PATIENCE Lana Swindle

oil paint patience, Lana Swindle

I had apologized over and over, but he wasn’t listening.

I didn’t know why I was apologizing so profusely. Perhaps it was to avoid conflict, to keep him from complaining to the administration, to keep my job. But no matter how many times I insisted that I was merely informing him of my observations in class, he refused to acknowledge my comments. I had looked to his wife for support, but she remained silent, staring at the ground.

It was my job to minimize the tension in the room, organize the chaos, but I found myself incapable of doing so. His outlandish remarks about my class, teaching, and language skills were unjust, based on anger more than fact, but I could say nothing in response.

I had to listen to him, acknowledge his comments, take them to heart.

Or so they often told me.

“How dare you?” he spat. “How dare you say such things about my son?” “Please, sir, your son is a pleasure to have in class.”

He huffed something under his breath, pushing up from his chair. “This is ridiculous.”

He grabbed his wife’s arm, pulled her into a standing position. Her detached expression twitched for a moment. It was barely noticeable. Just the hint of a frown, a tiny crease of her eyebrows, the first expression of defiance I had seen. I stood up along with them, but they were already at the door.

She turned to me, glancing back for just a moment.

The door slammed behind them with more force than was necessary.

I closed my eyes, returning to my desk. It was to be expected, a parent who refused to acknowledge the behavior of their child in class, no matter what age was being considered.

There seemed to be too many of them this year.

THE IMPORTANCE OF SCHOOL WORK (I), Faith Neo

It’s 3:30 am on a Wednesday morning, but I don’t know that yet. My day often begins before I’m aware of it. I push myself out of bed. Mom says that we’re dropping Isaac off at school, and I have to walk him in. Dad is on a business trip. He’s been gone for a while. The last thing I remember of my dad was him getting into an Uber outside of our house. He was yelling at someone on the phone. I waved. He didn’t see me. Or at least he didn’t wave back. Mom tells us to get in the car. On the drive to school kids keep jumping into the street. In front of the cars. I’m scared that we’ll hit one. We see kids get run over but they seem to be okay, and we make it to Isaac’s school. I need to make it to my own classes. I check my watch, and there’s still five minutes till class starts. But I’m still in my pajamas. And we’re not in my school. Mom’s talking to the lady at the front desk. The clock in my head ticks louder and louder. Three minutes left. One minute left. I stop looking at my watch. I’m not going to make it to school on time. I’m not going to make it to school on time. I’m not going to make it to school on time. I peek at my watch. Five minutes late. I run to the closest door, and the front office of my brother’s school disappears. I smash my head into the door. It doesn’t hurt, so I do it again. And again. And again. If I can’t get to school on time, then I won’t be on time to anything ever again. It’s 3:30 am on a Wednesday morning, but I don’t know that yet.

I don’t talk to my mother much. All she really knows about me is my stats. How much homework I have, or how much I didn’t eat. She doesn’t know that I skip Bible study every Monday night. She doesn’t know my friends. She believes that my lungs and liver are still in pristine condition. She believes that I won’t go on the ramps in the skatepark just because I promised. Mom asks Isaac why he can’t be more like me. I have decent grades. No late assignments. I work out four to five times a week. I play lacrosse. I play the violin. I play the piano. I play the guitar. I run a club. I take AP French. I really do like most of these things, but I push myself because it’s compulsive. I’d rather die than miss a class. Or have a late assignment. Or skip a workout. But I don’t say that. I don’t talk to my mother much.