Her Road Home

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She opened the heavy glass door and stepped into the past.

Amazing how all state-run learning institutions smelled the same: a mixture of old library books, decades of cafeteria food, dust and teenage hormones. She checked in at the office and received directions to the shop classroom.

Sam forced her shoulders back and her chin up, reminding herself that she was no longer a gangly, scuttling misfit. Strange how walking the halls brought back the sharp-edged emotions that memories themselves did not. A tall, awkward, tomboy from the wrong side of town might have skated under the radar of the cool girl clique—if she hadn’t had the audacity to be friends with their boyfriend pool.

Clllannnggg! At the bell, the cavernous hall became a flash-flood river of students. They wore cutting-edge fashions, piercings and blatant attitude. The girls chattered behind their hands about the boys, who postured in studious disregard. Exotic fragrances competed with sweet, immature ones, combining in a miasma of perfume and teenage sweat. Raucous laughter echoed off the cinder block walls and every voice ratcheted decibels, competing. Sam breathed in the youthful energy, the air fairly crackling with a potent mix of potential and angst.

It was one of those rare times when she stood at the edge of a double-sided mirror: on one side was the awkward teen outcast, on the other, a grown woman. A professional. A contractor.

An emotional mess.

She found the correct room number and dropped out of the flow of students.

Maybe so. But at least in one aspect of her life, she’d achieved her dream. A rare bubble of pride rose in her chest.

Dan Porter stood at the front of the classroom in dress slacks and a blue collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Samantha. You came!” His tone told her he hadn’t been at all sure she would. He hurried over on stubby legs to pump her hand.

The front of the large room was a typical classroom, with chairs in rows facing a blackboard. The back transitioned to a wood shop, with high ceilings and windows marching down one side.

“Class is about to start. Do you have the time to sit in? It would give you an idea of the kids’ knowledge levels. At the end, would you mind talking a bit about what you do for a living? I try to remind them that there will be life after high school. Or am I asking too much?”

Sam chuckled. “What would I expect from a man who prowls home improvement stores, springing on unsuspecting contractors? I’d be happy to talk, but I’m not ready to commit to hiring them.”

“That’s fair enough.”

She slid into a chair at the back as the bell rang. Several students slipped in as Dan closed the door. Sam was gratified to see both sexes represented; she’d been the only girl in her shop classes. The boys had accepted her, once they realized that she took it seriously. The girls weren’t as forgiving.

Dan began the class by asking them to recite the rules.

Smart way to get the kids to buy in to safety.

“I want to introduce Samantha Crozier, a local contractor.”

Heads turned, chairs squealed and the heavy regard of a tough audience settled on Sam. She sat still, squirming relegated only to her stomach.

“Ms. Crozier is going to speak with us at the end of class. You’re free to work on your individual projects, now. Anyone has questions, come see me.”

Sam followed the noisy crowd to the business side of the shop.

Wandering past the floor saws, she stopped to talk to several students. Their projects ranged from simple bookshelves to birdhouses.

One boy was using power tools to carve a long chunk of cedar. Tall and lanky, stringy black hair obscured most of his pale face. Clad totally in black, he had a safety pin through his eyebrow and homemade tattoos etched the backs of both hands. He ignored her, concentrating on his intricate work with a scroll saw.

When he paused, Sam asked, “What is it?”

“A sign for a band I know.”

Gothic letters spelling “Long Goodbye” stood in bold relief, an elongated dragon winding through them.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Huh.”

“Do you want to work in wood as a career?”

“Dunno.”

“You should think about it. You have talent.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The buzz of the electric router made further conversation impossible—though conversation seemed too ambitious a word. She moved to the next station.

At the end of class, Sam spoke for ten minutes about the building trade and the future of the industry.

When she was done, Dan spoke up. “We’ve got a few minutes for questions. This is your chance, people. Do you have anything you’ve wondered about the career that Sam could answer?”

The blonde girl in the front row raised her hand. “Have you run into prejudice, being a woman contractor?”