Cackle(13)

I flip on the light. There’s the distinct fizz of electricity.

I can see only the first few steps down to the landing. There’s no one there, but it’s possible that there’s someone around the corner, on the bottom half of the steps, waiting.

The bulb sputters. Goes out, comes on again.

I see a strange shape straight ahead of me, hovering above the stairs. At first I think it’s my eyes, my vision spotting from the flare of light. Then I realize it must be my shadow.

Only I’m holding a frying pan, and it isn’t.

It’s not my shadow.

There’s a pang of doubt. Am I seeing this? Does it exist outside my vision, in the physical world?

The bulb sputters out again.

There’s a faint creaking sound. It’s slow, agonizing. And then SLAM!

The door at the bottom of the stairs. It just slammed shut.

The light mercifully returns.

There’s no shadow. No shape. I muster enough courage to turn the corner. The bottom half of the staircase is empty.

I go down to lock the outside door. I guess I forgot to do it earlier when I got home. I did have my hands full. The wind must have blown it open. That must have been the noise I heard, the door clattering.

“Right,” I say, twisting the dead bolt.

I head back upstairs and close the apartment door. Lock it. I turn around to face the living room, the couch soaked in tears and boogers and drool, the nearly empty bottle of wine on the coffee table.

I sigh, mouth open, and taste a familiar brine.

I don’t know if I’m crying because I’m sad or startled or both.

I return the pan to the kitchen and put myself to bed.

You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, I say to myself.

And there’s an echo, in a voice not my own.

You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.



* * *



—

Go to sleep now, Annie. Go to sleep.





BIRD NOISES


The next day I nurse a hangover with burned, bitter teachers’ lounge coffee. The other teachers all seem to know one another and make little effort to incorporate me into their conversations. They ask each other things like “How’s Christine?” and “Did you try the hydrocortisone?”

I don’t try to insert myself. Why bother? I don’t know Christine. I don’t want to know about the hydrocortisone.

I think about Nadia, about how she and I could have been friends if I’d opened myself up to her sooner. But this feels different. These teachers aren’t receptive. They don’t smile. They don’t say “Good morning.” It’s like how some people walk into a house and know that it’s haunted. I know they want nothing to do with me.

Which is fine, I guess, though part of me was expecting to be invited to a book club or margarita Thursdays or whatever. At my old school, I was always invited to teacher things. Trivia nights, karaoke, Frisbee in the park, bottomless brunch. I rarely went, but my coworkers still invited me. There was camaraderie. I didn’t realize it was a special thing.

I’d forgotten the difference between choosing not to participate and being excluded.

I spend the rest of orientation keeping to myself. On the first day of school, teenagers descend upon the hallways like a horde of fast zombies. They grunt and paw at one another; they eat one another’s faces. As a new teacher, I ready myself for the peculiar cruelty of these hormone-addled, angst-driven evil meat sacks. I’m tested in first-period sophomore English when a kid starts to make fart noises every time I turn to face the whiteboard. At first I ignore him, which only encourages him.

Finally, I try sarcasm.

“You know, whoever is making that noise, you might be the funniest person in the whole world. What a hilarious, original gag. So, so funny.”

It silences the class. I’m surprised it works as well as it does.

My two ASL classes are much more pleasant.

But just as I’m feeling the slightest hint of relief, last period is a true nightmare.

A few select students get the idea it’ll be hilarious to make bird noises throughout the class. Unlike first period, they don’t wait until my back is turned. They do it while I’m facing the classroom, going over the syllabus for the first quarter.

I watch them do it. I watch them make the noises. Move their mouths. Too many of them join in. There’s a constant cawing.

Some students look horrified. Others ignore it, too bored to acknowledge.

About halfway through the class, one kid is chirping so loudly and incessantly that I can’t get through a sentence. I don’t think sarcasm will work, and I’m having a hard time not appearing rattled, because I am.

Because they’re making the noises at me. Because of me.

Because they think I look like a bird.

It’s not the first time someone has thought they were clever by linking my last name, Crane, and the fact that I’m tall and gangly and that, apparently, I have a birdlike face. It’s not just my nose. It’s my eyes, too. Round and dark. Guessing my cheeks are another contributing factor.

I was bullied for this for the entirety of my youth. Not in the relentless way that required adult intervention, but enough to instill insecurity, to fuse it to my bones so it’s part of me I can never be rid of.

I rest on my desk, not quite sitting, not quite standing. I cock an eyebrow up and let them chirp away. I decide to say, “I used to teach in New York City. I used to live in Manhattan. You’re suburban kids. You’re wasting your time.”