The Face Your Fear Project

May despises the playground door and its Five Conditions–the only school door that needs to be scanned twice for exit/entry and checked three times to ensure proper closure. Scraped glass, sweaty prints where students have swiped their hands (or tongues!). Teaching Assistant badge like millstone around her neck, the lanyard clip forever coming undone. May doesn’t believe in wearing it—the students know her name—but management disagrees. To them, the badge has a purpose even bigger than she is, and May needs it to get in and out. Fine. The playground door’s sole redemption lies in its opposite position to May’s classroom on the U-shaped curve of the school. On sunny days, May cheerfully observes eight periods’ worth of students as they yell and squabble and leap off playground equipment, shaking off teacher’s scolding tongues and tearing up grass, cheeks smeared with dirt and glee. On rainy days, May watches as dew collects on the slides and swings and feels acutely aware of being more irritable than normal. Miss Vicky, Lead Classroom Teacher, lets May take extra breaks on rainy days. She likes that Miss Vicky doesn’t ask questions. Miss Vicky likes that May watches out for the children.

It is on a rainy day that May spies the Suspicious Man from her classroom, notes his prowling gait before his appearance—cloaked in black, a medical mask over his mouth. He lingers by the monkey bars, takes in the empty playground with sharp eyes and roaming hands. May’s fear is immediate, cold, and sharp. She makes an excuse to Miss Vicky and runs as fast as she dares through the halls, trying not to cause unnecessary alarm, even as the fear cuts deeper in her chest, fighting the urge to peek out the hallway windows as she goes. May tells herself she must get to the playground door, must lock the playground door before—no, she will not entertain the possibility of that nightmare. Her students’ faces swim before her eyes. Innocent. May regrets every moment of resentment toward her job, the pathetic paycheck. This school is hers, goddammit. Minutes before the Suspicious Man saunters up to the playground door, May scans her badge twice and checks three times to ensure proper closure. She backs away slowly, hands shaking. The man’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he raps his fist against the door. A smart man, May thinks, with a smart knock. A casual knock.

 A classroom door, the closest to the playground door, starts to open, an annoyed face peeking out at May like she’s the one knocking. 

“Don’t open it!” May cries, and the teacher’s face shrinks at the fear in May’s voice.

“Who is it?” The teacher asks.

“I’m not sure.” May says. A half-truth. May recognizes the Suspicious Man from somewhere. To the intercom on the wall, she says, “Hello. How can I help you?” Voice calm. Practiced script.

“I’m here to pick up my son.” The Suspicious Man says, and his voice reeks of annoyance. Practiced parent voice, May thinks with a touch of cynicism. 

“You have to go to the front office for that.” May says.

“I pick him up here after rec activities.” The Suspicious Man says, “Why not now?”

“Can I see some ID, please?” May asks. The Suspicious Man hesitates, then reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a leather wallet. Slaps the wallet against the playground door like it owes him money. The ID looks fake, but May can’t prove it. Familiar, though. May struggles to remember why he looks familiar, why it had felt so vital to ensure the playground door was locked before the Suspicious Man took his chances. It comes to her like a flash of lightning. April, fellow Teacher Assistant–her partner. No, ex-boyfriend. May closes her eyes. April is gone now, moved onto bigger paychecks hopefully, but their conversation sticks in May’s mind like a store-bought cactus.

“Tough room you’re in.” May says, trying to make conversation, “How do you feel about it? I know the students there can be aggressive.”

“Yeah.” April says, “Rowdy for sure. I’ve gotten hit before. But you have, too, right?”

May ignores the question. “I heard that the one student you have likes to punch people in the gut.”

“It’s nothing.” April says, “They’re children.”

“Yeah, but it still hurts.”

“At least they don’t know any better.” April says, “Men know better. Ask me if I’ve ever been hit by a man.”

Weird way to phrase it, May thinks, but bites the lead anyway. “Have you ever been hit by a man?”

“Yes.” April says, “I moved here to get away from him. He looks like this.”

April pulls her phone out of her pocket, tongue worrying at the left corner of her mouth. She shows May the picture of him. “You ever see this guy, you run, okay? He likes to show up to places that I work at. I left him a while ago.”

“God, what a creep.” May says. The man in the photo is cute, with curly hair and a trimmed beard. A half smile.

“And a liar.” April says, “Lies about everything. Told me he has a kid.” April switches tracks. “He shut my finger in a door one time. That’s when I finally blocked him. He made out like he was opening the door for me, can you believe it? I thought he was being a gentleman and then boom–finger in the door.”

“Ouch.” May says, with real pity in her voice, “I’ve gotten my finger shut in the door, too.” She adds quickly, “An accident, though.”

“But I got lucky.” April continues, “He has a weapon.”

“A gun?” May guesses. She folds her arm across her chest and glances at another teacher walking past them, wondering if it will be reported as an Inappropriate Conversation To Have In The Vicinity Of Students.

“A gun.” April says, “You got it. I’ve never seen it but he’s threatened to shoot me before.”

“Why are you telling me this?” May asks. An image of a gun floats in her mind like a jellyfish, a glint of silver. She imagines one pressed against her forehead, how cold it probably feels to the touch.

“Because you look like me.” April says, “You really do. It’s uncanny. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be sticking around this school. He likes to show up to places that I work at, like I said.”

May, feeling more than a little self-conscious after that conversation, took steps to distance herself from April…Dyed her hair from honey-brown to dark black. Switched from contacts to glasses–big, purple ones that the children adored and May took off on the weekends or the occasional date.

A glint of silver. May stares the Suspicious Man square in the face, raises the walkie to her lips and doesn’t turn away. “Code Red.” May says, “Code Red.”

“That’s not necessary.” The Suspicious Man says, already backing away. “You’re crazy. You know me, April. You know me.”

“My name is May.” May says, hands shaking, “My name is May.”