Six years carve themselves into my face as fine lines around my eyes, permanent shadows beneath them that no amount of concealer can hide. Devon's laughter echoes through our cramped apartment above the laundromat, where the walls perpetually vibrate with the rhythm of spinning clothes. The sound used to drive me crazy. Now it's just the soundtrack to our life—constant motion, always spinning but going nowhere.
September looms like a deadline written in stone. First grade. Real school. The beginning of Devon asking questions I can't answer, like why his last name is Johnson when Nathan's was Pinch, why he doesn't have a daddy like the other kids, why his eyes are so dark when mine are green.
My uniform still carries the scent of coffee and grease when I arrive home from what turned out to be my last shift at the diner. But today it also carries the fresher sting of humiliation.
"Budget cuts," Ray had said, not meeting my eyes, though everyone knew his niece needed a job after her third DUI. "I'm real sorry, Jasmine. You've been great, but..."
But single mothers are expendable. But six years of perfect attendance means nothing. But I'm twenty-six with a B.A. in English Literature serving hash browns to truckers, so what did I expect?
I count out bills for Mrs. Rodriguez, the neighbor who watches Devon—sixty dollars, my last full payment for who knows how long. She takes it with the kind of pitying look that makes me want to scream.
"You find something else soon," she says in her broken English. "You good girl. You find something."
Devon's already set the table when I get inside—mismatched plates from Goodwill, the Pocahontas cup he refuses to drink from anything else, paper napkins because paper towels are cheaper in bulk. He's humming something from whatever cartoon Mrs. Rodriguez let him watch.
"Mama, you look sad," Devon observes over our dinner of pasta with butter, the kind from a box that costs eighty-nine cents. His dark eyes—those impossible, familiar eyes that came from nowhere I can name—study me with unnerving intensity. Sometimes I think he's six going on sixty, like he was born knowing things about the world that children shouldn't.
"Just tired, baby. Tell me about school. Are you excited?"
Wrong question. He launches into a breathless monologue about backpacks—specifically the Spiderman one he saw at Target that costs thirty-nine dollars we don't have—and pencils—the fancy mechanical ones his friend Marcus has—and learning to read chapter books with no pictures.
I watch his animated face, seeing shadows of features I can't quite place, geometries that don't belong to Nathan or myself. That strong jaw starting to emerge even in his baby face. Those dark lashes that are almost too pretty for a boy.
After Devon sleeps—tucked into his twin bed with the dinosaur sheets from the thrift store—I open my laptop at the kitchen table where one leg requires a folded napkin for balance. The job listings blur together: Minimum wage. No benefits. Five years experience required for assistant manager at McDonald's.
Then, like a door opening in a wall I hadn't noticed, an advertisement appears:
"Prestigious boarding school seeking English Literature instructor. Immediate opening. On-site accommodation provided."
On-site accommodation. The words glow like a promise. No more laundromat vibrations. No more choosing between groceries and gas.
The Blackwood Academy sits forty miles outside the city, according to Google. The website shows a revival mansion converted into an institution for the children of the quietly wealthy. Kids who've never eaten pasta with just butter, who've never wondered if the washing machines downstairs will wake them up.
I submit my resume before I can reconsider, attaching the teaching certificate I earned online while Devon napped, the recommendation letters from professors who still remembered the girl who wrote brilliant papers about Keats while her baby slept in a carrier against her chest.
Dawn hasn't broken when my phone rings. I fumble for it, terrified it'll wake Devon.
"Ms. Johnson?" The woman's voice carries the particular politeness of old money—smooth, cultured, slightly distant. "This is Rosalie Winters from Blackwood Academy. We'd like to interview you today. Would two o'clock suit?"
"Today?" My voice cracks with sleep and desperation.
"Is that a problem?"
"No, no problem. Two o'clock is perfect."
Mrs. Rodriguez agrees to another day with Devon, though her expression suggests this charity has limits. I promise to pay her next week, knowing I have nothing coming next week.
The academy emerges from morning mist like something from a Brontë novel—all turrets and carved stone, windows that reflect nothing but sky. My ancient Honda looks obscene in the parking lot next to Range Rovers and Mercedes.
Rosalie Winters matches her voice: pearl earrings that probably cost more than my rent, subtle perfume that smells expensive, a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Mr. Leo Dickenson will conduct your interview. He's our deputy director."
She leads me through hallways that smell like old wood and privilege, past portraits of stern-faced benefactors who probably owned people once. The office she shows me to is all leather and mahogany, intimidation through interior design.
Leo Dickenson sprawls in his chair with the casual arrogance of someone who's never had to earn anything. He's maybe thirty-five, handsome in that soft way of men who've never done physical labor, with hands that have never washed dishes for ten hours straight.
"Ms. Johnson." He doesn't stand, doesn't offer to shake hands, just looks at me like I'm something unfortunate that's wandered in. "Your resume shows gaps. Explain."
"Single motherhood," I reply, keeping my voice level though my hands clench in my lap.
"That's not very professional, is it? Getting pregnant in college?"
The words hit like a slap. "I have my degree. I graduated with honors despite—"
"Despite poor judgment?" His smile is sharp as winter. "Tell me, Ms. Johnson, why should we trust you with our students when you couldn't even manage your own life properly?"
My hands clench harder, nails digging into my palms. I need this job. Devon needs this chance. So I swallow my pride like medicine and begin reciting my qualifications.
"I graduated summa cum laude. My thesis on the Romantic poets won the departmental prize. I've been tutoring students online for three years—"
"Online tutoring." He says it like I've admitted to selling drugs. "Not exactly proper teaching experience, is it?"
"It's still education. Still helping students understand literature—"
"From your apartment above a laundromat, according to your address." He's looking at his computer screen now, probably pulled up Google Maps, probably saw the street view of our building with its grimy windows. "Not quite the environment our parents expect for their children's educators."
I keep talking, my voice steady even as humiliation burns through me. "My teaching philosophy centers on making literature relevant to students' lives—"
"How poetic." The mockery in his voice is razor-sharp. "And this philosophy developed while you were, what, serving coffee? Waiting tables?"
He knows. Of course he knows. He probably looked me up on social media, saw the photos of me in my diner uniform.
"Work is work," I say, my chin lifting slightly. "It doesn't diminish my education or my ability to teach."
"Doesn't it?" He leans back, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting specimen of failure. "Our students come from particular backgrounds, Ms. Johnson. They expect a certain... caliber. How do you think their parents would react knowing their children's instructor is a single mother who can barely support herself?"
The words hang in the air like a noose. I think of Devon starting school next month, of the empty refrigerator, of the bills marked FINAL NOTICE.
"Continue," he says finally, his pen tapping against his desk—probably Mont Blanc, probably worth more than I make in a week. "Tell me more about your... qualifications."