Authors: Liza Palmer
“Ms. Reid!” Harry Sprague and his parents.
“Hey there!” I say, melting just a bit. I duck under the table and extend my hand to the Spragues. Harry, tears welling in his ice-blue eyes, pounces on me. His arms wrap around my body, his hands tugging at my sweater.
I hug him back, pulling my arm around his lanky body and cradling his head in the other. Tears choke in my throat. I kneel down. “Sweetie, I’m okay. See? I’m okay. Harry?” I wipe away the tears streaming down his blotchy face. He’s nodding, nodding, nodding. I look up at the Spragues. Not a dry eye in the house.
“He was so worried,” Mrs. Sprague says, pulling a handkerchief out of her Hermès bag.
“We all were,” Mr. Sprague says, pushing his sunglasses up a bit more.
“I thought that man got you,” Harry finally squeaks out.
“No, baby. He didn’t,” I say, pulling him in for another hug.
“He didn’t,” Harry repeats.
“No, baby. He didn’t,” I say again, tears now streaming down my cheeks as well.
“Oh, for crissakes,” Jill says, blowing her nose into a napkin reserved for fudge and chocolate chip cookies.
We all laugh. A much-needed laugh. As I bring Harry in for another hug I turn. Sam. Watching. Smiling.
“I told my parents you were making your famous fudge,” Harry says, gathering himself.
“Five-minute fudge, easiest recipe ever,” I say, passing all three of them napkins filled with treats and trying to get back on a professional footing even as my heart melts right there and then.
“You guys want more fudge?” Jill blurts through tears.
Harry’s parents and I have a good laugh as Jill swipes her wet cheeks and offers Harry a handful of fudge. She won’t take no for an answer. He accepts it.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Mr. Sprague says, taking his wife’s hand.
“Thank you again, Frannie. We just don’t know what we’d do without you,” Mrs. Sprague says.
“He’s such a good boy. I’m the lucky one,” I say. Barely.
The Spragues walk hand in hand through the fiesta.
“Are you kidding me?” Jill says, pulling the roll of paper towels from the wagon. She takes one and starts dabbing at her eyes.
“That kid. I swear. I try not to play favorites, but that kid gets me every time,” I say, ducking under the table and starting to take the tickets from the newly formed line of kids. I place the tickets inside a large jar. We give them each a napkin with one cookie and one piece of fudge on it. They shove the treats into their mouths and run off to the next activity. The Fiesta Fund-raiser, which is not a fiesta at all, has officially begun.
“Wouldn’t the kids be more excited about dunking teachers and not architects?” I ask Jill.
“Teachers were probably smart enough to steer clear of something as embarrassing as a dunk tank. I’m not complaining, though. We’ve got quite the view,” Jill says, handing out more treats to another group of kids. She motions to the dunk tank. Or more specifically, she motions to Sam. I breathe in. As the line of kids rabid to dunk an adult becomes more and more crazed, Sam unzips his University of Tennessee hoodie and hangs it over a folding chair. A plain white T-shirt is just underneath. Of course it is. It’s the same outfit from that night. Sam looks over and gives me a wave. I smile and give a thumbs-up back. He just shakes his head.
As Martin hands a softball to a little girl at the front of the line, Sam climbs the ladder to the dunk tank like a man approaching the hangman’s noose.
“You’re next,” Sam yells to Martin as he navigates the slippery transition from ladder to sitting just above a tank of freezing hose water. Another group of kids, another set of treats. I replenish our platters and unload more containers of goodies from the wagon. I am quick to get back to the business at hand. I watch as Sam settles his big body on the tiny, perilous crossbar. His face contorts in an annoyed tangle. He can’t stop shaking his head in disbelief.
“This most certainly was not in the job description,” Sam yells, finally settling in. Martin and the other architects howl with laughter. A little girl steps up and cocks her arm back, the softball almost as big as she is.
“Come on, darlin’. Let me have it,” Sam says, gripping the crossbar and forcing a smile. The little girl throws; Sam watches the ball soar through the air and fall short of the target. The crowd reacts. The little girl deflates slightly. Martin quickly hands her another softball, giving her a quick lesson in throwing. He models the throw for her, his hand pointing at the target. Sam’s face just looks . . . amused. Martin nods. The little girl stands a bit taller. I take a quick peek over at Jill. She’s watching, too. Martin with the little girl is swoon-worthy. This is definitely a moment for Jill’s pantheon—although, knowing Jill, I have no idea which moments she values and which she pays no mind at all. I always thought she wanted kids, but that’s contrasted with her seeming not to have one maternal bone in her body. In the past, when Jill’s talked about kids it’s always been about what she should do. What’s expected of her. The next chapter. I wonder if Jill has ever thought about whether or not she actually wants kids.
“Okay, darlin’. This is the one!” Sam cheers, clapping his hands. He’s still shaking his head and pursing his lips, probably due to the impending hypothermia.
“This is like Chinese water torture,” Jill says, watching the action at the dunk tank.
“I know. Poor thing,” I say, watching as the little girl throws another shot and misses. One more opportunity.
“No, I mean we want him to get dunked, right? That white T-shirt is going to be completely see-through once it’s wet. Although, who am I talking to? You’ve already seen everything,” Jill says, bending down to pick up another container of fudge out of the wagon.
“Yes, I have,” I say, sighing, my body being pulled toward him.
“Okay, sweetheart—here’s the one. This is the one!” Sam says. Martin hands the little girl another softball and tells her, once more, to keep her eyes on the prize. He points at the target. I look at Sam. Eyes on the prize indeed.
The little girl throws the softball and hits the target, wrenching it back just millimeters. I can hear the sound of the target moaning as it causes a creaking reaction in the tiny crossbar that’s just under Sam. And then time stands still. Sam looks from the target to the little girl, across to me and then . . . down. He plunges into the water below. The waves splash over the sides as the crowd roars. Sam is a swirling mass of lanky limbs and navy blue swim trunks in the clear water. I see him set his feet on the bottom of the tank and then he bursts through the surface. His silken blond hair is swept back from his face, the white T-shirt transparent, revealing everything for all to see.
“I told you,” Jill says, slapping me on my shoulder. She’s nodding her approval. I just nod.
“I don’t have the right to him. I don’t get to sit here and act like he’s anything to me,” I say, almost to myself. For once, Jill is quiet. Her newfound discretion is not appreciated.
Sam rests his hands on the side of the dunk tank and smiles at the little girl. She hops up and down and gives him a high five. The tiny crossbar has been flipped back in place. Sam pulls himself up, whips around and sits on it once more. His face is flushed. I can’t take my eyes off him. The outline of his chest, the T-shirt sleeve hitched up and caught on the rangy muscles in his arms, the glistening skin. It’s too much. Catalyst, my ass. I don’t want him to be a stepping stone in my life. However terrifying this is, what’s even more terrifying is the idea of not having him in my life at all.
Sam tucks a leg underneath him and stands, navigating off the crossbar and down the ladder. Martin offers him a huge beach towel as he touches down. Sam pulls it around himself tightly, teeth chattering, his lips a nice soft shade of blue. The crowd gives him a round of applause; he raises his hand high and bows low.
“Ms. Reid. Mrs. Fleming,” Pamela says, standing front and center at our booth.
Jill and I immediately respond—I’m jolted out of my reverie, and Jill’s probably just stunned she wasn’t caught saying something X-rated this time. A fresh start with a new headmistress. It just . . . it just doesn’t feel right. I see Sam walk into the school with a duffel bag, the beach towel hanging across his broad shoulders.
“Headmistress Jackson,” we say in unison.
“You remember my husband, Paul?” Pamela says, presenting her husband. A huge roar from the crowd. Martin has been dunked. He bursts through the surface with a splash, not unlike Shamu, and drenches the first three rows of bystanders. The kids laugh and shriek. Their parents? Not so much. Jill claps wildly and gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Sam has yet to reappear and Ryan has been staring at me all afternoon.
“Sure, good to see you again,” we say. Paul partakes in some of our fudge and cookies.
“Frannie, have you been up to see HR yet?” Pamela asks.
Oh, shit.
“Uh, no,” I say, my face draining of color. Pamela picks up on it immediately.
“That’s fine then. Why don’t you come see me after the fund-raiser then?” Pamela says, giving me a quick smile before moving on to the next booth. Another group of kids. More fudge and cookies. More tickets in jars.
“What was that about?”
I’m unable to stop myself from licking a napkin and wiping the face of David, one of my students. That and I’m stalling. Poorly. Jill watches my every move.
I tell David, “You’ve got chocolate everywhere, sweetie.”
“Ms. Reeeeeeeeeeid,” David says. Jill. Still watching. Intent.
“Just a second,” I say, leaning over the counter that separates me from the little towheaded boy. He’s holding cotton candy in one hand and a goldfish swimming around in a plastic bag in the other.
“Groooooooosssssss,” David mews just as I’m finishing.
“Go on,” I say, mussing his hair and sending him on his way. Jill tucks the napkin filled with cookies and fudge into his cotton-candy-laden hand.
“Frannie?” Jill says again.
Just rip the Band-Aid off, Frances.
I clear my throat.
“I got the job. The head of department,” I blurt.
“What?”
“I got the job. Emma told me I got the job right before . . . ,” I say.
“That’s amazing!” Jill lunges into me for a hug. And it’s genuine; she’s not trying to stab me or anything.
“Really?”
“Really,” Jill repeats, squeezing tighter.
“I thought you’d be mad,” I say as she pulls out of the hug.
“Why would I be mad? Would you have been mad if I got the job?”
“Yes.”
“Right, because you’re a competitive little shit, but not me. So see? The best man won,” Jill says, ducking below the table to pull out another container of fudge.
“You really aren’t mad, are you?”
“No, I said I wouldn’t be.”
“Wow, you are officially a better person than I am.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
I look up as Sam walks over to our booth. My heart races. My face flushes. My hands get clammy.
Jill continues. “I’d better go see if the . . . uh, those other napkins are available. Hey, Sam.” Jill ducks under the table and trots off. Sam’s wet white T-shirt isn’t the only thing that’s transparent.
“Fudge and cookie?” I ask, holding up a little pink napkin filled with homemade treats.
“I would love it,” he says, taking the napkin. His cold fingers brush against mine.
“You look freezing,” I say.
“I am freezing,” he says.
“How much longer do you have to stick around?”
“Just for another half hour,” Sam says, checking his watch—a stainless steel diving watch that’s as big as my head and was on my bedside table not forty-eight hours ago.
“Good.”
Sam pops the piece of fudge into his mouth. “This is amazing,” he says once his mouth is no longer full.
“Easiest recipe in the world.” My entire body aches. A gasping ache that reinvents the word
yearn
.
“Really good.” Sam bites into Jill’s chocolate chip cookie. Then finishes it. “Your fudge is better,” he says.
“I expect you have to say that.”
“You expect?”
“Yeah, I—”
“You trying to talk like me now?”
“No, I—”
“I’m only kidding.”
“You’re funny.”
We are quiet. Sam is looking around. As am I. I clear my throat. He folds up his napkin into a billion little fractional parts.
“I’d better be heading out,” Sam finally says.
“Good seeing you,” I say.
“You too.” He reaches across the table with what I think is going to be an awkward handshake; I extend my hand. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. An earth-shattering night has been downgraded to an uninspired handshake across a card table at a fair.
“Oh, are we doing a handshake now?”
“No, I . . . uh . . .” Sam drops the little balled-up napkin into my hand.
Oh my god.
“Oh, right,” I say, curling my fingers around it.
“I just—”
“Nope. I got it,” I say, throwing the little napkin into the trash with all the vim and vigor of the scorned woman that I am. Of course, it floats effortlessly in the wind. Downright graceful.
“Okay, well . . .”
“You’d better be going!” I yelp as a couple of teenagers approach the booth. I motion to them to step forward and yell “
Customers!
” just as Sam is walking away. The kids get their fudge and cookies and back cautiously away from me.
“That went really well,” I say to myself, shoving three pieces of fudge into my mouth.
Later that day after cleaning up, I make my way to Pamela’s office to talk about the promotion. I didn’t see Sam again. I avoided Ryan. I didn’t fight with Lisa or Jill again. And I ate my weight in fudge. All in all an okay day, considering.
“Hello, Dolores. I’m here to see Headmistress Jackson?” I say, resting my hand on her desk. She eyes it. I don’t move it. I raise my eyebrows. I’m broken inside, Dolores. My hand shall stay put!
“I’ll let her know,” Dolores says, her eyes boring into my rebellious hand. I take a step back and slowly peeeeeel my hand away with a flourish.
“Ms. Reid here to see you? Yes, ma’am,” Dolores says, hanging up the phone. She motions for me to head in. “Motions” meaning looks at me, looks at Pamela’s door, then sniffs.