I swallow hard and shake my head. I hate that my response disappointed him almost as much as I hate that I care. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Dad.”
His posture softens. “You’ll want to prepare yourself for their call. Martha was very enthusiastic when I told her how much experience you’ve had at the local children’s theater.”
Prepare myself for their call? That seems premature—and, I pray, unnecessary. But there’s only one appropriate response for my father. “I’ll prepare. Thanks for the lead, Dad.”
“You’re welcome. Now, can Jill and I take you to lunch?”
I shake my head. “I have to get back.” After all these years, he still doesn’t understand that I can’t just take a long lunch break on a whim. Then again, my father doesn’t make much of an effort to understand anyone’s world but his own.
He leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Happy birthday, then. Jill will walk you out.” He walks around his desk and presses the button by his phone to signal to Jill that we’re done.
She dutifully appears at the door, and my father’s attention is fixated on the computer screen in front of him, as if I’m already gone. “Have a good day, Dad,” I say as I exit the office with Jill.
I’m perfectly capable of finding my way out of the building without Jill leading me, but she always walks me anyway. I wonder if she’s just being polite or if she knows how uncomfortable I am here, always afraid
I’m going to run into Harrison in the hallway.
When we reach the front and push through the gleaming glass doors, the sun is shining, and the air is warm.
“It feels like summer is coming,” she says, tilting her face to the sky.
I smile. “I can’t wait.” Most people assume that summer means a three-month vacation for all school teachers, but I’ve never used it as such. Because of my position with the local children’s theater, I work as many hours during the summer as I do during the school year, helping with theater camps and directing our biggest production of the year. Local youth, aged five to eighteen, work on it all summer and perform right before they return to school. It’s my favorite time of the year. I spend my days hanging out with kids who are passionate about theater, my nights working extra shifts at Jackson Brews, and I even take the occasional weekend with the Jacksons at their family cabin.
“Guess what?” Jill says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Molly is coming home in a couple weeks.”
Oh, my stepsister. Ellie and I call Molly “Mother Teresa” because she’s always doing something to make the world a better place—an awesome quality in theory, but when it belongs to the person you’re always measured against, it’s a little hard to swallow. “That’s great. How’s she doing?”
“She’s good, but you can ask her yourself. She said she needed to talk to us about something important, so I think she has big news.”
“That’s great!” I force a smile.
Molly moved away for college—she went to a fancy liberal arts school where a year’s tuition costs more than my house. She left and only came home as the rare exception. Unlike me. I stayed as close to Jackson Harbor for college as I could. I had no interest in putting roots down in a new place. But when Molly started her degree four years after me, she was always getting this new internship or that new fellowship. I have no doubt that her big news is more of the same.
“Will you be able to join us for dinner when she’s in town?”
The truth is more that missing such a dinner wouldn’t be worth my father’s wrath. I might not want to go, but I know I will. Dare I share my big news when Molly shares hers? Mother Teresa is probably opening an orphanage in Calcutta while I, the underachieving daughter who might be out of a job, am contemplating an investment in sperm. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
When I get back to school, students are trickling into my classroom for fourth period. Drama is my favorite period of the day, and the group I have this year is full of enthusiasm.
“Good afternoon,” I say after the bell rings. I grab the stack of papers from my desk and start passing them out. “As promised, I brought in the applications for the children’s theater summer program. I really encourage you to look at the opportunity and talk it over with your parents. If you think you’d like to help me, get your application in by the end of next week. I always have more volunteers for the youth leader positions than I have positions available, so don’t put it off.”
Lance raises his hand from the back row as I distribute the last of the stack. “Miss McKinley?”
“Yes, Lance?”
“Was Miss Quincy serious when she said they were going to let a bunch of teachers go?”
There’s a collective inhale, and I draw in a sharp breath of my own. When Myla and I talked at the coffee shop on Saturday, she probably didn’t think about Lance listening from behind the counter. The layoffs aren’t exactly a secret, but no one wants to upset students either. “We don’t know anything for sure yet,” I say with what I hope is a comforting smile.
In the front row, Sydney waves her paper. “If you’re not the one running the summer program, I don’t want to do it.”
I shake my head. “The children’s theater isn’t connected with Windsor Prep. I promise you I’ll be running the program regardless of what happens here.”
“So you might get laid off,” Lance says.
“What if you have to move somewhere for a new job?” Corrine asks.
“What about next year’s musical?” Sydney asks. “There’s no one else at this school who gives a shit about the drama kids.”