"The Breakdown"

It happened on a Friday.

The last bell had barely rung, and the hallway smelled like floor wax and pencil erasers. Miss Lindstrom looked tired—more tired than usual—but she still smiled when she saw me waiting by her desk with my backpack already slung on one shoulder.

“Long week?” I asked.

She gave a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Let’s just say… I’m counting down the days to summer break.”

We walked out together like always, our shoes echoing on the hallway tile—mine clunky and loud, hers soft and tired, the sound of leather soles gently brushing against her heels. Her mules looked even more worn now. The insides were dark with use, the outline of her heel nearly worn through the leather. She walked with them like they were just part of her.

The sun was warm and slanting low when we climbed into the Volvo. I knew right away something was off. She turned the key, and the engine gave a dry, choked churr, then a whine.

She exhaled slowly. “Oh, don’t do this to me today.”

She adjusted herself, heel poised above the gas. The old mule slipped slightly off her foot as she began to pump—hard, fast, practiced. The pedal squeaked under the pressure. I could feel the rhythm in the floorboard.

Whirr-chug. Chug. Silence.

Again, her foot slammed the pedal, pumping faster. The slap of worn leather against the metal pedal filled the car.

Nothing.

“You want me to walk home?” I asked softly.

She looked over at me, her face flushed, hair curling from the heat. “No. You stay right here. You’re my good luck charm, remember?”

She turned back to the dash and pumped again—barefoot now, her mule tossed aside with a quick motion. I could see her heel, damp with sweat, pressing again and again into the pedal. Her foot looked tired, just like her.

The engine tried once more, gave a sick groan, and then died with a final clunk.

She sat back slowly, hands falling from the wheel. For the first time, she didn’t look like a teacher. She looked like someone’s big sister, or a girl who just wanted to cry but didn’t.

I didn’t say anything at first. The car ticked as it cooled. The world outside was quiet except for a few birds.

Then I asked, real quiet, “Miss Lindstrom… are you okay?”

She looked over at me—eyes a little red now, but not from crying—and gave me the smallest smile.

“I will be. Just tired. Tired of fighting this old car. Tired of pretending every day’s a breeze when it’s not.”

We sat there a long time. The sunlight slipped behind the trees, and the wind picked up through the cracked window. Her bare foot rested on the floor now, still close to the gas pedal, toes curled slightly like it was hard to relax.

“I can walk home,” I said again.

She reached over and gently squeezed my shoulder. “I like driving you, Daniel. You're the only thing this car and I agree on lately.”

We waited for someone to come help. We didn’t talk much after that. We didn’t need to.

But that night, I knew something had shifted.

She wasn’t just my teacher anymore.

She was my friend.

Want to follow with a scene where they try to fix the car together, or maybe a sweet moment between them at school the next week, something light-hearted?