Graded in Red

Chapter Four

My eyes fluttered open, and as my consciousness reassembled itself, a pounding headache announced its presence. Thanks to Bridget's thrilling exit the night before, my day started with a vicious hangover. A headache wasn't the souvenir I wanted from that evening, but alas, life's unexpected curveballs.

Victoria and I spent the night dissecting the upcoming school year while drowning our worries in a few more beers. Turns out, I was more behind in my preparations than I initially believed. The educational standards had shape-shifted three times in just five years! Cue the late nights ahead, hunched over textbooks and curriculum guides, trying to keep up.

Three weeks until the school bell rang. Sounds like an eternity, right? Wrong. Crafting lessons, transforming a bland classroom into an engaging learning space, and attempting to bond with new colleagues, I might as well be racing against time itself.

But before any productivity could commence, an indispensable morning ritual beckoned—the sacred caffeine intake. I've been labeled a "coffee snob" by my beloved circle. Truth be told, my knowledge about coffee could fit on a postage stamp. Freshly ground Breakfast Blend through a French press or the no-fuss K-Cup method—either way, it's the elixir that jumpstarts my day. And let's not forget the breakfast classic: a toasted English Muffin slathered with peanut butter.

With the hum of Christmas tunes filling the air and my caffeine brewing, I tiptoed around, considering my parents' sleep schedule. Yes, my folks, formerly known as my neighbors, now shared walls with me. The intricacies of their morning slumber were suddenly crucial knowledge.

Dad, not one for early rises like me, had built a lifelong routine of early mornings, making moves at the pipelining business he co-owned with his partner and my godfather, Greg.

Meanwhile, Mom, a true artist to her core, disregarded the typical nine-to-five grind. Her nocturnal habits meant she burned the midnight oil, concocting masterpieces until the wee hours. Her Etsy store, Heather's Creations, funded our cookie jar enough to keep her away from part-time jobs.

At 7:00 am, I could bet my last dollar; she'd be snug as a bug in bed, lost in dreamland, undisturbed by the bustling morning activities.

I decided to ditch my solitary morning routine, carrying my coffee and toast as I ascended the basement stairs, eager to join the living and breathing. The familiar setup of my parents' house hadn't changed an ounce since my departure a decade ago. Stairs up led to the kitchen: veer right to the garage or hang a left into the heart of breakfast-making territory. The kitchen, a spacious realm with those marvelous glass-front cabinets etched by my mother's artistic hands, beckoned with its unique charm.

As I peeked into the dining room from the kitchen's doorway, there sat my dad, savoring his own cup of joe while deeply engrossed in the daily news.

"Morning, kiddo! Knew you'd surface soon for some coffee company," he greeted, gesturing to the chair beside him.

"Well, I didn't want to barge in! What if you had switched up the routine and decided to read the newspaper in the NUDE!?" I teased, relishing the aromatic embrace of my morning elixir.

"Ha! Nope, business as usual here, kiddo. I set aside the comics for you, Dennis the Menace's on a roll today," he chuckled, tossing the comics my way. Our ritual, older than my memory, traced back to a time when I was too young to read, enjoying OJ while Dad read the comics aloud.

Grateful for the comics, I let my gaze wander into the living room, basking in the sunlight streaming through the enormous bay windows. Yet amidst this familiar warmth, I couldn't shake the thought that perhaps my return home was a solid confirmation of my adult life's failure. A heavy sigh slipped through my lips, enough to pique my dad's curiosity.

"Okay, kiddo, spill the beans," he chimed in, setting his sports column aside, peering over his glasses. It was then that I noticed the marks of time on him. The once-jet-black hair now danced with streaks of silver at his temples, and the smile lines etched into crow's feet added character to his expression. Time had treated my dad kindly, crafting him into a blend of Sean Connery's charisma and Patrick Stewart's wisdom.

"I don't know, dad. It's good to be back. I never thought I'd utter those words. After everything in the city, I needed a recharge. But, I'm worried. Are you sure it's okay that I'm back? You and mom have your own lives, your bingo nights, friends over, and something new. I just don't want to disrupt your life," I confessed, unsure of where I fit into their established routines.

I was essentially unleashing a torrent of concerns on my dad—typical of our relationship. He'd always been my go-to in life's trying moments. It wasn't that I couldn't talk to my mom—I could, but she was perpetually in my corner. I could do no wrong in her eyes. However, Dad? He'd call me out when needed, keeping me grounded and real.

"Sweetheart, you'll forever be our child. It doesn't stop just because you're 28 and an adult. You'll always be our baby girl, and we're here for you. Your mom's been wishing you'd be closer. You'll never be a burden or a bother. You're welcome here for as long as you need," he reassured me, taking a sip of his coffee before returning to his sports column.

That marked the end of the heavy 'life' chat with Dad. He was a man of few words, and that suited me just fine. His straightforwardness was something I admired—there was no room for misinterpretation or hidden meanings. I had inherited that bluntness from him, though it occasionally landed me in hot water.

After our coffee time, I headed back to my basement abode to freshen up for the day. Victoria had mentioned an event at the high school that evening. Apparently, the district had been busy all summer revamping the Broken Arrow school sites—the high school got a brand-new library and a field house. To celebrate the two-week-early completion, the Board of Education was throwing a bash at the high school, open to everyone: parents, students, and the town's who's who. All the teachers were 'voluntold' to attend.

But truth be told, I wasn't too bummed about it. It was an opportunity to get acquainted with my new classroom, take measurements, and figure out what I needed to make sure the space was inviting when the school year kicked off. No one wanted to step into a classroom that looked like a penitentiary cell on the first day.