“Well, do you want me to look at it?” He slipped back into his gray T-shirt as I veered around him back toward St. Charles Avenue.
I shook my head, joking as I walked away, “You wouldn’t know what you were doing any more than I would.”
“You got something against just hiring a repairman?” he shouted after me as I walked.
I turned, dishing his attitude right back at him. “You got something against tutorials on YouTube?” I shot out, and continued with my life motto, which he knew all too well. “Always go to bed smarter —”
“— than you were when you woke up,” he finished in a mocking voice.
I smiled and turned on “Hazy Shade of Winter” by the Bangles before jogging out of the park.
I spent the hour after I returned home crouched down next to my bathroom door as I pored over the instructions on how to install my new doorknob.
Luckily I’d bought a general tool set when I’d moved into my apartment two months ago, after graduation, but the clerk at the store had suckered me into a cordless power drill, which I was enjoying way too much.
Knowledge made us stronger, and I liked being able to do things for myself. Every new challenge was a mental checkoff of something I wouldn’t need to learn later.
My brother, however, didn’t share my need for autonomy.
When I’d moved in, he’d bought me a coffeepot as a housewarming gift. I’d bought a fire extinguisher and a thirty-eight-piece handyman set.
He’d gifted me with a wine rack stocked with pinot noir, and I’d added two more dead bolts to the front door.
Our senses of self-sufficiency were different, but then they had to be. Our experiences were very different growing up.
I smiled to myself, embarrassment warming my cheeks as I drilled in the screws. I was glad Jack wasn’t here to see how this was possibly the most fun I’d had all week.
I may have gotten overzealous and split the wood in the door when tightening the screws, too.
And I may even have crawled around my entire apartment tightening any screw I could find before I decided to put my new toy away for the day.
He’d have me committed. Or at least send me on a forced spa day.
After eating a sandwich for lunch, I showered and combed my closet for an outfit for tonight.
The new academic year started tomorrow, and my students’ parents had been invited for an open house this evening at Braddock Autenberry, my new school.
Or my only school, as this was my first teaching position.
Having gotten my keys to the school a couple weeks ago, I had prepared the room, and it was all set for tomorrow. Tonight I could try to relax and tend to the parents making their rounds to the different rooms before school started in the morning.
Reaching into my closet, I picked out my red pencil skirt, which fell just above the knee in the front but was cut to drape just below the knees in the back, stitched with a slight ruffle there for flare.
Laying it on the bed, I dug back into the closet for my fitted black blouse. It had long, cuffed sleeves and buttoned up to the neck.
To finish off the outfit, my heels were plain black with a pointed toe. I twisted my lips at the sight of them, setting them on the floor next to my bed.
I hated heels, but tonight was “make a good first impression,” kind of occasion, so I’d suck it up. I’d filter in sneakers and flats throughout the school year, though.
The outfit was conservative but stylish, and after I did my light makeup and my hair in loose curls, pulling back the sides and fixing a clip to the back of my head, I dressed with care, making sure not to wrinkle anything.
This was a brand-new start, and I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.
Once I’d fastened my watch to my wrist and put in the diamond studs from my parents, I smoothed my hand down my shirt and skirt, brushing off lint that wasn’t really there.
Perfect.
I checked the windows, the stove, and both doors, making sure everything was secure – twice – before I left.
When I arrived at the school, in the heart of Uptown, I still had a couple more hours before the open house began. I checked my mailbox in the teachers’ lounge, made some extra copies of my parent letter, and double-checked my laptop and projector to make sure my PowerPoint presentation was set to run.
We were supposed to have a mini speech ready to go when parents arrived, but I’d gauged – hopefully correctly – that parents would filter in and out, visiting classrooms in no set order, so I’d just designed a presentation with pictures and captions to play in the background. They could watch it or not.
Student textbooks were on the desk for their perusal, and copies of my syllabus and calendar with my contact information sat on a table by the door.