I grab my bag and pull out everything I need to review before tomorrow night’s board meeting. You know, all the stuff I didn’t complete last night. There are a few reports and some teacher requests for me to submit, but not too much. I go over the statement I prepared earlier regarding Seth James, a young man who was caught smoking in the restroom during lunch. Even though I had to place a call to his parents, I didn’t suspend him, as expected. I gave him the punishment of three after-school detentions, as well as a community service project of his choice. I could tell he wasn’t happy at all, but he didn’t balk. At least not with his parents sitting beside him.
My final piece of work for the evening is to type the congratulatory email to Logan Hendershot for the Student Inspiration Award. In the email, I attach the form his parents will need to sign off on for the reward he has chosen. Ziplining. A shiver of nerves sweeps through me.
As soon as his email is complete and sent, I pull up ziplining companies for Gatlinburg and the surrounding areas and am not too surprised by the quantity I find. There are billboards and advertisements everywhere for numerous companies in the area. The one that jumps out is Elevate, rated very high for safety and experience, as well as recipient of an award for Best Zipline in the state of Tennessee.
I read up on the entire experience, from start to finish, from their website, even watching a few of their posted videos. I’m about to click through the photos when my phone chimes, alerting me to a text message.
Sabrina: I. Am. Bored.
Me: Aren’t you supposed to be working?
Sabrina: Yes, and it’s dead. No one is here.
Me: I’m sorry. I hope it goes by quickly.
Me: Hey, can I ask you something?
Sabrina: YES! Please talk to me!
Me: Have you ever been ziplining?
She doesn’t text back. Instead, my phone rings a few seconds later.
“Hello?”
“Ziplining? Are you high?”
I chuckle. “Uhh, no. I’m just curious.”
Sabrina exhales, and I can almost picture her sitting behind the counter of the small boutique she works at, twirling her hair like she does to give her hand something to do. “Yeah, I went with Rusty, that guy I dated a few years ago. He was all about the thrills. Why? You thinking of going?”
“Wait, wasn’t he the guy who took you to the dinner show and got a little freaky under the table? And to answer your question, no, not me. The student who won my Inspiration Award chose it as his reward.”
My friend is already chuckling. “Uh, yeah, that guy. He had…magic hands. So one of your students wants to go? Fun! You’d probably like it, actually.”
I just can’t see myself doing it. “Really? The thought of dangling from a wire, flying down a mountain doesn’t sound that appealing.”
Now she’s full-on laughing. “Oh, I was joking. You’d hate it with a passion. It’s something you can’t control.”
“I don’t need to control everything.”
Wrong. I do.
“Riiiiiiiight…”
“Just because I prefer to have schedules and systems for everything, doesn’t mean I need to control them,” I huff.
“Hahahahahahaha! Okay, if you say so.”
“You’re mean,” I retort.
“Only because I’m honest,” she replies softly. “Listen, Q, I’m not saying it’s all bad. You are who you are, and I love you despite it. Someday, you’ll find a man who loves your checks and balances as much as you do.”
“What’s wrong with being organized?” I ask, glancing down at my Google calendar with a detailed list of tomorrow’s workload.
“Absolutely nothing. Honest. Do you want to know what I think?”
Trying to be annoyed with her, but not really finding the gumption, I ask, “Are you going to tell me anyway?”
“Yes, I am,” she says brightly. “I think you need someone to offset your organizational skills with a little mess.”
“That makes no sense.”
She snorts into the phone. “Oh, but it will. Someday, when the right guy comes along, he’s going to wreck your perfect little pie charts and not use the proper detergent to fabric softener ratio with the laundry.”
“That sounds horrible! Why would you not make sure you have the right balance? It helps with wrinkle control, as well as freshness.”
“You’re impossible,” she mumbles. “And I look forward to the day he folds your towels wrong.”
I huff, wishing I still had a drink. The thought of someone not folding them the right way makes my head spin. “The best way to maximize cabinet space is to fold them in half longways, twice, and then three times, Sabrina. It just makes sense.”
Now she’s laughing hard. At me. “Oh, believe me, I know exactly how you fold towels. I tried helping that time you were sick. I vividly remember the detailed video you sent me the following morning, requesting me to do it the right way next time.”
“And there wasn’t a next time,” I remind her, annoyed that I answered this call.
“Right, because I wasn’t touching your precious towels again.”
“I just don’t understand someone who folds them all willy-nilly style. There’s no consistency.” She just starts to fold and however they end up, that’s how she puts them in the cabinet. Like a monster.
“Anyway, I’m not sure why we’re talking about your towels,” she starts.
“Because you brought them up,” I interrupt.
“My thought is this. You listening?” She pauses dramatically, for effect, I’m sure. “Go ziplining. It’ll be good for you.”
“You’re crazy,” I scoff. “I’m not even sure why we’re friends.” Even though I really do. She might not meet me eye to eye on everything, but she’s the one person who is always in my corner, even when times are hard.
She giggles now, the sound of a bell chiming in the background. “We’re friends because of my solid, sage advice. Listen, I gotta go. We actually have a customer. Think about it, ‘kay?”
“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll think about it. Now, go. Work.”
“Love you,” she replies, blowing kisses into the phone before hanging up.
I exhale and set my phone down. I met Sabrina in high school. We were as different as night and day, and I’m not even really sure how we became friends. Well, that’s not true. I remember the day she walked into my calculus class and sat behind me. She asked to borrow a pencil and hasn’t let me alone since. We started hanging out after school, me working on my homework and her dreaming about boys, and before I knew it, we were as close as siblings.
As different as them too.
But I can’t imagine my life without her in it.
Just as I’m getting ready to power down my laptop, I notice an email in my inbox. It’s a response to Logan’s letter of congratulations from his parents. I click on it, smiling when I read their boastful reply. They attached the release form, which relieves the school and me, as administrator, from any liability, and included a note about his birthday. It’s Saturday, and they wondered if it was possible to do his reward then.
I blink at the screen.
Three days.