A/N: I started writing this a couple days when there was a spider on my ceiling and it prevented me from sleeping. It's part of my continuing series of bizarre one-shots on obscure characters.
Set in season 2.
You were never good at small talk, and you're pretty sure that's why all of your relationships failed.
You like those deep, intellectually stimulating conversations, but whether it's the first date or the first wedding anniversary, the men just don't seem interested.
You're positive that if you found the right man, everything would fall into place, but you're 34 years old and a divorcée. You've dated every type of man there is: the good, the bad, the ambiguous; the ambitious and the lazy; the dreamers and the doers. Men who think you're a floozy, men who assume you're a professional of some sort. You've had every single one of them, and after you had them all, you had one, and after you had one, you had none.
Things don't appear to be looking up.
You weren't always this way, and you're sure of that. Few may remember it but you were once the brightest star and everyone's darling. Your entire academic history could be summed up on a glowing white piece of paper with pretty A's all in a row. You weren't popular. You weren't confrontational enough to be popular, but you possessed a quiet confidence that was the envy of every intellectually ambitious girl in your class. You spoke in class enough to make an impact but not enough to be obnoxious. You led the science club and enjoyed your bench position on the girls' basketball team. Boys lusted after you, and you were too much of a keen observer not to notice. The few you liked, you gave a shot. To the rest, you feigned oblivious.
You never ended a single relationship. It was the lack of small talk, it made you seem distant and uninterested, or perhaps, flighty. You're sure of this. Otherwise, you were a very good girlfriend. You're not as sure of this, but you're still pretty sure.
In freshman year of college, in between lab reports and 10 page essays, you liked to get drunk. It was a small pleasure and a small stress reliever. Your wild side attracted some boys, and you dated some of them, too. But once you both sobered up, you found you had very little in common.
Sophomore year, you calmed down a bit. On the first day of your Shakespeare class, you sat next to a cute boy. It took you two weeks to gather the courage to introduce yourself, because you feared there would be nothing to say after introductions. But when you did, he smiled, introduced himself, and jumped right into a conversation. It put you at ease, the way he'd grab control of the conversation. He admitted on what you believed to be your first date that he had a girlfriend. You were about to timidly walk out when he told you he was going to break up with her-for you. In a twisted way, you felt flattered, and you slowly started giving away your heart to him. It was his charm and the way he made you feel safe that convinced you eloping at age twenty-one was a good idea. When you revealed to him at the beginning of your senior year that yo were pregnant, he wasn't particularly happy, but he wasn't particularly upset, either. He seemed determined to be a good father. The distraction of pregnancy made your grades slip, but he told you about the job he had lined up for after graduation and said he'd support you. You walked at graduation nine months pregnant with your degree in chemistry, and soon after you had your child-your first and only son. You named him Peter.
Then things began to go awry. Your dream was to be a chemist, but between your grades in college and the infant son who took up so much of your schedule, no one seemed to want to hire you. Your husband, on the other hand, was already climbing the ladder and raking in money. The three of you began to live the lavish life, but you were the homemaker mother you never wanted to be, so you couldn't even enjoy it. You kept this from your husband, though. He seemed to like it better that you didn't have a job, that you were there to cook him dinner after a hard day at work. Still jobless four years post-graduation, you turned to an old adage: "those who cannot do, teach." You borrowed some of your husband's money, got your teacher's certificate, and hoped teaching could be a stepping stone towards the career you actually wanted.
You'd heard that divorces were most prevalent in the first seven years, so you breathed a sigh of relief when you'd reached that point-not that you'd ever given it much of a worry anyway. Though your marriage lacked the vigor and the excitement of its first few years, you still loved him and he still loved you. Yet there he was, 11 years after he'd pledged his love to you, with the blonde intern. You would never admit this to anyone, but for half of a second, you considered forgiving him. Instead, a speedy divorce followed, giving you custody of Peter and enough money to find a new home for the two of you. At your ex-husband's insistence, Peter continued with his private school education, while you took up a new job at the local public school-the very courtyard of which is now your home away from home.
You teach science to 7th and 8th graders. Unless your ex-husband's career, which gives him holiday bonuses and plenty of vacations, it's a rewardless job. You feel the boys' eyes ogle you and it reminds you of your ex-husband; you feel violated. Then you remember that these boys are only slightly older than Peter, and you feel worse, knowing he might become just like his father. When you teach, it feels like only 1 in every 30 kids is actually deeply interested and invested in the material. You love to inspire that one, motivate and inspire him or her, but you just don't know what to do about the other 29. You'd love to ask, but you don't know how that would look, asking for teaching advice from co-workers. You've been teaching for seven years now, but you still feel like a novice. The teachers' lounge is intimidating; you wouldn't know what to say. So you sit in the courtyard with your headphones and walkman and drown out everyone.
In spite of everything, there's still a spark. Even when all of the evidence is to the contrary, you're sure that things will turn around someday. Somewhere deep inside you, the optimistic girl is still waiting.