Not My Kind of Hero

by Pippa Grant

I want her to know she’s strong enough to do hard things. But you have to do the hard things before you know you’re strong enough. Sucks, doesn’t it?

“How’s that feel?” I ask the very bad chalk drawing of Dean’s face after I put the sledgehammer through it. It doesn’t answer. Obviously. So I move on to the next chalk drawing, this one of a copper-haired, math-teaching, soccer-coaching cowboy that looks more like a snail wearing a donut on its head.

Her chewing has slowed, and she stares at me like I’m an alien. Not just an alien, but an alien sitting in the middle of the couch, shoving popcorn up my nose, and using my feet to flip through all the channels like an anxious man on crack.

These are the times when I think teenagers could do a better job of running the world than we adults do. And also when what they learn on the internet scares the crap out of me.

a Half-Cocked Heroes concert T-shirt,

I turn the door handle and tug on it, only to have it stop short when the chain lock catches. I’m so fucking excited that this woman is on my doorstep that I forgot to undo the chain.

For the first time in my life, I think I’ve found someone I want to love.

“Sometimes figuring out who you are and who you want to be involves figuring out who to trust to go on the journey with you.”

We even spend an entire night playing strip puzzle. It’s like strip poker, except when one of us finds the exact piece we’re both looking for, we pick which piece of clothing the other has to take off. The puzzle, erm, doesn’t get done.

“You like your job.” “Love it.” “Teenage hormones and all?” “They’re a puzzle. Every one of them. If they leave my classroom happier and more confident, even if they can’t math to save their lives, I’ve done my job.”

“I’ll share it with my cousin up in Montana. He’s, like, TikTok viral for splitting logs or something.