For two weeks I don’t step foot in the casino because I attempt to do better. I work hard at school. I put my application in at three different restaurants and one clothing store. I deep-clean the house and keep up the laundry. I spend extra time at Miss Stella’s . . . I even start eating fruit.
I’m very aware that all these things are not for the betterment of my character, rather, I am punishing myself for the horribly stupid loss of that one single hand that I just can’t seem to shake. How could I be so inattentive? His hand was practically screaming out to me “Back off, you idiot! It’s a flush!” But I just didn’t hear the scream. As simple as that.
With one more week of the boot, I feel it’s believable enough that I can now put pressure on my foot. No more crutches. I imagine myself at the tip of the Titanic leaning over—one crutch in each hand—and chucking them into the deep blue. I imagine soaking them with gasoline and dropping a match. Also, in my head, I go after them with an ax.
But I simply wrap them in a towel and place them in my trunk and never think about them again.
It’s liberating, to say the least.
So I gather my books and get out of my car with ease, not having to balance on one foot as I prop the crutches to grab the books to hobble away in armpit pain.
Yes, I have bills. And, yes, I am in the middle of the Atlantic without a floatie, but I am making it.
One day at a time; my new motto.
I’m fake hobbling down the hall when it happens.
I don’t even have to strain to remember his name.
I look deep into the crowd, and there he is.
David.
Information files rapidly into my brain:
David is wearing a t-shirt and sports jacket.
David is an older man walking amongst teenagers and lockers.
David has a pencil tucked behind his ear.
David, the dealer, is a teacher.
David, the one who knew he knew me, is a teacher!
I divert and crouch behind the moving crowd of kids and speed up my pace. I don’t take my eyes off of him, and he never looks my way. He checks his phone as he walks. I slip into my class, unseen. I sit down at my desk, and take my folders out, the bell rings, and I feel like a fugitive in hiding.
I know most teachers have second jobs, but I thought waiting tables or working in department stores was more of the norm. A card dealer?! Really?
This makes me uneasy between passing periods. I must avoid his hall, so I go to the office to check out the directory. DAVID LACKEY, Psychology, room 212. I’ve heard people talk about Mr. Lackey’s class before . . . how awesome he is . . . how they talk about cool stuff and do cool projects . . . but NEVER have I heard someone say he’s a teacher by day and dealer by night. I don’t think anyone knows this about Mr. Lackey. It seems like this would be an ethical issue, working in a casino. Just like teachers can’t be strippers, or can they? Sheesh. Pay the teachers more, already!