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They’re her last set for today and the clock is ticking.
And ticking.
Alone in the empty classroom, surrounded by vacant desks, she’s darting her eyes between the two chairs in front of her (that are supposed to be filled) and the door, hoping maybe now they’re here. That maybe a few lone footsteps will be heard, grow in volume until they reach her door, and they’ll step inside.
But it’s still quiet in the halls. No shuffling, no clicking heels, no nothing.
And so, the woman is left to wait.
And wait.
Being a teacher in New York City was tough enough, but dealing with NYC parents was a whole ‘nother story. Especially during parent-teacher conferences.
Manhattan parents were something out of her nightmares and if she had to deal with Rebecca Stanford trying to pitch her MLM to her one more time this year, she was going to lose it.
Who the fuck even wants goat milk soap?
And where the fuck are there goats in the city?
Her phone buzzes, lighting up, and she scrolls through notification after notification, letting herself indulge in social media and her personal life for once, as she is sequestered to the solitary confinement that is this Thursday afternoon.
Bypassing 13 texts, countless Twitter notifications, and a link from an online author she follows, she clicks onto tickets for a new Broadway show to see (RIP to next week’s paycheck), and swipes through Instagram to notice that her one guilty pleasure (in the form of a very athletic actor) has posted a video she’ll have to rewatch (a few times) when she’s alone and home.
If she makes it home at this point.
Thursdays were her night. Sweatpants, network television, and screaming on the phone to friends over primetime shows was a sanctuary that was not meant to be taken from her. And now it has.
Sighing, she quickly posts on her close friends’ story that she’s about had it here today, and if someone could rescue her, she would owe them her life!!!!
It’s almost a cruel joke to give her and her colleagues the week off but then twist the knife by making them schedule these. Those precious hours that were meant for day drinking, brunches, and fun were dangled in front of her and ripped away so she could sit in a stuffy classroom, waiting for parents to come and convince her that their child was the new prodigy and trust me, I am a very involved parent, despite never showing up unless completely necessary!
Don’t get her wrong, she loved all her students (she’s not a liar though, and she absolutely has her favorites), so she really does want to know their home life. Wants to make sure that they are going somewhere safe when they leave her for the day. It’s a part of the job that sometimes gets overlooked, but the personal connection she has with each of her kids is special, and she wants to (has to) know that they are okay without her.
And this kid was a favorite, by far.
He was always present, always contributing, always kind and showing up with a smile. He helped clean up, would quiet down without the second warning, and never failed to give everything his best effort.
It was such a breath of fresh air for her when she had to expend her energy on the kid throwing erasers, the kids cheating off each other, and the girl sobbing over absolutely nothing for the third time this week.
Half the time, this job was bliss.
The other half?
Well, thank god for liquor.
At first, she thought the young woman with the red coat and striped sweaters was somehow this kid’s mom, even though she looked no more than 25. But after a gossip-filled lunch with her fellow teachers, she learned that his mom was a very common topic around the school already.
They’ve had a few phone chats and the woman sounded nice, but very busy, so curiosity was piqued about who this woman was and why no one seemed to want to talk about her much.
And now, nearing the end of the year, she was finally supposed to meet her, face to face.
She knows she told her 3:30—in fact, she remembers that his mother was the one who very clearly specified 3:30 on their last call. But there was always at least one parent in the year that made it difficult to remember why she became a teacher in the first place.
(It’s like they don’t think she has plans or even a life outside of teaching people’s kids. Like she is just some background character in their own little television show.)
She’ll give it until 4:15 before she scrams.
No more waiting after that, not tonight. Not while there is an unopened bottle of booze on her counter (and let’s be real, a couple joints) to enjoy while she DoorDash’es tacos and cries over fictional characters during the few hours she got to herself.
Checking the clock one more time, it’s 4:10 and the agitation is starting to get to her.
Maybe someone needs to really give it to these parents. Maybe she could ring them up and yell. Call them useless and let them know that her kid is doing great despite his absent mom.
Or maybe she’ll square up, throw one good slap for wasting her time—
The marching of heavy footsteps gets louder and she quickly tucks her phone away, just before two literal police officers, vest and all, are in her doorway.
Holy shit, she was just joking about fighting them—
“Um, hello?”
They’re both out of breath, sweating, looking like they fled a crime scene to get here (which they definitely just did).
“I’m so sorry we’re late,” the woman apologizes, walking further in, holding her hand out, “You’re Noah’s teacher, right?”
The man follows in behind her, tossing over a friendly smile, through his well-groomed beard, and she is thrown for a loop when she realizes the curly-haired sweetheart in her class has two cop parents.
Shaking her hand back, she gestures to the two empty seats that she’s been begging to be filled all day, smiling (despite the rollercoaster of anxiety of having two cops decked out like SWAT agents suddenly at her door), “Hi, yes, yes, you must be Noah’s mom. Nice to officially meet.”
“Call me Olivia,” she takes a seat, tapping the man’s chest and nodding, prompting him to follow suit. Without speaking they move in perfect succession, both unclicking their vests, him grabbing hers once it’s off, and tossing them both to the side as she continues, “It’s no excuse, but a child went missing and it was all hands on deck for a bit.”
Did these two literally save a kid and then race their asses over here for the conference?
“Oh my—are they okay?”
He answers this time while Olivia readjusts her frizzy ponytail, “Yeah, she’s a rockstar,” and he nudges the woman’s arm, “found her all on her own.”
Olivia smiles at him, blushing slightly, and shakes her head to get out of it.
What in the rom-com is happening right now?
“You must be Noah’s father,” she inquires, noticing his blue eyes were basically direct copies of Noah’s. She also happens to notice that she has never seen this man before today, and what a shame that is, because how is he this muscular in a black long-sleeve?
Is she even allowed to be attracted to him?
His smile makes it worse and she silently curses (and says good for you girl) Olivia for holding down a guy that looks like this down.
“Uh,” he looks over at the mother, like he doesn’t know how to answer the question, and she starts to get the idea that he actually may not have a clue on what to say.
“I’m her partner,” he hesitantly decides, and Olivia shakes her head.
Tapping his chest once more with her hand gently (man, they were touchy for co-workers), she clarifies, “Elliot is my boyfriend, and has been a part of Noah’s life this past year.”
He cocks a brow at her, a shit-eating grin starting to form and she retaliates with a look to shut it down.
“Right, boyfriend,” he teases, “sorry, the term isn’t used too much by us old folks.”
She chuckles, even though it’s not really funny, but this man is charming, so she’ll play into it, “No worries. Shall we get started?”
“Yes, that would be great.”
Pulling out her files, she lays out all of Noah’s performance over the year full of artwork, tests, papers, quizzes, report cards, and goes through his ‘glows’ and ‘grows,’ prepping the parents (parent?) on what changes could be made to benefit their (her?) son to end the year strong.
“Smart kid,” Elliot mumbles, “definitely not mine.”
Oliva slaps his arm lightly, “El—”
“Hey! It was a compliment!”
“Eli is doing great this year,” she retorts, shoving on glasses that appeared out of nowhere and refocusing her eyes on the art Noah has made, flicking through the sketches and smiling at the finished products. “My limited memory of chemistry has been helping him.”
“Oh, does Noah have siblings?”
Wrong question to ask.
They both freeze, mouths parting slightly, a face of pure confusion as they each seem like they want the other to jump in.
Olivia slowly slides her glasses off, tucking them away, but Elliot frees them all up from the uncomfortability, closing his lips and grinning cheesily, “I have five kids from a prior marriage. Most are probably around your age or older, but my youngest is almost 16.”
Olivia glances over at him again and he leans back casually, wrapping his arm around her chair, the palm landing in the middle of her shoulder blades. He rubs his hand across for a mere moment, then focuses back on her, “Although, I would say that Noah is my youngest now.”
It’s so sweet it almost makes her want to vomit.
Why are these two 50-year-olds tugging on her heart strings right now? She was supposed to be mad at them!
But when Olivia places a hand of her own on his knee and gives it a tight squeeze, she notices the woman sigh contentedly and there are definitely some tears threatening to form.
Did she just witness a moment?
Shaking herself out of it, she starts to wrap it up, “Well, Olivia, Elliot—Noah is doing a fantastic job and if he keeps it up, he will no doubt have a great rest of the year.”
Olivia smiles, eyes glistening, Elliot’s hand still on her, “Thank you, that is very good to hear.”
“Our little champ deserves some ice cream, huh?” Elliot laughs, patting her once before he takes his phone out, noticing it’s buzzing.
“Shit,” he mumbles. Standing up real quick, Olivia starts to follow but he holds up a hand, “No, stay, stay, lemme see what it is first."
He turns toward the teacher, “Will you excuse me for a second?” and he’s out the door, phone to his ear, muttering, “Stabler?” before it’s too quiet for her to hear.
“Is this for us to take home or…?” Olivia gestures to Noah’s work, fingers tracing over his drawing of a sunflower once more.
She nods, “Of course! Hang it on the fridge, it deserves it.”
Olivia chuckles softly, a sadish smile forming, “Sorry, it’s just—Elliot’s mom calls him Sunny.”
The woman takes a deep breath before continuing (the good moms always got emotional somehow), “I don’t know if he’s mentioned that he dances, but at his last recital he performed to that song, um—oh God, is it Harry Styles?”
“Ha, I think so.”
“I never remember,” Olivia laughs lightly, “but she went with us and hasn’t called him Noah since. So this,” she swallows down a lump in her throat, rubbing a hand against her chest for a second, “is very sweet to see.”
Goddamnit, now she was going to cry.
But before a single tear is shed from either woman, Elliot is back inside, eyes wide, exhaling a deep breath, “Liv? I hate to do this, but—”
“We gotta go?”
He nods, "Duty calls."
Olivia starts packing Noah’s things with her help, as Elliot grabs their vests off the concrete tiles, “Thank you again. Noah talks so much about how great of a teacher you are, and I appreciate all that you do.”
She is touched by these two (and to think, she really was about to slap them), handing her the neatly organized folder, “Well, thank you. I can’t wait to see him on Monday.”
They both grin back, bodies close to each other, Elliot's hand on her shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze before he tilts his head, “Ready?”
“Mhmm,” she nods.
And when they wave goodbye, she shouts, “Take care!” and she means it.
Back in the empty classroom, she gathers her own belongings now, smiling to herself over the end of a successful (but long day), thinking about the pair of parents who just left to go save the city (again) after a domestic pitstop at her classroom.
Network television has nothing on this.
She can’t wait to tell her friends.