One True Theory of Love (9 page)

“We do so,” Henry insisted.

Meg shrugged an apology to Ahmed. “Sorry, but I’m protective when it comes to my son.”

“As well you should be,” Ahmed said. “How about I’ll take my leave here. But can I call you sometime this week?”

“You
have
to,” Henry said. “You have to show me your tips and tricks, remember?”

“Oh, right. So you can help Bradley.” Ahmed’s eyes twinkled. He turned his twinkle on Meg. “What do you say?”

“You can call us,” she agreed. “And I’m very glad you happened to so innocently jog by today.”

Ahmed’s smile broadened. “I don’t recall saying there was anything innocent about it.”

So precious, the purity of their love: You exist. Therefore, I love you. Kids have no history to fall back on, to trip them up. They don’t sit around and wonder, What is love, anyway? What does it really mean, to love a person? And why bother? For them, love just
is.
They couldn’t get it wrong if they tried.

 

 

 

 

“I think maybe I’ll quit soccer,” Henry said on Monday morning as they drove to school. Meg knew as they passed the junk-filled yards and the angry graffiti and the bullet-ridden windows of the tough South Tucson neighborhood where Foundation Elementary was located that in the overall scheme of things, Henry’s desire to quit soccer was minuscule.

She knew this.

But still. Henry loved soccer and he was good at it. Meg eyed him in the rearview mirror. “I think maybe you won’t,” she said.

Henry kicked the back of Meg’s seat.

“Knock it off,” Meg said. “You know I can’t stand that.”

“And
you
know I can’t stand the coach.” Henry kicked the back of Meg’s seat once more for good measure, as he always did upon being told to knock it off. “It’s just going to happen again, the same stupid thing. Bradley’s going to keep catching the ball and I’m going to keep getting mad, and his mom is one mean person all right, and I don’t think I like soccer very much anymore, anyway.”

“You sure looked like you loved it after you made those two goals on Saturday,” Meg said. “Remember how good that felt?”

In the mirror, she watched him cross his arms and reject the memory.

“The world’s full of people who are all too eager to make your life difficult,” she said. “You just can’t let them. Whatever happened to you wanting to help Bradley get better? I thought you were excited about that.”

“Ahmed didn’t call,” Henry said. “He was supposed to call, and he didn’t.”

The sharpness in his tone set off alarm bells in Meg’s gut. “He said he’ll call sometime this week,” she reminded him. “That means anytime up until next Saturday.”

“But I have practice tomorrow!” Henry said. “How am I supposed to help Bradley if I don’t know how?”

“You know how perfectly well,” Meg said. “You just kick the ball around with Bradley and help him learn how not to be afraid. Just show him how to stop the ball with his chest, or how to turn his body so the ball hits his back. Just show him what
you
do.”

Henry was obstinate. “But Ahmed has tips and tricks, and I need to learn them.”

 

 

 

Once she and Henry parted ways at school, Meg delved into her day. During morning circle, she and her students sang songs and then Meg read them that week’s story, “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.” On Mondays, she simply read the story. On Tuesdays, which she nicknamed Tie It Together Tuesdays, she read the same story again and they tried to connect the theme or plot to their own little lives. On Wednesdays, half the kids acted out the story while she narrated it. On Thursdays, the other half acted it out. By Friday, they owned the story. They owned it, told it, loved it, knew it, became it.

From story time they moved on to art, otherwise known as Messy Mondays. Once they were properly smocked and poised in front of their poster paper, Meg called out a word and they chose a color to associate with it, then painted as much or as little on their posters as they wanted. When Meg said
happy
, most chose yellows and reds. When she said
outdoors
, they chose greens and blues. When she said
sad
, Lucas refused to participate.

“Sad is black and I don’t want black on my painting.” He looked at her in spirited defiance.

Meg smiled, delighted by the way his mind worked. “How about just a tiny dot?”

“No.”

“How about brown? Is brown ever a sad color?”

“Yes!” Antonio said. “I put brown
and
black on my painting for sad. And purple, too!”

Except for Marita, Meg’s sweet and silent wallflower, everyone else shouted out what colors they’d used to show
sad
.

“Look at hers,” Lucas said, pointing to Marita’s painting. “That’s crazy sad.”

“Marita’s painting is Marita’s business. You just worry about your own self.” Meg said it even as she herself was alarmed by the blackness of her quietest student’s work. “So, Lucas, no sadness in your painting, that’s your final answer?”

“That’s my final answer,” he said.

“Good for you,” Meg said. “Why don’t you pick the next word for the class?”

Lucas scrunched up his eyes and thought real hard. “I know!
Dancing
.” Then he took a paintbrush in each hand and, after dipping one in the orange paint and the other in the red, made jazzy swirls on his poster. Dancing, indeed. Meg watched as he leaned over to Marita’s painting and began to paint an orange smiley face on hers.

“Lucas!” Meg scurried over. “Hands to yourself.”

“It’s okay, Miss Meg.” Marita’s voice was so soft it was almost nonexistent.

“Yeah.” Lucas threw his arm around Marita’s shoulders. “She likes for me to do stuff like this.” He turned to Marita. “Doncha? Doncha? Huh, huh, huh?” He poked her with the nonbrush end of his paintbrush until she giggled.

Meg, who would have paid a million dollars to hear that giggle, bent to Lucas and tapped him on the nose. “You are a beautiful goof.”

 

 

 

Alone in the teacher’s lounge on her lunch hour, Meg noted a message on her cell phone. Hi, Meg. It’s Ahmed. Can you call me, please? Thanks.

Her heart raced as she dialed him back. He picked up on the second ring. “Meg! I’m glad you called back.”

Meg felt her smile grow stupidly wide. Thank goodness she was alone. “And I’m glad
you
called,” she said. “I’ve got a boy on my hands who very much wants to learn your tips and tricks.”

“Those would be my soccer tips and tricks?”

“You have other kinds?” Meg asked, teasing.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Many, many others.”

Was it possible to smell a person over the phone? Had the subtle-cologne scent of him crossed through the phone lines, or was it just Meg’s memory of him? Or was it a trick of his?

“I can meet with Henry any night this week after work except for tonight because I’ve got golf plans,” he said. “You just tell me when and where. And then I was hoping you could stop by my office one day this week because I have something I’d like to give you. You’re welcome to bring Henry, of course.”

His office. Meg realized she didn’t even know what he did for a living. It seemed she absolutely should know this by now, but she’d only seen him twice, after all, and both times, Henry had sucked up much of the spotlight. Was Ahmed a college professor? Owner of an art gallery? “What do you do, anyway?” she asked.

“I’m the assistant city manager,” he said.

“The assistant city manager of what?”

“Of Tucson.”

Of Tucson! “You’re a bigwig!”

Ahmed laughed. “I’m just a cog in the wheel.”

“Can you do anything about the sidewalks in my neighborhood?” she asked. “Because I think it’s crazy that I live in one of the nicest neighborhoods in town and I can’t even walk from my place to Rincon Market on a sidewalk. Sixth Street needs sidewalks all the way through! Tucson’s so schizophrenic with its sidewalks that it drives me nuts. We need sidewalks and we need handicap curbs.”

Ahmed chuckled. “The RTA’s supposed to help with that.”

“You sound like a politician.” Meg tried to remember what RTA stood for, but couldn’t. She only knew that it and something called Rio Nuevo were supposed to be the answer to everyone’s transportation and downtown redevelopment prayers, although no one in Tucson seemed to expect much from either.

“Nope,” Ahmed said cheerfully. “I’m just a cog in the wheel. I live in the same neighborhood as you. If I had any clout, we’d have better sidewalks. I agree with you that they leave something to be desired.”

“You’re probably just all ethical and honest and don’t want to put your own neighborhood ahead of others,” Meg said. “Am I right?”

“Lack of clout.” He laughed after saying it.

“Is this why you didn’t tell me what you do for a living?” Meg asked. “Does everyone always come up to you and ask you to fix things for them?”

“Pretty much.” Ahmed’s chuckle was low and sexy.
Man,
he gave good phone. Meg suspected he was probably a pretty good fixer of things, too.

“So, do I need to make an appointment to see the assistant city manager?” she asked.

“You? Never,” he said. “I keep the last hour of my day open, so just stop on down to city hall at your convenience. I’m on the tenth floor.”

Ahmed met them at the park the next night and showed Henry some drills he could do with Bradley, and then a few days later, Meg left Henry to tag along with Harley on a plumbing project in 108-D while she went to see Ahmed.

Tucson’s downtown was small but complicated, with its myriad one-way streets and its resistance to a grid structure, which left the V-shaped streets sending people in the wrong direction from their desired destinations. It all felt deliberately hostile, and sensible people avoided downtown if they possibly could.

But Meg wasn’t sensible.

She was a fool in lust.

She parked in the library parking lot and then walked the few blocks to city hall. In her infinite wisdom, she’d worn heels, the sexiest she owned, which admittedly weren’t very sexy, but they made her feel Like a Woman, as did the autumnal orange nail polish she’d painted on her toes the previous night. She wore a simple sleeveless dark blue linen dress that her father always complimented, going for a deliberately careless but man-she-cleans-up-good look.

Once at city hall, she rode the elevator to the tenth floor and stopped at the reception desk. The woman behind it was cool and professional and her entire presentation was exactly of a certain type—perfectly highlighted hair, whitened teeth, long French nails that must have made typing a challenge, and a plethora of bling. Meg always wondered how people in normal-paying jobs could pull off looks like this. It seemed she must spend her entire paycheck keeping up her appearance. Meg also always wondered: if she’d remained married to Jonathan, was this how she’d look—nice, certainly, but somewhat . . . interchangeable?

“I’m here to see Ahmed. . . .”
Shit.
She couldn’t remember his last name! The things she didn’t know about him could fill a book. “Ahmed . . . Bour-something? I’m Meg Clark. He’s sort of expecting me.”

“Bourhani.” The receptionist smiled. “His name’s a mouthful. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Do you happen to know if he has any pull when it comes to putting in sidewalks?” Meg asked.

The receptionist’s smile was practiced. “The RTA’s supposed to help with that.”

“Right,” Meg said. “So I keep hearing.”

She scoped out the lobby while she waited. It was pretty typical, nothing special, but
right there
was the mayor’s office. No matter how he tried to downplay it, Ahmed was a big fish in Tucson’s small pond.

When a burst of cool air tickled Meg’s neck, she knew even before turning that he was on his way down the corridor toward her. Sure enough, she turned and there he was, in linen pants, a crisp white shirt, and a rich-but-casual blazer. He carried himself with a self-possession that seemed earned rather than inherited. Along with kindness, Meg found confidence about the sexiest trait a man could possess. There was no denying it: Ahmed was hot. Meltably hot.