Page 5 of Here We Go Again
Whatever it was, it was somethinggood. Bad things didn’t happen at Applebee’s.
Except now she’s being fired at a literal party, while all her coworkers get drunk on neon cocktails.
“I know you’re one smart cookie,” Miller says. “You are one of the best students Vista Summit has ever produced. Perfect SAT scores, National Merit Scholar, Valedictorian, early acceptance to Yale…”
She bristles at the idea that she wasproducedby this shit heap of a town—that the town itself deserves any credit for her adolescentaccomplishments. The only thing Vista Summit did was inspire her to get as far away as possible.
“We never thought our golden girl would come back home,” he continues, “and we’re so lucky to have a teacher like you working at Vista Summit.”
Her grip loosens on the pen. “Then why the hell are you firing me?”
Miller flinches at her directness. He’s never been one for confrontation—or any form of leadership. Before he white-man failed his way into the principalship, he’d been her ninth-grade precalculus teacher. Or, more accurately, she’d taught herself precalculus in the back of his classroom while he chatted with the basketball boys and participated in the time-honored tradition of lazy teachers everywhere: movie Fridays. Rosemary still has no idea how the movieOctober Skywas supposed to teach them calculus, but she’s seen it approximately twenty times. (She did like Laura Dern’s character, though.)
“Again, Hale, this isn’t a firing.”
“But—” Her brain snaps, crackles, and pops as she tries to come up with some argument to save her job, save herself. Sheisthis job. “But I was Washington State Teacher of the Year!”
“You were a Washington State Teacher of the Yearfinalist,” Miller corrects.
“Are you firing me because I’m gay?” She’s death-gripping the pen again. “Because I swear, I’ll have the ACLU up your ass so fast—”
Miller makes a consternated face as he stares down at her manicured pink fingernails. “Wait, you’re gay?” She can see his brain trying to puzzle through how she fits into his stereotype of what a lesbian can be.
“None of this is about your skills as an educator or you as an individual. We simply don’t have money in the budget, and you’re the ELA teacher with the least seniority.”
She squeezes her eyes shut because she’ll be damned if she lets Dave Miller see her cry.
Four years. For four years, she’s given everything she has to this school, this job, her students. Seventy-hour workweeks and debate tournaments every weekend from November to March. Spending every lunch period helping seniors with their college essays; wearing a wrist brace to bed every night from grading-induced carpal tunnel and a mouth guard for stressed-induced teeth grinding. Caring so much about every kid in her classroom, she doesn’t have the capacity for anything else.
She doesn’t date, doesn’t have time for friends… teaching is her whole life. It’s safe, it’s structured, and it’s a place where she has total control. Competency is the perfect antidote to anxiety. She doesn’t know who she is if she’s not a teacher.
Rosemary opens her eyes again and catches Miller’s gaze wandering over to where several coaches have lined up tequila shots, their attention fixed on a conversation across the bar. Rosemary spots a familiar figure insouciantly leaning against a high-top table. A tornado of short, dark brown hair and an embarrassment of long limbs standing there without a care in the world. Logan Maletis is talking to Rhiannon Schaffer—or, more accurately, Rhiannon is talking to Logan while Logan’s attention wanders around the restaurant as if searching for the next interesting thing. Applebee’s is now playing “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac, and Rosemary feels the past slam against her chest.
Thirteen years old in this same Applebee’s, a shared platter of nachos and dreams of the adventures they’d have when they could finally flee this town. The places she’d see and the stories she’d tell and the books she’d one day write.
But that was a long time ago. A different version of herself. Averydifferent version of Logan Maletis.
Miller sighs wistfully as the coaches knock back their second shot, and Rosemary yanks her focus back to her boss. She is the onlything standing between him and a summer of day-drinking, and she won’t step aside easily. “What about my summer school class?”
Miller sucks on his teeth before answering. “The district has decided to give the summer class to Peterson.”
“Peterson? Peterson! You’re giving my class to Peterson? A football coach?”
“It’s not your class, Hale. It’s—”
“I wrote the proposal, I secured the grant funding, I created the entire fucking syllabus.” She jabs the pen down on the table to emphasize each point.
“Calm down,” Miller warns, glancing around the restaurant like he’s worried someone might overhear him getting scolded by a petite woman in a cardigan. But no one in Applebee’s is paying them an ounce of attention.
“Calm down? What am I supposed to do with my summer if I’m not teaching this class?” She already had it all mapped out: weekday mornings in a sunny classroom teaching composition; afternoons grading papers on an outdoor patio while sipping iced coffee; creating lesson plans and definitely not thinking about Logan Maletis or forgotten dreams or her complete lack of a life outside her job.
“You could always work on your little stories,” he tries. “You were always winning those writing contests as a kid. Do you still write?”
“No, because I’m not a kid anymore,” she growls under her breath.
“Then take a break,” Miller says, like it’s that simple. “It’s summer.”
“Take a break,” she echoes, because it’s actually not simple at all.
