Friday mornings serve as the precursor to absolute numbness. In a mere few hours, the entire town will assemble around an aging football field, watching young men navigate a thrilling game, and hopefully inch one step closer to a state championship—the highlight of many of these young men’s lives.

Excitement fills the air here at Ridgefield High School, and every other damn high school in the region. Staff and students alike are dressed in school colors, an almost mandatory display of school pride. It’s not much different than patriotism; you’re expected to comply without question. Football is what we live for. It’s what we breathe for. Sometimes, it feels like it’s what we’re dying for.

My heels click against wooden floors as I rush down an empty hallway. Purple and white lockers, alternating in color, pass by me in a blur as I hurry toward the end of the hall. The bell rang two minutes ago, so I imagine my classroom has turned into complete anarchy in my brief absence.

I stop to catch my breath before pushing the classroom door open and making my way to my desk. I drop my purse on the floor and position myself to the center of the chalkboard. I grab a piece of pink chalk and scribble a quote on the board:

“Anyone who can tell me who uttered these words without looking at their phones will receive an automatic passing grade on our next test.” I glance around the room, waiting for someone—anyone—to take interest in the topic at hand, and approach a student perched at his desk in the front row, with a varsity jacket slung over the back. “Jason, do you have any guesses?”

“I could care less.” He groans and taps his fingers on the desk.

“Typical.” I force a smile. “The next time you want to show off for your friends and show how much you really just do no care, use the following phrase, I couldn’t care less.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“Brilliant.” I take a step backward. “Now, I’d really start paying attention if I were you. What we’re going to cover today is going to be a great boon for when you eventually have to retake this course next year, when you’re nineteen.” I turn my attention to address the entire class. “Does anyone else want to take a guess?”

“Hillary Clinton?” a student from the back row questions, and by the look on his face, I’d say he’s well aware of how off base he is.

“No, Scotty. The last time I checked modern women do not speak this way.”

“Michelle Obama?”

“Let’s shift away from first wives. Though the women who uttered these words was a wife, among other things.”

“Rose Dawson?” Another student questions, followed by a snicker.

“If any of you had read the syllabus, you might have guessed correctly.” I turn my back to the students as I scribble on the board:

“It was Medea who spoke these words.” I park myself on the edge of my desk and dust chalk from my hands.

“That chick dude?” Scotty questions with a bemused look.

“Tyler Perry?” I shake my head. “No. Medea is a famous Greek tragedy written by a man named Euripides.”

“Do we have to read that?” Jason groans from his seat, and tosses his head back, pretending to snore.

“It’d be advisable, Jason. At some point, you’re going to have to learn a thing or two. You can’t depend on football carrying you through life when you’re benched every other Friday.”

“You used to be the cool teacher,” he pouts and folds his arms over each other.

“I used to care.”

“And then Nathan happened,” he mumbles under his breath, but it’s loud enough that I can hear him.

My throat tenses. My jaw clenches. “Go to the office,” I scowl at him.

“Hamilton—“

“You heard me!” I snap, and look away from him as he hurries from his seat, throwing his bag over his shoulder. The door slams shut behind him. I take a few moments to myself on the edge of a panic attack, all the while knowing my students are watching me as I try to process emotion, and as I try not to break.

My feet land on the tiled floor. “If anyone else has anything they want to say about Nathan, they can go get chatty with the school psychologist, or they can choose to keep it to themselves. I’ve been accused of many things, but none of them are true. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing in front of you today.”

Jules, a shy, timid girl raises her hand in the back. I nod in her direction, signaling it’s okay for her to ask a question. “Do you think he’s ever going to wake up?” It’s been a year, and some of these students have shown they’re not complete psychopaths, that they have the ability to care. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t resent them though, because caring in the aftermath of the accident isn’t the same as caring before. Back then, caring could have changed things, and now all it is, is an empty sentiment.

“I don’t know.” I clear my throat. “If anyone wants to talk about Nathan, please see the psychologist.” The classroom door swings open. “I said go to the damn office,” I yell, but realize I’m not scolding a rowdy student. I’m scolding my best friend, the Assistant Principal Ashley Salt. A beautiful woman three years older than me, but with decades more wisdom. Long, wavy blonde hair falls upon her shoulders with grace, blending with the earth tones of her mild blazer.

She glares at me curiously, cautiously even.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I approach her, standing in the doorway, and offer her a warm smile. “Jason Mathis will be waiting for you when you get back to your office.”

She sighs. “What did he do now?”

“Snide remark about Nathan.”

“That’s not a crime, Stassi.”

“It was the tone.”

“I’ll talk to him.” She has a way with calming me down. Many would say she’s my better half, the sister I always wanted, but not the one I deserved, but I certainly deserved better than the one I actually got. “I’m here because you have a new student joining your class today.” She’s enthusiastic, and I remember a time not long ago when I would have been too, but now it’s just one more student. One more ungrateful piece of adolescent dead weight.

“I didn’t get the memo.”

“He actually just finished registering.” She peeks around the corner and waves. “Come on, Kemper.”

Kemper? No. It can’t be.

He rounds the corner with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.

It’s fucking him. Same hair. Same eyes. Same fine-cut facial features. Same name. Same, I’m going to fuck you now, eyes.

I freeze in place. He freezes in place. This is a huge fucking cosmic joke, or maybe it’s Karma. We stare at each other just long enough to make things awkward for the innocent bystander.

“Do you two know each other?” Ashley questions, her eyes shifting between the two of us.

“No.” I fold my arms over each other and lean against the frame of the door. “Of course not.”

“Let me introduce you then.” She places her hand on Kemper’s back. “This is Kemper Scott, and he’ll be finishing his senior year here at Ridgefield.”

“Hi.” I throw my hand out to shake his. “I’m Mrs. Hamilton.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Stassi.”

I break away from his touch and feel my body being swallowed by the floor. Ashley’s eyes burn holes through my body, to the point my internal temperature reaches a boiling degree.

“Do you know her?” Ashley questions Kemper.

“It’s on this paper.” He digs into his back pocket and pushes a paper copy of his schedule into Ashley’s hand. “See, right there. Stassi S. Hamilton.”

“We don’t refer to our teachers by there first names here, Kemper.” Ashley scolds him in a tone where he probably doesn’t know he’s being scolded. I’ve been on the receiving end of that tone one too many times. “That might fly in some new-age school district in California, but here in Ohio, we respect our elders.”

“My apologies.” Kemper’s eyes lock with mine. “Mrs. Hamilton.”