#there's TWO exams when i return from our long weekend. and i have two exam/quizzes TODAY

[gemsbian]

it's not even midterms

[whumphoarder]

D is for Diploma

Summary: Between all of his commitments, Peter’s grades start slipping, putting him in danger of losing his academic scholarship to Midtown. Stressed and guilt-ridden about the effect this will have on May’s finances, he ends up worrying himself sick and having a breakdown in Tony’s lab.

Word count: 3,759

Genre: emotional hurt/comfort, angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: Thanks so much to @xxx-cat-xxx and @sallyidss for beta reading and encouragement <3

Link to read on Ao3

“But how are you getting a C in gym class?” Ned balks at his friend. He’s peering over Peter’s shoulder as he scrolls through his quarterly grades on the school library computer. “Everyone gets an A. I’m getting an A. All you gotta do is show up and at least look like you’re trying and boom, automatic A.”

Peter rubs a hand at the back of his neck sheepishly. “So, remember after the Rhino dude attacked me, how I had all those bruises that didn’t heal right away?”

“Yeah...” Ned recalls, frowning. “But you said they didn’t hurt.”

“They didn’t! Not really, anyway,” Peter says quickly. “But like, I didn’t really want everyone to see that, so I kinda didn’t change into my uniform. And apparently if you don’t change, Wilson just marks you as absent.”

“Ah.” Ned gives him a sympathetic wince. “Yeah, that’s lame.”

“What I don’t understand,” MJ pipes up, glancing up from the book she’s had her nose in all afternoon, “is the D in Spanish. Rodríguez isn’t even a hard teacher.”

Peter’s face flushes with embarrassment. “So… I might have forgotten to submit a couple assignments.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “You forgot? He reminds us what’s due, like, three times every class period.”

“I mean, it was just the take-home quiz...” he mumbles. “And some of the homework sheets. Oh, and that cultural essay thing about the ancient Mayans.”

“Peter.” She blinks at him. “That was like, twenty percent of our grade.”

“Well, to be fair, I did have a concussion,” he defends. “It was a little hard to remember stuff that week.”

Ned rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, that makes it so much better.”

Peter huffs out a laugh. Honestly, between all the hours he’s been logging lately as Spider-Man, his frequent internship nights with Tony in the lab, the increasingly demanding decathlon practice schedule as their team moves toward regionals, and the weekend shifts he’s started picking up at Delmar’s (because, let’s face it, the vigilante life isn’t the most lucrative career path—the occasional free churro notwithstanding), Peter thinks he’s been doing quite well juggling everything. Sure, his grades aren’t quite the neat row of A’s and the occasional B he’s grown accustomed to throughout his school career, but it’s not like he’s failing anything.

“I’ve just got different priorities now,” Peter says with a shrug. “I still show up and I’m passing all my classes, so what does the grade matter?”

MJ returns the shrug, looking vaguely impressed with him. “It doesn’t really. I’ve always been morally opposed to using arbitrary numerical values as a measure of academic success.” She shifts her gaze back to her novel before adding, offhandedly, “But you gotta admit, the tuition break is nice.”

And in those nine little words, she might as well have punched him in the gut.

“Oh shit,” Peter breathes out. Hurriedly, he starts gathering books together and getting to his feet.

“What?” Ned asks, looking puzzled.

“Um, I gotta go,” he blurts. And then before anyone can say another word, he’s out of the library doors.

X

The Parkers aren’t poor, exactly.

May works full-time at her job as a neonatal nurse, besides picking up extra shifts one or two nights a month to give them a bit of cushion. Between her wages and the social security checks that come every month from Ben’s pension, the two of them get by. Sure, Peter might not have name-brand clothes or the coolest tech or even a pair of gym shoes without a bit of duct tape on the soles, but there’s always been food on the table and a roof over his head, so Peter’s never stressed that much about their financial situation.

Maybe that’s how he managed to completely forget about his academic scholarship.

He’s qualified for it ever since he passed Midtown’s entrance exams in the top tenth percentile back in eighth grade. The money is substantial—slightly over two-thirds of the tuition cost is paid for him—and the scholarship automatically renews every semester provided he maintains a grade point average of 3.3 or higher, which has never been a problem for him.

That is, up until now. Factoring in his B in history, the C’s in gym and trig, and his D in Spanish, his GPA is currently sitting at 2.9.

Peter is going to lose his scholarship.

X

With less than two weeks left before finals, Peter starts cramming in all the studying he can manage. He stays up late, pouring over his trigonometry notes, trying to work his way through all the practice problems he’s been slacking on. He makes a point of showing up three minutes early to gym class every day, even if he has to use a bit of his enhanced speed to get all the way there from the chem labs on the other side of the building. On the train, he quizzes himself on the names of historical figures and the dates of battles long-since fought. Some of his teachers are willing to work with him, letting him turn in late assignments for partial credit or giving him additional projects to complete.

And then there’s Spanish.

“Isn’t there some kind of extra credit project I can do?” Peter begs. “Anything?”

It’s his study hall period and he’s at Señor Rodríguez’s desk for the second day in a row, desperately hoping for anything that could give his grade the boost it needs.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” his teacher says, sounding genuinely regretful. “But you’ve had countless opportunities this semester to get your grade up via homework and test retakes, all of which you neglected to take advantage of. Coming to me with less than ten days left in the semester requesting make up work for assignments worth significant percentages of your grade is simply too little, too late.”

“But… I had a concussion that week,” Peter argues. “Like, right when it was all due. And I would have done the work before, but…” He trails off, unable to finish his sentence without explaining his unorthodox extracurriculars. “I...I was busy,” he concludes weakly.

Rodríguez raises an eyebrow a little skeptically. “I didn’t receive any notes from the nurse’s office about this concussion.”

Peter glances down to his feet. “Well, that’s because she didn’t know, exactly…”

No one did—not even May. After getting all those bruises the week before, Peter didn’t want anyone to know he was hurt again so soon. Apparently Karen hadn’t deemed the blow to the head he took severe enough to override his wishes. He’d just dealt with the headaches and brain fog the best he could and sort of floated through that week on his own. In hindsight, maybe not his best plan.

“Well, I guess this is a good life lesson for you then, Peter,” Rodríguez says. His voice is firm, but not unkind. “Part of growing up is taking responsibility and learning to communicate with authority figures before you get into trouble.”

“Right, and I get that,” Peter babbles, “I just—”

His teacher holds up a finger, quieting him. “My job is to train my students for success in the real world, and sometimes that means reminding you that actions have consequences. ¿Lo entiendes?”

And Peter finds himself nodding. Because, despite the pool of dread growing in his gut, he does understand. He wants to be mad, wants to say it’s unfair and the universe gave him a raw deal and he doesn’t deserve this. But he can’t. Rodríguez is right.

And Peter’s still fucked.

X

By the time Friday rolls around, Peter’s barely functioning. Besides all the extra assignments and studying for finals, he’s had three days in a row of Decathlon practices, followed by some particularly eventful evening patrols that all went quite a bit later than his usual curfew of ten p.m.

He can’t get much of his lunch down today, which does nothing to appease his friends’ concerned looks. The food seems tasteless in his mouth and he’s so tired he nearly nods off into his cafeteria chicken nuggets.

When school finally lets out, he’s surprised and a little disheartened to see the sleek black car waiting for him in the bus circle. He’d totally forgotten it was an internship weekend.

Figures.

X

Peter groans as he disconnects the circuits he just switched out. He’s been trying to fix a bug in his suit’s heater upgrade for the last twenty minutes now, but nothing he attempts is working and his head is throbbing so much that his vision is hazy.

“Just try again, kid,” Tony encourages absently from across the workshop. He’s not looking up, fully engrossed as he is in his own project. “You got this.”

“Yeah...” Peter mutters under his breath. Blinking a few times, he rubs a hand at his eyes to try to clear his vision.

He connects a different wire. That one doesn’t yield any better results, so he unplugs it and tries again. Then again. Then again. He’s fairly sure he’s already tried the next combination, but he’s so tired he can’t remember so he does it again just to be sure. Nothing.

Peter is so frustrated now that his hands are actually shaking. He pauses and takes a deep breath before trying again.

This time, the wire sparks at him.

“I can’t do this!” Peter exclaims, shoving the suit away from him across the table. “I can’t do anything! Why am I so fucking stupid?!”

He’s breathing heavily now, tears clouding his vision even further. Within a few seconds he feels Tony’s hand rest heavily on his shoulder. It should be comforting, but it only makes Peter feel pathetic.

“C’mon, just take a deep breath and—”

“No!” Peter blurts, shaking away from Tony’s grip. “That’s not going to fix anything! I can’t fix this—don’t you see?!”

Stepping backwards, Tony holds his hands up in front of his chest, keeping his expression perfectly neutral. “Okay…” he says carefully. “I think you might need a break.”

Tears prick at Peter’s eyes and he instantly regrets snapping at his mentor. “No, no, I didn’t mean that! I’m s-sorry, ’m fine…” he says. It would probably sound a lot more convincing if his breath would stop hitching.

Tony lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, no, I’m pulling rank here,” he declares. “It’s break time.”

“No!” Peter protests. His hands fumble back on the table for the wires.  “I gotta finish it! It’s so close, it’s just—” He cuts himself off as the images of the suit swim before his eyes, his head throbbing. “I, I need to finish…” he concludes lamely.

“Peter, just stop,” Tony says with an exasperated sigh. “You’re no good like this.”

Somehow, those words are the catalyst. Peter feels every emotion he’s been bottling up for the past week erupt inside of him. His breath hitches and his head pulses. “I, I know I’m not,” he manages to say, “but that’s why I gotta… gotta finish, then maybe—”

“Jesus, kid,” Tony breathes out. “That’s not what I meant at all. I was just saying—”

Peter cuts him off. “No, I… I know…” Tears are sliding down Peter’s cheeks now. He runs a hand through his hair, shoulders shaking. “’M sorry.”

Tony’s eyes are a mixture of concern and confusion. “Whoa, hey, what’s going on here?” Tugging the edge of his sleeve over his thumb, Tony uses it to wipe a few of the tears off his cheeks. “Talk to me.”

Honestly, Peter doesn’t even know where to begin. The frustration of his current project, the lack of sleep, his grades, the scholarship…

“I just… I-I have a headache.”

Peter doesn’t know why he says it—the pressure in his skull doesn’t even rank very high on his list of concerns at the moment, yet the simple physicality of it somehow makes it the easiest thing to admit. He rubs the back of his hand at his eyes, but his vision is still so blurry. “Can’t really see straight…”

Tony’s brows knit together. “Is it a migraine?”

“N-No,” Peter says between choked sobs. “Or... I don’t know, I don’t th-think so?” Despite never having had a migraine, he’s pretty sure that’s not what this is. The pain isn’t anything exceptional—it’s just that he can’t seem to stop crying and he’s so fucking tired.

“Either way, I think you’ll feel better once you’ve got a couple painkillers in you,” Tony reasons. “C’mon, let’s get you sorted out.”

Peter shakes his head in weak protest. “No, ’s’okay... “

“Nope,” Tony says, his voice a little more firm. “Trust me on this, you don’t want to work in a lab right now. It’s bright, and loud, and honestly, you’re a bit of a safety hazard at the moment.”

To Peter’s horror, a fresh wave of emotion comes over him and he finds himself properly crying now, his frame wracking with each sob.

“Okay, okay, alright…” Tony murmurs, and Peter feels a hand awkwardly patting him on the back.

It’s all so idiotic, Peter decides, standing in Tony’s lab, crying over things that are completely his own fault and a headache that isn’t even that bad.

“You’re okay, kid,” Tony whispers. “Just breathe.”

As Peter struggles to pull himself together, he feels the hand switch to rubbing circles on his back. It moves up to the back of his neck, but halts as soon as Tony’s fingers touch Peter’s bare skin.

Tony frowns. “Do you have a fever?”

“Wh-What?” Peter’s throat is thick.

“You’re really warm,” Tony explains. He flips his hand around to press the back of his fingers to Peter’s skin, first on his neck, then on his cheek. “Yeah. FRIDAY, can we get a read on that?”

“100.7, boss,” she supplies.

Tony hums a bit. “Yeah, that’s about what I thought…”

Peter doesn’t get it. “B-But I’m not sick,” he protests. “Just—”

“Exhausted,” Tony finishes for him. “When’s the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”

Sniffling, Peter gives a non-committal shrug.

“Yeah, that’s not good, kid,” Tony huffs. “Take it from a guy who has a bit of experience in this area—not sleeping enough will seriously mess you up.”

With a hand on Peter’s back, Tony starts gently ushering the kid out of the lab. Peter doesn’t even bother protesting anymore as he shuffles along, his lip quivering. He figures he’s caused enough trouble today.

Tony deposits him onto the couch in the living room and Peter immediately curls up against the arm rest, squeezing his eyelids shut in an effort not to think about what a fool he’s making of himself in front of his mentor. It doesn’t help much.

“You just chill out for a minute here, okay?” Tony says quietly, draping a blanket over Peter. “I’m gonna get you some meds.”

Peter nods and Tony gives his shoulder a final squeeze before stepping out.

The second he’s alone, the tears start streaming down again, hot and silent and totally uncontrollable. If he’s not working in the lab, then he really should be studying for these stupid finals, but he can’t bring himself to pull out his flash cards. He doesn’t think he can rest—not with so much hanging over his head—but he can’t work either. Tony was right; he’s just no good right now.

When Tony reenters with painkillers and a glass of water, he doesn’t say anything about how Peter is hurriedly sitting up and scrubbing his face with his hands in a pointless attempt to pull himself together. He just presses two pills into Peter’s palm.

Looking down at the painkillers in his shaking hand, Peter’s stomach twists and he’s suddenly not so sure they’ll be able to stay down. “I can’t. I feel sick,” he admits in a whisper.

With a quiet sigh, Tony perches himself on the edge of the sofa, right beside Peter’s tucked knees. “I think you’re just tired, kiddo. Sometimes that makes you feel a little sick.”

Peter doesn’t say anything so Tony passes him the glass of water. “Here. Humor me,” he says. “If I’m wrong, I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

It’s a stupid joke, but the corners of Peter’s lips twitch anyway. “Okay,” he croaks.

Peter slips the pills into his mouth and swallows them down with a sip of water. He’s queasy, but it’s not too bad. He goes to set the cup back down on the coffee table, but his mentor shakes his head.

“Drink the whole thing,” Tony instructs.

Peter obeys. It takes him a couple of minutes, but he manages to get the entire cup down and feels just the smallest bit better for it.

Tony takes the empty glass from his hand and sets it on the table. “Think you can sleep now?”

Peter just shrugs. He wants to—god, he wants to—but he doesn’t deserve it. Not when this is all his own damn fault. His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks again:

“I think I really messed up, Mr. Stark.”

X

Over the next ten minutes, it all comes tumbling out: the job at Delmar’s, the decathlon requirements, the late patrols, his slipping grades, his scholarship, everything.

“I just… I don’t want to change schools,” Peter concludes softly. “I like Midtown. It was the first place I really felt like… well, like I fit in.”

Tony’s been quiet for the whole time Peter was speaking, but now his brow furrows. “Why would you need to quit Midtown?”

Peter blinks at him; isn’t it obvious? “Because the full tuition is eight thousand dollars a semester. Without the scholarship…” he trails off. “I just can’t do that to May.”

A look of relief spreads across Tony’s face. “Is that all? That’s the whole issue?” He huffs out an amused breath. “Done. Consider it paid. Problem solved.”

Peter feels his cheeks flush. He shakes his head frantically. “No, no, I didn’t mean that you should pay! Please don’t do that!”

Now it’s Tony’s turn to blink at him. “Peter. I am a multi-billionaire. Do you have any idea what eight thousand dollars is to me?”

“But you shouldn’t have t—”

“Peanuts,” Tony cuts him off. “I’ve spent more on peanuts than that.”

“But—”

“And by that I mean actual, honest-to-god peanuts,” Tony continues over the kid’s protests. “There’s this company in Peru that slow-roasts them for twenty-one days in a secret spice blend. Happy’s obsessed with ‘em—says they’re god’s gift to mankind. So, for Christmas one year—”

“You can’t pay my tuition!” Peter blurts out.

Tony stops his story abruptly. His eyes narrow at Peter. “And why exactly is that?”

“Because…” Running a hand through his hair, Peter draws in a shuddery breath. “Because… If anyone should pay, it’s me. I-I’m the one who fucked up and lost the stupid scholarship. I should be the one responsible for fixing this.”

“But you can’t fix it,” Tony says bluntly.

Peter’s caught off-guard. “Wh-What? N-No, I just need to get my grades up, and, and…”

Tony’s voice is gentler now. “You can’t, Peter. You can’t get a 2.9 up to a 3.3 by next week, no matter how well you do on your exams. You’ve gotta know that.”

(Peter does know. He’s known for days. He’s always been good at math, after all.)

“So you can’t keep going on like this, trying to make up for what happened,” Tony concludes.

Tears prick at the corners of Peter’s eyes once more. He’s determined not to let them fall this time. “But I deserve it…” he whispers.

Tony shrugs. “If we always got what we deserved, I never would have made it through the 90s.” He huffs out a short laugh. “At least nobody has to bail you out of prison. Same can’t be said for all of us.”

In spite of Peter’s earlier resolve, the traitorous tears slip out anyway. He wonders how he has any left.

Tony sobers a bit. “You’re a good kid, Pete,” he says quietly. “But you’re trying to carry the whole world on your shoulders and that’s enough to break anyone. It’s okay to ask for help sometimes. Even if you fucked up.”

Peter swallows hard. “Okay.”

“So let’s try this again,” Tony says. He makes eye contact with Peter. “What do you need, kid?”

“Right now?” Peter exhales deeply. “I dunno. A nap?”

Tony smirks slightly. “I think we can manage that.”

X

Peter makes it through finals.

All his extra effort and studying does yield some results. His gym grade increases to a B after Coach Wilson grades his two-page extra credit report on the rules of badminton. The trig final is rough, but he pulls in another couple points there, and the art teacher accepts a few late sketches from the unit on perspectivism. With the help of the final exam, he even manages to eek out a C- in Spanish.

When it’s all said and done, Peter’s GPA sits at 3.1.

“That wasn’t easy to do. I’m proud of you, Peter,” May says sincerely. “You know that, right?”

Peter shrugs. “I guess so.”

They’re sitting together at the apartment’s small kitchen table, May’s open laptop in front of them with all of Peter’s end of semester grades displayed. Peter’s eyes drift down from the screen to the table where a check for eight thousand dollars signed by Tony Stark himself is staring back at him. He sighs.

May plants a quick kiss on the top of her nephew’s head. “Well, I know so. So for now, I’ll just know it for the both of us.”

Peter strokes his fingers over the crisp paper of the check. Besides covering tuition, Tony has now upgraded Peter’s unofficial SI internship to a paid position—something he says he should have done long ago, given how much time Peter spends working in the lab—and that will allow him to give Mr. Delmar his two-week notice.

He knows he should be grateful, but honestly, it’s going to take him some time to wrap his head around the concept of being taken care of like this.

Getting up from the table, May moves over to retrieve a small paper bag from the counter. “That reminds me—Mr. Stark told me to give you this.” She tosses the bag to Peter, who catches it easily.

Curiously, he opens it. He’s immediately hit with the aroma of exotic spices and roasted legumes. Peter can’t help but grin.

A note inside the bag reads: Enjoy your peanuts, kid.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, you might also like: 

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[hangrypa]

Didactic Year, Concluded

What a year.

What I Learned:

- IT’S IMPORTANT TO TAKE BRAIN BREAKS: Which in my case, meant Netflix binges (note all New Girl gifs), working out, and painting. Yes, there is limited time, especially when you spend the majority of your waking hours in the classroom. I tried my first semester without any breaks and got burnt out very quickly. My second semester, I forced myself to take several breaks a day of at least 20 minutes each. I would set a timer and not think about school until the timer brought me back to reality. Even though our second semester was busier than our first, my grades looked better, and I retained much more.

-  CARDIOLOGY IS TERRIFYING: I know, I know. Come on, Hangry! It’s the heart! It’s an organ with four chambers. Yep, I know. But whenever I have to figure out the squiggle of an EKG (forget PQRST, it’s a freaking squiggle) or figure out how to get a patient’s pulse back (anyone who saw me during ACLS watched me basically sweat a puddle around myself) or decipher a murmur (I’m sorry, but you cannot seriously tell me that that noise sounds like it’s a click; there’s nothing click-ish about it). This is my weakest system, which is not good considering that the heart is a superduper important organ that many living things have. And cardiology is also the largest portion of the PANCE, the PA certifying exam. Yipes. This is something I’ll have to review every night through every rotation.

- DRAMA IS EVERYWHERE: Students talk about each other. Faculty talk about each other. Students talk about faculty. Faculty talk about students. Lots of opportunities to burn bridges, and I saw a lot of promising relationships (in the nonromantic sense) destroyed by just a few simple words. Lesson here: don’t talk about other people.

- IT’S THE SIMPLE THINGS: I get to school early to watch the sunrise from the top floor of our building. It’s a beautiful sight- our city line warmed by the yellow rays of the sun slowly rising above the horizon. Between classes during the winter, I go outside, make a snowball, and roll it into a snow boulder. It’s purposeless, yet it brings me an odd sense of accomplishment. Are these strange things to do? Maybe, but I don’t care. I’m happy, and that’s what matters.

- THERE’S STILL A LOT TO LEARN: When I was leaving to start PA school, everyone was telling me, “You’re going to do great!” and “You already know a lot. You got this!” Meanwhile I was trying my best not to crap my pants. I knew it would be tough, and it is. As someone who’s never worked in emergency care, things like aortic aneurysms and Battle’s sign were entirely new to me. OBGYN scares me beyond words, and kidneys still barely make sense to me (to the patients I’ll be seeing soon: please don’t worry, I’ve been studying electrolytes, and I’ll have a preceptor who will watch my every move). 

What Changed About Me:

- MY OUTWARD PERSONALITY: I am a stubborn, impulsive person, but I’ve learned to suppress the stubbornness and impulsiveness over the years. I’ve made an extra effort to do so during this program. Also since starting PA school, I’ve become far less talkative. I’ve never been a chatty person, but I’ve found that by being silent 75% of the time, I can take in what is happening around me and stay out of trouble. Ironically, whenever I do speak in class or clinic, people get really quiet. Whether that’s a good thing, well, haven’t quite figured that out yet.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

- MY STUDY METHODS: I used to read and reread my notes. I found out quickly that this would not work for me in PA school (thought it does work for others). Now I study only by quizzing. I don’t organize my notes. I don’t rewrite anything. I don’t read. I quiz. By using textbook questions and PANCE practice questions, I am forced to think through the material and use critical thinking to find an answer. It also induces a sense of panic many days prior to the exam and tricks me into thinking that I don’t know anything and that I absolutely have to learn it right then and there, keeping me from procrastinating. This method made it easier for me to recall material both during exams and on clinical days.

- MY WEIGHT AND BODY COMPOSITION: As a way to deal with stress, I started lifting heavy weights during PA school. I also started eating a ton. As a result of this, I gained weight during school (more muscle, some fat). Luckily I still fit in most of my clothes (there are some skinny jeans that I just can barely pull over my quads), and it’s interesting because I can see more definition in my arms and legs. As someone who used to count every calorie, this was a good change for me. 

- MY GOALS: I came into school thinking, “I’m going to go into neurosurgery!” Several cadaver lab hours later, I realized that surgery is not my thing. Now I’m more interested in critical care. I have a rotation in the MICU and one in the PICU, so I will find out more about it soon. I also used to think that I would want to work a full-time job as well as pick up a part-time (20 hours) somewhere else. Now I’m not sure. Good thing I have a year to decide.

Thoughts:

- DATING/HOOKING UP: No one in my cohort hooked up with or dated anyone else in our class. However, in another class, there were two people who did, and it turned ugly. I’m not saying that you can’t find The One in your PA class. You can. But remember that you’ll be stuck with the person for the next 2 years. In our program’s situation, the failed relationship/FWB/whatever-it-was led to a huge scream fest at a party the other week, and one of them may or may not have resorted to throwing things.

- SHARE: Doing something as simple as sending a copy of your notes to your classmates every so often or sharing Quizlet sets can be helpful to your classmates. Why would I share my hard work? Good question, especially when you find that no one else is, it can seem pointless. But here’s how I see it: every shared piece of information benefits a patient. Let’s say that you’re in class learning about managing a pleural effusion. You’re diligently taking notes, but Jamie over there is sleeping and basically missed everything. He also doesn’t seem to care. You send the class your notes. Later that night, Jamie is scrolling through his email and happens to see your notes and takes a quick read. For some reason, the way you phrased your notes made the pleural effusion management material really stick. Four months later, Jamie is on his ED rotation. It’s crazy busy, and someone comes in with a pleural effusion. The patient is panicking Jamie remembers your notes on managing pleural effusions and tells the preceptor, “Hey, I can take care of that.” And he does. The patient stops gasping for air and feels much better. And that’s all because of your notes. Sure, Jamie should have paid attention in class. Sure, you might not get direct credit for taking care of the patient. But at the end of the day, it’s all about the patient. As long as the patient gets better, everyone wins.

- DON’T COMPLAIN/GOSSIP (at least not to any students or faculty in the program): Whenever we, the students, have a complaint/criticism of the program...it backfires. Our faculty tells us to suck it up and deal. Literally. Personally, I have a lot of beef with the program, but I don’t talk to anyone in the class about it. When I’m feeling really incensed, I’ll call up family or friends outside of the PA program and drop every single expletive in the dictionary. Or I’ll just type something up on this blog (THANK YOU, PAblr). Also, gossiping about another person will bite you in the ass. The reality of PA school is that people often turn cliquey, and many are also quick to stab each other in the back. Maintain some distance. Save the rants for your family and non-PA school friends (and then buy them a ton of chocolate as a thank you for the listening ear).

- BE NICE: I know that I just said people stab each other in the back and get cliquey. They do. And, yes, I said to maintain some distance. But it’s still important to be nice even if you’re the only nice person in the room. As a class of only 20-something students, we spent at least 12 hours a day, 5 days a week together. And this doesn’t even include weekends when we had outreach events or cadaver lab. When you put a bunch of stressed out people in the same room, people tend to snap or explode at each other. Don’t let that happen. Whenever I found myself close to my breaking point, I left the room and walked the stairs to burn off angry energy. When I returned to the room, my legs would be a little sore, but I found it easier to deal with people. Some of my classmates will be my colleagues one day. Being a PA is about being a teammate. And to be a cohesive team, it’s important to be kind to each other. 

- DON’T CALCULATE YOUR GRADE: I mean, definitely check them from time to time, but don’t sit there and do calculus to determine how many A’s you need this semester to maintain a certain GPA. It’ll stress you out on all levels. You’ll be taking an exam, get freaked out by one question, and think to yourself, “Shit! How many more can I get wrong and still keep a B on this test? Wait! No, I need an A on this test to keep a B in the class! SHIT! I HAVE TO GET 100% ON THIS EXAM!” And then you’ll probably forget all the material you need to know while you sit there calculating and recalculating how many questions you can get wrong on this test. Do not panic yourself. Just focus on learning.

- FLOWERS, CHOCOLATES, AND CARDS: A large bunch of flowers at the grocery store is $5, 1 pack of 10 mini Kit-Kat bars is $2, and a pack of 15 generic cards is $5. In the middle of a stressful week, give everyone - faculty, staff, and students, both male and female - a single stem from the flower bunch and a mini Kit-Kat bar. Write a simple “Happy Birthday, Jamie! Thanks for being an awesome classmate!” on a generic card and give it to Jamie on his birthday. At the end of the semester, on a generic card, write each faculty and staff member, saying, “Thanks so much for your help this semester!” They’re simple gestures that require little money and minimal time, yet they can make a difference in someone’s day. My male faculty and classmates picked on me a little bit for getting them flowers, but it still made them smile. PA school is a stressful time for everyone, and just a little effort on your part can help alleviate some of that tension and stress.

Takeaway Message:

PA school is tough, and there are many ups and downs- academically, professionally, and personally. Am I better than the person I was one year ago? Am I more knowledgeable? Am I a better provider? Yes, I am.

And now I shall go celebrate my one-year anniversary as a PA student.

Best of luck to all those starting their clinical year, didactic year, interviews, or applications!

[jugs-and]

the last couple of months

I have attempted to explain the entire story to various friends - it’s a mighty long story. It’s been a mighty long year, more than I realised before I started writing this account. 

I’m probably the asshole in this situation, but it’s my blog so eh. I needed to say it somewhere for future records because I may be scatter-brained but I take intense pride in record keeping to make up for it. 

0.

19th April - We didn’t talk for a week - she said that she thought I’d given up on her.

1. Opening blows. 

2nd May. It was the most innocent of days - we were just bantering about life. There was nothing really different about the day, it was just the normal Saturday night conversation - I’d just returned from a run, so I was just relaxing with my hairy legs on the table and mixing G&Ts. The call is always the highlight of my week and I was just free-wheeling as the night grew darker and darker. 

I asked about her university time - well, really I had initially opened up about my time in university, and I was recounting it. She has always been deeply fascinated with the enigma of N- and She then just on the train of thought as well, and she recounted, and recounted deeper, with more stories than I had heard before - about attempt to enter the medical exam, and then failing the second time as well. Then she went silent - just completely mute. 

This was a Saturday, so I hung up, and left it. Thinking that I’d be able to continue this the next day. She didn’t say anything the next day, and the day after when I sent through a photo of my breakfast. 

6th May. She sent me an email on the Wednesday about how down she felt - the email was horrific: 

> After our talk last Friday, I felt low, so down like I have never felt in years.

> I just wanted to have a fun, warm conversation with my friend and here I was, buried in my memories, of shame and self-deprecation.

My heart dropped to the bottom of the ocean. The thing about E- is that she remembers everything - she will remember incorrectly as well, if it makes her look worse and in a bad light. 

I had said some thoughts out loud, about her ex-boyfriend being her only support system and I finally realised that it was no small feat to strike out alone to move to New Zealand those three years past. These thoughts which were probably not quite appropriate to say out loud or how I wanted or intended them to sound.

I replied straight away, outlining that I didn’t enter into the conversation with any ill-will or maliciousness. It wasn’t really a good time to point out that her version of events was quite erroneous which is leading to a lot of the misunderstanding - but I didn’t want to be seen as gas-lighting. 

She didn’t reply. 

2. Restarting the Conversation

11th May. A week later, I sent another email because I was honestly just feeling lonely at the time. I thought we were going to go into a hibernation mode where we don’t talk for a number of months and we’d just be in a cryogenic freeze. As tradition, I initiated the email contact with a mindless paragraph with everything on my mind at the moment, how helpless I felt in the midst of all of this to resolve the situation and distance created. 

She replied the next day, which was surprising. I didn’t know what to take from that. She tends to wander off and not return for a while, and act like nothing had changed. 

13th, 14th, 16th May. Throughout the week we continued to trade emails on the topic of expectations and the nature of support in the context of friendships versus romantic relationships. It was sort of like normal, she said that she found the support outside of me, which sort of hurt. I know the words are not really there to injure, but it injures me like someone who was deeply invested in their favourite television show. Here I was watching the series finale unfold in slow motion - with the sinking feeling that I’d been cancelled much too early.

17th May She encouraged me to call her whenever I was ready to discuss. I moaned that communication was hard - I don’t know, she came back discussing tantra practices. 

3. Talking restarts 

19th May - She sent me a Jean Paul Gaultier facemask - but normal talking resumed and it was strangely normal. Photos of nature, everyday things - I was scrambling to get enough content to drag up to the next weekend - but no, we did the normal flirty talks with innuendo and BDSM, which any normal person would see as intensely sexual. 

The next week was fleeting conversations about what was going on in life. It was toward the end of COVID19 restrictions and one of the days I was back in the office with Ashley and Summer. We were going to call that weekend, but postponed because I was at Colin’s house for a bbq on Saturday, and calling Mum on the Sunday. I postponed it out of annoyance, I guess.

4. The beginning of the end 

25th May - E- shared about her weekend, both Saturday and Sunday. We’d been typing for a couple of minutes, so I decided to call. I remember calling outside the meeting rooms and on the way to the central lifts. I remember being surprised she picked up - I was sat in my car for most of it. The first two hours were wonderful, but then we moved onto the topic of religion.

I was so tired and slightly broken. I was increasingly attacked by some earlier comments she’d made about my tortured state-which I thought was sort of unfair. She was also really dismissive about the moment I talked about how busy I was, and alluding to, oh gosh. I could be doing so much else right now. 

There was an unprecedented arrogance to the way I said things - and a few things on yoga, namaste and the spiritual pursuit - I said a lot of things I still probably won’t back down on, but said in incredibly poor taste. E- has a good skill of taking sentences out of context and finding quotes to match and justify the feelings in her heart. It was a four hour phone call, and the last hour was the most difficult hour of my life. I was so defensive, and every part of my body was screaming to burn all the bridges.

26th May - She talked like normal. After I apologised, she said she wanted to move on and We had a conversation like normal - she sent through quizzes to do with inherent biases, and I responded like normal, somewhat, whatever that means. Across messages, and I was in a bridge burning mood. I poured out everything about how dismissive she is sometimes, and they are not respected or explored, even if she doesn’t agree with them. 

I didn’t talk for a week. I was travelling to Cape Reinga that weekend, so I didn’t pursue it anymore. 

5. Silence

Since that conversation, we’ve spoken sparingly. I sent a photo of the signpost at Cape Reinga pointing at Vancouver, recounted about the guy who shouted racial epithets at us in the carpark.

We’ve called twice. Both times, I’ve left very quickly, and I don’t know what I was going to say. 

05 June - The first one, I called, and asked how she was. She’d been distant as always, and I’m not sure if I was supposed to be surprised. She told me about her weekend, and I left after 20 minutes. She was in a shop, and a bit distracted, so I didn’t think too much about it. 

08 June - She returned the favour and called me. Talked to me about her knees, and what sort of state they are in - I’d asked her about them during the weekend because she sounded in some sort of discomfort. She discussed the movies she’d been watching, and I was slightly irritated that she made no attempt to relate the movies to me, but it was a recurring issue which I’d ignored somewhat. 

6. Cooling down

I guess we’ve traded one-line messages over the past week with increasing weariness - and on some level, it feels like the end. I’m greatly relieved that she is doing much better, and it gives me a lot more peace in being able to let go. 

The most irritating is hearing things I told her three years ago, but talking like she’s stumbled on them by herself. I’m realising how little she listens, or trusts in other people. She repeated the same things like it’s the people that are going to save you - the same things I’d been telling her three years ago - fuck dude - that was me. 

The urge in my heart is to say that I feel I’ve never truly been listened to - I’ve never had my words of encouragement, my words of caution, my words of love - they’ve never been treasured. I’ve been chasing after the girl beneath the layers of insecurity, anxiety and longing for maternal care, and full of chronic emotional distance - I don’t know if she is there anymore. While society couldn’t see it, I know I was her first ever real friend, and now I just look like I’m crazy desperate. 

I don’t think she realizes how hard I’ve worked to support and be a friend to someone who has been incredibly hard to be a friend to the past three years. Where she’s had literally no one on the other side of the world - I’ve ignored a lot of bullshit and I’ve always prioritized her above a lot of my other friends. I’m only holding on for the moment because I spent so much time and effort, but I have zero affection whether platonic or otherwise.

7. Burning bridges

We called for a hour on Sunday (28th June), it arose organically, she’d been out for a sushi dinner at one of the top restaurants in Vancouver. I knew she was with H-, so I didn’t really want to call. But she turned on the cam to show me everything about her apartment - shit-talked with zero regard regarding finding people online, and I excused myself as my parents were up for the weekend. At the end she faced the camera towards herself and said “Thanks so much for calling, I love it” with the warmest, cutest smile in the world. 

I’m just here, writing this record. I have a lot of these records, but I don’t think I ever post them, and they become out of date - so they just live in my inbox. But I very much feel like I want to burn every bridge right now. 

[join-the-joywrite]

Women in War -- 2

All Maggie Maravillla ever wanted was to help people. She never imagined losing damn near everything when winning a war.

WiW masterpost

Chapter 2

1935

"I would've enlisted today if the war had gone on now, Buck, no hesitation. "

Maggie's laugh was long and had Steve not known how she meant her different laughs, it would have been mighty insulting.

Bucky grinned. "You wouldn't have lasted two days in training, pal."

Steve rolled his eyes, which caused him to wince as his headache protested. He pressed the ice pack against his forehead even harder. "Always a bully somewhere," he grumbled, "first Hodge, now these jerks."

"You just need to learn to pick your battles," Maggie said, smiling. "Or you could, you know, enjoy your birthday like a normal person."

"Not an option," Steve said, grinning at Maggie, "and aren't you supposed to be preparing for college? With Becky? In Cambridge?"

"Yeah, but I couldn't miss little Steve's birthday. Besides, you should cagar on Bucky. He brought me out to Brooklyn to see you. Becky has a couple of bonus quizzes tomorrow for the really -- desalado? -- the eager ones, and she really wants to excell. She's been talking about moving to London permanently. Apparently, the boys there are cute."

"How would she even know?" Steve asked. "She spends all day in your dorm studying."

"True," Maggie said, shrugging.

"All she knows is that American boys aren't," Bucky said.

"Ow," Steve said flatly, staring at Bucky.

"I actually had an orientation session this week," Maggie said, staring off to the side, "but it doesn't matter. As long as I keep my grades above average, I get to keep my scholarship. I didn't even expect to get in, let alone earn a scholarship."

"Don't sell yourself short, Mags," Bucky said, leaning back in his chair, "you're brilliant. We're proud of you for even going to college."

"It's hard sometimes. I know I've been here my whole life, but I grew up learning from Papá. Do you know how smart I am in Spanish?"

Steve smiled. "Yeah, we know."

"I actually have a hard time keeping up with you when you're mad, and I've been studying Spanish for like, six years. Tio Hugo is a miracle teacher, I'll give him that."

"You're just dumb," Steve said, rolling his eyes again.

"You'll make a fine doctor," Bucky told Maggie, ignoring Steve, "just set your sights on becoming the great Doctor Maravilla and never look back."

Maggie smiled. "Doctor Maravilla," she repeated, "sí, that's gonna be me."

The table was silent for a while. In the background, Evie could be heard chatting away from some friend of hers. The Barnes household was never truly silent. It was something Maggie always loved about Bucky's home -- her home, as Winnifred always made her feel. Maggie hated silence. Silence filled her own house on the days where her father went to work and she was left alone with her mother. Silence was what happened when the teachers caught her and Becky fighting with Hodge or any of his cronies. Silence was what happened when Angel had friends over. Everytime Maggie was subject to silence, it was around someone she didn't quite like.

Maggie hated silence more than she hated bullies. Maggie learnt English curses just to swear biligually whenever she was told to be silent.

So Maggie loved the Barnes household, where someone or the other would always be doing something. Sometimes it would be Allie and Steve arguing about who had the homework answers right. Sometimes it would be Evie loudly chatting on the telephone. Often, she could hear Winnifred and Becky bustling about in the kitchen, trying out new recipes and experimenting with bizarre flavours. Every odd weekend, George Barnes would make a loud noise in the garage, fiddling with some old piece of tech. Becky would join him too.

And very rarely, Maggie would hear Bucky humming to himself as he went about doing whatever he did.

"I ought to get going," Maggie said, wishing with all her heart that she could just stay in her home.

"Chin up, Mags," Steve said, "give it time, you'll be one of America's most sought-after doctors sooner or later."

Steve had no idea how right he was.

1939

Four years later, they found themselves in well into the midst of a world war.

Mi dulce Magpie,

I'm going to bind Steve to the leg of my dining room table and lock the table in someone's safe. He's heard about the war, you know. Do you remember when we had just graduated? You came from Cambridge for Steve's birthday. The little pedazo de mierda got it in his head then already about signing up for war. Now he tells me it's fate. Won't you write him a scathing letter, doll? Maybe he'll listen to you. I'd love to sit and write more, but Evie says she just saw Steve get dragged into an alley. Do remind my scatterbrained sister to read my letters. You're still coming home for Christmas, right? Allie misses your dumb face, doll. I hope to see you here at least a week in advance.

With love,

The better Barnes twin.

P.S. I'll only stop calling you Magpie if you stop calling me Buckwheat.

Maggie smiled as she folded up the letter again. She slipped it into her purse as she walked along the hallway.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

"No, thank you, I'm just here to visit someone."

The young woman raised her eyebrows at Maggie. "Ma'am. . . I don't--"

"I've been here before, angel, I know my way around the office. Mr Edwards' is straight down, right?"

"Er, yes. Uhm, good luck, ma'am."

Maggie never used the endearment 'angel' to mean anything other than 'estúpida mierda'. Making sure the letter she'd read thrice now was still tucked into her little bag, Maggie walked along until she came up on the open office out side Mr Edwards'.

"Rebecca Latimer Barnes, we'll be back after New Year's. We're not going off to war!"

The group of young women dispersed, allowing Maggie a glimpse of the woman that had previously been in the centre of the laughs and smiles. "Felicidades por el engagement, Peggy. Beck, we're gonna miss the plane."

Peggy Carter smiled. "Gracias, Maggie. Do say hello to everyone at home from me."

"You should send a photo, Pegs," Becky said, leaning on Peggy's desk, "although it's a pity Fred proposed. I was sure Buck would've liked to take you out."

Maggie laughed, despite being upset that Becky still hadn't left the office. "If that were true, we'd be offering Peggy condolences. Vamanos, Beck, your bag's already in the car."

Becky sighed dramatically. "I'll see you in the new year, ladies. Let's go, Dr Maravilla."

"Almost a doctor," Maggie said as she waved goodbye to the Bletchley Park women and left, Becky trailing behind.

"Back to work, ladies," Mr Edwards said as he opened his office door. "Miss Carter, a word?"

"Of course, Mr Edwards."

"Has Miss Barnes left already?"

"Just missed her, sir."

"Pity. Remind me to speak to her when she returns in the new year."

///////////////

Becky pulled her suitcase along behind her. "How'd you even meet the guy? And what are you doing for him that he's paying for both your education and our visits home?"

Maggie frowned as she thought back. "I was waiting tables in our eleventh year, you remember? He stopped by and I waited on him. He was a mess -- he still is -- and his food and drink fell everywhere. Last time I cursed like that was when that perra Lucy Kinney stole my shift at the hospital and I had to work the graveyard shift."

"You know, given that you work part-time in a hospital, I really wouldn't suggest calling it the graveyard shift."

Maggie smiled. "Very funny, Becks. Anyway, so he's surprisingly super apologetic about it. Turns out he was stressed over some college exams or something and long story short, we got to talking about college and he felt really bad about ruining my shift at the diner that he offered to pay for my college tuition -- provided I didn't slack off or things like that."

Becky shook her head. "I don't get it. Why? Why would someone just randomly decide to pay for someone else's tuition?"

"Well, he comes from a rich family."

"That makes it all the more unlikely that he'd be so generous."

"Look, Becks, I'm not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. If the man sees potential in me and is willing to pay for college, I'm grabbing it with both hands and hanging on until I graduate. You and me both know my father could never afford getting me into medicine."

"Your mom could."

"Yeah, but who needs her help? I'm actually going to see her before I come by your place."

"I thought you were meeting your darling benefactor?"

"I am. I'm seeing them both today and then I'll come home. Do me a favour and fetch my father?"

"Sure, no problem. Did your darling benefactor call you a cab?"

"I called you a cab." Both women stopped walking at the new voice. "And we all know I'm not Maggie's darling benefactor."

"Howard," Maggie greeted, "good to see you."

Howard dipped his head slightly. "Mags. Mr Jarvis will take your bags to Ms Barnes' taxi, if you'd like?"

Maggie smiled at the young man following Howard. "Hola, Eddie, como estas?"

Jarvis smiled back. "Bien, gracias, Mags. ¿Y usted mismo?"

"Always a pleasure, Eddie. Thank you so much."

Jarvis nodded as he took hold of Maggie's suitcase and gestured for Becky to walk with him.

"So, darling benefactor?"

"She's insane. Leave it to the great Becky Barnes to see through the rosiest of rose-lenses."

"Isn't she a really good codebreaker?"

"Surprisingly, yes. She's actually one of two top codebreakers at Bletchley Park. Our friend Peggy is the other."

"Peggy . . . that wouldn't be Margaret Carter, would it?"

"It would. What a small world, Mr Stark."

"Indeed, Dr Maravilla, it's a very small world. Come on, we have business to discuss."

"Business?" Maggie echoed with a frown as she placed her hands around the arm Howard offered her.

"Business," Howard repeated with a nod, pulling Maggie through the busy airport.

///////////////

"Hypothetically? No. I went to Cambridge to study and become a doctor. I wouldn't want any part in your whimsical ideas, Howard."

"What if the situation weren't hypothetical?"

Maggie sipped her tea slowly. "No. Besides, you can't make superheroes. ¡Eso es ridículo! Maybe when you've got proof this . . . super soldier thing . . . will work, I will consider helping you out."

"Maggie, hear me out, you're England's finest and you're not even qualified yet. How they hate to say your name, because you're better than them all. I could really use your help on this."

"This was never hypothetical to begin with, was it?"

Meekly, Howard shook his head. "No. Look, there's this German doctor who's developing a formula. If I can just persuade some people upstairs to go after the doctor, we could have that formula. We could win the war before it's fully begun."

"I'm sorry, Howard. I truly appreciate all you've done for me, but this isn't the way to repay you. I can't understake . . . missions . . . without any solid proof that I'm doing something right. I'm really sorry, Howard, truly."

Howard nodded as Maggie gathered her things and stood up.

"What about a nurse?"

Howard's voice stopped Maggie. She stood behind his chair, staring at the door. Howard stared at her vacant seat.

"I wanted to be a doctor, Howard."

"You'll have to climb that ladder, Maggie, and you can either work as a nurse in that shitty hospital and sit through years and years of college until they finally think a young Hispanic woman is capable of being a fully-fledged doctor, or you can start as a base camp nurse and actually put your skills to use as you climb the ranks. Your skill is beyond the average nurse, Mags, and you'll get everyone to call you a doctor within months at best."

Maggie squinted at the door.

"Think about it," Howard said, stirring his cup. "I expect an answer by New Year's. Enjoy the Christmas week, Miss Maravilla."

"Likewise, Mr Stark," Maggie said as she left, realising just how much she loved being called Dr Maravilla.

///////////////

Bucky was waiting on the front steps when Maggie got out of the cab. She stood behind the front gate and smiled. "How long have you been sitting there, Buckwheat?"

"Not long, Magpie. How was your meeting with your mother?"

Maggie's expression twisted as she pushed open the gate and walked up to the steps. "I didn't go see her. I was with Howard all this time. He offered me a job."

"That's brilliant, Mags!"

"Sí, but not the job I want. Bucky, I want to be a doctor. Howard wants to make me an army nurse."

Bucky turned his head to look at the woman sitting beside him. "Why do you want to be a doctor, Maggie?"

"I want to help people, I want to fix them, I want to make them better."

"Well, doll, then maybe being an army nurse is more suited to you than studying forever at a college that doesn't really want it's girls to go out there."

"I don't know, Buck. I think I can be one of the lucky ones. I . . . just don't know."

prev || next

WiW masterpost

[missuneyverse]

Life of a Student Nurse

Life as a student nurse means that no two or three days are the same, whether it is lectures or duties. It is tiring and challenging but that is why I enjoy it.

Student nursing is time intensive. You are lucky enough if you have five to eight hours of sleep, we work nights and weekends, and when we are not on duty, we have case presentations to work on, NCM, Health Assessment, Pharmacology, Anatomy and Physiology, and a lot more difficult exams to get ready for, long hours of lectures and laboratories, heavy books, handouts that are so thick, quizzes every day, the struggle of having an all-white uniform especially during rainy days, memorizing a lot of informations for return demonstrations, skipping family occasions just to study and finish your requirements, and ofcourse, less social life because studies is your priority. I know, it is hard, but I don’t mind. There is nothing else I would rather be doing. Working in healthcare can be relentless but you are constantly motivated by your colleagues and the interactions with patients to provide the very best care the public deserves. We all have a common goal, of helping others and caring for those who are in need. L­­­ike every day, you will touch a life or a life will touch yours.

So if your heart of compassion and love is all there is that drew you to nursing, and you have the willingness to care for people, you are what the patients want, and you will feel fulfilled helping them.

Photo above was taken from our duty at Nova District Hospital, delivery room! 😊

[spn-and-daddy-issues]

Drama Club

Word Count: 5.5k (sorry guys, this one got away from me!)

Warnings: hints at smut, nothing in detail though

Author’s Note: This was written for @beckawinchester’s and @boredoutofmymindwriting’s challenge. For this piece I had the prompt “We were both cast in our high school’s drama performance” and choose to do Sam x Reader. I really did not intend for it to be this long, but what can I say, it took on a bit of a life of it’s own and I ran with it. Enjoy!

“Come on guys, just hit your marks!” The student director called from the front row of seats, exasperated.

You heard a sigh dramatic enough to match your own come from your co-star, Sam. You’d been rehearsing for three hours already and with a heavy load of homework still waiting, you were more than ready to call a wrap on the day.

“Back to start!”

The whole cast shuffled back to the sides of the stage to begin the scene over.

It took almost another hour, but finally the student director was happy with the progress and ended rehearsal.

“Hey Y/N, good work tonight.” Sam smiled at you as you put your jackets on and prepared to head out.

“Thanks, you weren’t so bad yourself. Opening night is just a few more rehearsals away!” You gazed into gorgeous hazel eyes and yearned for greater connection with the owner of them.

“We’ve been working on this so long, it’s strange to think that in two weeks it will just be over.”

Before you could respond, Sam’s older brother appeared behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, “Come on Sammy, Dad’s got some work for us to do.”

“See you tomorrow Sam.” You smiled and turned away, leaving the brothers to handle what they needed to.

While you were putting your bookbag in your trunk you heard the brothers come out of the building and head towards their own car. They seemed to be arguing, and even though you tried to not eavesdrop you caught the last few things thrown back and forth before they slammed their car doors.

“I just need a couple more weeks, Dean! Can’t we just finish the school year here? Dad can handle this one on his own!”

“He needs our backup Sammy, we’re sticking together.”

“No. I’m not going. Come pick me up when you’re done, after the show and after the school year ends.”

Sam seemed like such a laid-back guy, you’d thought of him as a bit of a goofy puppy since transferred here this semester. He was a silly, smart, and was talented enough to land the male lead of the Spring Musical within one week of being at the school. It worried you to hear him sounding so upset.

Their car drove away quickly, snapping you out of your thoughts and back into motion. You closed your trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat, slamming your own door. You noticed that you were feeling a bit angry as a response to the thought of Sam leaving. You muttered to yourself and reasoned that it was because you’d be screwed for the musical. Sure, there was an understudy, but he wasn’t Sam. He didn’t have the same voice, the same perfected movements, the same charisma that really made you emotionally invest in his character. And it was that effect on the play that you were worried about, not that effect on you, of course.

Sam was absent at school the next day and you thought the student director was going to have a heart attack with how frantic she was about him missing. The understudy was nervous about standing in for rehearsal without Sam being there, not the best sign for the wellbeing of the show itself.

The rest of the week passed in the same stressed manner. You continued to attempt to convince yourself that you were saddened by Sam's absence for the effect it would have on the show, not the effect it would have on the unfolding of events you had imagined in your mind. The events where Sam finally saw something in you and wanted to be more than costars in the school musical. The events where Sam brought you flowers after the show, but then kissed you on the lips after handing them to you. The events where Sam walked down the hallway by your side, hand in hand. The events that you imagined, wishfully.

As you spent the weekend running lines on your own and finishing up a science project you found yourself drifting into those thoughts of Sam more and more. You knew he wasn’t out sick, from what you heard from his older brother the family had left town. To help their father with, well, with whatever it was.

After spending your weekend in such a way you were very happy to see Sam sitting in his seat in homeroom.

“You’re back!”

“Yeah,” a large goofy grin spread across his face, “Wasn’t feeling well last week, but I’m good now.”

You knew he was lying, but you were so happy to see him back you didn’t call him on it.

The mood at rehearsal lifted greatly when the rest of the cast saw Sam had returned as well. His understudy was clearly relieved as he got to sink back into his chorus role and let Sam slide into the spotlight once again.

The final week of rehearsals went off perfectly, leading to a Thursday night dress rehearsal that ran late once again, to finalize every detail.

“Good work out there, Y/N. This weekend is going to be great.” You looked up from where you were organizing your character’s accessories and props to meet beautiful hazel eyes.

“I’m so excited that it’s finally here!”

You and Sam continued to chat about the show as he walked you out to your car. You noticed the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how he looked down shyly when you met his eyes for too long, how he pushed his long hair back behind his ears every so often. You noticed all these little things, which brought you happiness at being the one to bring about these reactions.

“Drive safe, I’ll see you in the morning.” He smiled down at you as you reached your car, giving you a hug then turning away.

Upon arriving home, you collapsed on your bed, exhausted from the long week of rehearsals and school work. The morning of your first show dawned sunny and beautiful, and with a hug from you Mom, promising to be in the front row to watch you that night.

Your nerves threatened to take over all day, but Sam offered you reassuring smiles and jokes whenever he saw you in or between classes.

The first show went off without a hitch, much to your relief. The natural anxiety you felt in life was both magnified and ripped away when you were on stage, a strange combination.

“A few of us are going to grab pizza and celebrate a great first show, you in?” your friend Matt spoke loudly as he passed by you.

You laughed, “Definitely!”

“Hey, Y/N, could I catch a ride with you?” You were excited to recognize Sam’s voice as the question was spoken.

“Of course.”

The night was full of laughter and excited chatter with the cast and the crew basking in their success over greasy food and sugary drinks.

Somewhere in the evening you became aware that not only had Sam comfortably slung his arm around your shoulders, but that you were also naturally leaning into his side. As you consciously became aware of all of this, you turned to look at Sam and found him looking at you as well, his face closer to you than you expected him to be. Before you could really comprehend that, he closed the space between you and you melted into the soft kiss as his lips met yours.

After a few more seconds, you both pulled back, opening your eyes to gaze into each other’s once again. You smiled, then registered the loud cheering that was surrounding both of you, “Finally!” “’Bout damn time you two!” “Ow ow!”

You giggled, raising your hand in front of your face as you felt a blush rising.

The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, enjoying the weight of Sam’s arm around you, and joking with other friends regarding how they had all placed bets on how long it would take for you and Sam to get together. You were floating, enjoying every second of it.

Those situations you had imagined a few weeks ago became reality as you made your way through the rest of the weekend. After the final show on Sunday Sam did bring you a huge bouquet of flowers, and kissed you backstage as he handed them to you. The following Monday he walked with you between classes, hand in hand.

That week you helped each other study for finals, Sam coming over to your house after school laden with snacks and a heavy backpack. You spread out notes, study guides and books across your living room floor and got to work. You got absorbed in quizzing Sam on history questions, alternating and answering some yourself, and before you knew it Sam’s phone was ringing.

“Hey Dean.” “Yeah, we’ll be done soon.” “Okay, that would be great.” “Thanks.”

Sam hung up and looked over to you, “Dean’s gonna come pick me up.”

You yawned, realizing how much time had passed and how tired you were. “Sounds good, I’m ready for bed and know as much as I’m going to at this point anyway.”

You took advantage of having a few minutes left after cleaning up all of your study materials and made out with Sam for a few more minutes. He pulled away as you both saw car lights swinging into the driveway.

“See ya tomorrow.” He smiled at you, lowered himself to give you a kiss goodbye, then slung his backpack over his shoulder before heading out the door. You watched him walk out to his brother’s car, grateful for that even though the play was over you were still getting to spend a lot of time with Sam.

The rest of the week went much the same, studying after school, feeling stressed about finals, and taking in every second of time you had side by side with Sam. The final day of school came and you all decided to grab pizza again after the last exam, celebrating completing the year and having a three-month summer of part time jobs and fun to get started on. As the night wore on you were concerned to notice Sam’s energy fading and a lack of enthusiasm behind his smiles. You pulled him aside to check to see if he was okay.

“Can we talk outside?” was his only response, his eyes holding a touch of sadness.

You felt your stomach drop, but nodded him and let him lead you out of the restaurant.

“Y/N. The past few weeks have been by far the happiest I’ve ever had. Working with you on the play, finally getting to kiss you, it’s been so amazing.”

“Yep, me too, good talk.” You sensed something bad was coming and attempted to use your humor to avoid whatever upsetting situation was about to be unveiled.

“But…” he hesitated.

“But what, Sam?”

He pushed his hair out of his face and turned his eyes up to the sky, “My family, we’re leaving town tomorrow. I barely convinced my dad to stay this long, we’ll be on the road bright and early.”

You inhaled deeply, “Okay, okay. How long will you be gone?” You were pretty sure you knew the answer, but you needed to hear it from him directly.

“For good, Y/N. We’re relocating for my dad’s job. I’m so sorry.”

You didn’t answer except to embrace Sam and lean your head on his chest to hide your tears from him. His arms wrapped all the way around you and squeezed, his face nuzzling in your hair. It started raining, but neither of you made to move from your current position, just held on to each other.

The roar of Dean’s car jostled you out of your moment.

“Come on Sammy, time to go pack up.” Dean spoke from the driver’s seat with his window rolled down.

You pulled away from Sam and looked up into his eyes, knowing it was for the last time. He used the pad of his thumb to gently wipe a tear from your cheek, and kissed your forehead gently. Neither of you spoke as he walked over to the other side of the car and climbed in next to his brother. Dean shot you a sympathetic look, pulling away as soon as Sam’s door was shut.

Returning to the crowd you tried to immerse yourself in the jokes and witty banter of your fellow classmates, but you couldn’t engage in the activity and excused yourself not too long after.

---------

“Uh, Y/N?” you heard a voice from your past say from the doorway.

You turned your head to look and couldn’t believe your eyes, he was a bit taller and the hair was longer, but sure enough Sam Winchester was standing there looking at you. “It’s actually Ms. Y/L/N in here, Sam.”

“Ah, yeah, of course Ms. Y/L/N.” He smirked as he walked over to your desk, “How’s it going?”

You got lost in conversation, feeling as natural talking to Sam as you did ten years ago when you were a student in this very school.

“Sammy!” you heard Dean’s voice in the hallway.

“Yeah, in here Dean!”

Dean came trotting around the corner into your classroom, “Did you find anything?” Dean paused as he saw you, “Besides a hot teacher?”

“Dean, you remember Y/N? From when we were at school here?”

“Oh, Y/N! Yeah, good to see ya!”

“So what brings you guys back to town?” you asked the brothers.

“We’re just here for work.” Dean answered quickly.

“What are you doing back at the school then? What work are you guys doing?”

Sam and Dean traded a look of silent communication before Sam answered, “We were just visiting the old school, wanted to see if anything changed.”

You could sense a bit of phoniness in Sam’s explanation, but didn’t push it. It had taken you a long time to get over Sam Winchester, investing too much into him again would just be further bad news for you.

“We gotta get back to work Sammy.” Dean shot a pointed look at his brother before turning back to you, “It was good to see you, Y/N. Take care.” He walked out of the room, not waiting for Sam to follow.

“It was really great to see you.” Sam leaned towards you and pulled you into a hug.

“You too, Sam. You too.” You smiled up at him, wishing he’d lean down and plant his lips on yours again, just like he used to. Part of you thought that you saw a twinkle in his eyes conveying he wanted the same thing to happen, but you both knew it would be a bad idea.

He turned away from you and walked out the door, looking back and catching your eyes as he did.

You lowered your head down onto your desk after he was out of sight, sighing deeply. Who would’ve thought that some kid you met doing your high school play would still mean so much to you now? Who would’ve guessed that seeing him again would shake you so far to your foundation?

“Y/N.” Sam’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts, sitting up quickly.

“Sam?”

“Why don’t you come grab dinner with Dean and I?”

You hesitated, unsure how much deeper you wanted to get into this, “Yeah, I’d love that.” You figured you’d regret your decision, but went for it anyway, unable to resist spending whatever time you could with him.

---------

“A ghost? That was a ghost?!” You tried to stop your voice from raising and sounding hysterical, but you were having difficulty absorbing what Sam was explaining to you.

“You’re bleeding, let’s get you cleaned up, then we can work on the whole believing the impossible thing, please?” Sam had his arm around your waist and was guiding you to a chair as he spoke to you. You didn’t even flinch as he pressed a cloth up to the wound on your head, still in shock.

Dean walked back into sight, this time without the salt and gasoline. “How ya feeling princess? You alright?”

You nodded slightly. “I’m alright.” Just a little bit of a lie.

“Between getting whacked in the head that hard and finding out it was by a ghost, I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t.” Dean chuckled, “You must be one tough cookie.”

“I was a drama kid and grew up to teach high school and direct the drama program. That builds resilience if nothing else.” You smiled back at him, starting to feel a bit more clear minded.

“And she’s back.” Sam’s face transformed from concern to relief. “You need a couple stitches in this, mind if we take care of it somewhere other than here? We try not to stick around illegally in school buildings too often.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You reach up and take the cloth from Sam, continuing to apply pressure with it yourself, “My place is only a few minutes up the road. Will that work?”

“I’ll drop you both there and go grab some food for everyone. Burgers okay with you, Y/N?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Cheese, onion rings, and barbeque sauce on mine. There’s a great take out place on the way to my house, I’ll show you when we go by.”

“Perfect.”

The three of you wandered through the silent halls and out to the parking lot, you pausing to lock the doors as you left.

“So why were you at the school this late on a Saturday anyway?”

“Oh, rehearsal had just gotten done a couple hours before and I was cleaning up and taking inventory of what we still needed for the set and costumes to be ready. Show’s only a few weeks away, getting to crunch time.”

Dean just shook his head, not understanding, but Sam grinned as he remembered how passionate you were when you shared the stage together. That fire was what had drawn him to you in the first place, made him argue with his father to return and finish the school year, gave him the bravery to kiss you the first time.

 You tossed back a shot of whiskey from your perch on the toilet seat as Sam sterilized the needle. “It’s still going to pinch, but you only need three or four, so it will be quick.”

“Ready when you are, doc.” You smirked at him and pulled the cloth away from your head.

He wasn’t joking, it did pinch. Quite a bit. But he also didn’t lie, and it was over pretty quickly.

“All set. And just a kiss to make it better.” He leaned down and brushed his lips across your forehead where he had just finished pulling the skin back together.

“All better.” You smiled up at him, remembering once more the draw that his gorgeous eyes had on you.

You heard the front door close sharply and it pulled you and Sam both from the trance you had slipped into. “Food’s here!” Dean called out loudly from downstairs.

“Be right down.” Sam answered quickly, turning back to the counter to put everything back in his first aid kit.

The three of you sat around your small kitchen table and savored your burgers, fries, and the shakes Dean had decided were a necessity.

“So what else is out there?”

“Huh?” Dean looked up from his burger.

“Well, I assume if ghosts are real then other myths are too. Which ones?”

Sam cleared his throat, “Honestly? All of them. Werewolves, Vampires, Ghouls, ancient Gods and Goddesses, Angels, Demons…”

You choked on the fry you had just taken a bite of, “Demons? Angels? It really goes up that far?”

“It sure does, sweetheart. Hell, last year we had to fight God’s sister. At this point we’ve come to realize that there’s no such thing as a ‘myth’.” Dean chimed in.

It grew quiet as you continued eating and attempted to comprehend what the brothers were telling you. Ghosts were one thing. Werewolves and Vampires were one thing. Angels? Demons? God? And… God’s sister? Those were a whole different ball park. Sam and Dean both kept quiet, understanding you needed the time to process.

“I guess… that’s good to know?” You chuckled, your coping mechanism of deflecting heavy truths with humor was still well intact.

It worked well and the atmosphere of the room lightened, allowing the brothers to launch into funny hunting stories that were both educational for you and humorous enough to keep the conversation going. They poked fun at each other for silly mistakes and injuries, joked about their friend Cas’s inability to take things in any way but literally, and laughed about the funniest FBI names that they had used.

“So, what were you hunting when you left school for that week?” You spoke up during a pause in their stories. The food was long finished and all three of you were leaning back in your chairs, enjoying the moment.

“What?” Sam asked, Dean raised an eyebrow at you.

“Back when we went to school together, two weeks before the show you were out for an entire week. You said you were sick, but I knew it was bullshit then, and I really know it was bullshit now. What were you hunting?”

The brothers paused, both looking at each other. You could tell they were communicating silently again.

“Let’s see, that would’ve been ten years ago, Dad was with us….”

“Ah, yeah, if I remember correctly this was just a stop on his way while he was tracking a demon.”

“Tracking a demon?”

“Yep, tracking a demon. The one that killed our mom, actually.”

“Huh.” You pondered the new information, adding it to the list that you had been compiling in your head from the stories they shared.

“I do remember that now, Sammy here threw a fit when we left. He did go on the road with us to hunt some vamps, but after he continued to throw a fit until our dad agreed to come back here so he could finish the school year.”

“I did not throw fits, I merely discussed it with Dad and made him see my point of view.”

Dean laughed, “Oh-kay, whatever you say Sammy.”

You smiled, remembering how happy you were when Sam returned to school. How relieved you were that he was back. What that return would lead to for the two of you.

“Well, this has been great. Thank you for your hospitality, Y/N, but it is time for us to get back to our motel and catch some sleep before heading out tomorrow.”

“Yeah, thanks Y/N. It’s been great catching up. I’m glad to see that you’re doing so well.” Sam’s voice took on an edge of sadness.

All three of you rose from the table, chairs screeching as they skidding on the floor. Dean gave you a quick hug, “You take care now. I’ll be in the car Sammy.” He nodded at his brother as he walked to the front door.

You leaned into Sam’s embrace when he opened his arms, trying to hold your tears back. It had been so long, why were you still this upset over him leaving?

“Take care of yourself, Y/N. You’ve got my number now, if you need anything just let me know, please.” His lips brushed your hair as he kissed the top of your head. This was all too familiar.

“You too, Sam. Be careful while you’re, you know, saving the world and killing monsters and all that.”

“I do my best.”

He released you and took a step back. You held the tears in your eyes until he was out the door, only letting them spill softly when you heard the car start and roll down the street.

----------

You groaned at the headache pounding in your skull relentlessly. It was opening night, you couldn’t get a migraine on opening night!

Swallowing a couple of your migraine pills you walked down the hall to the staff restroom, leaving your student director to continue to get everyone ready. She was the best student you’d worked with since taking over the drama club, she would keep everything on track.

You splashed some cold water on your face and took deep breaths to counter the pain in your head and stomach. The pills should work quickly, you just needed to manage for a few more minutes. After some more cold water and the time in the quiet you felt it start to ease, grateful that you could return to the auditorium and get back to work.

“Ms. Y/L/N, someone is here to see you.” The head of your tech group greeted you as you re-entered the auditorium, pointing to the side of the room. You turned and saw none other than Sam Winchester in a suit, grinning and holding a large bouquet of flowers. He made his way over to you quickly.

“I convinced Dean to swing back through town so I could see the show,” He handed you the flowers as he explained, “Looks great! I know you’re busy, but I wanted to make sure I saw you beforehand so I could tell you to break a leg!”

You smelled the flowers, then looked up at him, “That was incredibly sweet of you Sam, thank you.”

He kissed you briefly on the forehead before backing away, “I’ll be back for the show.”

“Can’t wait for you to see it. Hang around after, I’ll show you around back stage.” You grinned at him, even more eager for the show to start than you had been before.

Your attention was quickly back to preparations and reassurances to your students, but every once and a while Sam would slip back into your mind and you’d smile to yourself.

The show went off without a hitch, and everyone was congratulating everyone else back stage after the curtain fell. You ran around making sure everything was put back in the correct place for the two shows you’d have tomorrow and Sunday, and felt exhausted by the time all the students had left. You were glad your headache had completely faded, and even more glad to see Sam leaning on the wall next to the door, watching you work quietly.

“You were very focused, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“I do appreciate that. However, it’s all done now, so are you ready for that tour I promised?”

“Lead the way.”

You showed Sam the recently redone dressing rooms, excited to see Sam’s eyes light up just as much as yours when you showed him how much better the flow of everything worked than when he and you were students. He asked questions and complimented the show as you walked between places, keeping the conversation smooth and easy.

“And that’s that. I’m really glad you came back to see the show. And I’m really glad you enjoyed it.” You fidgeted with the bracelet you wore, nervous about what you knew was coming next. Another goodbye to Sam Winchester.

“I’m really glad I came back to see the show too. And I’d be really glad if you’d agree to go grab a drink with me.”

That wasn’t what you were expecting, “Don’t you and Dean have to be on the road?”

“Dean dropped me off, Cas is helping him with a case a couple states over. I’m here until they finish that up and was hoping we could spend at least some of that time together. Unless, of course, you don’t want to. If you’re too busy or even just don’t want to, I completely…”

You cut off Sam’s babbling with a strong kiss, reaching up to wrap your arm around his neck and entangle the other hand in his hair. “Let’s just skip grabbing the drink and go back to my place. I have liquor and beer, and a comfortable bed.”

The rest of the weekend passed in a blur. If you weren’t at the school for the show you were tangled up in bed with Sam, or cuddling and watching a movie on the couch with Sam, or running around town to your favorite high school hang outs with Sam. The greasy pizza didn’t taste as good as it did back in high school, but it was definitely fun to be kissing Sam back at the first place you had ever kissed him.

Unfortunately, when you got back from your school day on Monday afternoon you found a shiny black Impala waiting in your driveway.

Dean was sitting in the living room with Sam when you walked in. “Heya sweetheart. It’s good to see you again.”

“You too, Dean. Hope the hunt went okay? Sam said Cas was helping you out with it.”

“Yep, went just fine. Cas wasn’t much help of course, but it was nice to have him around.”

A man in a trench coat appeared behind Dean suddenly, and slapped the back of his head. “I was too ‘much help.’”

You jumped at the sudden apparition.

“I’m sorry, you must be Y/N. I am Castiel, angel of the lord. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, uh, hi Cas. Nice to meet you too.” You stuttered.

Cas turned back to face the Winchesters, “I popped in to let you two know that we need your help. Crowley and I have picked up on another case and you two are far better at interviewing to figure out what’s going on.” Cas’s voice was gravelly, but very musical to your ears.

“Well that’s for sure.” Dean grunted as he lifted himself off of your couch. “Thanks for taking care of Sammy, and for the beer.” He smiled as he waved his empty bottle at you.

“No problem, any time.” You smiled back at him.

This time you were sure goodbye was coming, and you knew it wouldn’t be easy. It would be even more difficult that it had been the previous times you’d had to say goodbye to Sam. Before you had suspected, but this time you knew, that you were head over heels in love with him.

“Come on Cas, we’ll wait in the car for you Sammy.”

You and Sam just gazed at each other as the two other men left the room. You didn’t want to break the silence, but you knew it had to be done. You took a few steps towards him, “It was really great having you here Sam, let me know if you ever pass through town again, please.” This time you couldn’t hold the tears back and they slid freely down your face.

He closed the remaining distance between you and put his hands gently on either side of your face, “I will. I promise, I will.”

He kissed you one last time, softly. You kept your eyes closed as he removed his hands and as you heard his footsteps leaving the room. The house. Your heart broke a tiny bit more with every step he took.

-----------

It had been almost a year. You’d kept in touch with Sam via texting and email, grateful that he was able to remain in your life in at least that capacity this time. It wasn’t the same, but it was sure better than nothing.

The drama club had just surprised you with an engraved plaque as the “MVP” of this year’s show and you were in tears. Between the exhaustion from the work it took to pull off five perfect shows this weekend, to the thoughtfulness and love from all your students, you were drained in the best way possible.

You gathered your things and walked out to your car, placing your bag in the trunk, but keeping the plaque with you to ride safely in the front seat. You slammed the trunk and jumped when there was a person standing next to your car that hadn’t been there a moment before.

“I didn’t make it into town to see the show on time, but still wanted to make sure you got these.” Sam chuckled at the shocked look on your face and held out flowers for you to take.

You recovered quickly, taking them from his outstretched hand and chuckling yourself, “I hope that’s not all you’re here for, Mr. Winchester.”

“What else could you want?” his smirk was just the right balance of frustrating and sexy.

“Get in the car and you’ll find out.”

You got three more days out of Sam Winchester during that visit. And two more about six months after. Soon he was showing up more often, even if he could only stay for a few hours. You relished the time you got to spend with him, excited that it was more regular, even if shorter. Dean would sometimes join you for dinner before going to crash at a motel, usually grumbling about how they detoured four hours on their way back from a hunt just so Sam could get laid. You knew down deep he was actually happy for his brother, but he couldn’t let that soft teddy bear interior shine through, now could he?

You looked back at how your life had changed over the past couple years, and was glad that Sam returning had been one of those changes. Who knew some kid you met in high school drama club would be so important to you?

[kladdagh]

Renew the `Tude

For a long time, I have had people tell me that I had a bad attitude. It was such a force in my life, that for a number of years I thought that I was inherently mistaken about everything. Nowadays, we call it gaslighting, and I have had to deal with it from my older brother (including a Thanksgiving where everything he said was prefaced by the phrase “Well, actually...”), by exes and roommates, and it just keeps going.

Part of the problem might be that I listen to other people too much. I got in trouble as a kid, and the way I avoided that was listening to those in charge, so that I did not step on their toes.

Is it any wonder that by my freshman year off college my girlfriend was cheating on me, my roommate was having sex on my bed whenever I went home for the weekend, and I had ulcers in my throat.

My roommate at the time told me that I didn’t have a positive enough attitude, and my girlfriend told me that I wasn’t manly enough. But it was not my attitude that was the problem, but the fact that I did not like being lied to and mistreated those ways.

Flash-forward about 10 years, and my life was not much better. I had spent a year in grad school in Honolulu: starving, sick, and for a time homeless. I came home and found a congregation to socialize at that could help me recover from my trauma, and for a long time, it helped. I made friends, stayed in touch with folks, even sought social time outside of services. For the record, I’m a Unitarian-Universalist. My views on trinitarian traditions are for another discussion.

By 2012, I started to recover from my PTSD and was doing okay. I found odd jobs and challenged myself to do better, but there was no help from anyone -except mom. I decided to go back to school to try my hand at things. When I studied for my undergrad, everyone told me that I had the wrong attitude about my disabilities. I saw my strengths, but I knew my weaknesses and wanted help for those. The university said that the only accommodations that they could provide were notetaking and wheelchair access. I was ambulatory and could take notes: I needed leeway on deadlines, better clarification on requirements for assignments, and a little extra time on quizzes or tests.

So in 2014, after I made up a wish list of accommodations consisting of those three things, I started attending the community college, and for the first time in my life I got straight As and earned Honors status. My family was really proud, because the first thing people know about me is that I am smart, but my work does not reflect that if I do not understand the assignment, or if I do not manage my time well. My first semester was a real gridiron, too, because it was all online courses. I had never used Blackboard, and the online courses required reading the textbook daily. On top of that, we had summer storms that kept knocking out the power, so my laptop battery stayed in when it was time to take online exams and such (many times with thunder and lightning bursting right outside; talk about sturm und drang).

Move ahead a couple of years, and by this time I am pretty confident in my ability to discern reality. I have never really had trouble with that, but people like to plant seeds of doubt in your head. I worked on a lot of things in that time, and went to occasional sessions with therapists, just or when I was feeling anxiety or tension that would not go away.

A few years ago some tension started to arise between me and my congregation. A woman who had never been friends with me had worked for years to destroy my reputation, and people believed her, because she ingratiated herself to them. She picked me out as an easy target and made things harder and harder for me, so that she could somehow benefit from this by comparison. Of course, I was pretty benign and supportive.

Around this time, we got a new minister, let’s call him Joe. Joe had been physically impaired as a kid, and had worked multiple jobs after high school, gone to the community college, and between Detroit and Chicago, Joe was living the Generation X life of the go-go Bush years. As a gay man, he was stigmatized, but not in Unitarian Universalist circles, and Chicagoland has some dynamite UUs. He was tapped by one of the church matriarchs to take on some responsibility there at the church, because she saw potential in him.

A while later he felt the call to serve more, and eventually to study as a minister. Today, he lives with his partner, recently married after it became legal across the USA. I tell you this so that you understand that for some reason, Joe thought that I was like he was back in 1990. He decided to make this connection, and that what was best for me was to be stirred awake. I was living with family, trying to get a career going, earning honors at college, and am considered a kind and giving person. But as far as Joe was concerned, I was a loser who was going nowhere. He would often say so without saying so. He felt that having me there dragged down the image of his congregation. (UU congregations rarely “belong” to a minister; normally it is vice-versa.)

Given, in recent years, I had become resentful of the standard questions you get from people who have already met you, but did not bother to remember anything. “How’s school?” How am I supposed to answer that? “What are you studying?” Do you mean classes, major, etc.? “What do you want to be when you’re done?” Are you noticing a theme, yet? The questions are supposed to have some clear and concise answer, but are too complicated to answer. They just want to hear “Fine, (major), (profession).”

Around this time, my mom got sick on a few occasions, and it had me worried, since I take care of her on a daily basis. She rarely needs serious attention, but it is better than when she was alone, and she takes care of me in return, because we’re all we really have. So if I shared with people that my mom was sick or in the hospital for something, the question came, and it was just as complicated to answer. When you are caring for someone who has recurrent problems and isolated/non-recurrent ones, her status is very relative.

Enter Joe, who decides that my mom is just enabling me to live in a second adolescence, a term he tried to borrow from trans-folx term ‘second puberty.’ It is offensive no matter how you slice it. Around this same time, I started participating in worships, as in writing and selecting stuff for services. Joe hated this and felt that I was the wrong person for this position. But rather than say so, he got the coordinator, Amy, to monkey-up the scheduling so that I got booked less, and only when there were guest speakers and guest worship-leaders. It even got to where someone else from the team would be called in without my knowledge, to do my tasks. If they did not want me on, then just had to say so. I did not participate in this for some egocentric reasoning, even if I was accused of such when I brought up the scheduling issue.

At the time, I was part-time teaching adult education for personal finance classes. I had more students than anyone else in the organization, and I had more consistent results on my test scores. My supervisor, Sandra would regularly curse at me and treat me like garbage just because she could, and if I complained, you can bet that it was put back on me.

The point is that for both Joe and Sandra, they thought I was getting off easy. Abusers tend to say that the victim could have things a lot worse. Ariel Castro did this in his trial: justifying that kidnapping and raping women was better than killing them. Think about that a moment.

Now a supportive person who really wants to nurture and foster you will try to think if there is something you or they can do together that will improve the situation. If you remember, Oskar Schindler said as he was fleeing with his protected Jews that if he had sold his car or his cufflinks or his party pin that it would have bought more lives to be saved. Sandra told me that I could have it a lot worse, and that I could find somewhere else to be, because I did not matter to her, and on more than one occasion tried to unfairly dismiss me. Joe played his games and probably thought that it could be worse for me. Heck, he probably thought it was better than I deserved. I remember that back in Honolulu, the keepers at the homeless mens shelter always seemed to think that treating us badly discouraged us from wanting to stay homeless and that mats loaded with blood-sucking vermin, and eating a carb-heavy meal with reggae music played loud to prevent conversation was all better than we deserved. They did not even stock soap or TP in the bathroom. When inspectors came by, a ping-pong table would be brought out. Wow!

And I remember that at the time I was living this way or after I was able to secure housing, some idiot told me that his buddy was able to walk into a store and basically demand a job, because he cleaned himself up and had the right attitude.

Enter Bailey Poland, one of the most brilliant contemporary writers I have ever read, someone whose personal story gives me cause for admiration, and who recently wrote a piece titled No, Our Attitudes Aren’t the Problem. I used to not have any real answer to the question “If you could meet someone living or dead, who would it be?” Now, my personal answer would be Bailey Poland. I genuinely enjoy her writing that much for its clarity and exposition of thoughts that I share.

Her piece is provocative, because it challenges the idea that while you can not always change the environment, you can (meaning “should”) always change your attitude. She points out that for minor issues, it is certainly advisable to laugh it off and be kind when offered the chance. Example: Earlier today I was at the library to return and borrow some things, and a mom with two adorable little ones was having them take charge of returning things. She apologized, but I said it was fine, because they were helping. I love kids (though I could never eat a whole one), so I love watching them do stuff like that. The younger one with a bald head looked at me after I spoke, and I flashed a big smile.

I could have gotten cross, or I could have admired the adorable children and bided my time, since I was in no hurry. That’s what we mean when we talk about changing your attitude. Attitude shifts like that are when you look out your window or look out your door and say “How about that? Another nice day!” It does not work when you suffer from depression, so you can not grin and bear it; and if you are being abused by others, then it is not up to you to tolerate the abuse and let your smile be your umbrella.

I got in trouble with Joe, Amy, and Sandra around the time that I had to put myself in for counseling. I had put up with worsening abuse for two years, with the worst coming in the previous six months. This was one year ago, this month. What got me into therapy was that I could not stop myself from thinking about suicide, and this was worse than normal. I wanted the pain to stop and I could not get it to stop as long as people in charge of these parts of my life kept hurting me. So after starting weekly sessions (that later went to monthly ones as I recovered) I decided that I needed to assert myself over my life and stop letting these abusers and bullies push me around like they had something on me.

I especially loved when Bailey talks about getting migraines from her old job, because I got them from my struggles, too, though not always as severely. My reaction was one of anxiety and upset, having meltdowns when I got home. Fast forward to May and as I am taking finals and Joe has church leaders write a letter to tell me to go away, my mom has massive internal bleeding in her esophagus and I am terrified.

Every other day when I went in to work, I was dreading the phone call that said she was gone, but the call never came. In a week or so, she was back home and feeling better, though not for lack of my tears and prayers. I remember that when I got the news that she was coming home, I let everyone in the office and my class know. One of the staff said to me that I was just a big baby for being so glad to have my mom be okay. (I chose the wording of my response carefully, because that was a really nasty line to cross. My words were assertive and devoid of foul language.)

Fast forward to August, and Sandra stood in front of my team, our partner-site supervisors, my mom, and a few notable folks, and while giving awards out, praising the people she liked, felt the need to roast me. This fifty-something year old woman stood there with braided hair extensions in a coral-color bodycon dress and matching gladiator pumps, looking like a black, fatter Cher circa variety-show days. She made fun of me in front of everyone, saying that I had opinions that did not matter, because she was the boss. To disclose what her opinions included that contradicted mine, she felt that grant money could be used for anything, even if the programs failed, and nobody would check; as well as feeling that her training sessions for us could include her army stories (despite complete irrelevance) and attempted stand-up routines, because she could have us sit there and do nothing for eight hours and it would be fine. If this paints enough of a picture for you, we can move on.

The general sentiment among Joe, Amy, and Sandra was one of self-exceptionalism. Like a lot of bullies when in authority, they felt that the rules did not apply to them, and that nobody supported them or was competent. They had gotten away with previous infractions, so why not bigger ones? Folks like these enjoy setting terms. So what they say is how it is, but how you say it is can only be what you perceive. Listening is only done to respond, and they have to feel that you respect their authoritah.

Oh, but of course, it keeps going from there, as we quickly enter into the realm of how these people abuse you, personally. And that is where we come back to the roasting I received from the coral nightmare. Because the fact was that I was on my way out the door from this job, so she did not have to say a word. She could have left me with a positive sense of things and managed to put forth a kind word in the very end. After all, my students’ test results were responsible for the awards we were getting: in the course of a year, I taught more students than anyone by a factor of twelve, and the test scores were consistently higher. She could not indict my ability to teach, although on several occasions she did, so she just vaguely degraded me by saying I was opinionated about things that did not matter. One final barb, the last word. I said nothing. I abstained from a rebuttal, because it would be making a scene, it would be letting her win. She had found a way to get hers in without me being able to come back. And in her mind, I could have had it worse.

Fast forward to Halloween of 2016, and the younger brother of a college friend who lived in the next town over (with my friend, his older brother) asked his family to take care of his dog before he shot himself. He had felt like he was garbage ever since college, despite the fact that he was getting his graduate degree in psychology. The poor job market had taken its toll by draining away his hopes and dreams as more avenues closed with every passing year. By Joe’s measures, this guy was a success: job, car, his own place, dog, prospects. (He was even a really talented musician in a band.) By my measures, he had a lot going for him and that I could wish for. But those milestones do not bring happiness.

Let me make something clear: our society’s obsession with constant happiness is more of a problem than anything else. If we focused on contentment sparked with moments of happiness, we would be better off. Life is not about being perfectly happy or contented all the time. Contentment is found, hope is found, and an attitude to drive you onward is forged in the heat of struggles to be tempered in the refreshment we find in those moments of contentment. That is why when we see poor people or prisoners who take a moment to relax and feel free, we need to take stock in it and value their strength.

There’s a misquote from Eleanor Roosevelt that “Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent,” but the real quote is far more rational.

The yellow journalism of the time tried to reform her statement into something more memorable or catchy, but the misquote is false, wrong, and stupid. People like to dust it off to talk about the other person’s attitude as a victim mentality. My older brother used to call it having a pity party, and before the term “special snowflake” was tossed around, he would call me the self-important little prince, because I did not like it when he said hurtful things that were out of line. In his mind, it was to toughen me up, because the real world was harsh. He had severe depression from some kids he thought were his friends ganging up on him after school one day when he was six or seven and throwing his shoes down in a chilly creek. As he didn’t come home, my parents worried and called the police; finding him down in the creek, bawling his eyes out, having found one shoe, and looking for the other.

I was an easy mark, because I trusted him and loved him. I tried to look up to him, because he was smart and could be funny. But he hurt me, and what he did was not toughening me up. Rather, it was teaching me that I was powerless to stop others from hurting me. That powerlessness has been what others have preyed upon my entire life: my trusting nature, my willingness to abide some hassle for a greater good, and my honesty.

-My girlfriend used that against me when she would tear into me, hit me, and use me sexually. Because wasn’t it better to have a girlfriend than nobody? -The woman at church used it to make me sound like a creep, because I was myself with people, which meant she could raise doubt in folks that there was another “side.” -Joe, Sandra, all of them used that same mentality -or attitude if you will- to say that they could do worse and I could have it worse, and not once seemed to think of if they could make it better without somehow penalizing me. -Private student lenders do this, too. Just yesterday, one of their drones -at a company that shall remain nameless- told me that people like me needed to step out of our comfort zones. Another person from them told me that I should try to butter up rich people to pay my student loans to them. And the wording they use always seems to suggest that I should go turn tricks or get a sugar mama/daddy to take care of things. And in all of it, they ignore the benefit of the doubt that maybe you have the right attitude and are doing your best. Maybe you are a good and worthwhile person. Maybe you give and are kind, and it is they who are ungrateful, because they do not recognize the opportunities and blessings they were granted. Bailey Poland writes about this in the same piece as earlier, noting that a speaker degraded boys from his neighborhood for not surviving high school, while he made it out & went on to obtain a PhD. It reminded me off another “winner” named Simon Sinek, who talked about Millennials in the Workplace. He certainly asserts a lot of generalizations about Millennials without benefit of the doubt. It reminded me of one scene from 12 Angry Men and then another. She goes on to say (and I have to directly quote her, because the incision of her words is surgical):

As I sat and listened to him harangue people for simply not working hard enough, not wanting it badly enough, I wondered about his dead friends. Did they not work hard enough to live? Did they not want it enough? Why does his luck – and it must be noted that a great deal of his success is due to luck – outweigh the impact of systems that mean children die? And further, why should we not acknowledge that it is unjust that he had to work as hard as he did to achieve a fraction of the success mediocre people born into other circumstances often enjoy? Why should we not acknowledge that the barriers he faced and that killed his friends should never have existed in the first place? Why should we not acknowledge that people who do beat the odds are often held up as reasons to avoid making any actual improvements? That is what chiding people about a positive attitude and a “victim mentality” does. It blames dead children for their own deaths. It keeps us so focused on trying to replicate the methods of a few successful people that we never take a step back and think about why so few people are able to have those breakthrough moments in the first place. It keeps us mired in a sense of personal failure rather than breaking down systems that hold us all back.Next time someone posts a meme or a tired adage about how it’s our attitudes that are the problem, be the one who takes that step back.

-Bailey Poland, No, Our Attitudes Aren’t the Problem (March 28, 2017)

Not since the quote from Eleanor Roosevelt that I offered you earlier have I felt so inspired and known that there are voices from people who -for lack of a better phrase- “get it.” Mrs. Roosevelt said that first the creeps who need to feel superior have to find in you or me someone who they can make to feel inferior. They have to find the button to push, the proverbial chink in the armor. There are a couple of ways to resolve this:

1. Don’t give them a reason, either by:   a. Being invulnerable and protecting others (which is impossible to maintain)   b. Being so vulnerable that people protect you (which is difficult to maintain)   c. Letting your vulnerabilities show and learn how to defend them

2. Spoil the fun of it for them   a. Stephen Fry suggests when being accosted to exclaim “Stop, you’ll give       me an erection.” I did a similar thing by moaning when my brother would pin     me down and twist my arm.   b. You could self-promote as long as you are humble and not a braggart.   c. Don’t even acknowledge the shade they throw. Don’t give it license.

It is often said that living well is the best revenge, and I would add that if someone seems so content as to push you out, then continue to do your best until the day that you turn around and drop them so that your absence is more stunning, your omission more glaring, and your silence more stirring than anything they can do or say to you. Because in the end, a lot of a positive attitude is about showing due or undue respect for others. Torah says to judge a person’s heart by the kindness they show to the innocents and those to whom they do not need to be kind.

As a UU, I am loathe to cite a biblical passage, but I was reading it last night when a TV preacher took half a line from line 34 way out of context. Around lines 29-37 there is a certain sentiment that I will close with (but by all means, read the whole chapter, as it is an interesting chapter). Jesus talks about the holy spirit as the right and magnanimous actions that he does which others in power should also be doing to set the world aright and bring about justice. The holy spirit or the will of god or howsoever you choose to believe: is an attitude within humanity of acting in the stead of god. It is not an egotistical idea of self-righteousness, but rather that if someone is struggling and asking for help, you help them. You do not shame them or tell them they have the wrong attitude. You do not label them as a bad person or try to penalize them as motivation to work better.

Joe liked to think that his hurtful words and actions were a wake-up call for me, as if I was asleep to certain realities and needed to pull myself out of things.

9 Going on from that place, he went into their synagogue, 10 and a man with a shriveled hand was there. Looking for a reason to bring charges against Jesus,they asked him, “Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath?”

11 He said to them, “If any of you has a sheep and it falls into a pit on the Sabbath, will you not take hold of it and lift it out?12 How much more valuable is a person than a sheep! Therefore it is lawful to do good on the Sabbath.”

13 Then he said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” So he stretched it out and it was completely restored, just as sound as the other. 14 But the Pharisees went out and plotted how they might kill Jesus.

I highlight that quote, because a minister is often called a shepherd of men, and if one of your flock is stuck in a rut, then you help it out. Most creatures I know try to get themselves out of ruts and pits. They do not need someone to comment on their attitudes. And when Joe’s actions and words were making me resign myself to death, where was the help? It took seeing a man -with a brighter future who was younger than I was- take his own life that made me resolve to keep trying; like Thorin Oakenshield in the diaspora.

Sometimes, instead of a splash of cold water to the face, we need a breath of fresh air.

Thanks to Bailey Poland for writing a great piece on attitude and resolve in the struggling individual. You’re one of the best.

[jjaywmac]

2

Marcia

You have just been the victim of what is known in television as a “tease.” It is something, or anything, to keep the audience watching and away from the clicker. So while I still have your attention, let’s discuss my new career.

Since I wasn’t trained to do anything except throw a baseball, the field was wide open. Growing up, I was fascinated by my father’s work. The usual conversation at the dinner table was a discussion of the case he was working on. Dad would give facts and clues, and it was up to Tommie and yours truly to close the case. Being financially secure and having, as the players might say, “time drippin’ out of my butt,” I figured what the hell.

In the state of Florida, you don’t just proclaim yourself a Private Investigator, there is a course to take. But since this is Florida, you are only required to show up for twenty-four of the forty hours. Three weeks and a practice test later, I drove up to Orlando to take the exam. As I sat in the room with a group of nervous candidates, it occurred to me that the same people who ran the Inquisition had quizzed me in College – the Jesuits. No lousy State exam bothered me. I passed. So, now armed with a card that announced me as a licensed Private Investigator in the Sunshine State, I set to work.

I passed up the obligatory office on Main Street for a desk, a couch, two chairs, and some file cabinets. My den is now the World Wide Headquarters of Vic Landell Investigations.

In my first year on the job, the cases I worked on fell into two categories. Fifty percent were suspicious wives who hired me to follow their husbands to discover if they were getting a little sumthin’ sumthin’ on the side, and the other fifty percent were curious husbands who had hired me to find out if their wives were playing hide-the-salami with the pool boy. Many are the nights I spent parked outside a strange house, armed with my trusty Nikon. In time, I earned the nickname “Wrecking Ball” because of all the happy homes I’d broken up. OK, so I wasn’t on the hunt for the Maltese Falcon, but I was a Florida private eye. From jump, I made myself a promise that I would work hard and take the job seriously like my dad – no dilettantes here.

You have been very patient, so let’s talk about my date. This, by the way, is not a first date. It’s probably the 101st date. Tonight, I’m seeing my girlfriend. What’s the big deal? You haven’t seen my girlfriend. Welcome to my whirlwind romance.

It all started about six months ago. The National Muscular Dystrophy Telethon was held on Labor Day weekend, and I volunteered to help answer phones, tend bar, or whatever they needed. The chairperson had other plans in mind.

“Would I bring something for the auction?”

I obediently autographed two baseballs, put on my Hugo Boss tuxedo, and headed up the Trail to the Van Wezel Center. All the while wondering why anyone would bid on a ball signed by a relief pitcher that was no longer capable of providing relief?

When I arrived, Mrs. Farnsworth, a classic southern matron with what you might call an air of entitlement, welcomed me with open arms and made a fuss about my donations. Jeez, you would have thought I brought the Magna Carta. I did a little schmoozing, signed a few autographs, ate some shrimp, and then as I looked across the Center floor, I saw her. Oh Lord! Of course you could hardly miss her. She was six feet tall and had on a pair of five-inch stilettos. Poured into a black cocktail dress, not only did she tower over all the women, she towered over the men as well. I wonder if Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay got this feeling that first day? But that was only the beginning. Flawless skin, red hair, green eyes, and lips that screamed KISS ME. The body? Put it this way, she could put on a potato sack, walk into any strip club in South Florida, and be hired on the spot. I can’t tell you what the band was playing, but my brain was playing “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress,” in allegro vivace. If I did nothing else tonight, I was going to meet that girl. Walk over, look her right in the chin, and say hello.

In a woman, I look for intelligence, a sense of humor, and – well, I’ll cop to it – nice legs. As I walked toward her, she turned slightly, opening a strategically placed slit up the side of her gown to reveal the longest, most beautiful leg I had ever seen. So, you can check that box. As I got closer, I did what a lifetime of practice taught me – checked her left hand. No engagement ring and no wedding band. Further proof of what I’ve always believed.

“The men in this town are either gay or blind.”

She saw me approaching, and her smile turned to a scowl. Through clinched teeth she said,

“I don’t like you.”

Could someone please remove the ice pick from my heart? The scowl turned into a big, warm smile,

“Because I am a Cubs fan.”

I broke up laughing and so did she. Another box checked.

“Since I know who you are, let me introduce myself. My name is Marcia Glenn. I saw you play in Wrigley Field and sat there wondering how this guy with his assortment of junk pitches could get out my beloved Cubbies.”

I’d been ripped a new one in the nicest possible way by the hottest woman on the Gulf Coast. Fumbling for a line, the best I could do was,

“Sometimes I wondered the same thing. So, what brings you down here?”

She saw me sizing her up and down so decided to return the favor, head to toe in a glance.

“I’m working the room. Actually, I’m a news anchor at WWSB, and we’re the local station for the telethon. We all chip in, and I got stuck doing our hourly cut-ins.”  

In my whole life I’d never felt less glib or clever. I decided it was safer to ask questions and let her do the talking – safer for me anyway.

“Are you going on soon?”

“Yes, my last spot is in five minutes.”

Thinking fast, I came back with the unbelievably insipid,

“Would you mind if I stood here and watched?”

That brought another smile,

“It’s fine with me, but the cameraman may not care for it, you’re in the shot.”

“Sorry.”

Sure hope she goes for the awkward, clumsy type. So I moved and watched her effortlessly seduce her audience. Besides being drop dead gorgeous, she was smooth and in total control. She did her bit and signed off. In those three minutes, I had formed my next question,

“Would you like to get out of here?”

Too soon? Keep in mind that to a ballplayer, “Would you like to get out of here?” usually translates as, “Would you like to go back to my hotel room and do the horizontal mambo?” With a disarmingly coy look, she replied,

“What did you have in mind?”

This was a woman who, no doubt, had heard every pick-up line east of the Mississippi. Now, hoping she wouldn’t laugh in my face\ I pressed on.

“Coffee for you, ginger ale for me.”

A moment that seemed like a lifetime passed and then,

“OK, Lefty, you sold me.”

We said our good-byes to Mrs. Farnsworth, and moments later, her 3 Series BMW convertible was following me down The Trail. I had just accomplished one of my goals in life – leave a big event with the best looking woman in the place, even if it was just for coffee. By the way, the next day I was informed my baseballs went for one hundred dollars apiece. The only possible explanation: Someone was desperate for a tax deduction. A right onto Bee Ridge Road and a couple of blocks later, we arrived at the only place still open on The Ridge, Denny’s. Our Sarasota is sometimes referred to as a sleepy little town, and not without reason. Yes, they roll up the sidewalks at 8pm. So, now having guided this long drink of water into a booth, it was time to do a little vetting of my own.

“Where are you from?”

“The burbs of Dallas, Los Colinas.”

I broke out laughing. She didn’t see the humor.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry, Marsha, it’s just that every year I watch the Miss America Pageant, and every year Miss Texas is a six-foot redhead with legs that start at her neck and end in El Paso.”

“While that is probably true, that’s not me, and it’s not Marsha, it’s Mar-c-ia. Besides I’m not six-feet tall, I’m five-twelve. You get credit for one thing, you didn’t fall back on that tired, old witticism, ‘they grow ‘em tall in Texas.’”

Christ, that was my next line. Rethink.

“So how did a Texas girl wind up in Wrigley Field?”

“Northwestern. Since I was seven, I wanted a career in broadcasting and opted for Evanston. That and college were a chance to see more than Texas. In the spring semester, I arranged all my classes in the morning and then jumped on the red line to catch the first pitch on Addison.”

“Wait a minute. I spent my career sitting in bullpens with six horny pitchers, tw0 horny catchers, and one horny ball boy. Most of the time we didn’t know what the score was, we were too busy scoping out the local talent in the crowd. These were guys who could spot a hottie ten blocks away. How did we miss you?”

“April and May were much too cold for a Texas girl. Didn’t you see me? I was the one with the parka on top of baggy sweats, a ski cap, and a ski mask covering my face.”

“I get it – no tank tops or shorts before June.”

Let’s see if I can pull a gratuitous complement out of her.

“When you saw me pitch, did you think ‘he’s kind of cute?’”

“I might have, but you have to remember, I was very busy hating your team…and you.”

Kiss my gratuitous complement good-bye. The server brought a second cup of coffee and another Canada Dry as we delved deeper into the life of Marcia Glenn, Cubs fan.

“After college, I was ready to start my career and sent tapes out to a number of TV stations in very small markets. I soon received responses from News Directors who were thrilled with the idea of a leggy redhead doing their weather. Well, I didn’t go to college to become someone’s weather bunny. And since no one wanted me to be a serious journalist, I did what all of my friends who couldn’t find a job did. I went back to school. In my case, it was Cornell Law School.”

Smart. Three boxes, a perfect score.

“Networks are hiring reporters and anchors with law degrees, thinking that a J.D. makes them credible. Watch Fox News, the women are gorgeous and all attorneys.”

Notes to self: 1. Tomorrow, go Home Depot and buy a stepladder and, 2. Send a nice note to Vera Wang or Hervé-Léger or whoever designed that dress.

“I tried again after law school and this time got an offer to be an anchor/reporter for a very prestigious station. Two weeks later, I was the newest, youngest member of the Newswatch3 team at KDIK.”

“I’m quite willing to be impressed, but I have never heard of KDIK. Where is it located?”

Her bluff called and her cover blown, sheepishly she admitted…

“Idaho Falls”

I almost spit up the ginger ale. I laughed, she laughed, the server laughed, and the couple in the next booth laughed. When order was restored, she continued.

“That’s how it works in Television. Start at the bottom and work your way up. So for me, the bottom was the 162nd market. Three years later, I was an expert on Bonneville County and ready to move on. My chance came when I got an offer from WWSB, Tampa – the number 13 market. What they didn’t tell me was that, while it reached the Tampa area, it was located in Sarasota. I said yes and here I am.”

Are you ever?

“So, the game plan says that the next jump will be to a major market and then to a network. There is, however, a problem with the game plan…”

I think I knew what was coming.

“Let me see if I can guess. You love Sarasota.”

“You hit it.”

“Well, this bodes well for me – a redheaded goddess who doesn’t want to leave town.”

“Now that I think about it, you were rather cute, or maybe I’m just a sucker for a man in uniform.”

“By the way, in case this goes south, do you have a sister?”

“Katelyn, and she is married, so you better not screw this up.”

We made a date for the next Saturday. She’d come over to my house, and we’d go to Phillippi Creek for lunch. A tall redhead from Texas had just put the fun back in fundraiser. On the way home, I kept saying to myself,

“This is no bimbo. I’m back in the big leagues, and if this is a dream, I will gladly kill the guy who tries to wake me up.”

Saturday came and promptly at noon, the BMW pulled into my driveway. She stepped out of the car wearing cut-offs, a tank top and most importantly, flats. I’m six-foot one, and she had just leveled the playing field.

“Welcome, but you should have brought a bathing suit.”

“Honey, this is the Sun Coast – there is one under my clothes, another one in the glove compartment, and an emergency back-up in the trunk.”

We walked through the front door and into what Floridians call the great room. Which translates as “no walls.”

“Well, I see you’ve done the whole place in early bachelor.”

“Yes, it does cry out for a woman’s touch.”

Would you like the job? Full time? She looked around and then noticed the sidewall.

“I always say that no Florida home is complete without a portrait of an aircraft carrier.”

“CVN-72, the USS Abraham Lincoln. My brother is a carrier pilot and that’s his ship.”

“So, how come a good looking, well-off guy like you hasn’t been roped, tagged, and branded?”

“Well, since you asked. You are a Baseball fan. Do you know the name George Brett?”

“Sure.”

“George had a brother named Ken, a really good guy known to one and all as ‘Kemer’, and his philosophy became my philosophy. A baseball player has a lot of opportunities, see also temptations, and it seems crazy to get married and then spend half the year being unfaithful, so, don’t get hitched until after you retire. If you are single, you can do anything you want. You can two-time, three-time or even four-time. Once you put the ring on, everything changes, no more straying, no foolin’ around. Kemer is gone now, but his philosophy is alive and well and living in me. Do I believe in marriage? Absolutely. My parents had a fabulous marriage. That’s my story. Now what about you? How is it that a mouth-watering redhead is not bedding down in some oil baron’s ranch house?”

“I’ve had my chances. I went with a guy through college, and it looked like we were headed toward the altar until one day he broke it off. He told me that he wanted more. And that ‘he couldn’t be what I wanted him to be.’ Whatever that means. Combined with the ever popular ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’ And, of course, like so many women, I immediately blamed myself, wondering what’s wrong with me. In time, it was replaced by a brisk screw him, and I threw myself into my career.”

“More? Are you kidding? You are beautiful, sexy, smart, funny, and have legs for days. What else is there?”

With a smile that could break your heart she replied,

“He didn’t say, he just left. You are a sweetheart, but enough with the bargain basement flattery, I’m hungry and you promised me lunch.”

Note to self: NEVER leave this girl waiting.

“So, padna, as we say in Texas, let’s mosey over to the chuck wagon. Do I get to drive the Lotus?”

“Not today. We’re using an alternative form of transportation.”

Those legs followed me into the backyard, past the pool, down to the dock, and into my 15-foot boat. No surprise, it’s a Boston Whaler.

“Where are we going?”

“As promised, Phillippi Creek, via the scenic route. I’ll drive and you lie gracefully across the front cushions.”

“Lie gracefully? Really? Is this lunch or just a clever ruse to get me into my bikini?”

What I lack in intelligence, I make up for in cunning.

“OK, Lefty, your boat, your rules.”

In a flash, the cut-offs and tank top were gone. I nearly fell out of the boat – from stem to stern. Seventy-two inches of goddess in a black bikini, and the legs were only the start. Some girls are fun; this girl is an amusement park. Believe me when I tell you, Disneyland is so not the happiest place on earth. I almost felt sorry for the guy who passed up the chance to marry her. Almost. Wherever you are today, thank you.

“Why do I think I’m not the first woman you’ve gotten into this boat. I’ll bet if I look hard enough, I’ll find a thong around here.”

“Too late, I cleaned out the thongs last week along with all the bras, the garter belts, and stilettos. Right now, I’m only thinking about the present woman in this boat, not the ones who have gone before.”

“Did they teach you that line of bull shit at Boston College…”

“…or did you learn it in the National League?”

There have been other women, but nothing like this. Something tells me I am going to have to bring my “A” game to this party.

“Never mind where I learned it. The operative question is, ‘is it working?’”

“I’ve heard worse. Heck, I’ve gone home with worse, which I guess bodes pretty well for you.”

I just smiled – of course by now even my hair was getting hard. By the way, on top of everything else, she does graceful very well. Don’t take my word for it, just ask the men on every boat we’re passing. All of us lost in a reverie.

“Hey, Lefty, someone is hungry up here. Will this thing go any faster? I’ve been on quicker cattle drives. No wonder they call this bucket a whale boat.”

End of reverie.

Thankfully, we are a minute away from the dock at the Phillippi Creek Village Restaurant & Oyster Bar. As usual on Saturday afternoon, the joint is jumping but we somehow manage to find an open slip and then flimflam our way into a table by the window. The Oysters in question are Apalachicolas. Found only on the Florida panhandle and prized by shellfish aficionados as some of the best in the world. The server arrives.

“And what can I get for the lady?”

“Two dozen oysters.”

Lunch is off and running. I wouldn’t eat those slimy buggers with a gun to my head, so I counter with a half-pound of shrimp and then another half-pound. She hoovers the oysters and then goes for the crab cakes and cold slaw. Here is a girl with either a Texas-size appetite, or the metabolism of a hummingbird.

“Is it too early in a second date to discuss a third date?”

With a voice that Mae West would have been proud of,

“What do you have in mind, big boy?”

Very good, too bad my Cary Grant is lousy.

“Ever had dinner at the White House?”

“Not since George and Laura moved out.”

When will I learn? She’s too quick for me.

“White House? Do you mean Maison Blanche?”

“Yes. The French place on Longboat Key, the number-one rated restaurant in town. Saturday night, I can make a reservation for eight and pick you up at 7:30.”

“Lucky for you, I’m dying to try it…you’re on.”

As we walk down the dock to leave, she reaches over and grabs the key out of my hand, jumps in and sits down behind the wheel of the whaleboat.

“Get in.”

“Can you drive this thing?”

“Let’s find out.”

I untie the line and step over the gunwale as she jams the throttle forward. Now with one foot on the deck and the other on the dock, the whaler takes off. I am lucky enough to fall into the boat rather than the water.

“Let’s see what this baby can do.”

“Great, I’ll just sit here and watch for the Coast Guard.”

In a flash, we are under the bridge and doing ‘S’ turns across Robert’s Bay, all of this way above the speed limit. I ordered the whaler with the upgraded engines in case someone wanted to do a little water skiing. Oh, was I regretting that decision.

“We, who are about to die, salute you.”

Her heavy hand on the throttle gets us down the Intracoastal, through Sarasota Bay, and into the canal in a heartbeat. Skillfully, she pulls the engines back to idle and floats the whaler right to the dock. I have been sandbagged.

After extending my hand and helping her out, I explain,

“I usually charge gorgeous redheads for driving my boat.”

“Really? What is the going rate?”

“This.”

I take her in my arms, pull her close, and plant one on those pouty lips. She gives just as good as she gets. This is a girl who has been kissed before. The spell is broken when she starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was thinking, what is the charge for driving the Lotus?”

I turn away and begin peering into the whaler.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking to see if you’ve left a thong.”

Saturday comes after a week of work, and now it is time for the all-important third date. Tonight, I make my move. I played with guys who knew how to dress, and they schooled me well. The navy-blue Armani suit has served me true in the romance department and now will be “called to the colors” yet again. We couple that with a Geoffrey Bean spread collar shirt and then over to the tie rack for something in red. Next stop, the shoe rack for a pair of Gucci dress loafers. Finally, a spritz of Fahrenheit, and I am good to go.

Marcia lives downtown in one of the new “townies” off Fruitville. I pull up in front, traverse the walkway, and ring the bell. The door opens, and there she is, six feet of redhead in a gunmetal mini-dress, and bless my soul, the stilettos are back.

“You clean up good.”

“What, this old thing? I just threw it on.”

“As we say in the National League, nice throw.”

This is followed by a moment I have been waiting for, to see if she can get all those legs and very little skirt into my overgrown go-cart without putting on a show. No show tonight. She manages to get her appendages in with no loss of modesty. Still in all, they really never end, they just go on forever. Any plan on running your hand the length of those legs requires a compass and a map. I have such a plan.

I drop the clutch on the Elise and we take off – from  Fruitville to The Trail, over the Ringling Bridge, around St. Armand’s Circle and onto Longboat Key. Longboat equals high demand, still higher prices.

“Silly question, but did you bring your appetite?”

“How long you know me?”

We pull in at Maison Blanche, and a fight almost breaks out. All three parking attendants push and shove to open the passenger door and watch intently as 72 inches, plus 5, of woman get out of my tiny car. I, on the other hand, am less popular than a leper. More than slightly irked, I walk behind the Lotus, and then shove the key into someone’s hand.

“Get your own girl. Do you always cause this much of a ruckus?”

“I don’t mean to, it just sort of happens.”

“Were you the girl that didn’t get any dates because all the men thought you were unattainable?”

“Let me put it this way, I spent a lot of Saturday nights washing my hair.”

Part of my wooing technique is my sense of humor. Now, I have to compete with a woman who is funnier than I am.

“How would you feel about a bottle of champagne? Do we have reason to celebrate?”

“Baby, I’m out with you, that’s reason enough.”

“This may get me into trouble but I have to admit it – the cheaper the flattery, the more I like it.”

More good news, I can do cheap flattery all night long.

“I have been sitting on pins and needles waiting for news, and today the letter came from the Bar Association. This redhead passed the Bar Exam. I, Marcia Glenn, am now allowed to practice law in the State of Florida. Son of a gun, you see before you an Officer of the Court.”

The sommelier arrives. He doesn’t get a word out.

“Cordon Rouge, s’il vous plait.”

In my house, “Mumms” the word.

“I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be. That and “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir” are my total grasp of the French Language.”

That brings a big smile from the big redhead.

“Know what I really like about you?”

Here it comes; let’s all say it together.

“Your self-deprecating sense of humor.”

One for me, but she is still way ahead on points. Now, time to mix in a little business.

“OK, so now you are an attorney who from time to time will need the help of a private investigator, and I am a P.I. who from time to time will need a lawyer to get his chestnuts out of the fire. What do you say to a partnership?”

“You know, for a left-handed pitcher you’re pretty bright.”

She puts out her hand.

“Deal?”

Shaking her hand, vigorously,

“Deal!”

How am I going to break the news to Frank Ianella? Frank is my family’s attorney in Boston. How can I explain to him that a redhead has replaced him? I’m talking about a woman with curves in places that other women don’t even have places. Sorry about that, Frank, but I’ve got someone here who gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “In-house counsel.”

That said, dinner is a delight with escargots for the lady and onion soup for me, followed by Marcia’s blackened grouper and a sublime Coq au Vin for yours truly.

A note about Sarasota – you can get the local favorite fish at virtually every restaurant in the town. I keep waiting for McDonald’s to advertise “the McGrouper.”

We wrap up dinner with Bananas Foster and then head for the parking lot – time for Act Two of The Invisible Man. H. G. Wells, thanks for nothing. There is a cavalry charge of valets to retrieve the car and open the passenger door for the lady, all this in spite of the fact that I am the guy holding the tip in my hand. Every male within earshot then comes to attention when she says,

“I think it’s time for the top to come off.”

I don’t say a word, just a look.

“Not mine, the car’s.”

“Not my first choice, but I am here to serve.”

The little roll-up, canvas thing Lotus – with a perfectly straight face – calls a top is off and in the trunk in about ten seconds. So, let’s take stock – a raucous red convertible, a warm Florida evening, a moonlit beach road, Jimmy Buffett on the stereo, a gentle champagne buzz, and a leggy redhead. That just about covers it. Our tour of the Keys takes us the length of Longboat, around Bird, and finally to Midnight Pass Road, the main drag of Siesta Key. It is only then she recognizes where we are.

“Oh, you are good. My momma always told me watch out for those smooth Yankee boys.”

Feigning anger.

“First of all, I’m from Boston, don’t ever call me a Yankee.”

Now smiling.

“Besides, you’re a baseball fan. Don’t you know a crafty portsider when you see one?”

In case you are wondering, a “crafty portsider” is a left-hander who substitutes guile for velocity on his fastball.

“Well, if I had to guess, I’d say the next part of your devious little plan is to position me carefully on the couch, with soft lights and just a hint of music in the background.”

Not exactly the best kept secret since the A-bomb.

“What gave me away? The dinner? The flattery? How about the fact that I can’t take my eyes off you?”

By now, there was enough sexual tension in the room to light up South America.

“Let’s just say you’re not without charm, and – what do you know – we have arrived at the couch. The lights ARE low, and I believe I hear Kenny G wafting through the house.”

Now, we discover if this is a love seat or just a couch.  

“OK, Lefty, let’s see what you got.”

The conversation portion of the evening is finished, having given way to long soft kisses. In time, the only other sounds are the metallic slide of a zipper and the gentle thud of a gunmetal mini-dress hitting the floor.

  BURDEN OF PROOF – Chapter 2 2 Marcia You have just been the victim of what is known in television as a “tease.” It is something, or anything, to keep the audience watching and away from the clicker.