Eighteen With A Chalkboard

Chapter 14: Behind Closed Doors

At least today is Saturday, and I don't have to see Millie with Sawyer or any of my students. Surprisingly, Mr. Sage hasn't come back for his car, leaving me more time to think.

My first week of teaching was a bit challenging, especially dealing with Sawyer, Kagawa, and Kane's nuisance behaviour. Despite my efforts to remain composed, I often wonder if I have truly overcome my phobia and anxiety. No matter how hard I try, the anxiety lingers, especially when standing in front of the class. I'm sure some students have noticed my trembling hands when I write on the chalkboard.

I retire to my room and stroll over to open the window. My eyes flicker to Natasha next door, leaping on her bed and listening to music. Her voice, though muffled, sounds angelic as she sings along. Just as I'm about to draw the curtain, a thud comes from her room. She falls off her bed, and the sound of her groaning in pain plasters a smile on my face.

Natasha quickly stands up, placing her headphones back on. As she turned toward her window, I swiftly let down the curtain. I've thought about it—why not tutor Natasha?

This morning, my mom called to ask how I was doing. I share bits and pieces of my week, omitting the tension with Millie and Mr. Grunewald. "I am proud of you, Son. I thought Mr Sage would call right away to bring you back home. I was so worried, but I'm glad you're overcoming your fears," she says, her voice filled with warmth and pride.

"How you holdin' up, Nathan?" Uncle Pearson chimes in, always supportive. "You doin' a good job makin' your daddy ashamed of hisself."

"He can't even ask how you doin'," Grandma adds, chuckling. "He ain't got no shame."

Reflecting on my past, I remember the camp in Manchester with Mr. Sage. Surrounded by other "genius" kids, I felt isolated, talking only to my imaginary friends. It took just one day for me to ask to go home. Mr. Sage had called my mom, and I was instantly sent back. Those memories remind me of my struggles with autophobia.

Now, I'm trying to get used to the crowd around me, following my psychotherapist's advice to greet people, join small talks, and go out for lunch with groups. The fact that my father hasn't heard the news about me giving up makes him ashamed, and that thought, oddly enough, brings me a sense of accomplishment.

A bell rings at the door, cutting through my reign of thoughts. How thoughtful that someone would visit, but considering I have no one to visit me, who could it be?

Strolling over to the door, I regret not checking the peephole first. As soon as my eyes set on the old man standing there, I groan in annoyance. "What do you want, Mr. Sage?"

The sound of the doorbell snaps me out of my thoughts. It's odd for someone to visit, as I haven't had any planned visitors. I approach the door, regretting not checking the peephole first. When I see Mr. Sage standing there, I sigh in frustration.

"What do you want, Mr. Sage?"

"Afternoon, my math genius!" he chirps, smiling brightly. "Let me in, let me in!" He pushes past me into the house.

I slam the door behind him, feeling exasperated. "Not now, Mr. Sage. I'm in the middle of something."

Mr. Sage spins around, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. "In the middle of what, exactly?"

"I'm busy," I gesture to the books scattered on the table as I slump onto the sofa.

"I see books, but I don't see you busy."

"The fact that you see books implies I'm busy."

"Nonsense!" he waves his hand dismissively. "I came back for my car, and I'm taking you out for some fresh air. There's a new restaurant down the road. It'll be good for you to get out."

"I'm not hungry."

"Stop that, Jonathan." He shuts my laptop lid, making me scowl.

"At least see the sunshine."

"I know what sunshine looks like."

"Come on, tell me what's bothering you," Mr. Sage says, joining me on the sofa. "You had tears in your eyes yesterday, and then you just drove off. What's going on?"

I hunch my shoulders and sigh. "I'm sorry. I was overwhelmed by something."

Mr. Sage offers a reassuring smile. "Let's start with what's bothering you the most right now. We don't need to make it perfect. We'll figure it out together."

I raise an eyebrow. "Why don't you start by telling me about yourself, Mr. Sage? You have secrets, don't you? I saw your reaction when Luzza mentioned her stepdaughter, Millie, being at Edinburgh University. I'm not just about numbers; I notice things too."

Mr. Sage sighs, shaking his head. "So, you think I'm hiding something?"

"Yes. Tell me about your family—who you're married to, how many kids you have, and so on."

"What's the point of that?"

"I'd like to know that Mr. Sage has a family he's been secretive about," I say, shutting the laptop.

"Alright," he leans forward. "Luzza and I were together, but we're divorced now."

"Is Luzza married to someone else?"

"Yes, for about two and a half years."

"So, Millie Robertson is her stepdaughter?"

"Yes. Luzza married her father."

I nod, piecing things together. "What's Millie's father's name?"

Mr. Sage looks at me warily. "What does that matter? I thought you wanted to know about my family."

"Isn't it part of it?"

He leans in. "Is there something specific you want to know besides my family?"

"No, just curious," I reply. "How many kids do you have with Luzza?"

"Three daughters. I live with the two younger ones: a 17-year-old and a six-year-old. Pawlett, our oldest, preferred to stay with her mother and her new husband."

I nod, curious about his feelings on the matter. "How are you coping with the divorce? Does it make you happy or sad?"

He strokes his beard thoughtfully. "It saddens me, but it makes Luzza happy. We were no longer right for each other. I was heartbroken, but our love had faded. The divorce was inevitable. I'm focused on my two younger daughters now."

"Happy now, Jonathan?" he asks with a small smile.

"Yeah, at least I know more about you now," I say, frowning. "I'm sorry about what's happened in your life."

"Why are you sorry for me?" Mr. Sage asks.

"I guess because you seem to pretty miss having a wife."

"Jonathan, I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I'm fine with the divorce. It's a relief in some ways. Luzza and I were better off apart."

"The fact that it still saddens you is a pretty sad story," I say with a smirk.

"What's with you using 'pretty' so much?" he asks, grimacing.

"I guess it adds emphasis."

"Well, it's not the best choice. That's why I always say you should expand your vocabulary."

I shake my head, chuckling. "Are we going to the restaurant or not?"

Mr. Sage grins and stands up. "What are we waiting for?"

As we head to his car, I start, "Dr. Grunewald came to talk to me the other day."

Mr. Sage's expression shifts to concern. "What did he do? Did he hurt you?"

"No, no. He just warned me to stay away from him. He thinks my father wronged him. Do you know anything about their past?"

Mr. Sage jumps into the driver's seat while I settle into the passenger seat. "I don't know much, but I do know he betrayed your father. It's best to stay clear of him. We don't know what he might do."

I nod, buckling my seatbelt. Mr. Sage looks at me with a hint of concern before starting the car.