive as always. And I love her for it. I’m about to stand and give her a hug as my brother makes his presence known in his usual not-so-subtle manner.
“Jesus, Chari, your phone is right there. Why don’t you check it?”
“Good morning to you too,” I mutter.
Sure enough, as Mom stands up to get Devon an English muffin, I turn my phone over and see my brother tried to call me. Numerous times.
“I turned it over,” I say, not explaining why. “Where’s the fire?”
“No fire.” Devon kisses Mom on the cheek. “Just wanted to see if you’re interested in grabbing lunch.”
My mom and I both look at him with a healthy dose of skepticism. It’s not even nine in the morning. Why the push for lunch plans? I can’t remember the last time we grabbed lunch. Dinner, sometimes. Drinks, for sure.
“Why?”
My mother looks back and forth between us. “I have to open the shop.” Then to Devon, she adds, “You better not be up to anything.”
“Up to anything?” says Devon the Innocent. Not a look he pulls off well. “Me?”
Which means he is definitely up to something.
“I got it, Mom.” She was making a moves to clean up the mess, but I shoo her out of the kitchen. “You go ahead.”
She looks at me with a combination of gratitude and concern, but overall, I’m pretty pleased about how our talk went down.
The minute she leaves, I look at Devon, demanding an explanation.
“Lunch? Really?”
“Yes. Lunch. I owe you for winning our bet, as you so astutely called me on the other night. Why so prickly this morning?”
Sometimes I really want to slap him.
When I don’t answer him, he shrugs. “Never mind, I already know. Pick you up at noon? OK, see you later.”
Devon doesn’t bother waiting for an answer. Armed with the English muffin he commandeered from my plate as if he doesn’t already have one, he walks out of the kitchen, yelling back, “Next time look at your phone.”
