Page 84 of Roommate's Guide to Love

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If one thing is for certain after today’s Zoom call, I want to teach again.

The question I guess now, is where?

I sat in shock for an hour after I hung up the Zoom call with my kids, and then the second Porter got home, I sprinted out the door, telling him I needed Jenny to cover my shift. I needed to think, I needed to process. Which is how I ended up at the town park.

It’s a beautiful day, so I’m not the only one here. But this is the last place any of my family, or Porter, would expect to look for me, so right now, that’s as good as anything.

Because I need to cry.

And think.

And not puke.

Because the decisions I’ve left for future me are now in the present. And present Quinn doesn’t know what the fuck to do.

Since I ended the Zoom call with the kids, all I can think about is how much I missed them. And how much I know I’ll miss working with students in the future if I don’t get back into a classroom. I might hate the way some things in education are going, and I’ll never understand every decision an administration makes, but I wanted to teach English to make sure every child, especially the ones like me, got a fair shake. And I’m not doing that when I’m not in a classroom.

But where? Where the hell would I go? If I went back to Arizona, I couldn’t go back to my district. That bridge is burned. But there are others within driving distance, so I wouldn’t have to get a new apartment. As long as they’d be okay with how I left my last district.

On that note though, I’d still likely see people around town. I’d probably get glares and whispers, snickers and eye rolls. And if I wanted that, I could just stay here in Rolling Hills. Porter might’ve set Emily straight, but that doesn’t mean her clique isn’t still around. Or a person who remembers the time I organized every driving student in the high school to line up our cars and surround the high school so no teachers could leave during an in-service day.

No, I couldn’t live here. Too much history. Too much baggage. But yet, every time I think about leaving, I feel sick to my stomach. Saying goodbye to my family—and even more so, Porter and Grace—is something I can’t even fathom right now.

“Well, look who we have here.”

I look up and push my tears aside to see Mrs. Metcalf pushing what looks to be a cat stroller. Oh! Maybe I should start walking and going outside more, so I can get one for Turtle.

“Hey, Mrs. Metcalf,” I say, scooting over on the bench. “What brings you here?”

She maneuvers the stroller around so she can sit next to me. “Out for my daily walk. I don’t like going this late, but I had to do some things at school today, so here I am, an early evening walker.”

“Isn’t it summer break? Shouldn’t you be living it up?”

“Oh, Quinn…” she laughs as she pats my leg. “I’ll have plenty of time for that once I get everything in order. In fact, George and I have a nice cross-country trip planned starting in August.”

In order? What is she talking about? “August? Doesn’t school start then? How long are you guys going to be gone?”

She smiles and watches the handful of children running through the park. “I’m retiring, Quinn. It’s time. Paperwork is ready to go, I just have to turn it in. My time in public education has come to a close.”

“What!” I cry out. “No. You can’t retire. Who’s going to run the library? No one knows that place like you. Also, why wasn’t I invited to the party? Is it because of the time I rigged the Battle of the Books because I wanted the pizza party? I apologized for that.”

She laughs and pats me on my knee. “There was no party, if that makes you feel better.”

“Slightly. But why? You’re an institution. You deserve a sendoff.”

“It was just my time.” Her voice is soft, but surefooted. “Forty-two years in that library. I always knew when it would be my time to go. And it is.”

We sit in silence for a second as I process what Mrs. Metcalf is telling me. I know every teacher deserves to go when it’s their time, and I know I don’t live here or have children who go here, but I always thought that she’d be there forever. I hoped every student had the same fond memories of that library that I did. And that won’t happen unless she’s there.

“You know you were my favorite student.”

“Yes!” I say with a fist pump. “Vindication!”

“Oh, you knew it,” she says, taking my hand in hers. “Students like you are the reason I became a librarian.”

“Dammit, Shirley, don’t make me cry,” I say. “I’ve already had a very emotional day today. I don’t know if I can take any more.”

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