TWO

Mike and I had agreed to meet at Clayton's a coffee shop just down the road from the Hotel Del. I knew parking would be an issue on Orange, so I pulled my bike out of the garage and pedaled away from the house.

The December evening air was chilly and the air felt damp, heavy with fog rolling off the ocean. I steered out of our neighborhood, my chin tucked against my chest, and headed for the diner. Christmas lights twinkled both in windows and outdoor light displays, some more elaborately decorated than others. Cars streamed by on the narrow streets, people coming home or heading out to evening activities. Another bicyclist passed me, a man in bike shorts and helmet, and acknowledged me with a quick nod as he zoomed past.

I'd been riding my bike to school nearly every day, taking the long way home, riding out along the ocean to get back to the house. I'd found that the exercise and the fresh air was a good remedy for a stressful day in the classroom. Because every day seemed to be stressful.

I'd gotten into teaching because it seemed to make sense. I had worked with kids. I liked the idea of a rigid, predictable schedule. I was comfortable speaking in front of groups. My time off would line up with Elizabeth's while she was in school.

But it had proven to be different than I'd expected.

I never felt caught up. I never had enough time. Multiple nights, I'd fallen asleep at the table, either planning a class or grading papers. There were endless meetings that I was required to attend and none of them ever seemed to have any real purpose. After attempting to be a good team player, I'd started avoiding the faculty lunchroom because the gossiping about both the students and the other teachers drove me nuts. Parents had unreasonable expectations for their kids. The only part of the job that I was really enjoying was my interaction with my students.

But I wasn't sure that was enough.

It was becoming more of a chore to get out of bed to get to school. I was less creative in trying to lesson plan. I was leaving school earlier, just to get home.

I kept trying to tell myself that I was still learning the job and that it would get easier, that teaching was hard and everyone struggled at the beginning. But there was a voice in my head, a soft but insistent voice that kept suggesting that maybe it wasn't for me.

I used those bike rides by the beach to try and convince myself otherwise, to tell myself to stick with it, to just put my head down and work hard. I'd spent years singularly focused on trying to find Elizabeth and I believed that that ability to focus had the potential to help me get better at teaching.

But as I pedaled along Orange and glanced in the direction of the high school, an involuntary shudder ran through me.

I just wasn't sure I wanted to get better.