Chapter One
An Introduction to My Existence
I’d
been hiding out, planning to summer in the small seaside town of Wentworth; an
hour’s drive north of Los Angeles, when I saw him again…
Confessions of a Post-Teenage Hermit (A Blog by Jane Elliot)
Ben returned.
I love a man in uniform. His blonde hair
shone in the afternoon sun as I glanced through the interior windows of my
classroom. A trick of light in the hallway created the illusion of stardust and
smoke swirling around him as he walked.
I’d been working as a teaching assistant at
the local public school for nearly six months after dropping out of college
during my freshman year. The day I saw Ben again was the last day of work
before summer vacation. It’s possible his return inspired me to re-enrol in
college. Maybe something found always comes from something lost.
I noticed him first, talking to the
preschool teacher and signing a release form on behalf of the small child who
looked expectantly towards him. The young boy had his satchel on his back as
they walked by. Ben didn’t appear to see me and for that I was grateful. It occurred
to me as the child grasped his hand and I watched the love of my life leave
that there are no good places to hide in Wentworth Elementary, especially if
you’re an adult; well, semi-adult. I’m in my twenties now and I should be
completely mature and in control of my life, but I feel kind of stuck somewhere
around sixteen. Suddenly I’m in a panic that he could turn to the side at any
moment and notice me staring at him.
Now, where to go? Standing behind the door
of a classroom is a bad idea. Hovering near the entrance of the communal staff
room is a possibility, but that connection leads towards the staff lunchroom
which requires a lock combination that is changed daily. In my state of inner
turmoil, I couldn’t remember it.
I
crouched behind my desk, head immersed in the decorations, listening to the
roar of a police siren. Sometimes the cops (the
“good guys” as I call them) descend upon our little school in Wentworth. I’m
used to it. This is the bad side of a good town. The people who summer here are
rich and boring but the locals are generally the opposite. There is a
high-school that connects to Wentworth Elementary and Preschool and there’s a
lot of, to put it nicely, trouble there. I like to think (if I do my job
properly), when my students are old enough, there will be less need for the law
to patrol school gates and halls.
Our six year olds drew a hush as the police
car whizzed by. The teacher, Mrs
Alves, asked the class to wash up for lunch. I was
helping them. Suddenly there was disorder in the hallways, which resembled
tunnels. My students who were “special” had a separate exit. It was easier that
way. I was used to the bustle, but they couldn’t avoid the crowded lunch rooms.
The lock on the staffroom door, I never got
used to. I hadn’t thought to write down the combination that morning, so I just
stood there, numb, pretending to listen to the police car, watching Ben leave.
I thought about the difference between hiding and saying “hi” as I watched him
glance towards my classroom. He read the sign on the door that advertised
“Vacation Care” and barely noticed me. For two weeks over summer the school
hosted a day camp where families and children who were staying in Wentworth
could come in for organised fun and activities. I’d offered to help out since I
would be staying in Los Angeles too. That’s why I was making decorations as the
children got ready for lunch.
Dismissively, Ben walked down the
hallway. At least I’d have something
interesting to put on my blog that night.
“Are you alright Jane?” The teacher from
the class opposite mine asked as she peeped her head in through the doorway.
“I’m okay,” I smiled. Jessie Tate, who
teaches first grade, smiled in return. I
was used to acting around my family, and keeping up the facade at work was just
an extension of that. At least my work colleagues mostly show me honest
appreciation.
I assist the Special Needs, reading and
music classes in the mornings and help out in accelerated English (gifted and
talented) in the afternoon, so it’s like the two extremes. I have a real soft
spot for the challenges of my slower readers and my out of tune musicians. I
have a mix of ages and children in one room from both classes. Sometimes the
students are well-behaved, but it’s always noisy; especially when my hearing
impaired children arrive. This morning’s class was general and mixed: Toby has
Attention Deficit Disorder; Miles is Dyslexic; George has Broad Spectrum Autism
and Lia is teaching me to sign. They’re all preparing to join the midday rush.
Toby is the one who speaks; he has bright
eyes and even brighter, red hair; he’s very smart and seriously wired; he’s
jumping up and down and I try to calm him as the bell sounds for lunch.
Sometimes the children want to sit with me
while they eat but I try to give them (and myself) some space; it never works.
Toby reluctantly lets go of my hand as he heads to the cafeteria where the
lunchroom supervisor waits, to make sure kids don’t throw food or something at
him, I suppose. It’s a tough world in there and my students are targets. One of
them just had his bag taken and I had to ask the supervisor to intervene before
I could go back and start preparing the afternoon’s lesson.
There are some mean-spirited children who become
mean-spirited adults but I’d be surprised if they were born that way. No one has an equal start in life and
although most people try their hardest, we all start with a different set of
difficulties and advantages. My Godmother (who is mostly a wise woman) told me
that.
I have to say the advantages
(economically) I was raised with, did not leave me immune to the nature of my
family – but you’ll get to hear more about them later, trust me. Once I start
oversharing I can’t stop. You’ll hear all about my snobbish father, more on my
(sometimes) overbearing Godmother and my selfish sisters. I love them - don’t
get me wrong - they’re family; but they are imperfect, like all of us; well,
not like all of us. My relations are imperfect in their own particularly
selfish ways. Like I said, I am resigned to tell the truth about them. I’m also
going to tell you, lovely readers, about me and Ben, why we broke up and how I
never got over him.
I know some smart girls out there will be
critical of me for not moving on and may even want to shake me at some point or
offer advice (which I’d be glad to hear), but I’m trying, honestly. That’s why
I’m re-enrolling in college even though my Godmother has warned me that a
college education is about as useful as wearing a potato sack if you ever want
to entice the man of your dreams.
Anyway, you definitely need to read this
story before you criticize. It’s easy to tell someone what’s not right or how
not to do something but it’s much more difficult to help a person find the path
to true happiness. That’s what real friends do. They help. At least, that’s
what they should do.
So, here I am in a nutshell: shy, softly
spoken, pushed by my Godmother into becoming a high school cheerleader; I
dropped out of college at eighteen after a failed love affair. Not quite the
end of my story though, as it turned out; just the beginning.
Before all of that, I wanted to be a writer
or a teacher. I also liked to design and make my own clothes. Bizzare, I know,
in this day and age, when it’s easier to buy them, but those fashion shows on
TV are, let’s face it, inspirational. Besides, I’m officially broke as of now.
It helps if I can make my own clothes.
I wasn’t always like this.
Born rich and pretty, I grew up in an
enormous house in Beverly Hills with parents who looked down on everyone else,
including our equally rich neighbors. I was told to make the most of my private
school education, so I don’t expect anyone to feel sorry for me, nor would I
wish them to.
I try not to complain about my family,
but it’s impossible. My Godmother, Eleanor, once warned me about complaining. “Never
tell people your problems, Jane, most people aren’t interested and the rest are
glad you have them.” That was her advice when I couldn’t get over the losses of
my eighteenth year. I’d like to think people are better than that but as with
all sage words, there is probably an element of truth to those. That said, it
was my Godmother’s advice which added to the drama of my existence in the first
place. My father also put in his dollars’ worth of critiques.
Dad is the director of a huge company. He
dabbled in movie production when I was a child and became an entertainment
lawyer. His clients are seriously famous.
It was not unusual for me to see heavily made-up and augmented movie
stars parading through the halls of our house when I was small. They were
glamorous women; I thought they looked like princesses but most of them weren’t
very happy and I never envied them.
My sisters probably did. They would remark
that a certain famous actress inspired them,
and then make snide comments when the actress left the room. Even so, my
sisters are annoying over-achievers. My older sister, Elizabeth (or Liz), is an
elegant model who takes pre-law classes at night school (when she’s in Los
Angeles) and is studying for her real estate licence. My younger sister,
Melissa (sometimes known as Missy), has taken to marrying well (that is to say,
rich) and having children, her primary occupation (which is wonderful, don’t
get me wrong); it’s just that she’s a year younger than me. Melissa can’t
resist letting me know I’m way behind her in the process of growing up and
becoming an independent adult.
Our family was always in the headlines when
I was a child and it was into this world that I was born; lost and
imperfect. I’m quiet, fair-haired, big
eyed, (Liz would describe me as “pretty - in a pale and understated way”) and
reticent. Basically, I’m altogether
overshadowed by my smart and fashionable older sister Liz and my pushy younger
one, Melissa. Sometimes I wonder if there will ever be anything that is truly
mine.
It was during my teens that I first met
Ben, first lost Ben.
Now Ben Wentworth (the hottest boy I’ve
ever met) has just returned home to California.
He graduated top of his class as an officer at the US Air Force Academy
and is about to commence pilot training in Texas after a short vacation with
his brother and sister here in Wentworth. Our family have owned a vacation home
near the ocean for twenty years. It’s on the right side of town. We look out over the sparkling beauty of the
Pacific Ocean. If you could look far enough from our beach house balcony, you’d
see Hawaii – or that’s what my little sister tells everyone. Wentworth was only
ever my family’s second favorite spot to vacay – they preferred Maui when I was
growing up, but I’ve always loved it here.
I learnt all about Ben via another text I
just received from my cousin, Keira. Keira has heard all about Ben and me and
how we got together and why we broke up. She thinks my father treated him badly
and deep down, I think she knows Ben would never forgive me for what happened.
Even though Keira is almost a year younger than me, she’s way smart.
Although I never doubted Ben’s bravery or
his brilliance, my immediate family always did. So now he’s home for the
summer. He’s probably arrived with his flawless flight attendant wife or
girlfriend in tow. The child could have been his son for all I knew. Unless,
well, he could have been his nephew… but it was none of my business anymore. I
thought I could always ask the teacher, after Ben had left the building. Better
yet, I’d text Keira. Just saw him. Tell me everything.
I paused for a moment then I pressed send.
