Excerpt: Substitute Superhero

Hi! My name is Claire Bankman.
I’m your Avon Representative.
Ding dong!
“Avon Representative!”
Slam.
Yep, that’s me. The one that annoys absolutely everyone by going door to door ringing bells, knocking on doors, and trying to sell you that which you already choose very carefully for yourself.
I’m also a teacher. Little kids, mostly. They are so adorable. All sticky smiles and half-eaten apples for the teacher.
I substituted a high school class one day. A single class. For one day. I wept for hours that night at home in my flannel PJs, clutching my pillow and watching Barney until the sobs subsided.
But I hadn’t been able to find a single teaching job since moving to the lower part of New York, substitute, high school, or otherwise.
So I fell back on my other job, as I always did.
Ding dong!
“Avon Representative!”
Slam.
I stepped away from my umpteenth brownstone, my breath clouding ever so slightly before my face, which blushed with the chill.
Texas weather – whole other universe. I was practically bankrupt from buying a whole new wardrobe for this Northeasterly State. I’d sold my other clothes – if I couldn’t use them, who could?
So I trolled the neighborhoods on a stomach tamed with granola bars and ramen to keep it quiet, praying for a sale. I felt like a hooker for stay at home mothers.
But luck wasn’t on my side that day – or week. So I blamed it on the demon lord seven times and moved on to the next house.
Thankfully it was the last house on the row, and the end of the neighborhood. Meaning it would be my last for the day.
Ding dong!
“Avon Representative!”
Slam.
And I was done.
I plopped down with my heavy cosmetics case on a random bench – the neighborhood was nice – and slipped my aching feet out of my black pumps. They’d never forgiven me for the side job and punished me with every step of it. I shifted the hem of my sensible black skirt that matched my sensible black suit jacket, tugging at the end of my sharp white dress shirt. I’d been in the ensemble since seven that morning, and had only touched up once at the subway bathroom – ick. I couldn’t smell or look very pretty anymore, Avon wonder-products or not.
With a sigh I pulled out my map of the city and, finding my place, crossed out the neighborhoods I’d just hit. There was way too much red on the paper already.
I marveled properly at the neighborhood as I strolled to my bus – two minutes late for the latest – absent daydreams of “if only” lazily flitting through my head.
If only.
The bus ride home was one of hunger and exhaustion. I wasn’t going home to much, but it was better than nothing.
I guess.
The lock stuck for seven tries this time before grinding through the motions. Every time I used it I worried the key would break off, and I would have to pay for the replacement. As it was the landlord had laughed when I mentioned the sink clogging a few times.
As I always do, I took the time to slide and bolt all five locks on the door. They thankfully came with the apartment, which meant they were needed. I dropped everything beside the door once inside and collapsed face down onto the couch, one of the four pieces of furniture I’d brought with me from Texas. And then pushed back up a minute later when my stomach moaned loudly against the thinning fabric.
And saw the message machine flashing on my phone.
It was an ancient contraption that I’d purchased dirt cheap – all that I could afford – at a thrift store. It only worked half the time. I prayed I’d get the full phone number at least and pressed play.
“This message is for Claire Bankman,” a strong male voice announced. “My name is Mr. Sail, I’m Principal of North Preparatory Academy, a private-”
Static cut him off for several seconds. A private prep school? What luck!
“The agency gave me your name.” I knew I paid them my last pennies for a good reason. “They said-”
More static. They’d said good things, I hoped.
“-drop by our office and talk with me tomorrow morning, I would greatly appreciate it.” I scrambled for a pen and paper as he rambled off the address, and I somehow got it down before, to my horror, the machine gave a whine and short circuited before my eyes. One message and it was gone.
I glanced down at the scribbled address in my hand. At least it hadn’t died in vain.