My feet hurt so bad when I get home from my double shift that I could hardly stand.
Thankfully, Mike gave me some leftovers to take home because I couldn't even drag my exhausted butt to the grocery store.
My mom was lounging on the couch and watching TV when I stumbled in.
"You know," her passive-aggressive tone makes the hairs on my arms prickle inside my rain jacket. "You could at least call me to let me know that you're going to disappear with Keri for days on end."
"I was working a double shift Mom," I remind her with an impatient sigh. "I left you a note about it next to the phone."
"You're a little old for acting like a bratty teen," she says in a snotty sing-song.
"Yeah, you too," I grumble as I open the fridge to put our leftovers away. "Have you eaten, Mom?"
"No, I'm not that hungry," my mom answers, staring straight ahead at the TV.
"There's meatloaf from the diner in the fridge," I tell her. "I'll get to the store tomorrow."
"I haven't seen you all weekend," she moans. "Let's watch a movie."
"I really, really wish I could Mom," my stomach twists as her face sinks. "But I have a test tomorrow, and I need to study."
A wave of guilt crashes over me.
I haven't been around much because of work and school.
If left alone to her own devices, my mom's mind can drift back to the constant craving she can't seem to quit.
"But," I try to compromise, "I have tomorrow night off and we can spend the whole night together. We can make dinner and watch whatever you want. Just you and me. A girl's night."
"That sounds good," my mom's smile doesn't reach her eyes.
"Thanks, Mom," I sigh. "I'm really sorry about tonight."
I know I shouldn't have to apologize for studying and taking responsibility for my life, but I am.
She waves me off and I know I've lost her.
I sigh (again) and head for my room to finish reading and put myself to bed.
In the morning, all seems to be forgotten when I get up to find that my mom has eaten most of the leftover meatloaf.
That's a small relief, there was a time when I had to beg her to eat anything.
She's still in bed by the time I'm dressed and ready to run out the door, so I leave her another note to remind her that I'll be going to the store after work.
The day passes by quickly and I managed to finish rereading Act One by the time I got off the bus at Green River Community College.
Unfortunately, my stomach is a pit of gurgling lava that burns my insides whenever I think about Mr. Benedict.
So I focus on the fact that he's my teacher. I don't need him to be my friend, I just need a good grade.
I arrive a little early, but the room is unlocked, so I'm able to get myself situated before the test starts.
Mr. Benedict breezes into the room in a striped button-down shirt and jeans that show off his lean build and squared shoulders. On his way to the dais, he runs a hand through his styled hair and I'm pretty sure a collective sigh of admiration ripples through the room.
"Good evening everyone," he begins. "As you know, we have our first test tonight. It will hopefully be an easy one if you've been paying attention to my lectures."
When Mr. Benedict's deep blue unexpectedly eyes find mine, I snapped my head down to stare at the desk.
Perhaps he thought I did poorly on my essay because I don't pay attention.
Well, I'd show him!
"Um, sorry," Mr. Benedict coughs. "All you will need for this test is a pencil or pen and a piece of paper for the essay questions. Pretty straightforward stuff."
He hands out our tests asking each person to pass a copy along to the next student.
As Mr. Benedict promised, it was easy.
Within an hour I was done and checking my work carefully for spelling and grammar mistakes. I figured I'd wait for someone else to finish first, then I could hand in my work before dashing out the door.
Ten excruciating minutes later, a blonde woman with killer wedge boots triumphantly hands in her test. Which is my cue.
I slipped out of my seat to quietly walk my test up to the front, keeping my eyes on the floor.
Mr. Benedict is reading a paperback book but he looks up as soon as my test hits the yellow tray on his desk.
A thrill runs through me the moment our eyes lock. I steel my nerves against his lopsided smile and turn to leave.
"I'd still like to discuss your essay, Moira," he whispers.
"I have a bus to catch," I mumble over my shoulder.
"How about tomorrow during my office hours?" He presses softly. "I'm there from noon to two."
"I'm working," I offer an apologetic shrug without really turning around.
"Oh, that's too bad," he sounds genuinely disheartened.
I jog up the steps and grab my book bag without even giving Keira a look because she's still working.
I just wanted to get out of there. And I wasn't lying about my work schedule, I'm usually right in the middle of my day shift at the diner when Mr. Benedict has office hours.
On my bus ride home, I finally pull out my essay that I never bothered to look at.
It's riddled with red in Mr. Benedict's confident penmanship.
His notes are all about my decision to include other works by Shakespeare in support of my argument, which is contradictory to his assignment.
I skipped to the end of the essay to find a much more lengthy message from Mr. Benedict.
Moira, you are a very talented writer and you make some excellent points throughout this essay to drive home your overall argument. However, the assignment was to cite Romeo And Juliet, only. I'd love to discuss this with you further because if you are able to rewrite this essay and remove those erroneous citations, I'd be happy to give you the A you deserve.
-Fitzwilliam
I don't know why, but I trace the letters of his note over and over again with my grubby fingernail while digesting his kind words.
If I'd just bothered to read this, I wouldn't have ended up in such a huff Friday night.
He wanted to talk to me about revisions. I was just being a baby about the whole thing.
Yeesh.
***
On Tuesday afternoon Mike's diner is a ghost town.
It's too early for the senior citizens to come in for the Early Bird specials, and it's too late for any lunch crowd stragglers.
Mike is in the kitchen working on dinner prep and I've wiped down every table, counter, glass, and dish to get us ready. I've even made a new pot of coffee (even though there's no one here to drink it).
So, I pulled up a stool behind the counter and started reading Act Two of Romeo And Juliet with a cup of creamy joe.
When the front door chimes, I fold down the corner of the page I'm on and look up to see the slender body of a man with carefully mussed hair and a leather satchel.
My jaw nearly hits the floor when I realize that it's Mr. Benedict.
He's looking around with an appreciative smile as he slides into a booth near the front window until he spots me and offers a friendly wave.
For a few seconds, I forget how to walk and just stare at the beautiful man in the booth (who is also my teacher).
He pulls a stack of papers and a few pens out of his messenger bag as if he's about to start his office hours right there.
"You gonna help that guy?" Mike leans over the window ledge to peer at Mr. Benedict.
"Sure," I shake off my daze and scuttle away.
My sneakers squeak against the newly mopped floor while I fiddle with my apron pockets on the way.
"Hello, Moira," Mr. Benedict's compassionate tone resonates in my chest to melt my nerves.
I scan my memory for something, anything, to ask him.
"What are you doing here?"
So smooth.
"Well, since you're working," Mr. Benedict chuckles. "And I can take mobile office hours, I thought I'd come in to talk to you about your essay."
"Um, how do you know where I work?" His smile fades at my follow-up question.
"You were wearing a name tag the day I scared you in the library," he chuckles like he's a bit flustered. "So, I Googled Mike's Diner."
The silence that follows should be awkward, but somehow Mr. Benedict's presence is comforting.
"Can I get you anything?" I decide to do my job and ask him.
"Coffee, please," He nods appreciatively. "I've got a lot of tests to get through and I'm going to need caffeine."
"Coming right up," I spin and practically sprint for the safety of the counter.
I want to be flattered that Mr. Benedict showed up at my workplace to talk about my essay, but should I?
When I return to his table, Mr. Benedict smiles at me like I'm a lifesaver.
"Thank you!" He exclaims as I place his coffee on the table along with a small carafe of milk. "How did you know?"
"Know what?" I ask as a fiery blush consumes my neck under Mr. Benedict's inscrutable gaze.
"Cream and no sugar," he comments with a look of subdued humor. "That's how I take my coffee."