Audrey and Todd - a Short Story for School

Imaginary or not, Todd was becoming a real problem, Mrs. Snyder thought. She had received five emails from Audrey’s teachers so far this year regarding her imaginary friend. “She won’t engage with the other students,” they complained. “When we have activities, she stays alone at her desk. She won’t let anyone be partners with her.” Today’s email – number six – was from the principal himself, who merely said, “The staff is becoming concerned.”

Mrs. Snyder had been fielding these complaints for years, ever since Audrey started Kindergarten. She and Mr. Snyder had always agreed that their daughter should get to explore her imagination. They thought it was creative. But now that Audrey was ten years old – almost junior high age – even Mrs. Snyder was beginning to think that it had gone on long enough.

After discussing it with her husband, she decided to have a talk with Audrey at dinner that night and have it out once and for all.

“Audrey, dear,” Mrs. Snyder began. “Daddy and I want to talk to you about Todd.”

Audrey looked up from her plate, eyes suspicious. “Why?” she asked. “Has he done something bad?”

“No, no. Nothing like that, honey,” Mrs. Snyder said quickly. She glanced at her husband, who encouraged her with a nod of his head. “It’s just that, well . . . Todd has been with us for quite a long time, hasn’t he?”

Audrey became stiff and expressionless. She said nothing.

“He’s been a very good friend, Audrey. Daddy and I know that. And you’ve always been so fond of him. We’ve all liked having him around.” Mrs. Snyder smiled, but her daughter’s guarded expression showed that the smile was useless. They all knew what was coming. “But Daddy and I – well, we think maybe it’s time you found some new friends to play with.”

“I don’t need any new friends.”

“Some real friends, dear,” Mr. Snyder interjected gently.

Audrey looked at him angrily. “Todd is real,” she insisted.

“No, he isn’t, dear. Daddy and I have told you that.”

“And that’s okay! There’s nothing wrong with having an imaginary friend,” Mr. Snyder added. “You know Mom and I love hearing your stories about the adventures you go on with Todd.” He began to smile in spite of himself. “Climbs up the mountainside, travels in the woods, dangers in the sewer . . . .”

“Phil!” Mrs. Snyder rebuked. That particular story had haunted her for days.

Mr. Snyder reigned in his merriment, and his tone became serious again. “What I mean to say is that we all love Todd. Your mom and I only think it would be nice if you got some new . . . less invisible friends.”

Audrey pursed her lips, thinking. She glanced to a spot at her left, then said, “Todd doesn’t want me to have any more friends. He wants it to be just him and me. We have fun together.”

“We know you do, sweetheart,” Mrs. Snyder said. It was all she could do not to just give up and let Audrey have her way - the way she had done for the last few years. “Having one really good friend is fun. But I bet you’d like having lots of friends even better.”

“But Todd –”

“You know,” Mr. Snyder interrupted. “A good friend doesn’t tell you what to do. It isn’t nice. A good friend would want you to be happy, wouldn’t he?”

Mrs. Snyder knew he’d gotten her there. Audrey’s eyes had gone wide, and she considered for a moment, twirling her fork idly. Then she said, “Yeah . . . yeah, he would! If Todd is really my friend, then he’d want me to be happy.”

“Exactly!” Mr. Snyder agreed, grinning.

“So, he’ll let me make new friends?”

“Of course, honey,” Mrs. Snyder said. Audrey was starting to look excited now. Mrs. Snyder hurried on, wanting to capitalize on the moment, “Like what about that sweet girl down the street – Hannah? She used to always come over here to ask if you could play. I’ll bet she’d love to be your friend.”

“Really?” Audrey was glowing with excitement.

“Of course!” Mr. Snyder joined in. “Why, lots of people would love to be your friend if you just gave them the chance.”

“So you tell Todd,” Mrs. Snyder said. “Tell him you’re not going to play with him anymore for a while. And then when you’re at school, you ask Hannah if you can play with her. You’ll have friends pouring out your ears before you know it!”

“Wow!” Audrey said.

Crash!

In the excitement, Audrey must have bumped her plate. It had flown to the floor, dumping its contents all over. Audrey’s face paled immediately. “Sorry, Mom,” she said, nervously.

But Mrs. Snyder was so happy to have solved the problem with Todd that she just kept smiling. “It’s okay, Audrey. I’ll clean it up. Why don’t you go on upstairs and get ready for bed? I think that’s enough excitement for one evening.”

Hesitantly, Audrey smiled back. Then she hurried up the stairs to her room. Mr. Snyder looked at his wife, leaning back in his chair. “There now,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Mrs. Snyder started cleaning up the mess, happily. Still, she thought that she’d better call Hannah’s mother and let her know what was going on, to make sure that Hannah would play with Audrey when she asked. Just to be safe.

*          *          *

 

It was one-thirty the next afternoon when Mrs. Snyder got a call from the school. The secretary only said that there had been an “incident” and Audrey needed to be picked up right away. Mrs. Snyder hung up the phone with a sigh. She supposed it must have been wishful thinking last night, to believe that Audrey really could give up Todd so quickly.

It took much longer than usual to drive to the school; there was quite a lot of traffic for so early in the afternoon. But Mrs. Snyder was glad for it. It gave her time to organize her thoughts and prepare new arguments to use with Audrey. They had made progress last night, she was sure of it. With a little more prodding, Audrey would come around.

After a while, though, Mrs. Snyder realized that all of the traffic was heading for the elementary school, just like her. Worry started to seep into her bones as she realized that she was not the only parent who had been summoned. Something had happened. Something bigger than Audrey.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and she focused solely on her driving. The instant she was parked, she leapt out of the car, terrified of what she might find. A crowd of parents was already swarming toward the school, a nervous confusion of sight and sound that nearly overwhelmed Mrs. Snyder. Desperately, she grasped onto the shoulder of a woman nearby. “Excuse me,” she pleaded, “do you know what’s going on?”

The other woman turned to her, looking stricken. “A girl’s been killed,” she said.

“What?”

“I don’t know any more than that. They just said that a girl’s been killed and they’re sending everyone home immediately.”

Audrey. Mrs. Snyder let go of the woman and started shoving her way through the crowd of people, pushing and struggling and fighting to get past. She burst into the building and kept running, calling her daughter’s name now. “Audrey? AUDREY!”

“Mommy?”

The ten-year-old girl was standing at the end of the hallway, alone (of course). Her eyes were pink and swollen with tears, and it melted Mrs. Snyder’s heart to see the way she trembled. Mrs. Snyder rushed to her daughter and gathered her in a tight embrace, cooing softly that everything would be okay, as she rushed the two of them out of the building. Audrey held on until they got outside. Then she turned her head. “It was Todd, Mom,” she whispered.

Mrs. Snyder froze. She had completely forgotten about her daughter’s imaginary friend, and couldn’t understand why Audrey was bringing this up now. She set the girl down in the snow, looking at her carefully. “What was Todd, sweetie?”

“It was him,” Audrey said again. “He hurt Hannah.”

Mrs. Snyder was startled. “What?”

“I told him what you said. I told him that I wasn’t going to play with him anymore and that I wanted to make friends. He was really angry, and he yelled at me a lot, but I didn’t listen to him. I thought he was being bossy, so I went to play with Hannah at recess. But that just made him more angry, and so he –”

“Audrey.” Mrs. Snyder was tense, and so her voice came out strict and unyielding. “I don’t want to hear any more about Todd.”

“But, Mom!”

“I mean it.” She softened, trying to regain her composure. “Something terrible happened today. It must be very scary for you, I know, but we need to face it. I don’t want you pretending that it was just Todd –”

“It was Todd!” Audrey snapped. “Daddy was right – he’s not a good friend! He hurt Hannah – he killed her! – just because he didn’t want me to play with her.” She started to cry again. “It was my fault, Mom. It was my fault . . .”

Suddenly Audrey stiffened and twisted around, looking back toward the school. Her face contorted with rage. “Go away!” she screamed. “Get away from me, Todd! You’re mean, and I don’t want to play with you anymore! Mommy –” Audrey leaned against her mother and clutched at her skirt. “Please! Tell Todd I don’t have to play with him anymore.”

But Mrs. Snyder wasn’t listening to Audrey. She was looking at the snow-covered ground behind her daughter. At the empty, red-dripped footprints. Coming closer.

The Embarrassing Truth about My Current Situation in Life

***WARNING: Uncensored disclosure of feelings ahead. Proceed at your own risk.***

All of my life, I have been focused on moving forward. I pushed the limits, always looking ahead to the next milestone. I studied hard throughout school so that I could get a full-ride scholarship to a university. There, I worked part time (at 4:00 in the morning) so I could have money to buy textbooks and pay rent. I spent a semester in St. Petersburg, Russia, teaching English to kids, so that I could experience the world and practice my intended profession. In April, I graduated from college with a degree in English Teaching. Now, almost six months later, I’m a custodian at a junior high. 

What happened?

When people ask me why I’m not teaching, I usually explain it very matter-of-factly: after student teaching, I realized that where I taught mattered a lot to my happiness. I didn’t want to commit to a school that would be a bad fit for me just because I felt obligated to rush into the workforce. Instead, I’m going to substitute; that way I can get a feel for the different schools in the area so that I can make a more informed decision next year. When I explain it like this, people usually compliment me on my wisdom and bravery in not following the pack. Which is why I always explain it to them this way, even though it’s not entirely the truth.

The truth is that I panicked.

Student teaching was really hard on me. The political atmosphere between the faculty and the administration was poisonous; I wanted to spend as little time there as possible. I liked being in my classroom by myself, and I usually did fine when I was actually teaching, but creating lesson plans day after day was hard, and I consistently worried that I wasn’t doing it well enough. Because the faculty and administrators were so visceral about (and towards) each other, I didn't feel like I had anyone to confide in about my feelings of inadequacy. And I wasn’t there long enough to figure out if what I was doing was actually making a difference. I knew that many of my students liked me, but many didn’t; and I knew that measuring my abilities by how many of my students liked me was stupid, but I couldn’t not pay attention to that. I wasn’t confident enough in my own judgment, and the reassurance I got from others was often absent-minded and unconvincing. All I knew was that I was constantly miserable, feeling swamped by the tasks ahead of me and feeling doubtful that I would make it through another day.

So when student teaching finally ended, all I wanted was to escape. I ran from teaching, focusing on my graduation but refusing to look beyond that. I decided not to get a teaching job immediately, concerned about making a year-long commitment after already nearly drowning in just one semester. I’d substitute teach instead, I decided.

It’s now mid-September, and I’ve made no progress on that front. I got a custodial job over the summer, and then when school started in August I just . . . didn’t apply to be a sub. The honest truth is that the prospect scares me out of my wits. My stomach writhes at the thought of putting myself through that pain again – and, above all, I worry that I will be terrible at it. If I can’t do something well, I don’t want to do it at all.

 I’m realizing now that if I want to get a move on with my life, something is going to have to change. I need to buy a car, get an apartment, and start really living a real adult life. To do that, I need to start earning more money. That means putting myself out there, ready or not.

I guess I’ve subconsciously been waiting for things to fall into place; I haven’t wanted to move forward until I felt like I had my life back under control. But maybe moving forward is how I’ll get my life back under control.

Maybe it’s time to do the things I’m afraid of. To jump, and just hope that I don’t break any bones.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

 But I’ve got to start doing something.

Sneak-Sweeping

The worst thing about custodial work is not cleaning toilets. It's not really anything that has to do with cleaning at all. The WORST thing is cleaning with other people around.

Most of the custodial jobs I've had, this hasn't been a problem. I worked early morning shifts, before any of the professors or students got to campus, or I worked after a kitchen crew had left for the day. Now, though, I'm working at a junior high where the teachers tend to linger long into my work hours.
Some of the other custodians don't mind this; they like to chat and make friends. But when I'm working, I like to let my mind wander into other worlds, my imagination galloping off while my body is occupied - so it's pretty awkward to be in the same room with someone else while that's going on.

I learned quickly which teachers I can rely on to race out of the school as soon as the final bell rings, so my strategy is to clean their rooms first, waiting for the lingerers to finish their business. This has been extremely successful, with one blaring exception: a science teacher by the name of Mr. Darcy.

Okay, no. His name isn't really Mr. Darcy. But he's young, and cute. And I am oddly certain that in an alternate dimension we had a torrid (and possibly scandalous) love affair. The tension of our alternate-dimension attraction must be strong enough that it seeps through into our dimension in that one classroom, because I feel it every time I go in there.

Which wouldn't matter so much, except that Mr. Darcy is worse than a lingerer - he's a returner. As I discovered on one particular afternoon . . . .

I had already been in Mr. Darcy's room that day, on my rounds to empty the trash. I'd scrubbed desks and cleaned the windows, and he had been nowhere to be seen; so I'd assumed it was safe to go back with my broom a few hours later. The last thing I do before I leave every day is sweep the science rooms, using the closet-office they all share as a center of operations. I go through each room with a small broom, getting into the corners and dragging everything out into the open. Then I go back with a push-broom and sweep it all up. Easy as pie.

I had finished unearthing the dirt in all of the rooms. I grabbed my push-broom and started to open the door to Mr. Darcy's room when I noticed that all of the lights were on. I glanced inside and - sure enough - there he was, sitting at his computer, his back to me. A jolt of surprise went through me. Why would a teacher - who had already left for the day - come back at six o'clock?

I hesitated, not wanting to bother him while he was working, and then I moved on to one of the other science rooms. I'll just finish up everything I can. That will give him time to grab whatever he forgot, and he'll be gone by the time I'm ready to go in there. My steps were shorter, slower perhaps than was normal, as I swept the other rooms. I took as much time as I thought was excusable, always glancing back toward his room, hoping to see the lights shut off as Mr. Darcy headed home.

No such luck. When I'd finished all of the other rooms, Mr. Darcy was still there. He apparently had no intention of leaving any time soon, either; I could hear music pounding through the closed door, and as I spied through the window, I could see a stack of papers and a grading program pulled up on his computer. He was typing, but it looked like he still had a long way to go.

All at once, the music registered in my mind. It was an 80s love song. A blush coursed through me as I considered other reasons why I wouldn't want to be alone in a room with this young man, my other-dimension-lover. The song, with its beckoning melody, seemed to hint at the possibilities.

I turned my back on him, pacing in the closet-office. Maybe I should just leave, I thought. But then I remembered that I'd already been through the room with my small broom, dragging all the filth out into the open. It looked terrible; I couldn't leave it like that. My only option was to stride in there, purposeful, and just be professional about it.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and pushed my way inside. I looked not to the right nor left, just marching with my eyes fixed on the dirt. When I turned my first corner, I spared a glance in his direction, to see how he was taking my professionalism.

He hadn't seen me.

He hadn't heard me come in, either. The music was much louder in here, and my push-broom slid almost silently across the floor. I stood there for a moment, watching his completely oblivious form. And then I took off, sweeping as quickly as I could quietly manage.

His room is tight, tables jammed at odd angles to each other. I had to navigate a lot of narrow passages, and all the while I kept myself at a hunch, low to the ground, trying to stay out of his peripheral vision. He shifted in his chair. I froze. He stretched, then returned to his work, and I kept on sweeping.

The further I got through the room, the closer I got to him. I started stretching the broom out in front of me, twisting it as far as it would go so that I wouldn't have to walk into his line of sight. Eventually, I was standing right behind him, practically holding my breath as I tried to ease my broom beneath his chair without him noticing.

He started singing.

The love song was still playing, and now he was singing along. I couldn't take it.

In a rush, I finished sweeping the last corner and drove the broom back to the closet-office as quickly as I could, closing the door gently behind me. As soon as I was inside, I ducked under the window. I skittered around the corner, leaning against the door to one of the other science rooms. I could still hear Mr. Darcy's singing through the closed door.

But I'd gotten away.

I laughed, quietly. I shook my head at the ridiculousness of it. But in reality, I had never had more fun sweeping than when I was trying to dodge my other-dimension-lover, Mr. Darcy.

Who says custodial work has to be boring?

Mission Statement from Junior High

I found this old mission statement a little while ago. I remember typing it up in the computer lab at the junior high, but I don't remember which class this was an assignment for. I was either 14 or 15 when I wrote it. There are a few of these that make me roll my eyes, and the whole thing is pretty cheesy, but I'm surprised at how many of these tenets I still agree with. Maybe I haven't changed all that much these past 10 years . . . .

Mission Statement

Imperfection is a virtue, because it gives you something to do every day.

§

To use make-up is to look made-up.

§

It is a scientific law that you will fall down. But there is no law that says you can’t get back up.

§

Learn to laugh. In this messed-up world, it’s the only way you’ll maintain sanity.

§

Over-confidence is a bad thing. Self-doubt is a bad thing. But closing your eyes and hoping it all goes away doesn’t work either.

§

Sing. When people complain about it, sing louder so that you can’t hear them.

§

If someone else’s standards are lower than yours, make them come to you. NEVER bend down.

§

Nothing was ever accomplished without someone taking a risk.

§

 There is nothing to fear but fear itself . . . and Tairsa Brown.

§

Don’t change yourself to blend in with the crowd. The last thing we need is one more chameleon in the world.

§

If someone laughs at your writing, they obviously didn’t read it right.

§

Do not embrace a life where you spend so much time trying to become who the world wants you to be that you never become who YOU want to be.

§

In all seriousness, have a sense of humor.

§

Be the same person with your friends that you are with your parents. It’ll avoid awkward moments when the two groups meet.

§

If you’re having a bad hair day, don’t worry. No one will notice; they’re all too busy worrying about their hair.

§

Find something to believe in. When the hurricanes, fires, earthquakes, and tsunamis of this world swarm you, it will be the tree you hold to for dear life.

§

To be wise is not to be learned, but to be learning.

§

Laugh at least three times a day. You’ll be surprised how much happier you’ll be.

Of Spiders and Men

I am afraid of spiders.

Terrified, actually. I am the person they had in mind when the powers that be created the word "arachnophobia." My fear of spiders is transformative; when I discover a spider on my body, I become an entirely different person. I can't remember my name. I stop caring about the well-being of others. I lose brain function, screaming and flailing uncontrollably until the spider is catapulted to a safe distance.

So I probably shouldn't operate heavy equipment in the presence of arachnids.

Anyway, I think about this phobia of mine fairly regularly. (Though not usually at night. Nighttime is when I try very, very hard not to think of spiders.) And when I think about it, I understand that my fear of spiders is completely irrational. I go through all the arguments that I've heard a thousand times from well-intentioned and entirely clueless friends:

A spider is just a bug, like a fly. You're not scared of flies, so why be scared of spiders?

Yes, some spiders can hurt you; but most are harmless.

Spiders are actually very helpful. The world needs them.

That spider is probably more afraid of you than you are of it.

See, the thing about a phobia is that it doesn't have to make sense. Because it has nothing to do with your brain, and everything to do with your instinct to flee. If your body is convinced that the only way to stay alive is to GET AWAY FROM THAT THING, then you'd better believe that's what you're going to do.

I've lived with this a long time. I'm used to it. It doesn't surprise me anymore.

Until tonight, when I realized that I feel the exact same way about men.

Okay, not exactly the same way. I don't have to cringe away from photos of guys or avoid thinking about the creepy way they move. But when a guy becomes romantically interested in me - or if there's even the suggestion that he might be interested - I lose brain function. I stop caring about the well-being of others. I can't remember my name.

And I can't swear that I've never flailed and screamed.

It is ridiculous. Once I've gathered my senses, I'm always embarrassed about the lunatic performance I've put on. Just as with the spiders, I think often about my humiliating fear and the absolute lack of reasons for it. And the same arguments run through my head, rephrased.

A man is just a person, like a woman. You're not scared of women, so why be scared of men?

Yes, some men will hurt you; but most are harmless.

Men are actually very helpful. The world needs them.

That man is probably more afraid of you than you are of him.

But remember the thing about a phobia? It doesn't have to make sense. Because it has nothing
to do with my brain, and everything to do with my instinct to flee.

. . .
. . . . .
. . .

I think the solution is obvious: I need to face both my fears at once.

Clearly, I need to date Spider-Man.

Not the Post You're Expecting

Well, hello again, blog.

I haven't posted anything on here in a long time. That's because I've been busying finishing up college, student teaching, and all that. Well, I've graduated. So now it's time for me to announce my big plans for the future:

I haven't any.

. . .

Seriously.

I have a lot of ideas and a few tentative inclinations, but no specific plans. And that's strange for me. Since I can remember, I have been future-focused, always looking ahead for the next great adventure. Determination and drive have been defining characteristics in my life. But now . . .

I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't even know what I want to do.

I feel aimless.
And purposeless.
And mortified.

Sorry to let you all down. But that's all I have for you right now.

I Couldn't Be Happier

I've been student teaching for several months now. Since it takes up the majority of my life, it's all anyone ever wants to talk to me about. When they ask about it, their faces are always glowing with pride and delight; they're happy for me. They're glad I'm out there doing what I love, making such great progress in my eduction and in my life. They say, "How's student teaching going?" and wait cheerfully for me to tell them how much fun I'm having.

How can I disappoint them by telling them the truth?

To borrow a few lines from Wicked:

"I couldn't be happier.
No, I couldn't be happier.
Though, it is - I admit - the tiniest bit unlike I anticipated.

But I couldn't be happier.
Simply couldn't be happier.
Well, not "simply."
'Cuz getting your dreams . . . it's strange, but it seems a little . . . well, complicated.

There's a kind of a sort of . . . cost.
There's a couple of things get . . . lost.
There are bridges you cross you didn't know you crossed until you've crossed.

And if that joy, that thrill,
Doesn't thrill like you think it will . . .
Still . . .
With this perfect finale, the cheers, and the ballyhoo,
Who wouldn't be happier?
So I couldn't be happier.
Because happy is what happens when all your dreams come true.

Well, isn't it?"