My brain is fried. I mean, break-me-open, scramble-me-up, throw-me-in-the-pan, and cook-for-five-minutes fried.
That may be a slight exaggeration, but we’ve been studying identity theories for the past hour-and-a-half straight, and I’m pretty sure my brain is turning into mush. Don’t get me wrong, I love my educational psychology class. It’s interesting, and the professor is fun. But with three classes, two observations, and a study group every single week, not to mention the massive observation project due next month, it’s exhausting.
I suppose I’m grateful for the reminder that this is nothing compared to teaching two dozen kindergartners every day. I’m just building up my endurance. But on nights like tonight, it’s hard to remind myself that knowing all the parts of James Marcia’s Identity Status Theory will actually be important someday. Especially since Isaac was in grade school, I’ve been planning to teach early childhood education and not adolescents.
Brian practically groans in my ear as he takes a second bite of a pumpkin-spiced muffin. I stare at him, thinking, On second thought, maybe I’ll have more interaction with adolescents than I initially believed.
He catches me staring and his chewing slows while he shifts his eyes back and forth, looking around. “What? I thought you brought these for us to eat.”
“I did,” I admit, slightly embarrassed that I got caught gawking at him. In my defense though, he eats a regular-sized muffin in two bites. It’s kind of fascinating to watch. “Sorry. Just lost in thought. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” He swallows his bite and take a long drink of his water before focusing his attention on me. Well, part of his attention. He’s still shooting gazes at the rest of the snacks. “What’s up?”
“You guys have a home game Thanksgiving weekend, right?”
He makes a face. “Don’t remind me. Coach keeps bitching about it.”
Which coach? Surely Jack would have said something if he was upset. Wouldn’t he? “Why is he mad?” I ask. “Don’t you guys play that weekend every year?”
He shrugs and finally caves, grabbing another muffin and peeling the paper away. I guess my special recipe is a hit. Okay, fine. I got it off Rachel Ray’s website and prayed really hard they wouldn’t end up being a Pinterest fail. But I make a mental note to bake them again, just for him.
Brian and I haven’t necessarily become close. But being in the same class and study group, we’ve developed a relationship of sorts. He reminds me of Amanda’s son, except more motivated and successful. And knowing his family is so far away makes my mom-heart ache a bit. I find myself wanting to do the little things to make him not feel so homesick.
Hence, sneaking more baked goods into the library.
“All I know is he keeps grumbling about having to put up with his in-laws for an extended period of time because it’s a home game this year, and they want him to get box seats or something.”
Ah. That must be Hank, who I haven’t met yet, but I know he’s married.
“If you can’t go home, what are you going to do on Thanksgiving Day? Where do you eat?”
He shrugs again and crams the rest of the muffin in his mouth, chewing slowly and clearly enjoying it before finally answering me. “We’ll probably see if a Chinese food place is open. Or maybe get some pizza.”
My jaw drops open. “You mean the school doesn’t have some sort of dinner for you?”
“Not that I know of. From what I hear, they used to have a real Thanksgiving dinner for those of us who couldn’t make it home. Someone would cater in turkey and dressing and all the fixings. That’s what I’ve heard. I don’t know if it’s actually true or why they stopped.”
I furrow my brow as I take in all the information. I wonder why no one ever thought to feed these boys on Thanksgiving. Was it too expensive? Did they not think it was important enough to factor into a budget?
“How many of you are staying in town over the holidays?” I ask, the wheels in my brain turning rapidly. I don’t know if anyone would be opposed to me hosting something at my house, but I know who to ask.
He looks up as he thinks. “Uh . . . five or six of us, maybe? Not that many.” He side-eyes me like he can see the ideas racing through my head. “How come you’re so interested in this?”
I flash him a bright smile and feign indifference, while grabbing for my phone. “No reason. Just curious is all.” Turning to my phone, I begin typing out a text.
“Uh huh,” Brian replies. “I don’t believe you, but these muffins are too good for me to care right now.”
I snort when he grabs for a fourth helping while I text. Good thing everyone else already ate one before stretching their legs on what’s turning into a very long break. They may not get another at the rate he’s going.
Me: Hey. How come no one provides Thanksgiving dinner to the players who are stuck in town over the holiday?
Jack: Is that pansy ass complaining about not getting fed? Tell him he’s gonna have a hard time chasing down a running back if he packs more on around the middle.
Me: Lol. No. He’s completely happy with the muffins I smuggled into the library. I’m just curious why no one does it.
Jack: Actually, Sheila used to be in charge of putting together a dinner. I had forgotten until now.
My eyebrows shoot up. Jack’s late wife used to coordinate this event? No wonder they stopped doing it. Now I feel bad for asking. But not bad enough to drop it. There goes my mom-heart taking over again.
Me: Would it be weird if I hosted something at my house?
Jack: Why would that be weird?
Me: Because Sheila used to do it. Is that stepping on her toes or something? I don’t want it to seem like I’m moving in on her territory or anything.
Jack: Considering you’re the mom of one of kids who would take advantage of the meal, it doesn’t feel like it to me. Who gives a shit what it looks like to anyone else?
Me: So it’s okay with you if I start making plans? I feel really bad for these kids. Brian’s talking about eating Chinese. That’s just sad!
Jack: You mean like they did in A Christmas Story? Fa ra ra ra ra? Man, I love that movie.
Me: Lol. Focus, Coach.
Jack: Sorry. Yeah, it should be fine. Let me hook you up with Renee, Hank’s wife. I know the dinners used to go through the boosters, and they had a bunch of it donated by local businesses. So if you’re not opposed to having a few extra athletes from other sports at your house, they’ll pay for it and then we can be 100% sure it doesn’t violate some weird NCAA rule.
Me: That would be great! Thanks, babe. Gotta run. We’re about to start again.
Jack: No problem. Learn well. And bring some muffins home with you! I could eat your muffins all day every day.
Me: Don’t be dirty.
Jack: gasp I can’t believe you think I had my mind in the gutter! Okay, fine. I did. You win. Bring the muffins anyway.
I snicker as I shut my phone off, but when I see Brian sitting back in his chair, the stunned expression on his face directed at me, I’m immediately on alert. “What? Why do you look like that?”
Leaning forward, he whisper-yells, “You’re dating Coach?!”
I shush him, looking around to make sure no one else heard him. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“Oh please. Don’t even deny it. I saw your phone.”
I gape at him, trying to change tactics. “What are you doing looking over my shoulder at my phone? That’s very rude, ya know.”
“I didn’t look over your shoulder. Your background picture caught my attention when you picked up it. And then the name ‘Jack’ in giant grandma-sized letters at the top was a dead giveaway.”
I grimace. So that tactic change doesn’t work. And suddenly, using the selfie Jack and I took on our last date as the home-screen picture doesn’t seem like such a good idea.
“Just because there is a picture on my phone doesn’t mean we’re dating. Maybe . . . well . . . maybe . . . You know this is football country. Maybe I have a picture of myself with the famous Jack Pride because he’s like a celebrity.”
That doesn’t even sound like a plausible excuse to my own ears. Clearly, Brian agrees with how ridiculous it is.
“Joie,” he says quietly. I look over sheepishly, quirking my lips to the side, not quite sure what to do now that I’ve been outed. “Does he treat you right? Like he’s respectful and all that?”
I smile and nod. “Yes. So, so much yes.”
“Good,” he says, relaxing back into his chair. “Then I have no problem with it.”
I pat his arm. “Thanks, Brian. It’s not a secret. We just don’t want it to turn into this huge public deal. We like the privacy.”
“Understood.” He turns to point at me. “But you tell him, if he hurts you, I’ll take it out on his ass.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “Ohmygod, I am not passing messages back and forth between you two Neanderthals.”
“Fine.” He grabs yet another muffin. “At least tell him to keep his hands off my baked goods. I’m a growing boy.”
I snicker and grab a pen as Nick calls us back to order again, so we can debate the merits of Social Identity Theory until the librarian finally forces us to call it a night.