16
Monday
(Sixteen Days Left)
Every Monday, there’s an odd stretch of time before my therapy appointment that I never know what to do with. If I brave the traffic back home, I’d barely be able to make it through the opening sequence of Law & Order before needing to leave the house again. Usually, I spend the time trying to make myself useful around the classroom. Organizing the reading nook. Changing the bulletin board. Relaminating the bent pieces of the chore chart. But today, I decide to spend the time at the beach, plopped in the sand directly under the Santa Monica Pier. Most locals hate it here, it being one of LA’s biggest tourist attractions, but that’s exactly what I like about it. I love the reminder that I live in a place where other people come to vacation.
Plus, I have a lot of fun memories here. Most of them with Jonathan.
He and I used to come to this spot all the time the summer after we graduated. We would spend the entire morning applying for jobs and then treat ourselves to an afternoon ice cream at the beach. There was one day that summer, right at the beginning of June, when my frustration with the job search was so apparent, the ice cream man gave me my Choco Taco for free.
“You look like you could use a win,” he said. I hadn’t realized my turmoil was quite so apparent.
“I just don’t get it,” I had ranted to Jonathan in between bites of my ice cream. “Every school within a twenty-mile radius is looking for someone with at least five years of teaching experience. I can’t get one single interview because no one wants to hire a first-year teacher. But how am I supposed to
get the experience if no one will hire a first-year teacher? Please, Jonathan, make it make sense!”
“Maybe you have to start as a classroom volunteer, or something.” He shrugged. “And then they’ll see how good you are with kids and hire you on the spot.” It was hard to take him seriously while he licked around the eyeball of his SpongeBob popsicle.
I scrunched my nose at him. “That can’t possibly taste good.”
“It’s delicious,” he said, holding SpongeBob’s melting, deformed body right up to my lips. “Try it.”
I gave it a cautious lick. It was delicious.
“It’s not horrible,” I admitted.
“Hey, look.” He pointed to an area of the beach behind me. I turned to find a group of fifteen or so children running off a school bus, buckets in hand. They looked to be about five years old—my favorite age. “I wish I got to take field trips to the beach. The only thing we ever did was visit Civil War battle sights.”
“We only ever went to art museums I was too young to appreciate. Look how much fun they’re having!” I noticed the name of the school imprinted on the side of the bus: Brentwood Friends Academy.
“I applied there,” I sighed. “They never got back to me.”
Jonathan lit up with an idea. “This is perfect! Look, there’s their teacher.”
He pointed to the woman leading the pack of kids to a spot by the shoreline.
She seemed to be somewhere in her mid-forties, and she led the children with a confidence that screamed experience.
That could be me if I was just given the chance.
“Go talk to her,” Jonathan nudged.
“I can’t do that! I can’t talk to people like you can,” I protested, watching as all the kids dispersed with their buckets and began collecting shells. I had never seen a group of children so calm and composed. “And besides, she’s busy. I don’t want to bother her.”
“You’ve gotta put yourself out there more, Pheebs. That’s the only way to make things happen.” He stood up. “If you won’t go, then I will.”
“No!” I tried to tug him back down by his arm, but it was no use. He was walking straight toward the class, giving me no choice but to follow.
“Okay, okay.” I grabbed the back of his shirt, bringing him to a halt. “I’ll go if you tell me exactly what to say.”
“You don’t need me to tell you anything,” he said. “Just be yourself.
Maybe with a little less chocolate on your face.” He wiped at a spot on the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
“Okay.” I nodded. “Just be myself,” I said.
“Good luck,” he said with a nudge forward. “I’m proud of you!”
My heart was beating in my throat by the time I reached the teacher.
“Hi.” I waved to her, and she looked at me with kind brown eyes that settled my nerves. “My name is Phoebe. I just graduated from my student- teaching program at USC. I wanted to say…this is so amazing.” I gestured toward the group of children scattered along the sand. “We had a whole semester dedicated to outdoor learning and how important it is for child development, but when it came down to it, none of the classrooms I was placed in spent more than fifteen minutes outside for recess. It was nuts. The kids were bouncing off the walls. And none of the teachers could seem to figure out why there were so many behavior problems!” I was impassioned.
The teacher with the kind eyes smiled widely.
“This is just nice to see.” I shrugged, attempting to level out my enthusiasm. “I can tell how happy the kids are.”
“Well, you’ve caught us on a good day.” She huffed a laugh. “I can promise you that they’re not always this well-behaved.”
As if on cue, a little girl picked up a handful of sand and threw it in the direction of one of her classmates. Some got on his T-shirt, and after wiping it off, he began to wail. I looked toward the teacher, curious to see if she would step in, but instead, she looked back at me with her eyebrows raised. I took it as an invitation.
“Oh no!” I walked over to the two children. “What happened here?”
“Katie threw sand at me!” the little boy sobbed.
“I saw that.” I turned to Katie. “Katie, what made you throw that sand?”
“Jeremiah said my seashell was ugly!” She held up a piece of broken plastic.
“I can tell that that hurt your feelings.” I frowned. “But throwing sand isn’t safe. And it made Jeremiah sad. Instead you can say, ‘Jeremiah, it hurt my feelings when you called my seashell ugly.’ ”
Katie planted her feet firmly in the sand, pointing them directly at Jeremiah. “Jeremiah, it hurt my feelings when you called my seashell ugly.”
Jeremiah looked off to the side. “Sorry, Katie,” he mumbled.
“It’s okay.” She sniffles.
I stood up. “Katie, Jeremiah still has some sand on his shirt. I wonder how you can help him.” I left them with that and returned to their teacher.
She looked at me with what I’d like to imagine was an expression of approval.
“Where did you say you taught?” she asked. I watched as Katie brushed the rest of the sand off Jeremiah. Thank god that worked, I thought to myself.
“Oh, I didn’t. I’ve been applying for jobs, but all the responses are the
same. I don’t have enough experience.”
“Remind me your name again?”
“Phoebe. Phoebe Berman.”
“Phoebe”—she stuck out her hand for me to shake—“I’m Cheryl Groff.
Funnily enough, my co-teacher is retiring at the end of the year. We’re over at Brentwood Friends Academy. I think you’d be a great fit, if you have any interest in applying.”
“Believe it or not, I already applied,” I responded with a laugh. “I never heard back.”
“Well, let me see what I can do about that, Phoebe Berman.”
I nodded feverishly and then said goodbye to Cheryl. On my walk back to Jonathan, I felt a tap on my leg.
“This is for you.” Katie handed me her seashell made of plastic.
“That’s very kind, Katie,” I told her. “It’s beautiful.”
I skipped the rest of the way back to Jonathan, throwing myself into his open arms as soon as I reached our spot. “You’re a rock star,” he said. And in that moment, I really did feel like one.
I placed the piece of plastic that Katie had gifted me into Jonathan’s hand, curling his fingers around it. “For you.”
The next day, Brentwood Friends responded to my application. I landed an interview, and subsequently, the job.
Who knows where I’d be today if Jonathan hadn’t pushed me?
I dig my toes into the warm sand, convincing myself that if I dig deep enough, I’ll find a broken piece of shovel like the one Katie gave me all those years ago.
If I find something, it’s a sign, I tell myself. A sign that everything will be okay between me and Jonathan. I bury my hands in the sand, digging more frantically now, desperate for any reassurance that things will get better.
Jonathan and I haven’t spoken since our fight. When I woke up this morning, his bed was empty again. The status of our friendship remains unclear. Gray.
And I don’t do gray anymore. Which is why tonight, when I get home, I’m going to order us a pizza, throw a crossword on the TV, and act like everything’s fine. Maybe if I pretend for long enough, everything will fall back into place.
In the meantime, my search for a piece of broken plastic intensifies. I fling sand behind me as I make headway on another hole, right next to the first one I dug, which yielded nothing. There is sand everywhere. In my hair, my eyebrows, my pockets, coating every inch of my hands and mouth. An entire beach rests on the surface of my tongue. I spit, and I spit, and I spit, but the sand, in all its stubbornness, clings. I run my tongue along the sleeve of my T-shirt, hoping the cotton will act like a sponge and absorb the grains
from my tongue.
Spit. Lick. Spit. Lick.
“Phoebe?”
I lift my gaze upward toward the figure blocking the sun.
“Finn.” In a wetsuit. A surfboard under his arm. Wet hair, darkened from the water, curling around his ears ever so slightly. Looking like the type of guy who was put on this earth just so he could go to the beach. He’s completely at ease, loose-limbed and smiling, relaxed in a way that I haven’t seen him in the classroom. Especially today, during Book Buddies, when he
had to spend the entire hour in the hall disciplining one of his students for carving obscenities into a desk with a knife stolen from the cafeteria.
“Sorry you had to see that,” I tell him. I can still feel the crunch of sand between my teeth.
“See what?” He smirks, plopping himself down into the sand next to me and my two giant holes. “I didn’t see a thing.”
I smile at that. “I didn’t know you surfed.”
“I’m trying.” He shakes out his hair, a few droplets landing on my cheek.
“I’m not that good, though. I’ve never had the chance to give it a real go.”
“So, I take it you didn’t grow up by the ocean?” This is good. Very good.
I’ll use this time to get to know him, to find out the answers to Mom’s questions from the rehearsal dinner.
He shakes his head. “Nah. My dad was in the military, so home is somewhere in between Virginia, Texas, and Kentucky. We bounced around a
lot. Where did y—”
“And where did you go to college?”
“Colorado. Boulder. Class of 2022.” He pumps his fist ironically.
“2022,” I repeat back to him, slowly. “So that would make you…” I close my eyes, hoping the answer will somehow reveal itself to me.
“I just turned twenty-four.”
“You just turned twenty-four.”
“Yeah.” He chuckles breathily, brushing his hair away from his eyes with a sandy hand. “You seem surprised?”
It’s only now that I realize my mouth is wide open. My jaw has practically unhinged itself. I compose myself quickly before saying, “I guess I thought you were closer to my age.”
“You can’t be that much older than me.” He squints. “How old are you?”
“Finn…” I cast him a sideways glance. “You’re not supposed to ask a lady her age.” He reddens slightly. “Kidding!” I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I’m twenty-nine.”
He looks at me with widened eyes. “Whoa.”
“You seem surprised?” I echo his earlier words.
“I guess I thought you were closer to my age,” he echoes mine. “But what does it matter?” He shrugs. “Age doesn’t mean a thing.”
I don’t have much time to think about the implications of his statement before he stands, wiping the sand off the legs of his wetsuit. “Well, I should get going if I want to beat the traffic.”
“Same,” I tell him, even though it’s only a few blocks to Sandy’s office.
“I’ll walk with you.”
We make it only a few steps before Finn lets out a small yelp. “Ouch!”
He reaches down, wiping sand off a deep cut on the sole of his foot.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I stepped on a shell or something.” He rifles through the sand, looking for the culprit. He palms a tiny piece of plastic, holding it out between us so that we can both have a good look. It looks to be a piece of a
bucket.
That counts.
“It’s just plastic.” He shrugs again, dropping the broken bucket piece back into the sand and limping away. The second he turns his back, I reach down and grab it, pocketing it like it’s a lucky penny.
—
I have never set out with the intention of lying. It’s never something I want to do. Sometimes it just…happens. Usually when the truth feels too embarrassing, and being honest doesn’t feel like an option.
Sorry I had to cancel my trip, Matthew…work stuff.
I’ll lie to myself when facing reality feels too difficult.
Whatever happened with Matthew, whatever I may have felt for him, no longer exists.
And occasionally, I’ll lie to my friends when I don’t feel like being encouraged.
He never texted me, Alex. It’s over with Matthew.
Though I find myself fudging the truth more than I’d like to, there is one
person who I vowed never to lie to: Sandy.
In part because therapy doesn’t work if you’re dishonest with your therapist. I read that online somewhere. And I need it to work.
But mostly because, and I learned this early on, there’s no point. Sandy can see right through any lie I throw her way. Which is why when I finally give her a chance to ask about the wedding after spending forty minutes breathlessly recounting my incredible afternoon with Finn, I tell her the truth.
I admit to everything that happened with Matthew, down to the two unanswered texts I have from him sitting on my phone.
“I want you to really consider why you’re not answering those texts, Phoebe,” she says. “I don’t think you’re scared that he’s going to reject you. I think you’re scared that he’s not.”
I brush her off. “What difference does it make? Things are going so well with Finn. Not to mention that tomorrow is the Fall Ball. It’s the middle school dance, but all the teachers are strongly encouraged to chaperone.
Cheryl makes a spiked punch to keep in the teachers’ lounge. I’m thinking of asking Finn for a ride home. You know how it goes with dropping someone
off at home at night.”
“I do?” Sandy asks.
“Those final few moments when you’re pulling up to the house and getting ready to open the passenger-side door…it’s always sexually charged.
A perfect opportunity for a kiss.”
“Hmm,” Sandy hums. “I guess I can see that.”
I nod, glancing at the cat clock on the wall. With only three minutes left in our session, and in the spirit of honesty, I feel like I’d be remiss not to mention what’s going on with Jonathan.
“Also, I got in a fight with Jonathan yesterday,” I admit.
Sandy looks back at the clock, raising her eyebrows as she scribbles something down on her notepad. This strikes me as odd, considering I haven’t even told her what the fight was about. “What are you writing down?”
“I find it curious.” She pauses, placing her pen down while looking at me intently. “You’re having issues with two people who I know mean a lot to you, and yet you spent almost the entirety of today’s session talking about Finn, someone you’ve only known for a few weeks.”
“So?” I ask. “I had a big moment with Finn today. I had a lot to talk about.”
“I just want to make sure your fixation on Finn is coming from a healthy place, and not an avoidant place, that’s all.”
Fixation.
Crush.
Why is no one taking me and Finn seriously?
“It’s not a fixation,” I push back. “It’s a real, mature connection. And it’s all very healthy. I promise.”
She nods, and when she walks to the door and opens it for me, it’s with a slight air of resignation.
“You’ll see, Sandy.” I walk through the open door, adjusting my tote bag on my shoulder as I turn back to her. “When I see you next, everything’s going to be different. Between the Fall Ball and Noah’s birthday party, something’s going to happen this week.”
“I look forward to hearing about it. Get home safe,” she says before closing the door.
I can tell she doesn’t believe me. It doesn’t matter, though, because this time next week, I’ll be right back here, sitting across from her and saying, I told you so.
