"A Friendship Worth Keeping" Hitomi Madsen looked a wreck, and it was only the first hour of her first day teaching. She had gone through advanced classes in high school and already knew what she wanted to be when she grew up: teacher of Literature and Writing (not English). She had done well and would've gotten valedictorian had not some unfortunate events happened near the end of the year. She still won awards, but her heart was not in the graduation. Her parents had later said that it was just anxiety and nostalgia for "good old days" setting in already. Hitomi's college years were tough in many ways. She took every class necessary in order to achieve her teacher's license, yet spent more time studying and working than socializing. The winter holidays came and went without flair. Her nineteenth birthday was a day wet and dreary, fitting for early spring weather. She later had a rare three-day vacation from school and only one day to work her part-time job during that weekend, so she shirked her books for awhile and went out parading. The immaculate researcher, Hitomi had poked around computer space for places where college students went to cast off the yoke of their troubles, and ventured to the nearest. By the next morning, she had given her virginity away in exchange for a lover. A woman lover. Her first. Her mind never felt clearer. Her parents thought otherwise. Madsen had to claw her way out of college during the next three years. She earned her teaching degree the hard way, without any parental support—any. She still managed to come through in the top five percent of her class, and was prouder still because of it. Her girlfriend had left her for another state and another job after graduation, and promised to keep in contact, but Madsen never heard from her again. But it didn't really matter: she was young, 23, with a degree in teaching and a lovely boyfriend--an older man who was already a teacher--in her arms. It felt grimy to her, but she was beginning to convince her parents that her "stint" in homosexuality was just that, that this man would be the start of something great, that they might even soon expect a marriage and grandchildren. Hitomi's tough life didn't even begin to prepare her for her career. Her boyfriend broke up with her the week before her first day, saying how relationships between teachers couldn't exist—and then turned round and started shacking up with a college student. Madsen was shattered all the way through, and even the thrill of a new job couldn't spark her. But things were about to get worse: her first class of her first day as a Literature & Writing teacher in E.C. Stanton public school for young ladies sent her into deeper circles of Hell. She had a "trouble" class. Nearly three-fourths of the students were rude, loud, disrespectful, largely ignorant, and cruel witches; the remaining quarter was too meek to do anything about it. They sang and laughed. They threw things. They shrieked over their poor teacher, who had been dealt blow after blow in such a short time—and she needed to smoke, badly. She began to shake. Most of the projectiles struck her. She lost her voice, her nerve, her edge that had made her so well-loved in school. She had loved Stanton and always wanted to teach there, but now she was suffocating in its armpit. She was having a nervous breakdown, and the only thing that saved her was the bell. Hitomi quickly dashed out of her own class and stumbled into a bathroom, gasping and horrified. She was going insane, and she ached to have a cigarette. She looked disastrous, hardly the strong pillar people would come to recognize her as later, and she had not truly stopped crying ever since the break-up. She was at her lowest; she felt like vomiting, but one stall was broken, the other in no condition to crawl to, and the third occupied. Hitomi hugged herself and tried to breathe as she waited for the other lady to finish. The toilet flushed quickly, to her relief. Out came an angel, more beautiful and kind and caring than any Hitomi had seen or heard of. The woman was a fraction taller, and though hardly boasting the model's body Hitomi had, her natural shapeliness and grown-up tone made her look lovelier than anyone she could think of. She had a very kind face and long eyelashes, with curvy brows that seemed expressive of all emotion. She was fair of skin, and had long legs and fingers and black hair, and full pink lips. The woman's eyes twinkled like the dew on grass early in the morning; her turtleneck sweater was dark like the evergreen; she wore a black skirt to her knee, and walked with good posture, and was polite and soothing to look at. She smiled faintly and traveled to the sink. Hitomi wept in sadness and relief and knelt by the porcelain, retching quietly. The other woman—definitely a teacher by the looks of her poise and sound of her voice—called out to her as she dried her hands. "You okay in there?" Hitomi didn't answer. She just sighed with 23 years' worth of weariness. She spat and felt the gentle hand of the other woman on her back. "You okay?" She took a breath and gingerly tore off some toilet paper to wipe her face. Slowly, as if she were both sunburned and arthritic, she turned around and smiled up. "It's my first day," she explained sheepishly. The other woman smiled in understanding. "Oh. That explains something. Here, let me help you up." Hitomi felt her hand quickly, and was cleansed by the delicate touch. She had long fingers and a savior's grip, hoisting her up with gentlest care until she stood. The woman motioned that Hitomi still had some gunk on her mouth, and she quickly apologized and wiped it off. "It's okay," she whispered, rubbing her back. "It's quite all right. All new teachers feel that way, although I think you're the first I've seen that's actually acted upon it. I felt sick on my first day too." So she was a teacher. She extended her hand courteously and introduced herself: "I'm Abigail Marie Keeping, the psychology teacher, but my friends call me Abby or Gail, since my full name makes me sound so old." Madsen laughed politely, not because it was really funny but the other teacher had said it so casually, so gaily, and with such clarity that it was like water blowing away the dust. She felt refreshed already and smiled for it. "I'm Hitomi Leah Madsen, Literature and Writing." "A pleasure. You have quite a cute name, Hitomi. You're Japanese?" "My mother was," she answered. Abigail—Abby, she decided to call her—smiled and kept holding her hand, caressing it like she was already her closest friend. "Hmm. So would you like to tell me about your day? Sometimes talking about your problems and having somebody listen to them can help. It's a healthy way of cleansing, and we all need support." "Don't you have a class to go to?" "Don't you?" Madsen grumbled lifelessly. "I have ten minutes to spare, then back into the pit." "Hmm, me too—but I enjoy my classes." "You don't have the hellish monsters I did." "I did, once. And just like you, I felt terrified, scared. It's a common trait in new teachers: they feel so confident after graduating, but once they get to really teaching, they lose their nerve. It's a very usual occurrence, no matter which job you take, but there are ways you can handle it." "Like what?" asked Madsen glumly. She leaned against the wall of the bathroom and frisked herself for cigarettes, but school rule prohibited them. Abby saw her frantic search and dug into her own pockets for a secret stash. "You smoke?" she offered. Madsen stared at the precious sticks of relief and carefully took two. "Yes, but not as often as I used to. You?" "No," answered Abby with a warm smile, "I just carry them around in case I meet someone who does." Hitomi thanked her and carefully lit the first. She drew in the flavor—rich and hearty, all the more coming from this friendly stranger—held it in, and blew. Abby politely waved the smoke from her face and leaned against the stall opposite Madsen, so they could both talk. "As I was saying," she resumed, "there are ways of handling stress. I'm not sure if I can recommend smoking being one of them, but I can definitely say that a good friend is the best remedy." She nodded, and Hitomi returned the nod. So, like that, they were friends. Abby resumed with, "Another good way is to pace yourself. Taking breaks like this, or better yet, outside in the open air, is a way to cleanse yourself. The third... This may sound sad and unconventional," she spoke wistfully, "but sometimes you just have to let things go. Sometimes you can't afford to care so much. It's been in my experience, many hard lessons learned in succession, that if you grow too attached to any one thing and you lose it, it's like losing yourself. Have you ever accidentally super-glued yourself to anything?" "Can't say I have," said Hitomi, blowing out more smoke. Already she looked calmer and more relaxed, though Abby secretly wished her new friend would dispose of the cigarette. She knew, also from experience, that smoking never helped in the long run. "Well, I have," she answered shyly. "Once or twice in shop class and a few jobs I had. Even if it's with your own skin, it still hurts when you rip it apart. That's how it feels whenever you lose something you've chained yourself to, or something you... think is important." "Don't I know that," mumbled Madsen. Abby nodded. "I don't know you very well, Hitomi," she said plainly, "but I can tell you've got a history that's seen bad days. You might've lost very important things, or people." "Lovers," she answered. Abby looked genuinely sad. "I see. That hurts the worst. But if they're gone, there's little you can do to get them back. I've learned that myself, too. You have to let it go and stop caring." "...It hurts," whispered Hitomi after a pause. Abby closed the distance between them and took her hand. "I know it hurts, honey, I know it does. Believe me. I've been alive long enough to know pain of all kinds, but something's kept me going, whether it was a pet project of mine, a friend, or even something coming in the mail. One time I got an anonymous love letter that really helped me during a dark time. I never learned who sent it, but I kept it and cared for it like it was my own child. And you know, there is my job. I love my job." "But how does one go about doing that?" asked Madsen desperately. "My class is—" "Hell, right? Listen, Hitomi, I'm going to teach you something. How old are you?" "Twenty-three... but I feel like a hundred." Abby smiled lovingly. "Well, I'm twenty-five, so we're very close in age. Let me teach you: in order to love your class, you first have to love your work and your students, and for that to happen, you've got to let them know who's boss. You say your class is Hell; well, straighten them up. Be firm and strong. Treat them according to their actions. Don't give them a foothold. You'll have to be as stern as a drill sergeant if you want them to respect you. Please, Hitomi, don't pretend to be their friend until they begin to respect you. "Above all else, you should know that I'm your friend, and I'll be here for you when you need me." Hitomi sighed, feeling refreshed and emptied and hopeless and fiery all at once. When her day began, she had felt like she had been frozen in ice, only to be devoured by a three-headed dragon looming above—the ninth and deepest circle of Hell. Or perhaps she was more like Prometheus, punished for doing good, strapped to a rock where vultures ripped out her liver (or was it heart?) every day. And if things, if one thing had gone differently that day, she would have spiraled and failed and died in spirit. She barely knew her, and already, Abby had turned into her Hercules, her Beatrice, her guide through torment and her savior from agony. She felt like she was losing years of age and sorrow, only to be filled with hope and love—she could not contain herself. Hitomi wept gently and lunged forth to embrace her new friend, her only friend, and was received with tender warmth. She squeezed hard, afraid to let go and be let go. Abby's hand caressed her back and shoulders, her voice whispered and told her it was going to be all right. With one minute to spare before class, they finally released each other. Hitomi took several breaths and managed to smile, her glowing face reflecting off of her friend's. Words could not be used for such a moment, they were too clumsy and weak for it. She just took Keeping's hand and squeezed it. "Thank you." "It's my pleasure." "We should get to class." Abby grinned merrily, feeling like she was seventeen and getting into mischief again with an old friend. "We?" "Yes, we. I'm going to. I'm going to try and—" "No dear, you won't," interrupted the older woman. She held up a finger and stated, "It's just like Yoda says: we shouldn't try, we should just do it. Now go out there, do what you must—and I'll treat you to a dinner regardless of outcome." Hitomi smiled, embraced her friend quickly, and left the bathroom in a huff. She had to stretch to make it to her class without running, and she had to dispose of her cigarettes. She felt better, substantially better, and was ready to take it out on her class: the new Hitomi Madsen, who didn't take any grief from anybody. "Good morning, class!" she announced merrily as she came in. Nobody answered her, so she tried again: "Good morning. ...You know, ladies, it is terribly rude of you not to answer back. I should like to believe I have received women with better manners, but it doesn't look it. I shall just deduce two points from everybody who did not return my greeting." "Hey!" called a girl near the back. "You can't do that!!" "Can't I?" She smiled slyly and struck her pen across each name. The girl who called out stuttered. "But that's not fair!" "You're right, it's not," answered Madsen coolly. She already felt like she had regained power again. "It's not fair that manners are only given, not returned. It's not fair that those of you who have been brought up that way were silent a moment ago. It's not fair this, it's not fair that." "But..." "Miss..." Hitomi checked her roll, then raised her eyebrow, mentally asking who the girl was. "Uh, Alisha. Alisha Fox." "Miss Fox," she resumed flawlessly, "I may not seem fair, but I will certainly do my best to be just, to do what is right. Everyone has already learned a lesson here. Now, let's put it to the test: I say again, Good Morning." "Good morning, Miss Madsen," chimed the girls tentatively. She grinned. "Excellent. My, what polite students I have this year!" Oh, I'm good. Maybe I should buy Abby that dinner as thanks instead. With that out of the way, Madsen opened up her class in the same manner she would always open it up from that day until her retirement: she asked all students to walk up in front of the class, introduce themselves, and say some things about them. Her introductory had floored many of the girls, catching them unawares. They had never seen a teacher so strict and demanding, yet so warm and compassionate, all at once; a few fell in love with her from the start. Needless to say, she continued her streak of strong first impressions well into the day, past lunch, and into the final hours of the afternoon—and the first days of every class ever since. As the last of the students filed out to ride the bus, Madsen finished her papers, took a satisfied breath, and left her room. She walked out of the building many steps above the ninth cloud; her heart felt like it had eagle's wings, and her smile was as merry as her step. She vaguely anticipated the first class on the second day—after all, many trouble students were still there and still thought lowly of her—but after such a lovely day asserting herself, she felt she could face it and more. "Hitomi!" She jerked around when she heard her name, and waved. It was Abby. "Abby! I'm buying dinner!" "No, it's my treat—I insist!" "I need to thank you. I owe you a lot." "Buy me dessert and it's a deal." Hitomi smiled. She took Abby's soft hand as they met, and together walked to the teacher parking lot and spoke of their dinner plans as if they had known each other for years. All that afternoon and well into the evening, Hitomi excitedly spoke of how her day went, how satisfactory each class had been, and how right her friend was. Abby was humbled and a bit surprised, but as she said, "I thought you had it in you; you just had to get over some jitters." "It wasn't just jitters," replied Madsen dimly, picking at her food. In a muttered breath, half her attention devoted to her food, she told her, "My boyfriend from college broke up with me right before my first day. I had a mind that we were thinking about marriage. What a fool I was." Abby gave her younger friend a wise smirk. "Don't you mean... what a fool he was?" Hitomi snickered and managed to hold back her food and drink with a well-placed napkin. "I never thought of it that way. By using that rationale, you know, I could call my parents fools." "What did they do?" "Disown me," she answered bluntly, angrily. Abby frowned with deep sadness. "Oh my goodness, for what?" "It's... personal. I may tell you some other time in the future." "You don't have to. I'll just take your word for it." Hitomi smiled again, reached across the table, and squeezed her friend's hand. "Thanks. That's a load off already." Silence overcame them, a warm and welcome kind that was like the gentle kiss of summer-night or the tenderness of a nap on Sunday afternoon. They shared it together until Abby reasoned to end it by digging in her purse. She pulled out a well-worn small hardcover book, bound in brown, and handed it to her friend. "What's this?" "Murder on the Orient Express, my favorite book. I got into Agatha Christie when I was in college and I could never stop myself. You can... you know, read it when you're not feeling well." Hitomi refused it with a polite hand and smile. "Thank you, but I think I'll perform more to my usual standard now, since I've found such a lovely person who's encouraged me." Abby grinned bashfully but insisted on giving the book away. "Take it anyway, as a gift. I've practically memorized it anyway." "You don't need it?" "Well... not necessarily." Hitomi didn't quite understand the broader meaning of the exchange; Abby had meant to spread her liking of the novelist to a good friend for ages, and if she found anyone, it would be nearly like not ever giving the book away at all; it would be shared. Hitomi made an accepting face and gave in. "Well, all right, if you insist. It's really all right?" "Yes, of course. Please, do." Hitomi's gaze, penetrating behind hazel eyes, was warm and loving and just a faint bittersweet. "This is almost too much." "I insist." "Thank you," she whispered, and mentally, she promised to one day repay Abby Keeping for her kindness and generosity. The dessert she bought barely touched the surface; parting words and I'll-look-forward to seeing-you-tomorrow just grazed by it. That had been two years ago. Now, Abby was 27, Hitomi 25, and their friendship was solid and true. Keeping wanted to take things to the next level. She had grown attracted to her friend. Madsen was at the next level—with a different woman. Lilian Nachtheim cuddled just a little bit closer to her that evening.
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