Chapter One
An Introduction to My Existence
I’d been hiding out, planning to summer in the small seaside town of Wentworth; an hour’s drive north of Los Angeles, when I saw him again… Confessions of a Post-Teenage Hermit (A Blog by Jane Elliot)
Ben returned.
I love a man in uniform. His blonde hair shone in the afternoon sun as I glanced through the interior windows of my classroom. A trick of light in the hallway created the illusion of stardust and smoke swirling around him as he walked.
I’d been working as a teaching assistant at the local public school for nearly six months after dropping out of college during my freshman year. The day I saw Ben again was the last day of work before summer vacation. It’s possible his return inspired me to re-enrol in college. Maybe something found always comes from something lost.
I noticed him first, talking to the preschool teacher and signing a release form on behalf of the small child who looked expectantly towards him. The young boy had his satchel on his back as they walked by. Ben didn’t appear to see me and for that I was grateful. It occurred to me as the child grasped his hand and I watched the love of my life leave that there are no good places to hide in Wentworth Elementary, especially if you’re an adult; well, semi-adult. I’m in my twenties now and I should be completely mature and in control of my life, but I feel kind of stuck somewhere around sixteen. Suddenly I’m in a panic that he could turn to the side at any moment and notice me staring at him.
Now, where to go? Standing behind the door of a classroom is a bad idea. Hovering near the entrance of the communal staff room is a possibility, but that connection leads towards the staff lunchroom which requires a lock combination that is changed daily. In my state of inner turmoil, I couldn’t remember it.
I crouched behind my desk, head immersed in the decorations, listening to the roar of a police siren. Sometimes the cops (the “good guys” as I call them) descend upon our little school in Wentworth. I’m used to it. This is the bad side of a good town. The people who summer here are rich and boring but the locals are generally the opposite. There is a high-school that connects to Wentworth Elementary and Preschool and there’s a lot of, to put it nicely, trouble there. I like to think (if I do my job properly), when my students are old enough, there will be less need for the law to patrol school gates and halls.
Our six year olds drew a hush as the police car whizzed by. The teacher, Mrs Alves, asked the class to wash up for lunch. I was helping them. Suddenly there was disorder in the hallways, which resembled tunnels. My students who were “special” had a separate exit. It was easier that way. I was used to the bustle, but they couldn’t avoid the crowded lunch rooms.
The lock on the staffroom door, I never got used to. I hadn’t thought to write down the combination that morning, so I just stood there, numb, pretending to listen to the police car, watching Ben leave. I thought about the difference between hiding and saying “hi” as I watched him glance towards my classroom. He read the sign on the door that advertised “Vacation Care” and barely noticed me. For two weeks over summer the school hosted a day camp where families and children who were staying in Wentworth could come in for organised fun and activities. I’d offered to help out since I would be staying in Los Angeles too. That’s why I was making decorations as the children got ready for lunch.
Dismissively, Ben walked down the hallway. At least I’d have something interesting to put on my blog that night.
“Are you alright Jane?” The teacher from the class opposite mine asked as she peeped her head in through the doorway.
