Look Again

7

JOEY

Is it possible to get shorter from the pressure of the world on your shoulders? Asking for a friend.

Okay, it’s me. I’m asking for me. I feel so overloaded with this insane school schedule, student advisement (who signed me up for that?), and all this extra chair-seeking work. I have aged ten years in the last two weeks. Has it really only been two weeks? I can feel every second of it in my shoulders. I can see it in the luggage under my eyes. I hear it when I turn my head and fireworks pop in my neck. I need a massage. And a nap.

Or at least a deep breath.

I hike that shiny teacher smile onto my face and welcome my film intro class. Getting them started on today’s project (a biography of an early-era Hollywood director) takes only about ten minutes, and I hope they care, because I certainly don’t. One more class and I get to go home to my little apartment, which is slowly beginning to look less like a blank canvas and more like a canvas with one messy blob of paint on it. I have hung a photo.

One.

I have to remind myself to call my mom, or at least text her once every ten days. I used to talk to her many times every week, but I can’t find any energy for conversation outside the classroom. Ginger says she understands; it’s one of those things I’ll get used to. For now, she carries our conversations.

She drags me down the hill to Lola’s at least twice a week, for which I am always grateful; at least I’m grateful after the food comes out. Dexter and Hank join us there often enough that I assume they talk to Ginger and plan to meet. Or maybe they eat there every day, and we would run into them no matter when we decided to go.

I’m annoyed with Dexter. We are not at all on the same page when it comes to this arts chair. To him it seems like a whim, like a simple way to fill a few extra hours. I don’t even remember what extra hours look like.

He isn’t stressing about this like I am. Or, apparently, at all. I wonder if I’m doing it wrong. Maybe it’s not supposed to be this much work. But then I look at the notes in my phone, and I realize that we’re doing practically a full-time job making these three activities happen.

Did Dr. Moreau give these to us so she didn’t have to arrange them herself? Is this whole arts chair an easy way out of her pesky to-do list?

Try as I might to erase the memory of that meeting in Dr. Moreau’s office, I keep replaying my parting words. “I’m very happy you’re trusting me to help with these great projects.”

Really? I sounded like a sycophantic teenager. And then Dexter walks out the door, practically shouting “Hooray for me!”

I tried to have a conversation with him. I asked how he’d fit scriptwriting into his already crazy schedule. I cannot imagine finding energy for creative work. How could he manufacture hours for writing and revising between teaching classes and grading and planning and advisory and I really need to sit down right this minute.

I suggested we create a schedule. I offered to spreadsheet. To Spreadsheet! And he gives me a “yeah, sure, whatever.”

Jerk.

I will show him. I am going to arrange the greatest Harvest Ball in the history of Harvest Balls. But first, I need to find out what a Harvest Ball is.

After the last class of the day ends, two girls stay at their desks, talking over their director projects and comparing Google searches. I want them to leave so I can leave, but I recognize this as not a particularly teachery wish. My head hurts, and I turn away from the girls and rub my face, hoping the headache doesn’t trigger (or stem from) a problem with my eyes.

I walk by and peek over their shoulders. “Find anything good?” I ask. I itch to point out that Wikipedia is not a valid research source, but they don’t ask for feedback, so I don’t offer.

The one I’m pretty sure is named Hadley asks her friend, “Did you decide what you’re wearing?”

“To Harvest?” the friend (Britain? I’m pretty sure she’s Britain) asks.

Hadley makes a noise of assent.

Britain says, “I want to know the décor before I decide for sure. Don’t want to clash with the ornaments. You know.”

Should I? Is it creepy if I acknowledge that I’m listening?

I should not. Be quiet, I tell myself.

Hadley turns her chair toward me. “Miss Harker, are you going to Harvest?”

I look up. They’re both looking at me, but not like they think I’m an old lady hovering around their conversation. Like they want to know if I’m going to the dance.

“I am,” I say. “And if you’re interested in getting in on the ground floor where decorating is concerned, I can make that happen.”

“You’re helping with the dance?”