Rowan
It’s the final, sold-out night of Coastal High School’s reboot of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew, and I’m staring down the mother of all zits, as if my intimidating glare might convince it to vacate the premises.
It’s the Mount Vesuvius of acne—positioned at the base of my student’s nostril. Its yellow pus crater stretches bigger than a fingertip. Pus moves under the skin window like cells under a microscope, devilishly multiplying. It’s the most heinous pimple I’ve ever seen, and working with teenagers every day, that says a lot.
“Ms. Mackey, I can’t perform,” Eddie Speck proclaims. “Not with this booger crusted to my face.”
I offer my most reassuring smile. “A little makeup, and no one will know.”
“We’ve tried that.” Eddie motions to the baffled make-up team standing by and Julio, another student, who plucked me from the audience for this emergency. “Nothing adheres to this thing! It’s makeup-resistant!”
Of course, it is. As someone with permanent burn scars across her left cheek, neck, and hand, I know better than most that makeup fails to hide everything.
“Um, you should pop it. If it’s flatter, it’ll be easier to hide.”
Julio and Eddie look horrified.
“What? You’ve never popped a zit before?”
They shake their heads. Eddie swipes a tear. “Julio… notify my understudy.”
“You don’t need your understudy. Just squeeze it between your fingernails.”
Eddie holds up his hands. His nails are bitten down to useless stubs.
I glance at Julio, who shakes his head. “Don’t look at me. The entire make-up team refuses to touch it.”
“Fine.” I send a hurried text to my sister Mira, who I’m holding five extra seats for in the packed auditorium. Third row. Right side. Look for my stuff. “Boys, let’s find a bathroom.”
“We’re popping the zit,” Julio announces into his walkie.
Eight years in a high school classroom have taught me many universal truths about teaching—the most surprising is that a teacher will do almost anything for her students. Not just the obvious things like tutoring and extra credit, but a daring litany of the unexpected that, if asked in college… would you ever… you would’ve said hell no with the emphatic certainty and luxury of someone who thinks she knows everything, especially herself. Silly younger self… so naive.
Consequently, a teacher must be prepared for anything. Teenagers are smart—they’ll sniff out the unprepared, attack, and reduce the teacher to a glorified coat rack to ensure getting away with murder for the rest of the semester. It’s Game of Thrones in there. Once you lose control, it’s impossible to get back.
But nearly anything else can be fixed—a lesson plan, a scheduling conflict, a bad attitude, a heinous zit—and I’m the Fix-It Queen, a behind-the-scenes problem-solver.
Even so, this is the weirdest thing I’ve done for a student. That includes holding a trashcan for Tonya Jeffers while she got sick from the cafeteria’s “clean-out-the-fridge” nachos. And chasing a thuggish ninth grader after he grabbed a student’s butt during carline. Adding zit-popping to the list is unexpected, but the show must go on.
“At least someone looks amazing,” Eddie says with jealousy as I wash my hands.
I grin. “Buttering me up to do this?”
“A little, but it’s true.”
“Thanks.” A short twirl in my emerald green chiffon dress ripples the sheer overlay. “Dean, I mean, Mr. Maddix, suggested dressing up. I must’ve changed four times.”
Julio’s eyes pinch, but the caboodle-toting makeup artists flash coy grins. “Very pretty,” one says.
“I feel pretty,” I admit—a rare feeling. My eyes travel along my burn scars in the mirror—the spotted beginnings at my lower left cheek from chin to ear, the warped fault line at my jaw, the lumpy coral-esque texture running down my neck, and the pink and red splotches covering my left hand and wrist. “Freddie Krueger face,” a student once called it, prompting my mac-n-cheese story—a fictionalized version of what happened to answer students’ bold questions. I never tell the real story. She exaggerated, anyway—most of my face is unscarred, and from the right side, it’s not seen at all—but the scars create such a strange juxtaposition between woman and “monster” that sometimes I wonder if it stands out more next to unblemished skin. It’s shocking when people discover it, like my scars jump out at them from behind a corner.
I turn away to grab paper towels. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
“Deep breaths,” Julio advises, bracing Eddie against the sink.
My right hand trembles as it meets the enemy.
I love my students. I love their energy, honesty, and creativity. I love them for who they are, what they’ll be, and what they’re going through. I was them once—still am in most ways. If I can help, I will.
But this tests my love like never before.
My fingernails pinch the gooey-thin skin, and my breath holds. Gasps follow ewwws and finally switch to applause as the pimple drains. Julio administers the paper towels, eyeing a speck on my green dress. I wipe it quickly, wondering if it’ll stain.
Eddie checks the mirror, sinking with relief. It looks better already. “Ah, Ms. Mackey, my hero. Thank you.”
Returning to the auditorium, I carry inexplicable nerves with me. Ginormous zits aside, something seems off tonight.
I reach my reserved seats in time to stop an unfamiliar woman directing her brood of middle schoolers into my row.
“Um, these seats are taken,” I say, though I shouldn’t have to. The six seats holding my scattered belongings should’ve been a clue. No one drapes her sweater, umbrella, teacher bag, purse, and annotated copy of Heart of Darkness over multiple seats just to have a row to herself, not even an introvert like me.
Huffing, she escorts them away, and I resume my position in the inner seat against the right wall, my unease growing with the crowd.
The student-written, directed and produced play, aptly renamed Ten Things as a nod to the nineties movie 10 Things I Hate About You, was modest until tonight. The first performance filled half the auditorium—mostly parents and friends. The second drew slightly more students, perhaps curious how Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew might be redone to feature a trans student and a school’s small LGBTQ+ community. With that show and students taking to social media, interest grew. Co-star Ashley Morrow’s father, Kent Morrow, a meteorologist from Channel Twelve, upped the exposure by mentioning it on the 11 o’clock news, calling it “A performance everyone should see.”
It seems people listened. I spot three school board members, two Channel Twelve anchors, and nearly all of Coastal High’s administration.
The kids deserve the attention. They’ve done an amazing job with the rewrite, keeping the humor and charm while adding present-day themes and language everyone understands.
Many good things have come from the project, despite my initial reluctance. When go-getter assistant principal Dr. Evelyn Tate assigned teachers a vague Inspiration Project to enhance the curriculum and bolster student interest, I was peeved. Inspiring students is a daily endeavor—not a novel idea. Another truth about teaching is that I still always have a million things to do and don’t need more tacked on by ambitious administrators.
I glance up from the play’s program and see the woman herself—Dr. Evelyn—working the crowd like a classically trained schmoozer. Her dress is gorgeous, understated and elegant, even though it’s shimmery gold and matches her hair’s blond ribbons. How could she have that lying around for a show she hadn’t been interested in attending two days ago? My shoulders slump… I hate her a little. She’s annoyingly perfect, as if inspiring envy is her personal inspiration project.
Holding these five empty seats is about as much envy as I’ve ever inspired. Two couples nearby fixate on my object-clad seats like they might enact pirate rules and toss my things aside. One man makes eye contact, ready to ask the obvious question, but he notices my cheek and neck—people can’t help it—and decides against it.
Finally, Mira edges into my row, picking up objects as her family settles behind her. Her wife, Jane, and their adopted kids, Kenan, Izzy, Beth, and baby Aster, wrapped against Jane’s chest like a kangaroo pouch, look like a modern family showcased in a car safety commercial or Walmart ad. They’re exactly the chaotic, messy, beautiful family I want someday.
Well, except with a guy. And for the first time in years, I’m seeing someone who might be a contender—Dean.
“Dang girl,” Mira coos. “That dress is banging.”
“If I’d known it was a fancy affair, I would’ve worn my pearls,” Jane laughs. “Ooh la la.”
I blush, glad they don’t see the pimple pus stain. “Thanks. It was Dean’s idea to dress up on the last night.”
My sister-in-law and real estate agent, Jane, hands me a keychain with the words Beach Bum in silver dangling with the single key. “The key to your little house. Kenan picked out the keychain.”
“It’s perfect.” I smile down the row at him while relieving Mira of my gear and tucking it under my seat. “But it’s too early for a keychain. I haven’t decided on the house yet.”
Jane waves her hand and purses her lips. “Girl, you’re buying that house, and the owner was fine with handing over the key for your final walkthrough after I told her how much you loved it.”
“You aren’t worried about Dean, are you? You should’ve told him you were house-hunting,” Mira says, as she has throughout the four-month process with Jane as my realtor. “His dark side’s sure to come out when he learns you’ve been keeping it from him.”
Mira believes everyone has a dark side.
“He doesn’t have a dark side,” I say dismissively. “And if my omission bothers him, I’ll fix it.”
She rolls her amber-hued eyes. “You can’t fix everything, Rowan. And why should you? Some things are meant to be broken.”
Well, I just fixed the Queen Mother of all zits, I want to argue but don’t. “Nothing will need to be fixed. He’s not… like that. Besides, he knows my lease is nearly up. He’s been swamped with rehearsals. I didn’t want to burden him or make things weird.”
“You buying a house shouldn’t be weird,” Mira says.
“Oh, right. Guys love it when the girl they’ve been dating wants to look at houses together—that would never scare him off. We’d only been dating a few months when I started looking… Who knew we’d make it to seven?”
“Not together, together. Just… together,” Mira clarifies, badly. “If he’s scared off by an independent woman, then you don’t want him. He’s too showy anyway.”
“Not showy. Extroverted, as any good theater teacher and actor should be. After the play, I’ll take you backstage to his office so you can see his Wall of Fame,” I suggest, thinking of the first time I saw the humble display. Dean had explained, “When I’m not teaching, I work in community theater or as an extra in TV shows and movies. I post my credits here, so kids can see that even average guys like me can follow their dreams.”
Dean’s acting dreams have not amounted to much by typical standards. Not yet, anyway. But that makes the photos more endearing. He’s played a dead body in a failed Hulu production. In DC’s Swamp Thing, he played a rowdy bar patron, later edited out, but he met Ian Ziering. “A super nice guy,” he said. Dean’s played a bum, a sheriff’s deputy, a drag queen, a redneck, and a white rabbit sex plushie with devious eyes, all featured on his office wall. When I asked if his students made fun of him—what teenager could resist teasing a teacher in a sex plushie outfit?—he admitted, “Sometimes. But that’s when I teach them a great lesson. There are no small parts, only small people.”
My favorite highlight on his Wall of Fame is a photo from his sophomore year in high school. He’d been a miserable teenager so uncomfortable with his weight that he didn’t want to be seen, evidenced by his raised hand blocking the camera—a familiar move that makes me rub my scarred hand.
“That wasn’t who I was meant to be,” Dean explained once, “so I fought like hell to change. By senior year, I was a hundred pounds lighter and a million times happier.”
This is why I love Dean. He’s beautifully honest about his weight loss with his students—and that he’s been through something difficult warms me to him more than anything could. He understands struggle; he understands my struggle or will someday.
“You’ll be impressed,” I promise, despite Mira’s skepticism. “And after, I’ll tell him about the little house. Thanks for letting me borrow the keys, Jane, so I can show it to him after the play. He’ll be so surprised. With the deal all but done, he won’t feel like this is a trap.”
“He should be so lucky.” Mira has universal disapproval for the men I date, a strong sisterly vibe often softened by Jane, who tends to be more gracious. Sure, there’s a short list of things I don’t love about Dean. He doesn’t read much. He’s allergic to my cat, Edgar Allan Poe. And he treats my scars like a nuclear test site—best to avoid. Still, Dean’s a prince compared to others I’ve dated, and the closest I’ve come to believing in a Mira-and-Jane happily-ever-after for myself.
Besides, there’s so much to love about Dean. He’s magnanimous, a bundle of handsome positivity—Rob Lowe meets Ted Lasso and Lin-Manuel Miranda (also one of Dean’s role models). Dean wants me at his side, regardless of my obvious imperfections. Some people wince at the sight of me, so finding an attractive, decent man who wants me on his arm feels miraculous.
“I’m surprised Dean didn’t rope you into being assistant director, Rowan,” Jane says.
“Oh, no. He’s the drama department. He understands that I prefer being behind the scenes.”
“Or in a corner.” Mira pats the armrests.
“I like the corner.” I point to the side door where Julio retrieved me earlier. “There’s an easy escape if anyone needs it.”
“The play isn’t that bad, is it?” Mira chuckles.
The lights blink twice and then dim, quieting us.
The show goes on without a hitch. Not one flubbed line or misstep. Eddie’s massive, deflated zit is invisible from the seats, even under the bright lights. Perhaps we should’ve done All’s Well That Ends Well, I think, with amusement as the play draws to its lovely conclusion and the audience jumps into a standing ovation.
Jane dabs her tears while Mira squeezes my hand. “Wow, Rowan. Just… wow.”
Dean emerges from backstage, his crisp black suit making him look handsome and important. Between charming jokes about wrangling teenagers and trying to keep up with them, he highlights each subset of the production. He mentions our partnership but doesn’t make a big deal, as we agreed. Finally, it’s the actors. Ashley Morrow and Eddie Speck’s double bow receives another standing ovation before they join hands with the remaining cast across the stage.
A deep breath releases my trapped nerves. Soon, we’ll enjoy the cafeteria cast party before I show Dean the house I’m buying. My fingers wrap around the beach bum keychain in my dress pocket, imagining how loving and supportive he’ll be about me, making my dream of home ownership a reality.
But Dean doesn’t end the show as usual.
He frees the microphone and steps around the podium. Behind him, Julio appears, looking worried while holding a gigantic spray of red roses. Ashley and Eddie don devious, giddy grins as they descend stage right.
“What’s going on?” Mira’s voice cuts through Dean’s as he spouts words I can’t string together. Serendipity… companionship… love.
“I don’t know.” Panic rises through my disbelief. Is he…? He can’t be.
“Soon, the play was no longer the thing. She was.”
Ah’s wave across the audience, bringing hundreds of eyes to me.
“Shit.” I sink into my chair, wishing for a black hole, a rabbit hole, or a sinkhole—anything so I can disappear. Heat surges through me volcano-like, surely turning my face more hot-pink than usual, especially when he says…
“Rowan Mackey, will you join me up here?”
“You don’t have to go.” Mira leans in, blocking the crowd. She glances toward the side exit. “Escape door?”
“It’s a gorgeous proposal,” Jane says.
“It’s social blackmail,” Mira corrects dryly.
“It’s stage fright,” Dean laughs it off with the audience. “Rowan, please.”
The please forces me to my wobbly feet.
Undeserved applause hides my awkward bumbling and whispered curses down the aisle. My game face comes out, locking eyes with Ashley and Eddie, waiting for me at the row’s end. I latch on to their extended arms, grateful for the support like I’m Dorothy, linking arms with Scarecrow and Tin Man and about to face the dreaded wizard.
“Don’t look so horrified,” Eddie whispers. “You can handle anything, Madam Zit Popper.”
Only I can’t. My heart pounds so violently it might rip itself from my chest. They escort me up stage right, exposing my scarred side to the audience. Dean’s gregarious smile falters when he notices his bad staging.
Even worse, this is my personal drama playing center stage with my students and hundreds of people watching! It’s against the unsaid rules of teaching to hijack the students’ limelight. I don’t like attention—Dean knows this. I get enough stares already. There is no mental space to be calm or in control—not with my chest tightening, my breath gasping, and my high heels dragging like concrete bricks against the wood floor.
As Ashley and Eddie guide me into place, my eyes meet Dean’s, blue and brilliant under the shimmering lights, and for a second, I think it’s okay. I imagine a hazy future of us in bed, faces against our pillows, talking before the kids wake up. That’s the life I want, and I’ve never been closer to it than right now.
The audience coos as Dean takes a knee. Baby Aster cries from the darkened rows behind me. Dean says lovely things, I’m sure, but anxiety pulls me in like a monster gripping my leg underwater, clogging my ears, and preventing my breathing. He asks me to marry him—he must have—because everything goes silent, and he holds a ring at my fingertip.
I know what I’m meant to say—what I want to say. Popping the question should make a girl squeal, hop up and down, and shout her clear YES from the hilltops, rooftops, or high school theater stages like it’s the only word she knows, especially this girl. YES! A thousand times, yes!
“Yes. No. Maybe” comes out, like I’m being cattle-prodded to keep changing my answer. Zip. Zap. Zing.
Eddie drops the mic positioned at my mouth, causing it to screech. Then, all goes silent like the air’s been sucked from the room, and no one breathes.
My eyes fix on Dean’s—he looks crushed like a bug underfoot, all the moment’s joy squirted out and the ring hanging limply in his fingers.
Fix this! I grab his ring hand, pulling him up. “I mean, yes. Yes! I meant yes!” With a momentary fumble, I slide the ring onto my finger and hold it up to convince the gawking crowd.
“She, um, she said yes.” Dean puts on a happy tone like he would a mask, and the crowd plays along, cheering and clapping. But it’s clear in his obligatory kiss—I’ve hurt him.
