And here we have chapter 4!
Actual thought I had when writing about takeout containers: I want KFC. I gotta have KFC now.
Oh also, when I was student teaching I had to call and contact my associate teacher AND LET ME TELL YOU RIGHT NOW I AM STILL INTIMIDATED THINKING ABOUT IT SCARIEST THING EVER.
I've been burning bright
For so long, I can't remember
As it turns out, that mattress never gets upgraded into a bed. Eliza checks on it periodically, and it's still just a mattress with an old blanket and pillow on the floor. It barely even looks used. The desk, however, that is used plenty. And the dresser, and the wall, and any surfaces that look like they may be used for writing.
All of this information is gleaned stealthily however. She is never given permission, verbal or otherwise, to look into Alex's room. And more often than not, he's there, she can hear the click of his keyboard or the furious scribbles.
(She leaves a note for Alex once, on a Post-It on his door "Don't you dare write on the walls or we're never getting that security deposit back").
She sees his friends every once in awhile, and occasionally tries to wheedle information out of them. They don't seem at all surprised that Alex barely leaves his room, and pretty much tell her there is nothing she can do to make him less reclusive, and frankly, creepy.
"Alex is all about work, love," Lafayette tells her. "He averages ten papers per month. There's a reason most of our senators know him by name, and it's not because they like him. Once upon a time, he may have gotten an internship, but Alex is unable to shut his mouth when he sees someone doing something he doesn't like."
Eliza scoffs. "People doing bad things is a pretty wide field, Laf. He can't possibly think he's going around righting all the wrongs in the world."
Herc shakes his head. "Only the important things. Money laundering, political stance, things like that. Alex takes it as his personal mission to take down dirty people in positions of power."
"And university professors," Laurens puts in. "One time a prof gave him a 73% on some assignment, this random shit that was worth like 2% of our grade, and Alex wrote an expose on how he wasn't paying attention to the sheer brilliance of his paper because he was sleeping with student. He got screenshots, sent it to the dean. Got the professor fired, but his grade was changed, that was all he cared about."
Eliza shakes her head. "Of all the people you could have married me to, John, you had to choose the most self-involved asshole whose ever walked the planet?"
John grins. "Saved your ass from the street, Eliza. Never forget it."
They'd been in their new house for eight weeks or so, and Eliza only glanced into Alex's room once every two weeks (making sure to clamp her hand down on her nose before entering).
And aside from the papers, she starts to see takeout containers piling up in what seems to be their designated corner. The pile gets higher by the day, along with how much darker the bags under his eyes seem.
He ventures out of the cave of his bedroom sometimes, and when they do see each other, he shoots her a glare or flat out ignores her.
It irritates her beyond measure, but if that's how he wants to play it, fine. She can work with that.
So she starts exaggeratedly hugging him when she does see him, singsonging "Hey, hubby!" and making him squirm fiercely in her arms.
He comes out even less, then, but this has become a bit of an amusement to her, so she seeks it out.
"Cut it, Schuyler," he snaps.
She pouts, her lower lip trembling. "Can't a girl show her husband some affection?"
Alex stalks back into his room with his head shaking, mumbling something about how if he knew it was going to be this difficult, he'd never have agreed to save her ass.
"I heard that!" she snaps at him.
His head pokes out from his doorframe and he glares at her.
"I said it loudly!"
They share a bathroom, so they do interact sometimes.
Alex never bothers to shave and seems to barely shower
She buys him a cheap razor once, and affixes another post it to it.
("Showers and shaving are our friends. Humans engage in this practice. Google it.)
It earns her a particularly fierce glare, but he's clean-shaven the next time she sees him, and looks, she begrudgingly admits, really almost handsome.
("Quit lusting, Schuyler," he barks at her. "Never gonna happen." He ducks into his room as she throws a loufa at him.)
It's really not a big deal.
Seriously, Eliza knows how to cook like three things. It was just some pasta and bread. She had extra. She barely registers putting some on a plate and leaving it inside Alex's door. He didn't even look up, didn't seem to realize she was there (not that she really wanted him to). But she finds the plate empty in his room the next day. Really, not just empty. Like every scrap had been eaten.
And he does look slightly better the next day, but he still refuses to go to bed on time. So she finds a solution for that too, without letting herself answer the internal question why do you care?
Alex had never bothered to explore the apartment, but the fuse box was in Eliza's room. So every night at a different time, she'd cut the power in his room, in the hopes of forcing him to sleep.
(And maybe a little bit of amusement at his surprised yelps and long string of curses every night).
She knows it's working when Laf bounces up to her and tells her that he saw Alex actually manage to end a tirade on the social issues surrounding the presidency in less than sixteen minutes and not sway with exhaustion once.
Laf's impressed, and Eliza is proud of herself, despite the still lingering distaste for her "husband".
(The subject of their marriage never fails to amuse the Hamilsquad, even now. They have only added to that pinterest board they first made, and they take great pleasure in stealing Alex's phone and changing Eliza's contact info to various ridiculous emojis. It's current the heart emoji with the sparkles beside it, and they are not the least bit ashamed.)
The long-awaited email comes on a Tuesday.
Its subject line reads "Placement 2016/2017 assignment". Eliza can't even wait until she's home before opening it on her phone.
"Dear Ms. Schuyler;
We are pleased that you elected to remain with us at NYU. We have confirmed your teaching placement as follows:
Bedford Elementary School, Grade 1.
Associate Teacher: M. Washington.
Contact details for the school are listed below. You are advised to contact your associate teacher prior to your placement starting. "
She Google's the school quickly, and finds its reputation in the first few pages. It's a Title 1 school. Inner city.
And for some reason, that excites her. She's gonna be in a real classroom, be a real teacher. She burns with the need to tell someone, before her weekly Friday Skype call with her sisters.
Which, she supposes, is how she finds herself outside of Alexander's door, knocking fiercely.
It takes him long moments to open it, and when he does, his face is entirely begrudging, but she doesn't notice as she grabs him and pulls him into a hug, the first genuine one they've shared.
He is frozen, and that's what pulls her back to the present.
"Alex," she gasps. "I got a placement!"
He barely reacts.
She gives his shoulder a light slap.
"I got a placement, Alex! I'm gonna be a teacher!"
He lays an awkward hand on her shoulder, as if he's not quite sure how to touch her.
"I'm happy for you, Eliza," he whispers. "Congratulations."
She doesn't think until later that this was the first time he called her by her name.
The brick walls of Bedford Elementary are lined with hastily tacked student work as Eliza makes her way down the hall, wiping sweaty palms on her pencil skirt.
It was her first day as a student teacher, her first experience in a classroom, and nervous did not begin to cover what she was feeling.
She'd arrived early, at 7am on the dot, earlier than the teacher, a Martha Washington. The office staff had told her to wait, that they'd let her know when Mrs. Washington arrived, so she'd taken a seat on a hard wooden chair, posture wooden and tense.
She estimated it'd been less than ten minutes, but it feels like forever until they finally tell her to make her own way to the last room on the left at the end of the hallway.
She enters with caution. She's a guest in this room, she rations. She's not exactly sure of her place.
Martha Washington is a plump older lady with gray hair already escaping from the bun she's forced it into. Her clothes are bright and cheerful, matching the warm and cozy feel she seems to have created in the small room, crammed with desks, beanbags, books, bulletin boards proudly displaying student work.
She notices Eliza right away and sweeps up to her.
"Eliza Schuyler? Welcome! Welcome to Room 1W. We're happy to have you this year!"
She seems entirely genuine, and Eliza feels herself relaxing a bit.
"Thank you, ma'am. I'm glad to be here."
"Oh, call me Martha. Welcome to Bedford. I'm glad you're here early, we can chat a little bit before the kids come in."
As it turns out, "chatting" really involves Eliza being handed a bulging folder of information, and talking for eight straight minutes about every routine the class may have. Overwhelmed didn't quite cover what Eliza was feeling by the time the bell rang for the children to come in.
Relax, she tells herself. This is why you're doing this, why you're doing all of this. You want this. You want this.
And she does, as she gazes into a line of inquisitive little faces.
She forces a smile she hopes looks genuine.
This is it.
This will work. It will.
There's a fine, fine line
Between reality and pretend