The Royals Next Door

class.

 

It isn't until the bell rings that I have time to deal with the purse of puke.

 

I'm staring at it, wondering if I should call it a wash and just throw it all away, when there's a knock at the door. It's the first-grade teacher, Cynthia Bautista, poking her head in, sympathy all over her face. Maybe a tinge of disgust.

 

"You okay? I heard you had a sickie today."

 

I gesture to the bag, which I still haven't touched. "Well, I'm in the market for a new purse."

 

She walks in and eyes it, flinching. "Oh. Fuck me." Then she covers her mouth and bursts out laughing. "I'm sorry. It's not funny."

 

"Don't worry, if it had happened to you, I'd be laughing too." Cynthia is one of the few teachers here that I'd consider a friend. Not that I'm a hard person to get along with-people pleasing is something that's been ingrained in me since I was a child-but there aren't that many people who "get" me, especially where I live, especially in the school system. There's a very rigid set of rules and hierarchy at SSI Elementary, and I'm still treated like a newcomer, even though I've worked here and lived here long enough. They say that most people who move to Salt Spring Island only last a few years, and if you make it to five, then you're considered a "real islander." I've made it to five, and I haven't managed to get close to anyone. People seem to think I'll eventually go back out with the tide.

 

"I think you're going to have to throw it away," Cynthia says, her nose scrunched up. "Anything valuable in there?"

 

I sigh, nodding. "My wallet. Some makeup. A book. Tic Tacs."

 

My antianxiety medication, I finish in my head. But she doesn't need to know that.

 

Then I remember. "Oh wait. Maybe . . ." I crouch down and gingerly poke at the outside pocket where I remember sliding my bank cards this morning after getting my morning coffee at Salty Seas Coffee & Goods. My