Page 10 of Make the Play
“I’ll let you settle into your classroom. If you need anything, just call the office or come see me. We take care of our own here, Mr. Miller. We’re all glad to have you here.”
A lump forms in Emerson’s throat at those words. The last person to say something like that to him was his mom. She’d always been happy to have Emerson around, but she’d been gone a long time now. Long enough to forget what it was like to have people want you around.
“Thank you,” Emerson whispers.
It’s not until she’s gone, leaving him standing outside the door to his classroom that he realizes he never did find out what her great idea was.
That unknown fades into the background as he settles on focusing all his attention on where he’s going to spend the majority of his days from now on. It’s a far cry from the drab brick buildings he’s used to. The English building, like most on this campus, is a single story building. Each one is spread out across the sprawling campus and even has its own door to the outside. Emerson’s room is the one right at the end, giving his room a full view of the grassy quad. Everywhere he looks is green grass and swaying palm trees with white buildings blending into the picturesque scenery.
It almost feels like a dream, and Emerson has to remind himself that this is real. It’s not some elaborate scenario he conjured up in his room while unable to sleep, but his actual life. He’s really here, living on his own and making things happen for himself. It might not have been easy, and yeah, Emerson’s insides are churning uncomfortably with all the newness as everything in him tries to slot this new life into orderly boxes and predictable routines. But for all the discomfort, there’s relief, too. After a lifetime of restrictions and rules of other people’s making, he’s finally on his own. It is as terrifying as it is exciting.
Entering his classroom for the first time does nothing to settle the excitement or apprehension. Both war within him in equal measure. Just as they’d promised, the classroom has everything he could need—rows of desks lined up in the center, bookshelves lining the walls ready to be filled, and a desk in the corner for Emerson. One of his own choosing. Not somewhere he’s being put because the teachers wanted him close by to avoid distractions when other kids picked on him, but a desk he earned.
Walking to it, he skirts his fingers over the wooden edge. Like everything else at Santa Leon High, it looks nearly new, and it’s not lost on Emerson how much nicer this place is than the school he went to, not just in topography but in resources. Then again, he supposes, that’s what happens when you’re a high school in an affluent beach town with a state championship football team. There’s definitely no lack of financial resources here, and while Emerson might have no connection to the alumni, locals or sports teams, his little classroom will reap the benefits all the same.
Emerson makes his way to the windows next, opening the blinds further to let in more light. The wall of windows looks out into the open quad, an expanse of tables, grass and trees meeting his view. Emerson didn’t even know this many palm trees in one place was possible but as he takes them all in he can’t help but smile. He might’ve grown up with his nose in a book, but his imagination was filled with the kinds of trees that might have been found in the Shire, not a palm tree-dotted coastline. Yet he can’t deny that the sight of so much earth and green has his chest loosening all the same. Emerson has always loved nature, though he’s not sure even a tree-lined view will be enough to make this adjustment easy on him.
Despite this being his dream move and dream job, Emerson has an itch under his skin—overcome by the desire right now to run away and escape, not because he doesn't want it but because the task of settling in and figuring out new routines feels almost insurmountable. He hadn’t been able to voice any of that to his family though. They’d never understand how he could struggle with things he wanted to do. Then again, they never understood him at all.
Reaching into his pocket, Emerson fidgets with the loose threads while he looks around and tries to picture where everything will go. The more he imagines, the lighter he feels inside. He mutters to himself as he paces the room and plots. Within the hour, he’s got the entire thing laid out in his mind, the perfect picture of where it might all go. He spends the next hour rearranging the furniture so the bookshelves flank the window and the student’s desks form a circle instead of a row. He finds a few spare cushions shoved into the closet which he tosses into the middle of the room for flexible seating before he sets about taking stock of the supplies left for him and what he might need. It turns out it is not nearly as much as he was assuming, all things considered. The hardest part is going to be figuring out how to get the rest of his books and plants from his apartment to his classroom without a car. The idea of taking them on the bus and having other people touch them has him shuddering in displeasure. He makes a mental note to check Uber prices before rising to stand.
It’s not until he’s walking out his classroom door, arms stretched out overhead to get rid of the stiffness from rearranging furniture all day, that it occurs to him how late he’s stayed. He pulls out his phone to check the time, frowning when he realizes he missed his alarm for dinner. Despite the late hour the sun still sits high on the horizon line, the pale blue sky dotted with clouds. The sight momentarily renders Emerson speechless because he’s pretty sure the sky doesn't look like this in Pennsylvania. His mom used to talk about the big skies in Southern California, about missing the smell of the salt in the air and the feeling of the sea breeze on her cheeks. She’d been born and raised here, moving away for college where she ended up pregnant with Emerson and dropped out. After that it’d just been the two of them and there’d never been enough money to move back. At least, that’s what she used to tell him so he didn’t feel bad. She’s not here to remind him, though, and a pang of guilt hits him. Maybe if he’d handled change better they could’ve moved back here. Then his mom wouldn’t have gotten into that accident, and he wouldn’t have been forced to grow up with people who never wanted him.
Blowing out a heavy breath, Emerson rocks on his heels. There’s still so much left he wants to do in his classroom, but he probably should try and get the bus back home before it gets dark. He can make a couple Eggo waffles and a long to-do list. Then tomorrow, he can get started.
* * *
Twenty-seven minutes.That’s how late the bus is. He knows because he checked the bus schedule twice this morning, and it said right there on the website in bold print that the last bus from this specific stop would arrive at five after seven, which is exactly why Emerson all but raced across campus to the bus stop to ensure he wouldn’t be late. He made it on time, but so far the bus hasn’t.
With every car that passes by his unease rises. He hates when things don’t stick to the schedule.
Sighing heavily, Emerson drops down onto the bench next to the bus stop sign, lowering his face into his hands. He needs to formulate a new plan, but he’s tired and overstimulated. He should be at home right now getting into his nightly shower so he can put on his home clothes and decompress. He should not be sitting on a bench waiting for a bus that is definitely not coming.
Walking is out of the question, not because he’s opposed to the act itself but because Emerson would absolutely get himself lost. Maybe in a few months when he knows the area better he could swing the four mile walk, but right now he has no doubt he’d take a wrong turn and end up somewhere other than his own apartment complex. Which means his only option is to get an Uber. Even knowing this is what he’s going to do, he hesitates to pull out his phone and open the app. He hates getting in cars with strangers. Sometimes they have the radio on to music he doesn’t like, the volume outside of his control. Then there’s the fact that he can’t predict whether he’ll get a silent driver who just wants to do their job and get paid or one of the ones who makes small talk with Emerson. He hates small talk.
He’s also still haunted by the Uber he had to take from the airport to his apartment this week where the car smelled like someone dumped a bottle of fabric softener in it. The smell had been so strong he’d nearly jumped out of the moving car. It’d only been his utter exhaustion from the long day of travel and his anxiety at the prospect of having to figure out a different driver that had kept him in the car.
Frustrated, Emerson pulls on his hair. The tinge of pain stops him, and he forces his hands into his lap, fidgeting with his ring instead.
This is exactly why he should get a car and drive. Except, Emerson doesn’t drive. Technically he can, but only because his aunt and uncle had insisted on him getting his license when he turned twenty-one. He never could understand why other people were so bothered about whether he could drive or not. He knew how to take the bus. What did it matter if he could drive a car? It hadn’t been worth the argument, though, so Emerson had allowed his aunt and uncle to bully him into driving lessons that had been absolutely horrible and made Emerson physically sick with anxiety. He passed his test, got the license and then promptly refused to use it, despite the fact his aunt and uncle both saw it as a failure. Then again, they saw most things about him as one.
When he got the teaching job here, he debated getting himself a car. He’d read it was more of necessity in Southern California than the area he was from because of city development and underfunded public transit, but he’d ultimately decided against it. The last thing he needed after upending his entire life was more unease. What he ended up doing was renting a small studio apartment that was located on a bus line. Something that is clearly not doing him any good since the bus isn’t here.
He didn’t budget having to take an Uber today. It’s already going to be a tight squeeze with his savings since he won’t get paid until the end of the week. Incidentally, that is also when the second and final payment for the movers is due if he doesn’t want finance charges, which he absolutely doesn’t. He spent a small fortune moving his stuff across the country, probably more than it was worth, but Emerson couldn’t bear to part with or replace any of his favorite things regardless of cost, which is why he needs to stick to his budget now.
Resigned to the unfortunate truth that he actually has no options, he pulls out his phone and opens the Uber app. His hand hovers over the app when someone speaks.
“Hey, you.”
Emerson’s eyes shoot up from his phone to the street, met with the sight of a familiar smiling face. Parked at the curb directly in front of him is Jason, his smile relaxed and easy as he leans across the passenger seat towards the window he’s put down. Unlike Emerson who feels like a ball of nothing but anxiety and stress, Jason looks utterly relaxed and happy. Maybe he’s picking someone up. Emerson turns around to look behind him but there’s no one there.
“Do you need some help?” Jason questions.
Emerson blinks. Okay, he’s definitely talking to him, then. Though why, Emerson can’t imagine.
“I’m waiting for the bus.”
Jason whistles. “This route is pretty unpredictable. Especially in summer.”
