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Tami pets his head in sympathy, but she’s laughing. “You know what they say, honey, those who can’t do, teach.”
“Uh-huh.” It’s the last week of July. The air from the open window smells like hot pencil sharpeners, soft with exhaust from the sorghum harvest. Summer’s final quarter has come with a dusky turn in all the leaves and an addendum to his contract at East Dillon, printed on cheap white paper. “And what’d they say about those who can’t teach?”
Tami reads from behind him at the kitchen island. She smells like coffee with the last of their creamer. Her hair falls into her face, then his, obscures the words REMEDIAL and ALGEBRA and FRESHMAN. But not so much that he can’t make out what they mean.
She says, “They pretty much teach, too.”