Authors: Liza Palmer
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You do what you want, but you guys seem to be having a good time. Why not see where it goes?” Lisa asks, looking away. Do I let her in on the crazy now? Is it too early in our budding friendship?
“It might be the whole Ryan thing, as well,” I say, deciding to save face a bit.
“I get that. But the best way to get over a man—”
“Is to get under another one, I know. I actually don’t think that works.”
“Yeah?”
“Because the rebound guy then becomes some kind of
Penthouse Forum
anecdote you share with your girlfriends over cosmopolitans. When, in actuality, you’ve done one of two things: sabotaged a relationship by sleeping with a man too quickly or slept with someone you don’t even like, and you feel even shittier about yourself.”
“You think too much.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Why don’t you just let this shit ride?” Lisa finally suggests.
Hm.
“You mean not—”
“Throw it over a cliff just yet,” Lisa says, cutting in.
“Do you know me well enough to say such things?” I ask, my face reddening as I look to the girl behind me in line. Another toilet flush. Another girl scuttles out. Lisa walks toward the now open stall.
“Am I right though?” Lisa says, turning around.
I am quiet. Ahem.
Lisa closes the door behind her. “Then it seems I know you well enough.” Her words echo. An apologetic smile from the girl behind me. The stall door is locked. Quiet.
Lisa and I make our way back through the crowded bar, acquiring two more pitchers of beer in the process, Lisa with her boobs aloft and me hopped up on super-cool theories about “letting shit ride.”
I slide back into the booth next to Sam. The table is more convivial during the second half of the night. It’s one of those nights. I’d like to believe it isn’t just my imagination, but I think I catch Sam staring at me a few times. It’s clear that we get along. We actually get along great. I’m happy and glad I came. I doubt there will be a classic rock mix in the offing any time soon.
“We’d better be heading out,” Jill says.
“It
is
a school night,” Lisa says, standing. Grady immediately stands and pulls her chair out just that much more. She smiles at him, grabbing his belt buckle and pulling him toward her. It’s freeing, however creepy it is to think of one’s friends in that context, to see someone so in touch with her own sexuality. Of course, I’m looking at this from a completely sociological standpoint, because I can’t fathom ever being comfortable pulling some dude closer via his belt buckle. It’s not that I’m a prude, I just couldn’t keep a straight face. The good-byes drag on as I watch Sam move through the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs. His southern drawl is now heavy with the late hour.
“It was nice meeting you, Frannie,” Sam says, finally making his way over to me. Is he going home to someone right now? Is there someone he’s going to call on his way home just so he can talk about his day? Is he in love with someone else?
“You too,” I say.
Sam gives another quick wave and a crooked little smile and is gone.
Gone.
The civil war inside my head starts as the night retracts into a blur around me.
You said yourself that maybe you weren’t ready for Sam.
Right. But that shouldn’t have stopped him from asking.
You barely met the man.
Is it too much to ask that someone make the effort to see me again?
You’re a beautiful woman and he could tell you weren’t quite sure.
But don’t all the books and movies out there tell you that the most desirable women are the plucky heroines who play hard to get?
Right, but one could argue that people who aren’t fictional need a bit more encouragement.
Encouragement?
Letting someone know you’re interested might help him make a move.
I’M SHY.
Has it ever occurred to you that Sam might be shy, as well?
Not shy enough to just walk into the night without so much as a mention of a coffee date. An e-mail address. Something.
That’s kind of the epitome of shy.
Is this where my subconscious tries to convince me that Sam, a perfect stranger, left because he loved me too much to ask me out?
Fine, but you can’t say that he left because you were so repellent.
NO, THAT IS EXACTLY WHY HE LEFT.
Long. Weary. Sigh.
We all walk out through the patio and into the alleyway that serves as the entrance to the pub. Grady and Lisa split off from the crowd quickly. Martin and Jill kiss good-bye and say they’ll see each other back home. I wave a warm farewell to Martin as he walks back to where his car awaits.
“Sam was totally into you,” Jill says, her smile faltering just slightly.
“Hm,” I say, checking my watch. Eleven thirty
P.M.
I’m exhausted and ready to go home.
“He was probably in a rush to get home. It was all so courtly.”
“A mannerly dismissal. That makes it so much better.”
“Frannie—”
I interrupt. “It’s cool. It really is. I don’t know how . . . It wasn’t like I was that attracted to him in the first place. That’s a lie. Total lie. He’s inconveniently remarkable. I just don’t think I can get my hopes up, you know?” I say.
“We should plan something. The four of us.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“I just want you to be happy.” Jill is growing frustrated. I am quiet. She takes my silence as an opportunity to press her luck. “Why don’t I plan a casual dinner? Me and Martin and you and Sam?”
“I don’t want someone to be with me because I’m handy,” I say, trying to find the words.
“Like . . .” Jill is now miming giving someone a hand job in the middle of Old Town Pasadena. I bat her hand down.
“No, no! Jesus. Like,
around
. I don’t want someone to date me because I’m convenient,” I say, waving off a curious gentleman.
“Because handies shouldn’t even enter into the equation until the fourth, maybe fifth date,” Jill says, as if quoting gospel.
I continue. “I don’t want to be the corner store where you can buy your loaf of bread, container of milk and a stick of butter.”
“That’s from
Sesame Street
,” Jill says.
“I couldn’t help myself,” I say, lacing my arm in hers as we walk down the alleyway to Fair Oaks Avenue. “I want to be the place you plan a whole trip around. Remember that store in Summerland we went to? That had that candle? We gassed up the car, made a playlist, got road food. Planned the whole day around it.”
“I love that store,” Jill muses.
“I want to be that store. A store that’s not on the way. I want to be inconvenient . . . for once,” I say. Jill’s face twitches in frustration.
“You know, we could have just gotten that damn candle online,” Jill says, giving me an affectionate tug closer to her.
H
eadmistress Dunham wants to see you in her office,” Jill says as I walk in from a session.
“What? Why?” I ask, setting down my canvas bag filled with my tools of the trade. I’m tired. It’s not even lunchtime and I’m dragging. I couldn’t sleep last night. And it’s embarrassing. I paced, fantasized and delivered a monologue—not necessarily in that order—about Sam all night. He affected me more than I’d like to admit and far more than I am comfortable with. Trying to sift through the topography of my psyche was exhausting and more than a little discouraging. What percentage of this fascination has to do with Sam versus rebounding from Ryan? (Unknown at this time.) The Frannie Peed gauntlet was ever-present with Ryan. Every word, every action, every . . . thing had to be weighed and measured by the critical jury in my head urging me to “act cool.” With Sam, words tumbled out of my mouth as my body bent close to him without a thought of crowding. I felt emancipated. But if Sam is the genuine article, what does that make Ryan? What does that make what we had together? If one of us was a fake, how can what we had be real? As the dawn broke through it came down to the simplest yet most complicated of questions: Am I real enough to have genuine feelings for Sam?
“Emma didn’t say why she wanted to see you,” Jill says, gathering up her stuff and heading out. Is this about the head of department position? Ugh. While I know I want the position, it would make things a lot easier knowing Jill
doesn’t
want it. But why would someone not want a promotion? I bite the bullet.
“Do we need to talk about the head of department position before the mixer tonight? You and I?”
“I know, right?”
“It’s going to suck. We both want it, one of us is going to get it and one of us is going to have to be the boss of the other.”
“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
“Look, we’ve both done the footwork. We turned in our applications and now we’ll just have to wait and see how the chips fall,” I say.
“I like that.”
“Because it won’t matter who the boss is, we’re still us. Right?”
“Right.”
“You’re thinking about Tony Danza right now, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” Jill pauses, then continues. “I need to be . . . I think you’re going to get it.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, trying to act like I don’t know for sure that I should get the promotion.
“I’ve got other stuff going on, so . . .”
My eyes narrow.
Jill continues. “You know, so . . .”
“It’s villainously ingenious how you can say so much while saying so little,” I say, stepping closer.
“What?”
“You’re trying to insinuate that all I have is this job.”
“I am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not.”
“Cut it out.”
“Well, maybe I’m . . .” Jill deflates in her chair.
“You better start talking. And this time with actual words, not just silent unfinished statements.”
“Fine.”
I wait. She starts and stops a million sentences. Jill is the queen of the trail-off. She begins innumerable offensive sentences and trails off just as she’s about to really hurt someone’s feelings. She always makes sure it’s the listener who fills in the blanks. Therefore the listener is the catty bitch . . . and never Jill.
“Jill?” I urge her on.
“Why doesn’t she like me? You know? There’s no way I’m getting this job and we both know it. Everyone likes you better,” Jill says.
“Oh, so I’m getting the job because Emma
likes
me more than you?”
“Well, that’s part of it.”
“So I’m the gutsy spinster who dolefully climbs the corporate ladder because she has no other options?”
“Of course not,” Jill says, looking up at me.
I am quiet . . . and growing angry. Hurt.
“I’m having a hard time not being jealous,” Jill finally says in a whisper.
“Is that the right word?” I ask.
“Jealous?”
“No,
being
. Yes,
jealous
.”
“Really? Now? You’re going to do that now?”
“What word did you think I meant?”
“Well, how is that not the right word?”
“I think it’s more complicated than just jealousy. Not for nothing, but this is a terrible situation. We’re best friends. You feel badly that you want the job because you think you should sacrifice your own ambitions and want your best friend to get it. And you’d actually be happy if she did. But you want it yourself. And on and on in a vicious cycle. Is that jealousy? Or is this just a really complicated set of circumstances?” I say.
Jill makes a face. Like she’s trying to figure out a crossword puzzle.
I continue. “Am I right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So, it’s actually not about jealousy at all. It’s just complex,” I say.
Jill pulls me in for a big hug and says, “I like that. Love you, smarty.” She squeezes tighter.
“I love you, too, weirdo.”
“Let’s make out.” And she breaks out into hysterics.
“Unbelievable. And now I only have like ten minutes before I have to pull Harry Sprague. Hopefully this little meeting with Emma won’t take too long.”
“It’s about Harry,” Jill says, taking a sip of her coffee.
“You said she didn’t say what it was about.”
“Right, but she did say
who
it’s about.”
“Why does she want to see me about this?”
“Probably because you’re the Harry Sprague expert.” Although Harry has had several different teachers over the years, as his speech therapist, I’m the one constant in his school life. I like that Emma has recognized this and is calling me in for my opinion. It’s a good sign. Jill closes the office door behind us and continues down the hall with me.
“So, we on for dinner this Sunday? Martin just got that new smoker monstrosity. He’s all keyed up to smoke something called a Boston butt. Don’t ask,” Jill says.
“Sure, I’m excited . . . not specifically about Boston butt, but about eating something other than shredded wheat and peaches,” I say.
“It’ll be a group of us—people from Martin’s office, neighbors. I’m going to feel Lisa out and see how things went with Grady. See if he’ll be there . . . ,” Jill says, her voice trailing.
Jill is quiet. Too quiet.
“Jill?”
“Hm?”
“I want it on the record that I am asking you—point-blank—not to invite any potential suitors.”
“You can’t ask me to do that.” Jill’s voice is strained.
“What? Why can’t I?”
“I simply cannot be expected to do that!” Jill takes on the demeanor of a hostage, bound and tied to a wooden chair, as she’s asked where the weapons of mass destruction are hidden.
“You . . . you’re honestly—”
“Mrs. Fweming?” A little blond girl approaches Jill hesitantly.
“Try it again, Kaylee. Fleming. Get that l,” Jill says, giving me a quick wink.
“
Fleming
. Mrs.
Fleming
,” Kaylee says, victorious. Jill gives her a quick high five. She’s nothing if not good at her job. Whether it’s speech therapist or matchmaker.
“This isn’t over,” I say as I head down the hall feeling like a freedom fighter defying an iron-fisted despot. Jill and Kaylee disappear innocently around a corner. Unbelievable. Maybe I’ll burn a copy of that classic rock mix after all. Just in case. I continue down the stairs toward Emma Dunham and her summons.
“I’m here to see Headmistress Dunham,” I say to the receptionist, a tight, overdressed seventysomething woman called Dolores.
“I’ll see if she’s ready for you,” Dolores says, looking down her nose at me. I smile brightly and find a seat in one of the leather club chairs in the luxurious anteroom. Gilt-framed oil paintings of past heads of school line the wood-paneled walls: all old, white men. While Emma’s the first female I remember being head of school, I hadn’t really put it together that Emma is the first female head of school ever. The lower master—an older white gentleman whose painting would have fit perfectly with the others in this anteroom—leaving his post in a huff now makes a lot more sense. I grab a
New Yorker
off one of the mahogany coffee tables and flip through as I wait. After several minutes, Dolores picks up her phone.
“Yes, ma’am? Fine,” Dolores says into the phone. Then to me she says, “Headmistress Dunham will see you now.”
“Thank you.” I open the door to Emma’s office with as much confidence as I can muster.
Emma picks up the phone behind a massive wooden desk. “Headmistress Dunham, I know you’re on a call, but Ms. Reid is here.” Dolores is quiet as she awaits instruction. She gives me the signal to hold on and keep it quiet. I think I can manage that. I close the door behind me and proceed toward one of the two tufted leather wingback chairs. Harry Sprague is sitting—gangly legs dangling—in the chair farthest from the door. He is sporting a very sizable black eye. I lunge toward him.
“You okay? What happened? Harry?” I whisper, swiping his bangs out of his eyes, taking in the black eye as close as I can.
“I’m fine, Ms. Reid. I’m fine,” Harry says, his eyes darting from Emma to me and back to Emma.
I try to hold my temper. Hold. I stand quickly and walk out of Emma’s office. She’s still on the phone; she holds her hand over the receiver as I walk out of the office.
“Ms. Reid?” Emma whispers. I ignore her and continue to walk out of the office, past Dolores—whom I shall now refer to as Cerberus the Three-headed Hound of Hell. By the time I’m out in the hallway, I’m at a full-out run. I hop the steps two by two and continue down the hallway, through the double doors, out onto the breezeway and into the teachers’ lounge. I don’t acknowledge the huddling group of lower school English teachers as I whip open the freezer. Ice. I pull open one of the drawers, get a freezer bag and fill it with ice. Fasten it closed, slam both freezer and drawer—hard. I rip off a paper towel and wrap it around the bag as quickly as I can.
“Everything okay?” one of the teachers asks. I disregard her and I’m back out onto the breezeway, through the double doors, down the stairs, through the anteroom, past Cerberus and back into Emma’s office. I kneel down in front of Harry, short of breath and red faced.
“Here, sweetie. Put this—” Harry winces as the cold hits his swelling eye. I pull the leather wingback chair close to Harry, holding the bag on the ever-swelling eye myself. I settle in. Look at Emma. Still on the phone and pissed. Well, that makes two of us, lady.
Harry’s blue blazer with Markham’s seal is buttoned and loose on his rail of a body. His white oxford-cloth shirt is ironed and his blue tie is tight and businesslike. Little crimson droplets of blood dot the perfectly ironed oxford-cloth shirt. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Sprague will think about this. She’s going to lose her mind. I look down to see Harry’s one act of rebellion: a pair of scuffed, unlaced skateboarding shoes. I give Harry a smile as we both try not to listen to Emma’s phone call.
I scan Emma’s office while we wait, my hand numbing from the bag of ice, despite the paper towel, that rests on Harry’s eye. Three long, thin vases anchor her pristine desk, each holding a single orange gerbera daisy. The water is sparkling and the flowers laze to one side. The vases are exactly the same distance apart from one another. She has one expensive-looking artisanal basket on her desk filled with a few files.
My eyes focus on the altar of photos arranged on the mahogany credenza on her far wall. Photos of Emma and Jamie in every imaginable part of the world. Great Wall of China. Houses of Parliament. Sydney Opera House.
Harry is sitting stock-still, only his hands are a tangle of nerves. I give him an easy smile. He quickly looks away behind the freezer bag filled with ice. If I act like I’m bored, he’ll just think this is business as usual. I can’t let him see I’m nervous, too.
Just as Emma is winding down her conversation, my eyes fall on her wedding photo. Jamie and Emma. Once again, I’m reminded of what a mismatched couple they are. I recognize the backdrop immediately as Mount Tamalpais in Mill Valley, a tiny suburb just outside of San Francisco, more commonly known as my hometown. Emma Dunham got married in my hometown? I thought she was from Michigan . . . wait, Jill did say she was in the Bay Area for a time. I store that piece of information in my memory bank for future conversation starters—conversations that will inexplicably wend their way right into the head of department position. A head of department position I am on the cusp of throwing away because of how angry I’m growing by the second. Emma signs off, hangs up the phone and jots down a couple of lines in an opened file.
“Thank you for coming, Ms. Reid,” she says.
“What can I do for you, headmistress?” I ask.
“It seems Mr. Sprague got into a fight with Mr. Sean Stone,” Emma says.
“The lacrosse player? He did this?” I ask. Sean Stone is at least six foot three with the IQ of someone just wealthy enough to buy his way into any school he wants.
“Yes,” Emma answers.
“Then I’m not following,” I say. Having Harry here makes it difficult to point out the obvious holes in Emma Dunham’s theory without hurting his feelings.
“What’s there to follow?” Emma asks. I inch forward in my chair.
“Harry has a black eye, headmistress. Clearly it wasn’t . . . where is Mr. Stone now?” I ask, deciding to start with the obvious.
“In class,” Emma answers.
“Why is he not present at this disciplinary meeting?” I ask.
“He’s being dealt with another way.”
“Another way?”
“Yes, Ms. Reid. Another way.”
“Harry, can you excuse us for a second?” I ask, turning to the terrified ten-year-old.
“Yes, Ms. Reid,” he mumbles, situating the ice bag on his eye as he shuffles out of the office. I wait. My face is unruffled as he looks back in fear. Emma smiles, too. The door closes.
“Ms. Reid, I certainly do not appreciate you asking Mr. Sprague to leave after I’ve summoned him.”
“Surely you couldn’t expect an honest conversation with him present.”
“I expected you to help discipline him.”
“Why would I discipline him when I don’t understand the situation completely?”