Page 21 of The Love of My Next Life
For Claire’s sake, I agreed.
Today is the day I’ve really been looking forward to, though. Sunday.
I double check my appearance in the mirror. My black slacks and light gray flutter-sleeved blouse are perfect, down to the creases. My nude pumps make me feel a little older than I am. My hair, of course, is in its usual braid.
It might be overkill for this interview, but I want to make a good impression.
I grab my leather satchel with my resumé and portfolio, and make myself walk, instead of run, to my car. As soon as I turn it on, my phone hooks up to the Bluetooth and Stevie Nicks’s voice floats through the speakers.
I take a minute to rest my head back on the seat and soak it in. I love my car. I love driving. I only ride with Claire because she doesn’t like being a passenger unless she’s drunk. If it were up to me, I’d drive everywhere.
I put the car in reverse and pull out of my driveway, then turn in the direction of downtown. After about fifteen minutes, I’m pulling into the parking lot next to an old brick building. It used to be the Franklin Elementary School, but when they built a new one, about ten years ago, this building was purchased and turned into a rec center. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but it’s a community staple.
I take three deep breaths, check my makeup in the mirror, then head inside. As soon as I step into the office, I’m greeted by the owner.
“You must be Lennon,” James Billings says. “Your guidance counselor called me on Friday. Come on in.”
“Thank you,” I say with a genuine smile as he ushers me into one of the chairs in front of his desk. His desk is stacked with papers and his bookshelf is just as cluttered. A single, lonely fern sits on top of a filing cabinet, and there are framed pictures everywhere. James and his husband, Hank, who also happens to be my art teacher, smile happily at the camera. In some, they’re surrounded by kids from the center. In others, it’s just them.
“Did your guidance counselor tell you about the program?” James asks, pulling my attention away from the photos. I nod eagerly.
“She did. You’re starting some art classes for the kids. You’re looking for volunteers to help teach them.”
“That’s right,” he says. “Before now, it’s been athletic stuff. Boxing, dance, yoga. But my husband Hank has been campaigning for art classes for the last few years, and we finally got some funding for it. We’re excited.”
“I’m excited. I’d really love to be part of it,” I say honestly.
“Your old after-school activity ended, is that correct?”
“Yes. I used to be on the Scholastic Bowl team, but our advisor retired last year and none of the other teachers stepped up to take over.” I shrug. “They’re all pretty loaded with work already, as you know.”
He sighs and nods in agreement. Since his husband is a teacher, he gets it.
“Well, the art classes will be Tuesdays and Thursdays. You’d be good to teach classes—painting, drawing, whatever else you decide—on those days?”
“Yes, definitely.” I’m so excited I could leap from my seat. I have to press my palms to my legs to keep them from bouncing.
“Great.” He claps his hands together and stands up. “Let me show you around.”
“Wait,” I say, confused, “you don’t want to see my resumé?”
He chuckles. “Lennon, we’re thrilled to have you. Your guidance counselor gave me a rave review, and if you say you can teach art to middle schoolers, I believe you. As long as you’re okay with it, you’ll start Tuesday.”
My smile is huge, making my cheeks hurt, but I nod frantically anyway.
“Yes, I’d love to. I can’t wait.”
“Well, let’s do a tour.” He waves his hand out the door, and I follow.
James takes me through the gym, where the various athletic activities take place, introducing me to any volunteers and kids we meet along the way. He shows me the rooms they use for yoga, tutoring, and a few other things. The cafeteria. The storage rooms. And then finally, the room where I’ll be teaching.
I love it before we even step through the door.
It doesn’t matter that it’s filled with a bunch of mismatched tables and smells of dust.
I can already see it full of kids with paint brushes and pencils making art.
“Does it matter what I teach first?” I ask, glancing at the shelves in the back of the room holding supplies.
