Keep Holding On Read Free

to be a teacher. I want to reach out to kids who need help. How cool would it be if my class were a place where students could be themselves? I mean we’d still do work and everything, but there wouldn’t be all this stress and nervousness involved. I could connect with kids who feel like outsiders. They’d be able to trust me because I’d know what I’m talking about. Maybe showing them I care will make them feel less alone.
    I have a list called Things to Remember When I’m a Teacher. I always keep it in my binder. You never know when inspiration will strike. After observing Mrs. Yuknis’s pants trend, I added this to my list:
    Have more than four pairs of pants.
    Don’t wear them on a schedule.
    My list is getting long. I started it last year after Carly ripped up my spiral notebook in history. Ms. Herrera totally saw. She didn’t even say anything. She just sat at her desk ruffling papers and pretending she wasn’t looking. But she totally was. Carly stood right there next to my desk tearing my notebook apart. The pages fluttered to the floor in shreds. I was shocked that Ms. Herrera didn’t do anything. I even looked at her like,
Why aren’t you doing anything?
Ms. Herrera looked confused. And scared. Like if she made Carly stop, maybe Ms. Herrera would leave school one day and find her tires all slashed. Or her flower garden ripped up. It’s so lame. If grownups won’t stand up for us, who will?
    After Carly finished ripping up my notebook, she stomped on the shreds as she went back to her seat. Then I added this item to my list:
    If you see someone being bullied, make it stop.
    Why is that so hard for us to do?

    Mother looks exhausted at dinner. She always looks exhausted. As if just being alive is too strenuous.
    There are only a few things mother makes for dinner. Tonight we’re having mushy spaghetti with cheap sauce and prepackaged garlic bread.
    I bite into a piece of garlic bread. It’s still cold in the middle.
    My stomach is a tangled ball of knots. You never know what mood mother will be in. This one time last year, she came home really late and woke me up when she slammed the front door. Then she whipped my door open. I could see her glaring at me, the light from the hall illuminating the hate in her eyes. She didn’t say anything. She just slammed my door. Then she opened it and slammed it again, harder. I pulled the covers up. I watched my door for a long time, shaking on my thin mattress.
    Dinner wouldn’t be so stressful if I could eat in front of the TV. I got away with doing that for a while. But then mother started yelling at me to come to the table. If we eat dinner together, she can pretend we’re a real family.
    “Work is killing me,” mother complains. “You wouldn’t believe the idiots I have to deal with all day.” Then she proceeds to vent about a customer who was trying to return a toaster without a receipt. That kind of thing happens a lot at Retail Rodeo. It’s this massive discount store about half an hour away. Mother works in customer service. I can’t think of a worse person to work in customer service.
    There are plenty of days when mother says less than ten words to me. Sometimes she doesn’t answer when I ask her something, like I’m not even there. But tonight she’s on a rant of epic proportions. Her rants are almost always about work. Or lack of money. There isn’t much else she talks about. The following topics are always avoided: school, people who aren’t idiots, female issues, and anything else that normal moms talk about with their daughters.
    I can’t remember the last time I saw her smile.
    Some guy got a promotion at her job. Mother thinks she deserved it more.
    “He’s the last person who should be general manager,” mother says. “That guy doesn’t know the first thing about dealing with people.”
    I twirl more spaghetti around my fork. I’m too hungry to care that it’s mushy. Mrs. Feldman is probably serving an amazing meal over at