Prologue/Trials and Tribulations of Mrs. Okoye
Jesus, why won’t he stop? My phone buzzes, along with my creeping anxiety.
Ping.
There she is. There’s my girl.
I can no longer live each moment according to his guidelines. Something has to be done. The nightmares and stomach ulcers are all I have left—thanks to him.
Ping.
I need my muse in the worst way. Take that however you’d like.
But I don’t want to anymore.
Sitting in my car, I tell myself to take a deep breath, but my lungs are constricted. The fluorescent lights of the police station flicker through the windows and cast an unsettling glow over the asphalt. He shouldn’t have the privilege to map out my current life—little divots toward shameful pathways and landmarks that have my emotions in shambles.
Ping.
Don’t do it. Don’t sever us. It won’t go in your favor.
Shit! Is he here?
I swipe the screen and grip my phone, feeling the cool plastic against my clammy skin. My heart plummets with panic flooding my veins. As I glance around the empty parking lot, every shadow quickly turns into a potential enemy.
Ping.
If you go inside, you’re only doing one thing. Don’t present a challenge for me because it’s just an invitation to try.
“Leave me alone!” I screech to no one in particular.
Months of this have been a prison sentence. And I’m ready to be vindicated.
As I step out of the car, there’s uncertainty, but alongside it is relief. I give one final look over my shoulder, then walk toward the entrance with heavy steps.
Enough.
I’m ready to fight back.
Ping.
Patience, as you’ve brought to my attention, hurt people tend to hurt people. Now, take that precisely as it sounds.
Of course, he would do this.
He knows deep down that’s all it would take.
Because no one else deserves this level of torture but me.
I’m back in my car. I hit the gas and peel out of the parking lot. My adrenaline skyrockets as I drive away.
He calls, but I don’t answer. Instead, I let it go to voicemail. Dammit, I must know what he plans to teach me next, or it’ll drive me out of my mind.
So, I hit play.
“I fucking love you.” His voice is biting. “And in the end, my muse knows she has responsibilities, right?”
I know it doesn’t seem that way, but I really did try.
***
“Mrs. O, Dominick is trying to kill the lizards for the third time today.”
I raise my head from my desk and scope around my classroom.
A thin Hispanic boy with thick curly hair and beady gray eyes has climbed up on the shelf near the crested geckos. He reminds me of an acrobat, daringly taking his next leaping feat.
“I got it, Nadia. Thank you. You can see how Nyla is doing with her warm-up.”
Nadia, my plucky mid-twenties paraprofessional, gives a thumbs up and abides.
“Dom, buddy—let’s get down, okay?” I coax while approaching him. “We can talk about what’s happening but can’t hurt our friends.”
“They’re being jerks, Mrs. Okoye!” Dominick yells. He hangs from the middle shelf with ease. “I know they’re secretly laughing at me because they think I’m stupid—because I don’t know how to spell.”
I sigh, my hands on my hips. “I don’t think so.”
“See? I knew you wouldn’t believe me! They’re gonna be so dead!”
“If lizards could talk, I’m sure they would think of more interesting things to discuss.”
Dominick flares his nostrils, but his beady eyes follow mine. “Like what?”
“Roblox, what else?”
Dominick hops to the bottom shelf, and the tension finally leaves his face. “If I leave the lizards alone, could I play Roblox during our morning meeting tomorrow?”
“But, Dominick, the morning meeting is important for everybody. It’s how we set our expectations to carry out through the rest of the day, so you can be your best self.”
Dominick stomps his foot in anger. “But I’m only my best self when I play Roblox!”
I come over and run my fingers through his fluffy hair. “How about this: During our morning meeting—when we get to our show-and-tell part of the session—you can tell us how much you accomplished with your Roblox account. You know, teach a few beginners some things. Sometimes, Mrs. Okoye needs a break from teaching all the time and needs someone else to take over.”
He finally smiles, revealing five silver fillings with pride. “Deal!”
Score! Always make them feel like they have input.
“Okay, let’s go tackle your social studies warm-up.”
After deescalating Dom, I walk around my classroom and observe my students for understanding of their classwork.
I call it the “calm before the storm” watch.
I have a caseload of three students in my behavioral needs classroom. How others perceive my class depends on which aspect of it they focus on.
Three students? That’s a walk in the park. But behavioral needs? Christ, good luck. For the longest time, no one was crazy enough to take my job. In fact, if I hadn’t accepted the position three years ago, the class would’ve disbanded completely.
Knock. Knock.
“Come in!” I holler.
“Will you shut up?! I’m trying to work,” Grayson, a hot-tempered third grader, scolds from his seat.
“I know you’re trying to work, and I didn’t mean to disrupt you, Grayson. But there is definitely a more appropriate way to communicate your frustration.”
“Never mind, I’ll go work in the freaking book nook corner.” He grabs his things angrily and scrambles there.
Picking my battles comes with the job. We will have a breakthrough next time. Grayson’s wanting to finish his work is nothing short of a miracle.
Ms. Bell comes through the doorway and smiles. “Hi, Mrs. Okoye! Here are their benchmark BOY scores.” She beams.
I share students with Ms. Bell, a sweet resource teacher. She’s in her late seventies but doesn’t let most of her students wear her down. I see my class for the morning half of the school day, during their minor classes, like science and social studies. We also review their expectations and behavior goals, and then Ms. Bell sees them in the afternoon, solely for academics. I’m usually on standby next door in case a student needs to reassess after a meltdown in the resource classroom—which is daily.
“How’d we do?” I ask optimistically.
Ms. Bell has a pinched look. “I’m just thankful to retire next year.”
“That bad?”
“Afraid so.”
I walk over and flop into my office chair. “Remind me why you’re retiring again?”
Ms. Bell rubs my hand lovingly. “You got this! You’re a brilliant teacher, and you’ll be fine!”
I smile, dreading the brunt of taking on these kids for an entire school day next year.
“Well, let me get out of your hair.” Ms Bell’s orange bob dances with each step. She winks before leaving. “Not like you have your hands full or anything.”
“Thanks.”
“Jeez, everybody cram it and stop talking!” Grayson yells from the book nook corner.
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Students like second grader Dominick Rivera always get a bad rep because of his delusions and mild Tourette’s. But after getting past all that, he’s the sweetest kid.
Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, but who are we kidding?
Then there’s fifth grader Nyla Chambers, who doesn’t have many outbursts, but her OCD affects how she socializes with others.
“If you don’t check the lock three times every seven minutes, you increase the odds of a school shooter killing us all.”
That’s how she introduced herself to me.
Nyla looks much older than ten, which in the past, put me in the uncomfortable position of reaching out to her mom occasionally. She has a habit of coming to school with outfits two sizes too small. I almost lost it when Nyla’s mother sent her wearing Daisy Duke shorts in below-freezing January. Despite that fact, Nyla is really bright, earning nominations for the Talented and Gifted program for two years in a row. But as you can imagine, she takes the screening test every year, which never goes according to plan.
And there’s Grayson Morton, my new student with Oppositional Defiant Disorder. He’s not much of a treat to have at seven-thirty in the morning. Grayson always has an opinion or tidbit to share. The cherry on my sundae was him telling the class I had a beard during our morning meeting last week. My cursed whiskers didn’t stand a fleeting chance.
However, Grayson’s fixation with NASA was the olive branch I needed to win him over. Whenever he calls me or my other support staff unpleasantries, asking him about Buzz Aldrin’s feats calms him down. Grayson can go on for hours about him. Like yesterday, when he nearly bolted out of the classroom to avoid work.
“How dumb are you?” he’d say. “Everyone knows Buzz spent over twenty hours collecting moon rocks and photographs on the lunar surface. Duh.”
I never said he’s kind about it.
During our science lesson on the solar system, my excitement about teaching the wonders of space is up against constant disruptions from Grayson, who seems more interested in making paper airplanes than listening.
“Gray, can you please put that away and pay attention?” I ask, trying to keep my tone patient.
He rolls his eyes and reluctantly sets the paper airplane aside, but his attention quickly drifts to the window, where he taps on the glass. “This blows.”
“As I was saying, did you guys know that billions of stars exist in our galaxy alone?” I address the class.
“Meteors can strike any time and kill us where we stand, if we aren’t wearing tinfoil,” Nyla says, chewing on her locks.
“Let’s do our best to stay on topic and raise our hand rather than blurt. Yes, Dominick?”
“I wanna find new planets when I’m an astronaut!” Dominick inputs.
“Awesome, D! Imagine traveling through space and discovering new planets. Wouldn’t that be amazing, Grayson?”
He shrugs, seemingly unimpressed.
So, I try a different approach.
“Okay, what if I told you that astronauts get to float around in zero gravity and explore the mysteries of the universe? Yes, Grayson?” I happily note he raises his hand.
“Hello? I know that already, but how?”
I hand out worksheets for the lesson. “Let’s complete this show what you know activity about planets before we get there.”
“I knew it. You don’t care about space; you just want us to do your stupid work.”
Grayson’s hazel eyes light up in vexation, and he turns his worksheet face down. I’ve gotten ahead of myself.
Come on, NASA. Work your magic.
“Did you know NASA has sent missions to explore those same planets on your worksheet?”
Grayson shrugs nonchalantly, his chubby cheeks slightly blushed.
But I can tell he is listening.
“If you don’t go to space school for exactly two-and-a-half years, your heart stops when you set foot in the spaceship,” Nyla adds another tidbit.
“That’s not true, and again, please raise your hand if you’d like to share next time.”
Grayson replaces his excitement with a fresh scowl and forgets to raise his hand. “There’s a lot more that happens in space, you know. We aren’t babies,” he grumbles, but his voice hints at fascination.
Hmm, I’ll run with it.
“You’re absolutely right, Grayson!” I cheer. “Did you want to share?”
This can either make or break our relationship. He could see it as a platform to share his knowledge or as an attempt to embarrass him publicly.
Instead, Grayson grunts in response. Don’t force it, remember—power struggles help no one.
“Did anybody want to share?” I offer to the class.
Dominick spins around on the carpet, and Nyla plays with her locks.
A hiccup of teaching multiple grade levels is balancing multiple grade-level interests.
“What’s the point? It’s not like I’ll ever go to space,” Grayson mutters bitterly.
“Yeah,” Nyla and Dominick join in.
“Well, let’s bring space to you guys. Why don’t we look up some cool stuff about NASA together and create a big class slideshow?” I suggest, hoping he’ll take the bait. “I’ll add ten extra minutes of Chromebook lab time each day until we finish!”
“Yes!” Dominick says. “Does Roblox count for Chromebook time?”
“No such luck, Dom.”
Nyla smiles dreamily.
But Grayson is an unmovable statue. “I guess.”
The bell rings, and we rush to pack up and transition to Ms. Bell’s class. Grayson drags his feet while doing so, but then I also take it as a third time’s a charm.
“Hey, Grayson, come here a sec.”
Grayson turns and grudgingly walks over to my desk. “God, what did I do now?”
“Nothing, buddy. Listen,” I start off, “I was wondering about your thoughts on today’s lesson.”
“What about it?”
“Well, NASA. Cool place. Right?”
“Duh. Next.”
Encouraged by his response, I go all in. “I was thinking… Would you like to work on a NASA model project together? We could build a miniature rocket or create a model of the International Space Station.”
Grayson’s face warps into several expressions at once. Then, his face breaks into a troublesome smile. “You just want to do this with me because everyone else is too stupid to help you make the NASA model.”
The ego of this kid is gargantuan.
“I figured we’d have a good time making one together. And let’s give Nyla and Dominick a chance; they might surprise even you with unknown NASA facts.”
“Whatever.”
“So, you want to?”
“If I didn’t say no, what does that tell you?” Grayson snides.
“A simple yes and thank you goes a long way, Gray.”
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Now that I’m home, my teacher persona fades, and my dutiful wife persona reigns. I’m almost finished making the coconut salmon rice, which took two hours to prepare—while I work on the side dishes. Pongers, our rottweiler, does her routine of sniffing for floor scraps, but I’m onto her. Pretty sneaky, sis.
“Girl, that already looks like too much salt.” My best friend since elementary school, Neisa, warns me on a video call on my laptop.
“Nei, I got it.”
“And your mama’s side of the family’s got hypertension. Boom. There’s your mic drop for the day.” Neisa adjusts her bust line. Her face reminds me of a sugar cookie. Sweet, round, and full. “Damn, tell me why I agreed to be the maid of honor at a wedding I have no business being at? I don’t even like Tasha. It’s not my fault she doesn’t have any friends she can sucker into doing it.”
“She’s your cousin-in-law.” I laugh at my almost sister as I fan away the smoke. “And it’s the same reason you had no business moving to California to start a family without me. You’re a mess.”
“But I’m your mess, baby girl.”
Pongers sniffs between my toes, like the eager pup she is. “Here you go, Pongy.” I sprinkle bits of salmon on the floor for her enjoyment.
“You done yet?” Neisa nitpicks.
I take two eggs to create the egg wash coating for dinner rolls. “I’m manifesting my Gordon Ramsay-level cooking skills. Watch and learn.” I crack them, and into the bowl they go.
“If Gordon Ramsay saw that crack, he’d manifest that ass. The shell is still in there.”
“Shit. Got it. Now it says zest salad with lemon. Do you even know what zesting is?”
“I mean, ain’t it… enthusiastic squeezing?” Neisa says, squinting at her own screen.
“No. That’s how I approach life, not lemons. I can just… shave the lemon with a sharp enough knife, right?”
“Sounds like a hack job.”
“Whatever. I’m using a cheese grater. It’ll work, trust me.”
Neisa shushes some giggling bridesmaids in a corner angrily, then yells across the screen. “Nora, how many times I gotta tell you?! That faux ponytail ain’t fooling anybody. It’s too damn copper and shiny! Do you wanna look like a sorry-ass penny the whole night? Nah—save your tears for the bride, you hear me?!”
Laughter comes fast and swiftly, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. My almost sister, who I’ve known since first grade, always amazes me. The idea of yin and yang doesn’t even begin to describe us. If Debbie McAllister hadn’t been absent that day, and if Neisa had played with her instead of me at recess, I can’t help but wonder where I would be without her.
So—thanks for catching that ringworm, Debbie.
“Neisa, aren’t you going for a successful bridal party? There’ll be no bridesmaids left standing at this rate.”
She gives her best babyface smirk, along with the peace sign. “Have fun with your citrus confetti! It’s showtime for me. Gotta get these simple-minded bridesmaid hos together the only way I know how. Maid of honor perks, right? And Tasha has one more time to look at me sideways—I don’t care if she’s family—or she’ll be wearing her wedding cake upside her head.”
Knowing Neisa, she means every word. “Bye, sissy. Love you.”
“You, too.”
My bestie zips off the screen.
She’s not here in the flesh, but she’s here in spirit. And that helps.
I turn on the TV in the living room. Oh, goody! The People Under the Stairs is on—a Wes Craven classic. The mood turns into a spooky one as I gladly let it play in the background.
“Let’s see… two dashes of paprika—”
I grab the spice near our laminated wedding picture tacked on the fridge.
Looking back, I still can’t believe we went through with it. Who was that girl? The picture shows my face painted with such flair, and I’m wearing a dress that’s a masterpiece of intricate embroidery and rich fabrics. It’s a dazzling celebration of my Igbo heritage. And Obinna’s style is twinning mine with a groom’s touch.
I can still hear his mother, Agatha, gush happily about our union. “My son is a lucky man. I know I should join the groom’s suite, but I had to stop by and say I’m excited to have a daughter.”
Whereas my mom never failed at her stinging commentary. “Patience, my lord, your backside in this dress keeps protruding! I wish you were more disciplined in slimming down for the big day!”
This is the man I promised myself to—a silly college kid who won me over with his love for anime, Sci-Fi, and his Dave Chappelle impressions.
Obinna and I bonded over our constant reminders of bi-culturalism—how we were often told we could never truly be American, even though we were both born here. West African influences kept us from most teen experiences, like house parties, hooking up, and sleepovers. But we rebelled from time to time. The many nights I would spend in his dorm room, avoiding visiting my borderline verbally abusive mother, are my favorite memories of us. We’d go through hours of Cowboy Bebop while pigging out on vending machine snacks.
Funny enough, it was the same anime we lost our virginity to.
Damn, I miss college.
The evening sun casts an orange glow through our living room window as I hear the familiar sound of the front door opening. Obinna steps inside tiredly, and Pongers paws over, drowning him in licks.
“Hey, Obi, how was work?” I greet him. Ugh, I try to ignore the fact he doesn’t take off his shoes at the door, which gnaws at me.
Obinna sighs heavily as he shrugs off his coat. “Long day, as usual. Priya and I had a ton of cases to handle.”
“What else is new?”
He pets Pongers, then eyes the TV with excitement. “Damn, I haven’t seen this one in a minute. Did I miss the part where Fool runs into the cannibal kids?”
“No, they’re still trying to break into the creepy racist couple’s house and get to the treasure. How I missed the obvious jabs at gentrification the first time is beyond me.” I take off my dirty apron and join him in the living room.
After finally peeling off his shoes, Obinna plops onto the couch while Pongers slobbers away, making a snack out of his toes. “Now that’s a milestone. Might be the first time a Black kid took the lead in a horror flick. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind curling up with this one tonight. I’ve been treating show poodles for conjunctivitis for an entire shift, and I’m spent.”
I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder. “Maybe if you spent a little less time with poodles, you’d know your wife better than you know their tear ducts. At least you’re home now. I’ll dish out the rice at the table, okay?”
“Thanks. How was work for you?”
“Good, I think I actually reached a kiddo today. Grayson is such a—”
BEEP. BEEP.
“Actually, hang on. I gotta take this,” he says.
Obinna goes to our bedroom and answers his phone. “Hello? Yeah. What are the symptoms? Good, sounds like it was caught early. I’ll be there soon.”
What?! I get back up and pace to the kitchen.
Then he pops back out. “On second thought, Patience, do you mind packing dinner to go?”
“Dude, you barely rested your feet for five minutes, and now you have to go again? Are you incapable of saying no to random animals?”
“For one, they aren’t random animals any more than your students are random kids,” Obinna clarifies. “I signed an oath as a doctor; they’re my patients. Being a veterinary ophthalmologist means I can get called in at all hours of the day, which includes emergency cases. How does that still surprise you?”
“Sure, and where does that leave me? Stuck, I guess.” I toss the serving spoon in the sink with a crash.
“Pat, come on. Don’t act that way.”
“But I can’t remember the last time we did anything together that was actually fun.”
“We went to my cousin’s wedding a few days ago, remember? Charity? So many people from the Igbo community were there.”
I shake my head and groan. “We owed that to her. She’s family. I’m talking about the conventions we used to go to. We could have gone to the Scarborough Fair last weekend! What happened to your inner nerd?”
Obinna interlocks his fingers and pops them. “He’s there all right but still has to work. At some point, that inner nerd has to grow up eventually, too.”
But his veterinary eye practice has sucked him dry for months. The man who once aced a Dr. Who trivia night probably can’t even quote Game of Thrones anymore.
And I know just who to thank. “I’m sure Priya will be there to assist?”
Obinna then pops his shoulder sockets and tries to ease the irksome wear on his face. He’s quite a looker—smooth dark brown skin, muscular build, full lips, and a nose that’s slender and proportionate to the rest of him.
As my mom would say, Obinna is fine Nigerian stock, so don’t give him grief. Especially when he could easily find a lesser, prettier hassle.
Which is all the more reason Priya is bad news.
“Patience, I’d rather be here with you. But we have bills, and Priya is the only other ophthalmologist at the clinic who helps with back-to-back surgeries. I can’t leave her hanging,” Obinna explains. “Please, just please get it. Okay?”
I mope by the steaming rice. “She seems to know you a lot more than I do most days.”
Obinna holds me close, emitting his Sauvage aftershave. “There’s nothing but furry patients going on between us, I promise,” he says, his words a soothing balm to my troubled mind.
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
Then Obinna picks me up and sets me on the island counter. He breathes into my neckline lasciviously, running his hands all over my curves. “Damn, if only you knew how badly I want to stay.”
“Then why don’t you?” I whisper daringly. I take off my shirt and help him pull off his scrubs. “Wouldn’t hurt to be a few minutes late from taking care of your wife… on the kitchen counter.”
“Patience, I can’t.”
“No problem, the bed or shower works, too.” He’s not getting away that easily. Spark, flames, fire begin.
I give him a steamy kiss and pull him on top of me. My legs lock him in as I gyrate my body on his. Obinna relents and releases all of that work tension onto me. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“I know. You have your work cut out for you.”
“Hey, I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Physically, hell yes. Mentally? Jury is still out,” I say, poking him in the side.
“Good god… Patience…”
BEEP. BEEP.
Damn you, medical pager. We were so close to finishing!
At least, I was.
“Sorry, it’s best I don’t ignore that one.” Obinna climbs off me to rush putting his clothes back on. “We’ll pick up where we left off. Promise.”
Not him giving me a rain check. “I’ll hold you to that.”
He pinches my butt and gives me a lighthearted kiss. “Love you, Pat.”
I nod as Obinna runs out the door for the umpteenth time.
I wonder, if it’s for sure not Priya, then maybe it’s what happened last year that’s keeping him away from me. Despite expectations weighing on my shoulders, I know that, being surrounded by the ones I love, I am exactly where I’m meant to be.
Right?
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Grading papers occupies me for a bit on a Wednesday morning until Grayson is escorted back into my classroom from P.E. Nadia holds him by his shoulders and pivots him in my direction.
“Tell Mrs. Okoye what you did in specials today.”
“No!”
“Grayson, now.”
“You’re not even a real teacher, so get the hell off of me!”
“I think it’s a good time to take a breath, everyone,” I say, getting up from my seat. “Let’s try it.”
“So?! We breathe every freaking day!” Grayson yells. He runs to the cool down corner and buries his head in a pillow. “I hate everyone here!”
P.E. must’ve been a delight.
“So, what happened?” I ask Nadia, instead.
“He pushed Sarah Cox to the ground when she tagged him. Then he called her the c-word.”
“Goodness!” I say. “He uses freaking religiously, but he goes as far as a see-you-next-Tuesday with Sarah?”
Nadia laughs and pulls up a seat. “That’s ODD kid logic for you. He’s scared you’ll pull the NASA project out from under him. He kept asking about it on our walk over here.”
Oh. So he does care.
“Thanks, Nadia. I think I know how to reel him back in.”
“Need these graded?”
“Be my guest.”
We switch off, and I head over to a distraught Grayson.
“Leave me alone.”
“In a minute.” I get comfy on the beanbag beside him. “It’s my job to do check-ins when my kiddos are having a hard time.”
“I’m not a kiddo, and I’m not your kiddo.” Grayson lifts his head, and it’s sweaty. “Just say we’re not doing the project anymore already and go!”
Dominick tries to come over and join in on the fun. “Why is Grayson grouchy?”
“Your mom’s grouchy, dickbreath!” Grayson yells back. “So, go away.”
I handle Dominick’s raw rejection with class. “He’s having a moment, but he’ll be okay. Thanks for caring about a friend, Dom. But go ahead and finish your work.”
Dominick nods and ambles away. “It must suck to be angry all the time.”
I gently rub Grayson’s arm. “Okay, you have your privacy back. I’m only wondering what made you so mad to use such a hateful word against Sarah.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Then you’re as dumb as Sarah.”
“Grayson, that’s not the way to address an adult.”
“Oh my freaking god, fine already. So, I practiced to be the fastest at tag today, all weekend. I wanted to win the third grade TAG trophy in P.E. But then Stupid Sarah is taller—which means she ended up being faster than me.”
I wait and cue a cross Grayson to keep going.
“All I know is that I was really mad, and in the beginning, I couldn’t think of anything else to say to get her back and—and—”
“Slow down. And what?”
Grayson sits all the way up and wipes the perspiration off his face. “And I remember my dad called my mom that one time when they were yelling. It made her cry, like a lot. And I wanted Sarah to feel as bad as my mom did.”
Jesus, help me—that’s dark.
I scoot closer to Grayson, who now watches me like an owl, unsure of what to make of me.
“Grayson, I’m proud of you.”
“Why? I didn’t even do anything.”
“Yes, you did. You were honest with your feelings. You found the source of your anger and explained the reason behind it in lots of detail. Few third graders can do that.”
“Duh,” he goads.
“But you owe Sarah an apology,” I say, sitting cross-legged now. “Her feelings matter, too.”
“I know, I know, I know! I will, okay? Now can we stop talking about this? Your voice is giving me a headache.”
“Fine, go pack for Ms. Bell’s class and remember to brainstorm some ideas for the NASA project next week.”
Grayson rolls his eyes and gets ready to go to Ms. Bell’s room next door. “By the way, last night, my mom asked me if I wanted to come back to this class next year.”
My earlobes suddenly wiggle. “Oh? What did you tell her?”
Grayson walks to the doorway, then glances back. His face is suddenly brighter, accompanied with relaxed brows and raised cheeks. If I didn’t know any better, I’d easily mistake it for a smile.
“I said, Maybe. Because… you’re the least stupidest teacher in the whole school.”
Then he leaves.
Chea! Okoye for the win.
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It’s a breezy September on a Friday, but no Seabrook Elementary for me today. I’m heading to our quarterly professional development training.
By the time I get here, parking is hella packed, and I end up parking at the rundown Family Dollar across the street.
I head inside and observe the following:
It’s only eight-thirty AM, yet all the donuts are gone, and I want to leave already. The guest speaker, Ken Bishop—a squirrelly man with beady eyes, oval-framed glasses, and donning a wrinkled suit—keeps going on about “Remember your ‘why’ during the highs and lows of education.” It’s hard to take presenters, who only taught for two years and worked in administration for ten, seriously. By the fifth reference of the tagline, my ADHD kicks in, and I tune homeboy out.
I scan the room for any familiar faces in the sea of educators—nope. My senses fail to find me a partner in crime. Ugh. Dammit, Nadia. Girl had to settle for the paraprofessional development training instead, didn’t she? Way to force me into anti-social status.
Wait a minute.
There is one teacher that catches my eye, but for a different reason altogether.
He is darkly dressed and broody, with messy, dirty blond hair that grows past his ears but hangs in hap-hazard directions. His stubble is even blonder, covering the bottom part of his angular jawline. The guy’s a work of art. Tattoos encase both his arms with what looks like Sistine Chapel paintings from sleeve to sleeve.
What in the hell does he teach?
“…Now, let’s partner up for the gallery walk activity, everyone!”
Huh? Crap, I must’ve zoned out a tad too far earlier.
What the hell is a gallery walk?
Everyone rises from their chairs, and some gladly flock to people they know. Others reluctantly trudge to unknown groups, anticipating acceptance or rejection. They are brave souls—can’t say I’m one of them.
My eyes dart around, looking for a sign to combat my unrelenting awkwardness. Pairs and groups in the auditorium become more distinguished, leaving me feeling more alone. Lord, why am I like this? Just find a group and move your feet. Come on!
The tattooed individual meets my eyes for a split second, and my first instinct is to spin away. I’m so weird when I make things bigger than they need to be.
“All right, it seems like most of our groups have formed. If not, you’d better hop to it.” Ken directly stares in my direction with a tight smile—dick.
“Hey, um—” Someone taps my right shoulder.
Tattoo Guy scratches his head and modestly extends a hand. “I mean—if you’re not partnered with anyone, did you want to?”
My brain short circuits from the intensity of his eyes. They are alien-looking, with flecks of blue and green jumbled up in sparkling clusters. Contact lenses could never be that creative.
“Patience Okoye!” a voice yells from a distance. We both turn to face a middle-aged teacher waddling over to us. Her denim dress swishes with each step. “Hi, doll! Remember me? You shadowed for my class four years ago at Saddlewood Elementary? I’m Mrs. Taggert.”
I remember now, but her timing sucks ass.
“Yes, uh… hello, Mrs. Taggy—sorry. Taggert. How are you?”
Then Tattoo Guy clears his throat, grins, and starts walking away. “It’s all good. Don’t worry about it.”
And he bolts.
Why do I feel bad? I don’t even know him.
“Did you want to pair up? My gals would love to have you.” She waves at a group of women roughly the same age as her, and they squeal and wave back.
I give a lukewarm smile and nod.
“We snagged a young, live one, ladies!” says Mrs. Taggert, dragging me along with her.
I wonder if relinquishing my teaching certification would be less painful.
Delete Created with Sketch.
The minutes creep along ever so slowly, and the hours pass at a snail’s pace. The activity involves analyzing posters that break down effective classroom management strategies and jotting down our takeaways from them on sticky notes.
“So, you’re married now? How exciting!” says Mrs. Taggert. She plops a peppermint in her mouth, and I silently thank the mint for ridding her of her rancid soup breath.
“For how long, and what does he do? Ooh, what’s his name?”
“Obinna, married for three years. And he is pretty great.” I become phony and play my cheerleader role for him, avoiding any conversation of genuine intent. “He’s a veterinary ophthalmologist at Care for Paws Clinic. He’s also taking on some emergency cases, too.”
“You don’t say?!” she replies a little louder than I’d like to hear. “My nephew, Simon, goes there for annual checkups for his tabby cat, Jasper. Small world! Bless his heart, working tirelessly to save the animal kingdom. I know most don’t think so, but animal doctors are definitely real doctors, too. And don’t let anyone let him or you think otherwise, okay?”
Well, I didn’t. Until now.
“Anywho… any babies yet?” Mrs. Taggert’s clumpy eyelashes flutter at me.
My stomach seizes. No one is ever ready for the question that can potentially ruin their whole day.
“Well, not yet,” I say matter-of-factly.
“But soon? Please, let it be soon!”
Geez—cool it, lady. “Maybe.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. Thirty in November.”
“Ha! Those pesky thirties sneak up on ya, don’t they?!” Volume awareness seems to be a foreign concept for Mrs. Taggert altogether. “Better get on it. I’m sure your parents are itching to be grandparents, my dear.”
“Well, that’s up to science, not me,” I snipe unintentionally.
Mrs. Taggert’s face shifts from joyful to pity from my tone. No, no, no. Not what I wanted—fuck.
“Aww—my dear, it’ll happen when the time is right. If it can happen to an old crow at forty-three like me, you have it in the bag.”
People who give unsolicited, patronizing advice ought to be put down like Obinna’s patients. Sorry, not sorry.
“Thanks,” I say, disinterested.
Suddenly, Mrs. Taggert’s phone blasts a nursery jingle, and she answers it. “Hello? Yes, Jean, what is it? What?! You found blisters where? Oh, for heaven’s sake—I told you, he can’t have pineapple, and of course, he’ll tell you otherwise. Okay, okay. Never mind all that, stop crying. I’m on my way. I hope you’ve learned to heed my instructions carefully next time. Uh-huh, I’ve heard that before, so I won’t put money on it. Goodbye.”
I don’t know who to feel worse for, Jean or whoever caught the blisters.
“Patience, I have to go. My poor excuse for a home care aid let my father get the best of her again. Sorry to leave you hanging, but I’m sure my colleagues wouldn’t mind pairing up with you. They aren’t as much fun as me, though! Ha!” She swats my arm playfully, but the brass llama rings on each finger aren’t as friendly, stinging something fierce. “Take care, sweetheart.”
With that, Mrs. Taggert takes off in a hurry, clanging the auditorium doors open in a huff.
As annoying as she was, I’m pissed because I’m alone again. To avoid entertaining anyone from the Golden Girls’ inner circle, I plan to hack the rest of the activity on my own and hope no one sniffs me out. I make it a good ten minutes, aimlessly walking in between random posters and pretending to copy notes in my planner.
“You gotta be stealthier than that. Otherwise, you’ll blow your cover.” Tattoo Guy returns, snickering behind me from the conference panels.
My cheeks flush with both relief and embarrassment. “That bad?”
“Tragic. You didn’t even try to pull out your phone and flip through apps to seem inconspicuous.”
Good point.
“Who did you eventually end up with after I ditched you?” I ask.
“Some primary school folk. Couldn’t be any further from having common ground. So, I bailed.”
“Oh.”
My tongue gets twisted when small talk fades, and my cheeks get hot again. I guess he picks up on that and holds out his hand.
“Harlan McCandles. Professor currently teaching Intro to Art at Colby Community College. You?”
I return his handshake; his palms are unnaturally soft.
“Patience Okoye, Special Education at Seabrook Elementary.”
Harlan taps on my wedding ring. “That’s a helluva rock, Patience. Bet it could pay off a dozen tuitions at Colby.”
Oh my, that’s kinda forward. “Um, thank you. Wait? College teachers can attend this PD training, too?”
Harlan snorts and crosses his beautiful arms across his chest. “It’s not an elite nightclub. If it’s mandatory for a campus, then a requirement is a requirement. Enough said.”
I immediately feel silly for asking. “How much classroom management do college professors need? I figured their students would have most of their stuff together.”
“That’s what you think,” says Harlan. “That much responsibility for an eighteen-year-old can be maddening sometimes. In fact, six times out of ten, they absolutely do not have their shit together.”
His thoughts come uncensored—already an improvement from Mrs. Taggert. “Ah. Gotcha.”
“Got an evaluation from higher ups telling me I need more structure in my lectures and should provide clear guidelines in my rubric expectations or whatnot. So, they sent me here.”
“Well, I would rather teach adults than kids most days.”
Harlan raises a translucent eyebrow. “Is that so? Do tell.”
Think of something witty. Think. Think. Damn, I’ve got nothing. I’m about as witty as a stale bran muffin. So, be straightforward.
“Well, if you must know, we raise kids now. Teaching academics went out the window after COVID.”
“I believe about seventy-six percent of that is exaggerated.”
“It’s true!”
“Wee bit dramatic, aren’t we?”
“Okay,” I reply, assured. “You’re more than welcome to come to my learning environment one of these days and do some damage control. Maybe wrestle a Chromebook out of a fifth grader’s hands. A fifth grader who bites, spits, and throws other splendid bodily fluids. All while you’re trying to teach a thirty-minute science lesson and being called a fucking moron.”
The color drains from Harlan’s face like clockwork. Ha! Never fails.
“And if that doesn’t scare you, I usually evacuate my classroom every other day.”
“And the list goes on?!”
“…and we’re seconds away from being out of compliance with student accommodations to boot.”
“My god, you win.”
I take a triumphant bow. “Why thank you, good sir.”
“My students may not be throwing feces, but their artwork isn’t far from it,” he says. “Trying seems comparable to giving up your first-born son, if asked.”
I laugh and circle back to the bizarre irony of my fertile predicament Mrs. Taggert pointed out. “Yeah right.”
“Perhaps you could use some artistic guidance then, missy? Teach you a thing or two about capturing a moment.”
“Now, see, that sounds suspiciously like after-school detention.”
Harlan’s nose crinkles at the thought. “Detention? More like an exclusive masterclass for the most discerning student. You look like you could use a color palette in your life.”
The riffs keep on keeping on.
“Yeah, well, I could use a day without extinguishing little fires everywhere in my class. How’s the world of abstract expressionism treating you? Trying to convince students that a blank canvas is a showpiece?”
“Precisely. It’s a tough sell, but someone’s gotta do it. I mean, have you ever considered the psychological impact of a perfect circle?”
Looks like I met my match. Who knew tall, dark, and sullen had a personality to him?
But there’s a nagging feeling our conversation isn’t supposed to be this enjoyable. “I’ve thought more about the psychological impact of a perfect tantrum. Much less an abstract. And now who’s being dramatic?”
“Hmm.” Harlan tiptoes in circles around me. “Figured it was my turn to be, with the way you’d rather walk through fire than to talk to anybody here.”
“How long were you watching me for, anyway?” I ask, quite curious.
“It was that or watch the clock tick. And I guess you’re mildly more interesting.”
Nice save. “But I talked to you.”
“Indeed, you did.”
“And I survived,” I say. “So, there.”
Harlan huffs. “Whatever you say, Patience Okoye. What kind of name is that, anyway?”
“What kind of name is Harlan? Or McCandles?”
“I only meant—”
“It’s African. Nigerian. Like me. And my noisy bangles.” I wave my bracelets, waggishly.
“Ah, cool. I’m Irish.”
I stand beside him, goggle-eyed. “Aren’t you a little too blond and freckle free for a typical Irishman?”
Harlan has a toothy smile that makes me think of a modern day Dracula. “That’s because I’m a rare breed.”
“Thirty seconds until the gallery walk is complete!” Ken announces. “Then we come back as a group to discuss our findings.”
“Well, in that case…” Harlan leans in slightly and takes my hand as my mind races, trying to figure him out. He places a card in it. “Maybe I’ll catch you later. I only need four hours of this documented, so I’m heading out. Don’t be a stranger. Or do be one. Let’s make it interesting.”
Harlan winks and saunters away, leaving me astounded.
The business card in my hand has his Instagram handle with a message that reads, Does my art suck? You be the judge. Muahahaha.
I will, Harlan McCandles.
