The Summer

Jul 17

A short story by a teacher.

I have dreams.
Literal dreams about my students.

Last night, Aiden Scott (not his real name) saved the whole class from a crisis by finding fifteen quarters on the floor.

That just happened to be the exact amount we needed to pay off the shooter.

I mean, what the hell.
It’s summer. I’m supposed to be relaxing.

Here’s how I relax:
Stay up until 3 a.m. after three tequila sodas.
Smoke three cigarettes I promised myself I don’t smoke anymore.
Wake up sore and confused about why.

I’m getting too old for this.
And yet, summer moves too quickly.
All while I’m somehow still back at school.

Every day I wonder when I’ll crack open my dust-covered laptop and polish up a lesson plan.
(What lesson plan?)

I already know how the year will go.
Four solid weeks.
Then the inevitable spiral.
Fall off the wagon, get back on, fall again.
A cycle of exhaustion with a ribbon of love tied through it.

Because I do love them.
My students.
I think about them all the time.
When I drive down A1A, I scan the sidewalks, hoping to catch a glimpse of the purpose I carry for ten months out of the year.

August comes quickly.
I know it does.

But until then, I wander the ghost-filled streets in daylight,
dragging my summer self behind me like a sad shadow.

I’ve gone on three benders this month.
All in the middle of the week.

Maybe that’s why I’m mentally better during the school year.
Maybe August to May is my emotional weather window.

Seasonal depression,
except it’s 102 degrees in Daytona.