***FYI These are the only three chapter that will be shared here on BC***

CHAPTER ONE

I think it’s safe to say that, if asked, the majority of people would politely decline an opportunity to step into a time machine, turn back the clock, and relive the days of high school. It’s almost universally the case. Me? I’m torn.

On one hand, high school is the fertile ground where boys become men and girls become women. They enter as immature freshmen, but leave (mostly) as mature seniors ready to take on the world. Be it college, trade school, or straight to the workforce, it’s four years of successes, failures, and self-discovery that mold you into the person you were always meant to be.

High school movies offer a different perspective. Usually, the protagonist can’t wait to graduate and leave the hellscape that is their hometown high school halls. Tear off that cap and gown and split for whatever greener pastures lie ahead. Still, by the end of the film, the character usually comes to some understanding that the trials they just experienced, though rocky, were necessary for their own growth. You see? Plusses and minuses.

So how would I answer that time machine question? It depends when you ask. Five years ago, at the ripe age of 26, I’d have laughed in your face. Even as someone who had a fine high school experience, I simply have no need to relive nostalgia. Why abandon my amazing life and spin that roulette wheel again? But a lot can change in five years.

I’m no longer that energetic, bright-eyed 26-year-old man, newly married with a new house and a couple of dogs. Today, I’m 31, divorced, with no house, no dogs, starting from zero. All of a sudden that time machine isn’t looking so bad.

“Yo, Mr. Miller?” A boy called. “Mr. Miller?”

I shook my head and snapped back to focus. “Huh? Sorry.”

The classroom of students stared blankly at me. Twenty high school juniors, presumably wondering how their own Algebra teacher had even less focus than they do. The one calling for my attention, Barrett – 16, nice kid, bit of a teacher’s pet – gently answered my original question.
“X is 24, isn’t it?”

I whipped my attention to the whiteboard beside me, full of equations and other markings. I did some quick mental math to check his answer. As usual, Barrett was right.

“Yes. Very good.” I fiddled with the dry-erase marker between my fingers. Now, can anyone other than Barrett explain how he got there?”

Not to harp on the time machine question too much, but it is ironic. It was only the other day that I saw a post on social media posing that question, and it’s been on my mind ever since. For me, it’s a moot point. In a way, I am back in high school, and to some degree, I am reliving my past days.

Kate and I had a great thing going before our divorce. We were both math teachers who met just one week after starting our first full-time teaching jobs at the same high school in Orland Park, Illinois. Instant chemistry. She found me both charming and funny, which, to be fair, a lot of people did. But Kate finding me physically attractive is what really stirred me up.

The fact that a tall, thin, intelligent, blonde bombshell like Kate wanted to date me never made sense. Not only am I short – 5’6” on a good day – but I sport long, shoulder-length hair, I’m supremely unathletic, and I’m built like a flimsy twig. No matter how much I hit the gym, my body is simply incapable of adding muscle. Granted, it’s the same with fat. Regardless of what I eat, if I step onto a scale, I’m never clocking in past 120 pounds. As my grandma used to say, “God must’ve wanted you slender.”

But what God didn’t want, clearly, was for Kate and me to be together. Within a year of marriage, I could already feel us drifting apart. We talked less and argued more. Within two years, we’d stopped having sex. She prioritized her friends more than me. In response, I self-isolated and made the problem even worse. I found myself slacking off at work, caring less and less about anything and everything. It was a downward spiral that was impossible to stop.

Today marks one year since our divorce was made official. And Christ almighty, I just can’t stop thinking about it.

“Mr. Miller?” Bridget, a nerdy ginger girl, chimed in.

“Sorry!” I snapped in again. “I–”

I stared at the classroom. I wish I could tell you this was my first time losing focus in the middle of a lesson, but it’s been happening more and more lately. Thankfully, the kids have had their own troubles with focus as well.

“You know what?” I clasped my hands and forced out a smile. “I’m sure whatever you said was the right answer.”

Bridget looked confused. “I didn’t give an answer–”

*RIIINNNGGG*

The school bell rang, indicating the end of the period. Within milliseconds, the kids shot up from their seats, eager to go home. But wait, did the bell ring earlier than planned? Yes, it’s 8th period, the final period of the day, but it’s 2:15 P.M. School’s not normally done till–

“Did you forget, Mr. Miller?” Zachary, a jock but a gentle one, approached me. “It’s early dismissal.”

“Early…” I quickly cycled through my mental calendar. “Right! It totally is. Man… I just don’t have it today.”

Zachary shrugged, but kept his eyes down. “Happens to all of us.”

Though my students scampered away, eager for a head start on their Wednesday afternoons, we teachers weren’t so lucky. Here’s something they don’t tell you as a student: Whenever a school gives you a “late start” or an “early dismissal”, it’s not out of the goodness of their heart. It’s because of meetings. Meetings for teachers. Often ones that hold us at work far longer than a normal day would. “Early” dismissal, my ass…

Normally I hate these woefully inefficient staff meetings. But today, I didn’t mind the shake-up. Hey, anything to pull me from the familiar spiral I’ve gotten so used to these past five years.

========

With my materials packed, I took off toward Garrison High School’s main conference room – notably known as “The Belasco Room”. Why? Well, I only just learned it’s named for some former, beloved principal who worked here a million years. Schools love that. They love to honor people not necessarily for their caliber of work, but their tenure. Stick around long enough, and maybe you too can have a dull, beige conference room bear your name!

Walking the halls, I passed excitable students on their way home, as well as teachers with gloomy expressions off to the meeting. Though I’m still a rookie in my third month at Garrison, I’ve quickly learned that any amount of time spent in the Belasco Room is too much time. Still, to keep my mind off my dreaded anniversary, I’ll gladly accept even the most boring meeting.

The room itself is more of a lecture hall than a proper conference room. Ten or twelve rows of seats angled downward like an auditorium. At the base is a lone lectern perched in front of an old school green chalkboard. Only twenty or so people had arrived, meaning I was way early. Like any normal person, I took the seat in the furthest back row to avoid any unwanted attention.

“OMG Quinn! Hiiii!” a shrill voice called from behind.

Perhaps I spoke too soon. I turned my head and greeted the person who, I guess I was sort of expecting. Ellie Foreman, English teacher. Chaotic, outgoing, and the colleague with whom I’d grown closest in my short tenure at Garrison.

With a funky little strut, Ellie slid into the seat to my right. “First Belasco meeting, huh? Are you excited to die of boredom?”

“It’s my third,” I reminded her. Ellie’s a little ditzy, but it’s part of her charm. “And I don’t get it. Nothing wrong with a little post-work gathering.”
Ellie childishly slumped in her seat. “You say that now. Wait till you’ve sat through a hundred of these.”

The best way to describe Ellie is that she appears exactly how she sounds. She’s a petite, cutesy, highly reactive blonde woman. To some, I’m sure, she’s annoying. Even to me, she’s a little annoying. But the good far outweighs the bad with her. From day one, Ellie has been the only teacher to regularly greet, smile, and go out of her way to include me in the fraternity of Garrison teachers. Everyone deserves an Ellie.
One by one, teachers trickled in and took their seats. Some sat with friends, others alone, until the entirety of the school directory had settled into Belasco. We teachers really are a ragtag bunch – though that’s not unique to Garrison. Most schools are like this. With a wide breadth of subjects, you get a wide breadth of people. Math teachers tend to be nerdy and particular. English teachers are quirky and bookish. Gym coaches are beefy and kinda dumb. Stereotypes exist for a reason, and at Garrison, they hold just as true.

With all teachers present, we were waiting on just one person – the person who summoned us here in the first place. From over my right shoulder, the door creaked open one last time, causing every head in the room to turn. It was the boss, the head honcho, the unquestionable most important person at Garrison High School: Our Principal, Ms. Honnold.

“Be seated,” she said dryly, making her way down to the podium.

We were seated. Was this a way to flex power, or just a joke caked in sarcasm? No one ever knew with this woman. You know that old saying “it’s better to be feared than loved”? Well, Ms. Honnold – who insists on the “Ms.” title, by the way – is the epitome of that. Not exactly a popular boss, but damn if she isn’t respected.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, summoning a handful of note cards from her bag and straightening them.

“As if we have a choice. Am I right??” Ellie whispered with a grin. I, however, am not so callous as to make cheeky comments about my boss mere feet from her.

Ms. Honnold began with a series of announcements regarding some recent PTA meetings, dealing with the wider school district, and other boring things that felt completely unnecessary to be present for. Not that a soul would dare complain. So far, this felt like any normal meeting in the Belasco.

“What do you think she wants?” Ellie nudged me again. “Who cares what some random PTA Mom told her last week?”

“Shh!” I cut her off, even shifting away from her in my seat to make the point. That’s another thing about Ellie – she’s childish and barely self-aware. You’d think being a teacher, she’d know not to talk during a lecture.

More comments were made about the PTA, including a short Q&A directed toward the groundskeeping staff about a drainage issue on the soccer field. Boring and unnecessary, yes. And Ellie was happy to let me know that.

“Jesus Christ…” she whispered again. “I mean, does she actually think we need to hear this?”

Somehow, Ellie’s last few words got amplified, likely catching some perfect sound pocket in the room. However it happened, it was the one comment the entire room heard crystal clear – including Ms. Honnold. And she was staring straight at Ellie.

“Yes, Miss Foreman. You do.”

Her voice cut through the air like a katana. If she didn’t have our attention before, she sure as shit did now.

“I, uh…” Ellie squeaked. “Sorry.”

“You’re forgiven,” Ms. Honnold said plainly, but she wasn’t done. “Perhaps this is a good time to move on to our main order of business. One that might actually interest some of you.”

Her eyes were dead-fixed on Ellie. My second-hand embarrassment was off the charts.

“As you may or may not know, there’s been a change in leadership in our school district. Several seats on the board have flipped, resulting in some new… directions for Garrison.”

New directions? What does that mean? Thankfully, a brave soul raised his hand and posed that exact question.

Ms. Honnold sighed and paused for a moment. It was the first time she looked genuinely unsure what she’d say next. “It means nothing. For now. I’m doing my best to make sure the school sees no real changes… But I can only do so much.”

Everyone’s stomachs dropped. Another brave teacher asked what was on everyone's mind.

“Like… layoffs?”

Gasps from the crowd as the forbidden “L-word” was uttered.

“No, no. No layoffs,” Ms. Honnold answered confidently. “Believe me, your jobs are safe.”

The room breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“But I’d be lying if I said we aren’t strapped for cash. And as the leader of this school and the one responsible for its success… It’s a fact I’m deeply ashamed of.”

Wow. Here I was thinking I’d been called to another boring, box-checking staff meeting, and Honnold drops this bomb? It might be the most vulnerable I’ve ever seen her, and from the look on everyone else’s faces, they felt the same way. All of a sudden, my dour divorce anniversary seemed so irrelevant in comparison.

“So what do we do?” asked another teacher.

“Well, facts are facts. All we can do is accept reality and move forward,” she hung her head. “Generally in times like this, extracurriculars are the first to go. Field trips, club merchandise… certain large school events.”

That piqued the interest of one of our guidance counselors, seated two spots to my right.

“Wait. So the Homecoming dance–”

“Might be going away, yes.”

Somehow THAT brought the room to true silence. Men and women alike, their jaws hit the floor.

Ellie, too, looked stunned and spoke for the first time since getting called out.

“You’re kidding. NO Homecoming?”

“Nothing will change this year. But from my conversations with the board and based on budget projections…”

The Principal never finished her sentence. Probably for the best. Telling this group of seemingly aloof teachers that a Homecoming dance might be stripped away prompted a reaction like no other. Say what you will about teacher cynicism, but you don’t get into this profession unless you care deeply about molding young lives. And what’s more important to a young life than Homecoming? It’s dramatic, it’s exciting… It’s everything. To the Garrison community, even the threat of it taking Homecoming away felt like a knife in the heart.

“Jesus…” one of the gym teachers mulled.

“Just like that, huh?” said another.

Ms. Honnold hung her head. “It may be the last for a while. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make this year’s Homecoming week amazing.” She took a second to soak in the emotion of the room; to examine each and every sorrowful face. “Tough times are ahead. For us, yes, but chiefly our students. There’s nothing we can do to change that. But what we can do is make the time we do have for them special.”

A pair of English teachers in the front row looked at each other and nodded. “We can do that,” they said. A gym teacher did the same. So did a trio of History teachers.

Before long, the entire room had transitioned from a sullen, hopeless mess into one full of inspiration and hope. What we’d actually do was unclear, but the shift in mentality was all there. Everything felt warmer, lighter. Straight-up better.

Ms. Honnold felt it too. Her near-permanent stern facade broke down, if only for a moment, as her lips curled into a smile.

“Thank you for understanding. I really work with amazing people.”

A few more words of encouragement circulated amongst the room before, ultimately, we were dismissed. We’d been knocked down by the scary news, but only temporarily.

As we funneled back out into the hallway, Ellie pulled me aside.

“You were quiet. Taking it hard?”

I shrugged. “I mean, yeah. It sucks. It’s tragic.”

“I know! And we gotta do whatever we can for these kids to make it the best Homecoming ever. It’s only right.”

“Sure,” I answered, a little unfocused.

Ellie raised her eyebrow, suspicious. “You seem skeptical. I know you’re new here, but this school’s pretty amazing–”

“I’m not saying it’s not amazing.”

“Then what is it?” She pressed.

Ugh. Was she really gonna make me say it?

“I… I just don’t see the big deal about school dances, you know?”

“Quinn, what’re you talking about? Homecoming’s, like, the best part of the year! Prom too! What, you didn’t have fun at yours?”

I gulped. “Well… I never went.”

Ellie chuckled, at first thinking I was kidding. “Stop. You absolutely did.”

I shook my head.

Slowly but surely, Ellie came to accept that I was indeed not kidding. It’s true, I never attended a single one of my high school’s Homecoming dances. Nor did I attend junior or senior prom. 0 for 6. But it honestly never bothered me. Of all the parts of high school I might’ve missed out on, the Homecoming dance was the least prominent.

“Unbelievable…” She stared at me like an exotic animal in a zoo. “I know it’s a little embarrassing… but I still think about mine all the time.”

“Okay, but–”

“Meeting up with friends before, getting ready, dreaming about my date… I think sophomore year I went with Tom Hollins. Or was that junior year? Either way, my dress junior year was to die for! And my senior updo had the prettiest flowers woven in…”
She went on for a while like this. Usually when Ellie starts talking, she’s impossible to stop. Maybe a minute into the breakdown of her senior year curls, I jumped in.”

“Ellie! Let’s just drop it, alright?” I fiddled with my book bag. “Look, I’m happy for the kids. And I’m happy for you. I just… I’m not gonna be on any ‘planning committee’ or anything.”

“Hmm…” she nodded, eventually smiling. “Fair enough. Can’t stop me though!”

She went off on another tangent, talking less about me and more about her dresses and dates from the past. A lot of our conversations end that way – devolved into an Ellie-only monologue.

“Go be a hero, Ellie,” I said quietly to myself, walking away. “Just leave me on the sideline.”

CHAPTER TWO

I’m usually just a bit resistant to admitting I’m wrong. It’s not a trait I’m particularly proud of, nor is it one that suits you well in attempting to rectify a divorce. But I digress. Today, I found myself eating crow.

Ellie, for how spastic she is in-person, has the focus of a sniper when it’s crunch time. In less than a week, alongside a group of equally eager educators, Ellie proposed and implemented a plan to make sure this year’s Homecoming season – creatively codenamed “Project Last Ride” – would be the best in Garrison’s history. And the way they’d accomplish this goal? Maximize staff involvement.

Why focus on staff? Well, Honnold made it crystal clear that the students were to know nothing of this impending budget crisis. “It’s not their place to worry,” she’d said. I agree. Students have enough on their plates without having to worry about educational infrastructure crumbling around them. The news of their soon-to-be axed Prom and canned extracurriculars can come in due time.

The scope of Project Last Ride (or “PLR”) was extensive. Ellie and her crew put together a list of goals and involvement opportunities for the staff to partake in as Homecoming ramps up. Some of the plans centered around the actual Homecoming day – such as a teacher dunk tank before the Homecoming football game, a teacher human pyramid at the pep rally, and a staffer's flag football game that students could watch before the actual game. Most of the PLR initiatives preceded the actual day, however, tacking on to the already-existing “Homecoming Spirit Week”.

Spirit Week spans the full school week leading up to the Homecoming football game on Saturday and the big dance later that evening. Typically, each day has its own unique “theme” students follow. “School Colors Day” is a staple, where everyone wears red, black, or white Garrison-themed clothing. On the sillier end of the spectrum, there might be a “Hawaii Day” where people wear leis, or “Opposite Day” where people wear shirts inside-out.

My old school had a Spirit Week that was similar to Garrison’s. But there, teachers never participated. And it looks as though here, they don’t either. Well, until this year.

“I think it’s pretty cool,” my student, Kendall, said, twirling a lock of her hair in her finger.

“Yeah,” Ethan chimed in from behind. “Why shouldn’t teachers have to deal with the same shit as us?”

My eyes rose from my desk at the front of the classroom. I don’t generally eavesdrop on my students’ conversations, but I felt my disciplinary senses tingling.

“Nuh-uh. We don’t swear in class, Ethan.”

Ethan half-sighed but didn’t fight it. “Sorry, Mr. Miller.”

For the most part, my students respect my authority – and every day I thank my lucky stars for that. It’s near-impossible to predict which teachers will get picked apart by students and which will get left alone. If you’re too lax, they walk all over you. If you’re too strict, they act out. I’d somehow struck a balance. More than anything, I think the students respect my abilities as a teacher. Algebra is a tough subject – one that requires a competent teacher to guide you through the coursework. Not to brag, but I’m damn good at it. Do as I say and follow my lesson plan, and you will pass. Because of that, students recognize my competence and reward me with good behavior.

“What about you, Mr. Miller?” Kendall asked. “Are you participating?”

“In Spirit Week? Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Dunk tank?” Ethan asked. Some students laughed. I did too.

“I’m not that spirited.”

Emily, one of my more bookish girls, summoned a brochure from her backpack. “Well, there’s more than just the dunk tank, Mr. Miller.” She adjusted her glasses and read from the brochure I’d seen Ellie and other PLR folks pass around earlier in the week. It was the official brochure outlining teacher involvement for Homecoming Week. She read, “All teachers will, to the best of their ability, partake in Spirit Week. Events, raffles, Spirit Week themes–”

“Thank you, Emily. I read the brochure.”

The teacher-involved Spirit Week plan had been the talk of the school these last few days, and students were digging it. Another feather in Master Planner Ellie’s cap.

“Look, as long as you kids have a good time, I’m happy,” I explained. It was an answer they seemed to buy, even if I still felt a tad guilty not participating to the extent others were. Then again, aren’t I allowed to live my life too?

The bell rang, and my students eagerly skedaddled from my classroom to the hallway. That marked the end of sixth period, meaning I had only one class left: Eighth period. Seventh period, for me, is a free hour, and one I look forward to every day.

Sometimes I like to stick around in my classroom, staying in “focus mode” to grade papers. But today, I chose to mix it up and grab a snack in the teachers’ lounge. That’s another good thing about Garrison compared to my old school – delicious and complimentary snacks available to all staff in the lounge, all day, every day.

I left my classroom behind and beelined down the hallway to the lounge with piping hot, soft pretzels on the mind – and maybe a fruity herbal tea if there’s any left. But as I turned the corner, I ran full force into someone whose presence suggested I would not be getting that glorious full hour to myself.

“Ow!” I shrieked, tumbling to the floor.

“Shit, sorry!” a man replied. A man I’d gotten to know somewhat well in my first few months here. Though definitely not by choice. “Oh, Quinn!”

Aidan Swanson extended his hand to help me up from the ground. “My bad, man. Gotta stop whippin’ round these corners.”

I rubbed my temple and accepted his help to my feet. “You or me?”

“I guess both of us,” he posited. “Okay, more me.”

I nodded as if to say ‘yeah, duh’. But I chose peace. “Maybe if I weren’t so pretzel-obsessed, I’d walk slower.”

Aidan chuckled. “I don’t blame you! Those things are the bomb!”

The man scratched his neck awkwardly as we stood alone in the empty hallway. “You know, it’s crazy, I was actually on my way to see you. I wanted to see if we could, uh…”

The man didn’t need to finish his sentence. I knew what he was gonna ask for: my help, as always.

You see, Aidan Swanson is an interesting case – he’s unlike anyone I’d met at my old school. He’s a former gym teacher who, God knows why, decided to pursue mathematics. No kidding. A jock-turned-nerd. Practically unheard of around here. Remember what I said about the teacher stereotypes being true? Well, Aidan’s the one exception. Of the twelve or so math teachers at Garrison, every one of us “looks” like a math teacher: we’re shrimpy folk, usually with glasses, and we all dress bland or bland-adjacent. And while I wouldn’t say we lack personality, we certainly all strive to keep a low profile.

But Aidan messed that all up. He was a gym teacher at Garrison until the middle of last year, when, after completing years of coursework, he earned his certification to teach Algebra at the high school level. The following year, two math teacher jobs came open – one went to me, and the other to Aidan. But here’s the problem: he’s way over his skis.

It’s not that I don’t like Aidan. I think he’s fine. Everyone else, however, loves the guy. He’s tall, charming, and friendly. But he lacks self-awareness and often gives off ‘dumb jock’ vibes. Still, as a former gym teacher and current head coach of the varsity baseball team, he’s hardworking, motivational, and takes great care of his body. Aidan is a man of many talents; teaching just ain’t one of ‘em.
It all started just my second week here when Aidan pulled me aside and asked for my opinion on a test he’d made for his students. Aiming to be helpful, I obliged. That’s when I found Aidan’s test was riddled with errors. Poorly worded prompts, repeated questions, equations that were mathematically impossible to solve, and so much more. When I flagged this to Aidan, he was eternally grateful. Without debate, he made all the fixes I suggested. Done and done.

Except no. Because a week later, Aidan came to me again. Another test, more errors. Less brutal, but still subpar. So I sat him down and went through the process again.

And now it’s been two months. Two months of meeting with Aidan to go over his tests and his lesson plans to make sure he’s not royally messing up his students’ ability to learn. It’s not that he doesn’t know the material; it’s just that he has trouble transferring his knowledge to others.

“So, uh, I was wondering if…”

I stopped him before he had to plead. “It’s fine, we can meet. What’s it this time – lesson plan or test?”

The man awkwardly winced. “Both, if that’s alright.”

I tried to suppress my annoyance, but did a piss-poor job.

“I can… I can get someone else.”

“No,” I answered quickly. “I’ll do it. Just text me when you’re free, and I’ll find time.”

His entire posture relaxed. “You’re a lifesaver, Quinn. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I chose not to answer out of fear of being too honest.

“It’s no problem,” I said. A stomach grumble quickly followed, which Aidan heard.

“You should get that pretzel,” he said. “I bet there are still a few.”

“Oh, are you not coming from the lounge?”

Aidan shook his head and crossed his arms across his bulky chest. “Nah. I was swinging by Belasco. Signed up for my slot in the Teacher Tasks.”

Immediately upon hearing those words, I rolled my eyes. “God… Every day there’s new shit we have to do for this damn Spirit Week.”

Aidan smirked. “Oh, c’mon, it’s fun!” He leaned in. “Anything to help the kids, you know?”

“Not sure how a dunk tank or a human pyramid helps the kids,” I crossed my arms. “But whatever.”

“Well, I think it’s fun. You should sign up. Slots are going fast. God forbid you get stuck with something like mine.”

“And what’s that?”

Aidan scratched his chin, smiling. “Wear a space suit for the whole day. To teach and everything. I guess the astronomy club’s got one and Ellie thought they’d wanna see it actually get some use.”

Well, even I chuckled at that. The idea of sporty, jocky Aidan struggling to teach Algebra in a hulky space suit was genuinely funny. At least that huge suit might actually fit him, whereas I, a good ten inches shorter than him and half his weight, would be swimming inside. Not that I’d hate it. It gets pretty cold in my classroom when the AC is on.

“Shhh!” someone interrupted from down the hall.

Both our heads turned to the shusher. And, speak of the devil, with her head poking a classroom door, was Ellie.

“Excuse me! Some of us are trying to teach!”

Aidan and I just rolled our eyes.

“Then teach!” he chirped back. Again, I chuckled.

She looked back into her classroom, then back at us. “Ugh, don’t make me. But fine. Oh, Quinn! I saw you hadn’t signed up yet for the–”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” I waved her off. “I promise I’ll go. Aidan’s bugging me about it too.”

Having gotten what she wanted, Ellie returned to her presumably confused classroom.

“She’s so… unique,” Aidan noted.

“So weird,” I added, laughing. “Can’t help but love her though.”

=========

As promised, swinging by the Belasco Room for the Spirit Week sign-up was the very first thing I did…the following day. In the afternoon. After 8th period. Okay, so I dragged my feet!

But honestly, who actually cares? It’s Spirit Week. A fun, light event meant for enjoyment. Plus, it’s not like I’m the only one procrastinating. It’s the Thursday before Spirit Week, and at least a half dozen staffers were ahead of me in line outside the Belasco Room, reluctantly writing their names down – all for some objectively silly task.

Over the past few days I’d heard about some of the tasks. There was Aidan’s spacesuit challenge, of course, but most were much tamer than that. “Bring in baked goodies each day of the week” was one. Pfft, easy! Just swing by the grocery store on your way to work. “Collect pictures of every teacher’s dogs and cats and make a scrapbook for display in the library.” A little tedious, but no problem. All in all, these were nothing-burgers that provide nothing but harmless bursts of joy.

The line moved up as a couple of male teachers exited the Belasco room, all smiles.

“Easy!” said one of the men. “I can do that in my sleep.”

Curious, I asked the men what they drew. The other one answered for his friend.

“Film yourself kicking a field goal on the football field and upload it to the school website.”

The first guy puffed out his chest. “Bet I can hit 40 yards!”

True or not, he seemed excited for his task. So did two other women who left the Belasco room right after him. The third teacher who left, however, looked a little more jarred.

“Christ…” he muttered. “Close fucking call.”

Huh? My eyes followed the shaken man as he retreated down the hall. Close call? What, was there another space suit prompt still out there?
At this point, there wasn’t much to do but wait it out. The woman two spots in front of me entered the Belasco and quickly scampered away, as did the other woman directly before me. But the second lady in particular had the most jarring reaction. Not relief, no. Guilt.

We hadn’t spoken at all while waiting. So once she walked away and noticed me waiting behind her, her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped.
“Oh goodness…” was all she could muster. But rather than offer sympathy, she put her head down and walked away.

Okay, now this is getting weird.

“Seriously? What is it?” I called out to her, audibly peeved. She rudely didn’t turn around. It was the same treatment one might give a homeless person sitting on the sidewalk, all to avoid awkwardness.

“Unbelievable,” I said under my breath. “It’s a fucking space suit, isn’t it? A goddamn bulky space suit…”

I stepped into the Belasco room where, on a corkboard just past the door, a long list with two columns had been pinned up. In the left column were the listed tasks. On the right, names of teachers and other staff. In my mind, all I had to do was avoid this second astronaut suit task.

But there was no such prompt. Only one, and Aidan’s name was signed beside it. In fact, all of the prompts appeared to be claimed.

“Huh?” I muttered. I did a quick read-through of the task list top to bottom. Just as expected, the prompts ranged anywhere from lame to fun to silly…

…except the one task that remained. One that genuinely made my jaw drop as I read it and saw an open sign-up slot beside it.

Teacher Task: Teach a full day of class while dressed as the opposite sex.

CHAPTER THREE

It’s month ten of my relationship with Kate, and we’re quickly falling in love. I remember going to this fancy new pizza place with her to celebrate. For most couples, ten months of dating is nothing special, but when you’re as deeply in love as we were, you make excuses to celebrate. And so a “ten-monthiversary” celebration we had.

I remember going to the restaurant’s website a week in advance – as soon as the time slots opened – to make a dinner reservation for 7:30 P.M. on Friday. Now, why am I able to recall such a specific time? When we arrived, I approached the hostess to be seated, but apparently the reservation had never been made. Well, it was made, but I’d done so for 5:45, not 7:30. We missed it by nearly two hours.

“Why the hell would you book it for 5:45?” I remember Kate pestering me. She was hungry and frustrated, so it was a forgivable reaction. “Eat before 6? What’re we, eighty?”

Turns out, the reason I’d booked it for 5:45 was that on the website, there was an open reservation slot available between 5:30 and 6:00. And as someone with OCD, I hate unfilled spaces. So I clicked that opening just for the satisfaction. I thought I later clicked away and booked 7:30, but I never did.

We ate frozen dinners that night. Together, but in silence. I think Friends or Seinfeld was on in the background. I can’t remember.

I share that story because the reason I clicked on that 5:45 reservation time is the same reason I wrote my name down in the one remaining spot on the teacher task sheet. Not because I wanted to participate in Spirit Week, and certainly not because I thought teaching as the opposite sex would be the least bit enjoyable. In fact, the thought of it sounded terrifying.

I also recognized that writing my name down wasn’t a binding, legal contract. Would I get some shit for not participating? Maybe, but all I’d have to do is brush off a few naysayers and move on with my day. One text to Ellie and this would all be smoothed over.

Or so I thought.

‘OMG no way!’ was what she texted back after telling her my fate. ‘I haven’t seen the finished sheet yet but was gonna collect it tomorrow. Good to know everyone’s signed up!’

‘Okay, but that’s not what I’m asking. I want to be taken OFF!’

’Sorry, but wasn’t I warning you to sign up earlier??? PLR has a strict no takesies backsies rule!’

Ellie wasn’t helping. And if the woman who’s supposed to be my friend won’t help, what the hell am I supposed to do? Not to mention, as the self-appointed head of Project Last Ride, she had all the power.

The dilemma gnawed at me all evening. Over dinner, grading papers, during my wind-down… even lying in bed as I tried to fall asleep.
Teach class as the opposite sex. That’s an ABSURD task to impose on someone! Honestly, who on Earth would sign up for that!? Well, me, apparently. But that’s not the point.

What I really needed was an appeal to authority. Real authority. Not the head of some made-up Spirit Week committee, but someone with actual power who can actually settle this issue.

Tomorrow, I’m taking this to Honnold.

========

I don’t care if you’re 15 or 50; the experience of waiting outside the Principal’s office will always be unsettling. The cold, wooden bench under your butt and the eerie ticking of the clock on the wall – it’s an experience I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

But today, being here is necessary, albeit a little embarrassing. And no, I’m not including the inhumanely awkward exchange I had with Ms. Honnold’s receptionist after she asked what my requested meeting was regarding. Uh… Yeah. I decided to lie.

To my right, an old wooden door creaked open and from it emerged a stern face with red lipstick. Ms. Honnold looked at me, mildly confused but welcoming in her own way.

“Quinn, come in.”

If the school indeed had a funding crisis, it hadn’t yet made its way to the principal’s office. Honnold had some impressive digs. Old-fashioned but tasteful wood paneling on the walls, neatly trimmed decorative plants, and an enormous desk with at least 90% of its surface unused. The walls and cabinets were covered in awards and certifications duly earned throughout her long, impressive career. I can only imagine how intimidating this might seem to a student. Nevertheless, I took the seat across from my boss, trying my best not to let those intimidation tactics get to me.

“Sorry to swing by so early. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all,” she fiddled with her thumbs. “I always appreciate an unplanned pop-in.”

I think she meant it genuinely, but again, with this lady it’s impossible to say.

“Well, uh,” I twiddled my thumbs to match her. “I wanted to talk to you about Spirit Week.”

The mere mention of the event made her smile with warmth. Though I hadn’t seen her since the all-hands meeting in Belasco, I’d bet she’s thrilled by how Ellie and the PLR organizers stepped up on behalf of the students. Leadership at work.

“I’m so proud of everyone involved,” she began earnestly. “Going above and beyond to make this Homecoming week one we can all look back on fondly.”

“Err, uh, totally–”

“And know what the best part is?” Honnold rose from her chair and energetically paced the room. “Everyone’s chipping in! Not just the organizers. Everyone’s playing their part.”

Oh Jesus. “So, about that–”

“Like with that task sheet. I assume you saw it. Every teacher and staff member is committing to a fun little task where–”

“I know!” I spat out. Honnold stopped abruptly. Shit.

I fidgeted in my seat to reset my mood. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be curt. But I wanted to talk to you about that. About, uh… the task I was assigned.”

Clearly Ms. Honnold didn’t know my situation. But as I began to explain, her positive energy morphed into a morbid curiosity.

“Really…” she muttered. “I didn’t know that was one of the options. To teach as the opposite sex…”

I was embarrassed enough without her having to repeat it aloud. “Yeah. That. I just… I talked to Ellie about it, and she was no help. I should’ve just left it blank. But I wrote my name down anyway thinking I could change out of it and–”

“Quinn,” Ms. Honnold said calmly. She’d returned to her “boss” demeanor. “It’s not a big deal.”

I raised my eyebrow. “What isn’t a big deal? Having to do it?”

She shrugged. “It’s just a silly Spirit Week thing. You don’t think you can handle it?”

Oh my God. Was she actually siding with Ellie?

“But don’t you think it’s a little inappropriate to be prancing around as–”

“Oh, please. No one said anything about prancing.” Honnold sat back behind her power desk. “These tasks are fun! They’re meant to brighten the mood and get students energized. To contribute to what might be their final Homecoming.” The principal leaned forward and looked me directly in the eyes. “It never hurts to just play along.” Then, in an odd twist, Honnold’s lips reverted to a wicked little smile. “Not to mention… you’ve got the hair to do it.”

My face suddenly turned bright red. “What!?”

Of course, she was referring to my shaggier-than-average haircut. “Fruity,” as an asshole on the street once called it. My longer-than-average brunette locks hung stick-straight just past my shoulders.

“I’m sure you can do something fun with it–”

“Okay, you know what?” I rose defiantly from my seat. My tone was probably harsher than it should’ve been considering this is my boss, but goddamn was I over this. I took a deep breath to reset and looked back at Honnold. “Thank you for meeting with me. I’ll take that into consideration.”

Without a proper goodbye, I assertively but professionally walked out of Honnold’s office and, though I badly wanted to slam it, closed the door gently behind me.

========

As you might expect, letting my emotions get the best of me in front of my boss created a twisted, horrible feeling that festered in my stomach the rest of the day. The later on it got, the more painful the feeling became. Not only because I hadn’t apologized – the thought of walking down there again with my tail between my legs was somehow even scarier – the real problem was that, despite a hellish office visit, I’m left with the same root problem: I’m signed up to dress like a woman.

I’m usually pretty good at keeping personal strife out of the workplace. Even at my old job, when Kate and I were in the midst of our fracturing marriage, I never once let it show. But today is unique. For periods 2, 3, and 4 – my morning classes – I was uncharacteristically mum. I ate lunch alone, not that I had much of an appetite. In the afternoon I was even shakier. All because I simply couldn’t stop freaking out about this one goddamn mistake.

But then, somehow, it got worse.

Eighth period: my final class of the day. And on a Friday, no less. There was light at the end of the tunnel. The moment that bell rang, I’d be outta here like a rocket.

I’d run it through my head a million times, and my only out is… just not doing it. Yeah, it’ll piss off Ellie, and yeah, I’ll look like a coward to her and the other staffers who knew, but it was the best plan I could think of. Hell, my students pull this shit all the time. “What?? We had homework?? Well… I just forgot.” Take the F and move right along.

Even if the kids somehow notice I don’t have a task, I’ll just make something up. Or tell them it’s a secret mission. Kids are more gullible than you think. Either way, it’s the coward’s way out… but it’s the one I’m taking.

Or so I thought.

I finished writing half of an equation on the board, paused for a moment, and looked at the class.

“Any volunteers?”

No hands went up. Typical.

“Alright then,” I smiled coyly. “I’ll pick my own victim.”

I scanned the classroom full of averted eyes until, eventually, I settled on Vince.

“Vince. Let’s see it.”

The boy did not wanna go up. But he’s a smart kid who almost always pays attention. He’ll figure it out. Not that it kept him from stalling.

“Uh, sure…” he said, rising from his seat at a glacial pace, just so he could get a better look.

Slowly but surely, Vince crept toward the board from the back row. I don’t normally torture my students, but sometimes it’s a little fun.

“No. Way.”

The disruption came from the back row. Two boys. The same two boys as always. Both named Chris.

“Chrises, please,” I said before looking up. I was too focused on Vince’s plank wank.

“Yooo!” the other Chris whisper-screamed.

“Guys! Let’s be respectful while Vince–”

Much to my dismay, Chris had his phone out. A big no-no in classrooms. Any sight of a phone and it gets taken away on the spot. Yet here he was, boldly disobeying.

I merely shook my head and approached the boy. “You know the rules.” Then, extending my hand. “Give it to me.”

But Chris just looked up at me. Not with fear or even a hint of insubordination.

“Mr. Miller… You’re gonna dress as a lady?”

Silence. My heart dropped. WHAT did this boy just say?

“Ex-excuse me?” was all I could muster.

He flipped his phone around to show me his screen. On it was a list of names with a big, colorful header reading “Spirit Week Teacher Tasks”. The list had been distributed. To the STUDENTS! I couldn’t fucking believe it!

Bridget, the bookish redhead, folded her arms and came to my defense blindly. “Oh shut up, Chris. You’re so weird.”

“It’s true!” he said. “Check the school email. They just sent out some teacher task list.”

Without hesitation, all twenty or so students whipped out their phones. Way too many to confiscate at once. But it’s not like the beans hadn’t already been spilled. Within ten seconds, every student’s eyes were glued to his or her screen, reading the announcement and the subsequent list.

“Oh my goodness…” Bridget’s hand covered her mouth.

Some kids looked stunned. Others were intrigued or perplexed. Many of them gasped. Whatever their reaction, they all shared one thing. Every single kid – not just the ones in my classroom, but in all classrooms – was now privy to the humiliating task I thought would never see the light of day.

I didn’t need to scan the room. I just knew they were looking at me. Judging. Mocking. So I kept my head down and, exactly like Vince had just done, trudged to the front of class. Defeated. Humiliated.

Unless?

“Mr. Miller? Can I say something?”

It was Madison. Sweet, innocent Madison who sits in the first row. She rarely speaks. If it were anyone else prompting me, I might’ve just walked out the door, right then and there. But ignoring Madison, even in a time like this, felt rude.

“Yes?” I exhaled, keeping my head down.

“I think it’s kinda fun that you’re gonna teach as a lady.”

Wait. What did she say?

I bravely lifted my head to see if she was sincere. She certainly looked it. Before I could respond, Barrett chimed in.

“It’s low-key super sweet the teachers are doing stuff. You know, going all out for Spirit Week?”

“Seriously!” said Troye, another oft-chatty kid in the back row.

One by one, the kids perked up. Not to ridicule, no. In support. Mainly of the Teacher Tasks idea as a whole, but just as much for me.
“So… you guys like this idea?”

The classroom nodded and chuckled.

“Sounds like you drew the short straw,” Zachary said. “But like, isn’t everyone doing goofy shit?”

“It’s literally so random I’m kinda obsessed,” another student added.

Support rushed in. Gobs of it. Of course, kids were laughing at the prospect of me teaching class as a woman, but condemnation there was not. In the oddest possible sense, I actually felt kind of… good?

Not at all because I actually wanted to do it. But for the first time I think I actually understood what Ellie and PLR – and yes, even Ms. Honnold – were going for. Students like when their teachers participate. They appreciate when we put in effort and respect our attempts to connect and be present, regardless of the activity. To a school full of students who knew nothing of these impending cuts, the teacher task list was making what might be their last hurrah all the more special. I’m witnessing that firsthand.

“It’s, uh… Yeah. Credit to Miss Foreman, the English teacher. She put it together. Her and a few others.”

Several students smiled. Said one of the girls, “Miss Foreman’s the best! I have her seventh period.”

I have to admit, seeing these kids all hyped about Homecoming was totally rubbing off on me. It’s contagious. Nevertheless, the figurative singing of Kumbaya didn’t last long.

“So, when ya doing it?” the original Chris asked.

“Ooh! And what’re you gonna wear!?” Caitlin, another Madison-type, squeaked.

And there’s that feeling of dread again. “I don’t, uh… I haven’t thought about it yet.”

It’s the truth. I hadn’t thought about it because, until now, I never thought I’d actually do it.

“Guess you’ll just have to wait and see…” I continued. “But, you know, don’t get your hopes up.”

My answer garnered some eye rolls, but the kids ultimately bought it.

“And, you know, speaking of hopes…” my gaze drifted back to the middle row. “I hope Vince didn’t think he got out of his assignment.”

The classroom laughed as Vince slouched deeper into his seat.

========

Buzzing.

That’s the word I’d use to describe the wider Garrison community in the wake of the teacher task email. And that’s not hyperbole. After the final bell rang and I bolted from my classroom, I heard snippets of students’ conversations at their lockers. EVERYONE had their phone out, and EVERYONE was looking at the list. Nothing but delight.

And you know what? Good for them. Good for everyone involved. Clearly I was wrong. People should get involved in community events. The more people who participate, the more fun and memorable it is. I understand that now.

Still, my “Come to Jesus” moment with Spirit Week didn’t keep me around any longer than necessary. Nor did it change the fact that I’d experienced a case of ultimate embarrassment as Chris said to my face the words “teaching as a lady.” I needed a detox that Friday night. Hell, maybe the entire weekend.

My wish was granted for a solid four hours. I went full couch potato. My body melted into my couch as I mindlessly watched Friends reruns and downed a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. Hey, I deserve it.

The night took a slightly unexpected turn when my phone rang. Not a text; a call. Who the hell is calling me at 9:30 P.M. on a Friday?

Ellie. That’s who.

“H-hello?” My voice cracked like gravel. I hadn’t used my mouth for anything but Cheeto consumption all evening.

“Hey, Quinn.” Ellie sounded oddly glum. She’s never glum.

“Uh… Everything alright?”

Ellie cleared her throat as if she was preparing a speech. “Yeah. Everything’s great. Amazing, actually.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Yeah…” she sighed. “I wanted to reach out. I spoke with Ms. Honnold after school today. She said that you guys, uh… chatted?”

For the first time since Chris spread that dreaded news, my stomach dropped. In the wake of all of this, I’d somehow forgotten about my prickly principal pow wow.

“We met, yeah. Is something wrong?”

“Well, she told me you asked about the teacher task. You asked to get out of it. She said you were a mess.”

Not inaccurate. “I guess I did. Kinda.”

“Well, shit, Quinn! I didn’t know you felt so strongly! I mean, she said you were– Wait, what were her words… Oh, ‘shell-shocked’ and ‘deeply disturbed’.”

Again, not wrong. But hearing it from Honnold via Ellie made me queasy.

“Yeah, Ellie! I thought I made that clear in my text.”

“Sure, but, like… I never thought you wanted to actually back out. I thought you just thought it was cringey.”

“It is cringey!”

“If teaching a class as a girl was actually sooooo horrible, I would’ve made arrangements.”

All the air left my body.

“You’re kidding. I could’ve just… got out of it?”

“We could’ve worked something out.”

Son. Of. A. Bitch. I wanted nothing more than to jump through my phone and shake Ellie by the shoulders.

“I COULD’VE GOTTEN OUT OF IT!?”

I could feel Ellie shrinking. “Hey, you weren’t at gunpoint! Don’t go all Honnold’s-office on me…”

“Honnold’s-office…? Fuck! Okay, listen to me. You get why I’m pissed, right? I mean, if I knew I could’ve gotten out of it… I WOULD’VE. But now–”

“The list’s out.”

“Yeah. The list is out. And I had a lovely little moment with my students as they read it in the middle of class. Nice timing, by the way.”

“Hey, that wasn’t me! Rebecca Turbee sent that email an hour before it was supposed to go out.”

I let out the biggest sigh in the world. Maybe the biggest in the universe. The fact that this all could’ve been avoided might literally be the death of me.

But I also had to accept reality. Getting out of the task at this point felt, well, pointless. Not just because everyone knew, but because of what I saw. I see and appreciate the potential good of Spirit Week.

“Well, it’s happening, isn’t it? The students made it abundantly clear they expect me to teach as a woman. It’s on literally all of their phones. Ugh! And I’m gonna have to go through this same shit with my other four periods…”

I’m not certain, but it almost sounded like Ellie was giggling over the phone. Giggling at the misfortune SHE put me through. How classy.

“I’m sorry it went down the way it did, okay? I never intended to cause you pain. I hope you know that.”

While I was still extremely angry – and it’d take a LONG while for me to get over it – I also believed her. Ellie, though she may be scatterbrained, means well. She’s chaotic good. Sometimes with her, you gotta take her downs with her ups.

Another long sigh. “It’s fine, okay? I forgive you.”

I could feel a smile. “Good. I’m glad.” She was silent for a few moments until adding, “But now that that’s settled, I wanna bring up my other thing.”

“Oh God, there’s more?”

“Yeah. I want to help you.”

“Help me… with what?”

“With being a girl, silly!”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I, uh… Thank you, but I don’t need help.”

“Well what’re you gonna do? Just half-ass something?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Okay, and with what clothes?”

“With–” I stopped mid-sentence. She had me there. Had I still been with Kate, I might’ve had something to borrow. A ladies’ shawl. A funny hat. Something.

“Exactly,” she said smugly. “How about this: Are you free tomorrow evening? Come over, and I’ll help you out.”

“Come over? To your place?”

“No, to the moon. Yes, to my place! Unless you want to go shopping for girl clothes yourself.”

Another stomach drop. “Fair point.”

“I know.” Ellie knew she was right. “See you tomorrow then.”

“Okay, but where are we–”

She hung up before I could even get an address. That’s Ellie for you. Nothing’s ever clear with her. Except, you know, that tomorrow she’d ‘help’ me dress as a girl.

Whatever that means.

=-=-=-=-=-=

The rest of this 27-chapter, 344-page novel is available for eBook or Paperback purchase on Amazon or free with Kindle+ / Kindle Unlimited! I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing :)

AMAZON LINK: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HJSX2W38