The Trouble With Quarterbacks(2)
At twenty-four, I’m the youngest teacher here. As if that’s not bad enough, my short stature and general wide-eyed fairylike demeanor don’t necessarily help my case. I look more like one of the students than one of the staff members. I’ve thought of ways to help this unfortunate circumstance: potentially dying my pale blonde hair a dark brown, wearing false glasses, trading in my Keds for no-nonsense Mary Janes. Last month, on a whim, I tried on a polyester pantsuit at Macy’s and had to hold back a scream when I saw my reflection. I thought for a moment my gran had come back from the grave to haunt me.
Lack of respect and crazed parents aside, the arrangement I’ve got going here is quite nice. The toddlers are cute and too young to realize they’ll grow up to become entitled buggers. Their parents have really set them up for it: Yates and Niles and Bronwyn and Margaux and Briggs. Their names might as well scream, We’re going to own all of New York one day! They’re signed up for ballet lessons and Mandarin lessons and piano lessons. Their eating habits are more cultured and refined than mine. They have drivers and nannies and masseuses. I’m slightly intimated by the lot of them—until one of them lets loose a fart or a burp and reminds me that they are, in fact, only three years old.
It’d be a nice life, really, working here on the weekdays, exploring the city with free time on the weekends, if I were able to swing it. Even though the school itself takes in more money than an illegal drug operation, somehow it doesn’t quite get funneled down properly to us teachers. The pay here is absolute crap, so to afford my life in New York City, I’ve had to get creative. I split a flat with two other girls I met through a Brits abroad social club. The club itself was incredibly lame—full of old geezers moaning about World War II—so the three of us bailed after the first meeting (taking some stale biscuits with us).
To make ends meet, I also work a few other odd jobs. Two nights a week, I waitress at a trendy bar called District that draws in Wall Street types—guys with big egos and big wallets. I have to wear a sort of skimpy outfit, but I usually get loads of tips, and it’s fun to take on a persona so different than the one I affect at The Day School.
I’ve also done maid jobs from time to time. My roommate, Kat, is an aspiring actress and needs money as badly as I do, so she has a nice gig with a luxury cleaning company. If one of her coworkers calls in sick, I usually volunteer to fill in if I can swing it with my schedule.
All in all, I’m a busy gal. I like it that way. I feel like I belong in this fast-paced city, hustling alongside everyone else.
I’m happy.
I think.
Oh hell, my love life. Right…
I haven’t been on a date in quite a while. So long, in fact, that I can’t remember if it’s because I’m busy or because there’s something wrong with me. Just in case, I give my armpits a quick once-over and am relieved to find a pleasant floral scent instead of cloying B.O.
My other roommate, Yasmine, goes on a date nearly every weekend. She has the time for it. She’s loaded thanks to a trust fund and only crams into the small flat with me and Kat because she thinks it’s fun to bunk together.
“It’s just like my boarding school days!” she said when we strolled into the flat on the first day, alarmed to find it only had two bedrooms with dimensions more fit for a dollhouse. Yasmine claimed one bedroom for her own and volunteered to cover half the rent. Kat and I share the other room, sleeping on teeny twin beds and constantly waking each other up. She has to get up early for her cleaning jobs, and I sometimes get back late from District. We try our best to be quiet, but more often than not, stubbed toes or chiming mobiles negate our efforts.
My work at The Day School is almost over for the day, and I don’t have to be anywhere after work tonight. It’s a rare free evening, and nothing can dampen my spirits, not even the weather. The tail end of February is being a particularly cruel witch this year. Outside, it’s bleak and horrid, and I can practically hear the wind howling even from inside the warm confines of my classroom.
It’s nearly 3:30, and I try not to prance around with glee. I’ll be out of here in no time. One good thing about the parents at this school is that they rarely pick up their own children. They leave that to the nannies and au pairs who are never, never late. They can’t be! They don’t want to jeopardize their cushy jobs by leaving little Winston III out on the curb shivering. So, at 3:30 on the dot, I wrangle the children into their jumpers, make sure they each have their respective lunch sacks, and pass out their dried finger paintings for them to take home, right as the sound of chatter fills the halls.
It’s quitting time.
Two little arms suddenly hug my left leg and squeeze tightly. I look down to see Briggs with his mop of brown curls and doe eyes staring up at me.
“Do I have to go?”
I ruffle his hair and mimic the same pout he’s wearing on his face. “Oh, c’mon. Cheer up, will you? I can’t stand when you frown. You’re much too handsome for it.”
Then I pull a silly face and he erupts in laughter, but only for a moment before quickly remembering his earlier desolation.
“It’s just so boring at home,” he complains, and my heart breaks for him. I know how it can be sometimes. Palatial brownstones. Lots of staff. Not a lot of quality time with Mum and Dad. Then I remember something that will cheer him up. Something exciting is happening today.