Sweet Nothing(8)
“Why’d you leave New York?” I ask carefully.
“Well, my gig was up. And there was this… guy. I thought things were gonna work out, but they didn’t.” She takes a deep, fluttery breath. “Basically, I needed a new start.”
That makes two of us. The look in her eyes is familiar. I’m not the only one who’s running from something.
“We’ll have to play the name game sometime,” Gwen smiles.
Waverly snorts and swipes a bit of pulp from the rim of her glass. “Hey, Elle, do you know Nature, my psychic yogi friend who grows her own weed and makes mumus out of organic hemp and positive energy?”
Gwen turns to me. “Hey, Elle, have you met Waverly, my incompetent princess of a roommate who bleached an entire load of clothes when she first got here because she’d never even had to do her own—”
“Hey! Laundry is hard,” Waverly protests. Her expression twitches as she tries to remain indignant, but eventually she and Gwen both dissolve in laughter. I laugh too, but it sounds forced.
“Anyway.” Waverly raises her champagne flute, and Gwen follows. “We hope you have an awesome year, girl. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I whisper, and raise my glass.
A long, steamy shower kneads the anxiety from my body, and I feel almost human again as I towel-dry my hair and slip into a sleeveless white sundress and sandals. The dress is slightly wrinkled, but I didn’t pack an iron, so it will have to be good enough. I dig a small pair of turquoise studs from my jewelry pouch, slide on my glasses, and add a careless swipe of sheer pink gloss.
According to my itinerary, I’m supposed to use the morning to organize my classroom. The afternoon holds lunch with my faculty mentor and a few boring but necessary errands: getting my faculty ID and parking pass; attending a computer training to set up my Email and online gradebook.
Waverly and Gwen aren’t around when I finish getting ready, so I grab the campus map and keys on my dresser and step into the hall. Our cottage is a square, made of stucco and glass, with a small, open courtyard in the center. I picture Waverly, Gwen, and me hanging out in the evenings, grading papers and swapping student stories over sushi and chilled white wine. It’s a nice image, but I’ll have to be careful around Gwen.
Once I’m outside, I wonder why I showered in the first place. The humidity is so thick that I feel like I’m walking through water. I’m used to humidity. What I’m not used to is the smell here. Instead of subway stench oozing through the grates and onto the searing pavement, a fresh, saltwater scent slips through my hair and tickles my skin.
The rows of faculty cottages occupy a few side streets to the west of the campus. The Allford Academy campus itself spills over several blocks on the south side of Miami, just west of Biscayne Bay. I consult my map and follow my street onto a gated, lush campus dotted with sparkling white modern structures, similar in style to the cottage. On the other side of campus, the bay is bright and blue-green.
It only takes ten minutes and four wrong turns to find my classroom, which is large and airy, with a glass wall that looks over the bay. I can see why Gwen would be shocked to come from Queens to this place. It doesn’t feel real.
I spend most of the morning arranging my textbooks, plants, and posters, all of which I ordered online and shipped before I left New York. Then I settle in at my laptop to put the finishing touches on my syllabus and lesson plans. I lose myself in terms, definitions, and group project assignments. And for a split second, drift into a daydream about what life would have been like at Wharton. I see myself in lecture halls with brilliant professors, telling me about their positions with international corporations, about the books they’ve written and the research they’ve done. I picture my life starting. My real life; the life I was supposed to have.
And then I pull myself back, because this kind of wishing is pointless. Torture. This is my life now. I rub my eyes beneath my glasses and glance at the clock. 12:30.
“Oh, shit.” Pawing frantically through my purse, I search for the day’s itinerary. I find it, smooth out the wrinkles, and scan my list of activities.
12:15 Lunch with faculty mentor (Location TBD)
“Oh, SHIT!” I throw my keys and cell into my purse and scoop my files and notebooks into a pile, trying to shove them into a too-small leather tote. “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.” How could I let this happen? I haven’t even been at Allford for 24 hours, and already I’m missing important meetings? At this rate, I’ll get fired before the week is out. I sprint to the door, my hand slippery with sweat against the doorknob.