I wasn’t wrong. Every hour dragged on painfully, each one holding its own eternity. Teachers were trying to squeeze in as much last-minute learning as possible, but all except a few of the most diligent seniors had tuned out, creating a stark contrast of priorities. On Friday, Em was sent out of history for drawing a picture of a bunny in the margins of her textbook. I found her sitting against my locker, having finished the bunny drawing and now adding little ducklings to go with it.
“Did you make it to the principal?” I asked her, putting my things away and grabbing my car keys from the metal hook inside my locker.
“She didn’t actually say to go to the office, though,” Em said, not looking up. “She just said to remove myself from her classroom. This seemed like as good a place as any to remove myself to.”
“Excellent reasoning. I’ll see you this weekend?”
“Is today the day?” she asked, springing to her feet and following me through the halls to the parking lot. Abe and I had taken separate cars so I could leave for the university right from school.
“Today is the day,” I confirmed.
“Are you nervous?”
“Yeah? Maybe? A little?”
“Are you nervous to see Sam?”
“Not really. He’s just helping me figure out what I’m going to talk about.”
“Oh, sure. Totally,” Em said.
“Didn’t I ask you to let it go?”
“Yes, you did. But when I first started dating Jackie, you covered my entire bedroom in sticky notes that said EM LOVES JACKIE 4EVER so I’m not really motivated to let it go, as it were.”
“In my defense, you do love Jackie forever. And I waited until you actually started dating before I sticky-noted your room.”
“So when you and Sam start dating I can get a tattoo that says LOTTIE LOVES SAM 4EVER?”
“Maybe think of something a little less permanent.”
“Good point. Well, have fun! Text me later.”
With a wave and a promise to text her that night, I got into my car and left Em standing in the parking lot, her defaced history textbook in her hands.
I had sat in on a couple of my aunt’s classes over the years, but I didn’t remember much. She taught about writing for children and the history of children’s literature, things I knew a little about but nowhere near as much as she did. I’d brought her computer with me in case there was anything on there that would help me.
I was wholly unprepared.
In her note Aunt Helen had made it seem like I was the obvious choice for a substitute, like she wasn’t worried at all about my ability to actually carry this out. I wasn’t so sure. Even Abe might have been a better choice—he didn’t want to be a teacher, but he had read every single important children’s book in the history of the English language, plus most of the unimportant ones, plus he had an eidetic memory for words. He would probably grow up to be the next J. R. R. Tolkien.
Or the next Helen Reaves, I guess.
I got to the library a few minutes later and opened my aunt’s laptop on the grass outside. Although I’d already done this days ago, I spent a few minutes browsing through her Word documents and found a folder labeled Lesson Plans, but of course the last one was for weeks ago, before she died. The students would have had three or four classes without her now, being taught by whatever substitute had been assigned to them. And now me. I really didn’t want to let them down.
I felt a hand brush against my hair, and then Sam was sitting down across from me, smiling and happy in sunglasses and a blue T-shirt.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
“First of all, you look like you’re about to throw up. Are you about to throw up?”
“I don’t think so. But I’m not a hundred percent sure.”
“Okay, I’ll keep my distance. What are you working on? Any ideas?”
“Literally zero ideas. I have no ideas at all. At this point, I think I’m just going to read the first chapter of Margo Hatter Lives Forever and be done with it.”
“Great! I have an idea. Let’s go.” He shot up and grabbed my hands, pulling me to my feet. I put the laptop in my bag as he led me away from the library.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere very cool,” he said.
“That’s all I get?”
“That’s all you get.”
It wasn’t long before we arrived at the outdoor amphitheater. I’d been here before, with Abe and my parents, watching the drama department’s summer Shakespeare series.
“Are we seeing a play? We’re supposed to be working on a lesson plan,” I said as we approached the ticket booth.
“You have three hours until class. If you haven’t planned something yet, you’re not going to. You’re just going to have to wing it, Lottie,” he said. He bought two tickets and grabbed us each a program. He handed me one.
“The Little Prince,” I read.
“A stage adaptation by Reaves Players,” he said.
“Reaves?”
“Your aunt was their number one supporter. She made this possible. They used to be called the Seaside Players, but they changed their name when . . .”
“That’s really nice,” I said.
We found our seats, and I read through the program, just two simple pages folded and stapled together. The Little Prince was being played by Mikaela Barns.
“Hey,” I said, pointing.
“I know, she’s the one who told me about this. She also made the set and helped with the adaptation. Essentially, she’s great at everything she does.”
The audience was at least half children and not a single one of them spoke or moved during the entire show, which was a testament to how good it was. Mikaela was amazing as the prince and it was obvious that every single actor who came onstage was so happy to be there. When it was over, Sam took my hand and led me out of the theater, because I was so dazed and happy I couldn’t even concentrate on moving myself.
“What did you think?” he asked when we were outside.
“That was amazing. That was so good. Thank you for taking me.”
“You really liked it?”
“Of course I liked it. And I know exactly what I’m going to talk about now.”
“Seriously? I mean—obviously. Of course. That was my plan all along.” He puffed out his chest and looked self-righteous.
“Well, I don’t believe you for a second, but thank you anyway.”
“Do you mind if I sit in?”
“Of course not. I kind of assumed you would.”
“Really? Oh, great. I mean, I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”
“Do we have time to get a coffee?”
Sam looked at his phone and then showed me the screen. Three thirty.
“There’s a coffee shop in the building where your aunt’s class is,” he said.
“Really?”
“This is college. There’s basically a coffee shop in every building.”
Aunt Helen’s class was held in the Turner Building, one of the larger buildings on campus and one that housed the majority of the English Department. It was exactly how I remembered it: slightly run-down with plenty of offices crammed with books and papers and classrooms with high ceilings and wood paneling. It was perfect, and it was a little creepy, like Aunt Helen’s ghost still roamed the halls. I even thought it smelled like her, but I’m sure it was just my imagination.
This was the building I was in when I first decided I wanted to be a teacher.