Welcome to Grafitti Hall, the hallowed hallways of high school, corner of Public and Education.
Come in, hang a right, go up the stairs, first doorway on the left. Meet Libby Logan. Teacher. Mother. Wife. Sister. The good girl next door, everything to everybody.
Everybody’s always told her play by the rules. Be nice. Work hard. Play fair. She never thought it was too much to ask. She’s just wired that way.
And she’s got it all, all together. At least on the surface between 7:30 and 3, and 3 to 11. Beneath that, pipes are bursting and water’s flooding the hallowed halls, washing bright anger and dull hope from the writing on the walls, leaving nothing but swirling shades of grey.
What happens when the rules change? Nobody ever told her the rest of it. About how to keep her head above water; about how sometimes the lesson plan of the day is simple survival for the students, the teachers, her kids, herself.
The hallway’s narrow and straight. It should be easy finding the way; to get from one end to the other, intact. But she’s in uncharted territory, tap dancing blind and furious in the minefield between could’ve, should’ve, might’ve been, and what is.
The hallway’s crowded. There are busy intersections. There’s too much traffic, too much noise, too many choices.
And there’s always too much to lose.
Why should we care?
The thing that always gets me is this could be really good. There's an energy and vivacity here that I like. But there's no bridge to "why I want to read this" so Im just waving at you from the form letter rejection side of the Slush Pile Canyon.