Back when she was home, Paula Polestar used the Happy Days theme song to teach her preschoolers about the days of the week. It was cheesy, even she admitted that, but it got the job done because the kids back then weren't as...precocious as the kids she was teaching now at P.S. 43 in Fourside. The first and only time she tried that, one of the kids asked her if she was a narc.
Nowadays her style was a bit more grounded, honest, but she still had trouble letting go of the fact that these kids were only...five? Six? She had forgotten - most of them acted like criminal teenagers. One of the little darlings said something about raping her at knifepoint once.
That's not fair, though, she thought to herself as she stood in the shower, washing soap off her body. A good chunk of the kids were benign, some were even a joy to teach, had a lot of potential that was not really going to waste. The problem was there were more than enough tiny sociopaths and wannabe "gangstas" in her class to stand out, and she was running out of ways to fight back.
Yesterday she was telling a friend/colleague, Brenda, about her troubles, wondering aloud if maybe she was a bit too idealistic and naïve to think she could handle teaching in an inner-city school. "Maybe," Brenda replied, "But I've got another idea before you consider leaving."
"What's that?" asked Paula.
"First thing I should ask is if you're a lesbian. You can tell me, I can keep a sec--"
"Hey, whoa, I'm NOT a lesbi--is, is this the sex thing again?"
"Yes, it's the 'sex thing' again. You know why it's the 'sex thing' again? Because you're so goddamn uptight that I just have to keep bringing up the 'sex thing'! I mean, at this point, I'm starting to wonder if you've EVER had sex."
"I'm not a virgin!" Paula said with a too-straight face, although this was technically true. She was involved in a horrific bicycle crash when she was 17, which scratched up her face, skinned her knee, bruised a rib, and tore her hymen.
"Well, go meet the guy you gave your virginity to and jump into the sack with him! Or go to a bar, pick out a cute guy, make up a fake name, and go to bed with him! Either way, get some dick, for God's sake!"
Big help she was.
She thought about calling her father, but his obvious answer would be to come home - not necessarily for her well being, but for his. Her principal didn't want to hear any of her "whining". She was opposed to chatting up some perfect stranger in a bar. The idea of calling a stress hotline seemed so...retarded. Her options were quickly dwindling to zero
Speaking of phone calls...Paula hopped out of the still-running shower when she heard the phone ring, crossing her smallish studio apartment over to the end table next to the couch. "Yes, hello?" she answered as she picked up the phone.
"Hello?" asked the voice over the phone.
"This is Paula Polestar, how can I help you?"
"This IS Paula. Good, I was looking for you. My name's Jessica Hardwicke, I'm calling you from Toronto, I'm a private investigator which is how I tracked you down."
"Am I in some kind of trouble?"
"Absolutely not. My fiancé's looking for you, his name is Jeff Andonuts?"
Paula actually needed a second - just a second - to place the name before she smiled, laughed, and said, "The son-of-a-bitch is getting married! Holy shit, when's the wedding?"
"Haven't set a date yet," said Jessica, "that's why you haven't seen any invitations or anything. I'm actually calling about something else..."
Paula did not quite remember much after that - the shock of it all, trying to do the simple math in her head as if it were some complicated equation. She remembered putting clothes on, she remembered moving - maybe not walking - down the hallway to her classroom, and she remembered facing the students. She thought she said something about not being able to teach today and getting a sub, and then she found herself back at her apartment.
What she did remember clearly was the next day - driving to the airport, putting her car into long term parking, buying a economy-class ticket on the next flight to Toronto, showing off her brand-new passport, going through security check after security check after security check, downing a Malibu Baybreeze at the airport bar, boarding the plane, and the distinct feeling of flight fear as she and a bunch of other passengers, including the obnoxious kid in front of her, defied God in some pill-shaped metal container with wings.
Then she remembered thinking how miraculous it was that she was not crying, even though she had not seen Neil Andonuts since that day in Saturn Valley, just as she and her then-friends finished saving the world.