Small Change (7 page)

S
aturday night Rachel got comfy in her sweats and T-shirt. Then she dipped into her hidden stash of Hershey's kisses, and settled on the couch with her secret guilty pleasure: a romance novel.

She'd been a loyal reader since she'd picked up her first paper-back in college, but when things went south with Aaron she had taken all her romance novels to the Goodwill. Dumb. She'd had some first edition hardbacks in there that were probably worth something now. At the time, though, she hadn't cared. The last thing she'd wanted to read about was some pretend woman's happy ending with her perfect man. The perfect man didn't exist, except in fiction. And guess who made up those perfect men? Women, probably women who wished they could find such a thing as a perfect man.

But when she'd passed the romance paperbacks at the library she hadn't been able to stop herself from adding a couple to her pile of finance books. Maybe pretend wasn't so bad. Maybe reading about love and happy endings was good for the soul and gave
a girl hope. With school (and her job) about to end, she could use a little hope.

She popped a chocolate in her mouth and opened the book.

Destiny Vane knew she had found her soul mate when she first saw Auguste Baiser. He was darkly handsome with sensual lips, a chiseled chin, and powerful arms, and he was helping an old woman across the dirty streets of Paris.

Rachel snuggled down deeper among the sofa pillows. Auguste Baiser, would, of course, turn out to have other body parts as powerful as his arms, and after many ups and downs (no pun intended), many tears and terrors, Destiny and Auguste would walk off into the French sunset hand in hand. In the book, this would take months. At the rate Rachel read, it would take until Sunday afternoon.

Which it did. She gobbled the story down like candy, even though this par ticu lar book was one big cliché after another. But so what? Her real life was a cliché.

She was done and ready to return to the real world by the time the children came through the door from spending the weekend with their father and Misty the lingerie model. Rachel was slipping peanut butter cookies onto a cooling rack when the door opened and the sound of voices and a bouncing basketball echoed through the house, announcing that her babies were back.

David bounded into the kitchen first. “Cookies!” His basket-ball landed on the floor and dribbled away and he scooped up two, juggling the hot goodies in his hand.

Rachel smiled. She couldn't run out and buy her son the latest Wii game, but cookies worked almost as well. “Did you have fun with your father?” she asked, keeping her voice conversational. Of course, he had fun. Fun was all the kids ever had
with Aaron. No homework ever got done, no chores. Aaron's house was Fun Land. Sigh.

David had already stuffed half a cookie into his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, spitting crumbs.

Normally Rachel would correct him for talking with his mouth full. Not now, though, not when he'd just returned from being with the other woman.

“Except Misty can't cook.”

Her son, who was basically a support system for a stomach, always said this when he came home, and she always kept the same thought to herself: Aaron didn't marry Misty for her cooking skills.

Now Claire was in the kitchen, too. She was smiling, which meant Misty had done something cool with her, something where money was no object. It only took a second to guess what. Claire was wearing a new necklace and earrings.

“You look like you had fun. What did you do?” asked Rachel, working hard to sound like a good sport.
Let me guess. Does it start with an S?

“We went to the mall,” said Claire.

Big surprise. Clothes were Misty's life. How nice to have the perfect body for clothes, and for attracting someone else's husband. How nice to have money to spend on clothes, not only for yourself but to use to buy the affections of someone else's daughter, as well. How nice. Where was the Kick Me sign for Misty's backside?

Okay, enough.
Misty might have been able to steal Rachel's husband, but she'd never be able to steal her children. Kids couldn't be bought. They saw right through feeble attempts like trips to the mall, at least that was what Rachel's mother was always saying. She sure hoped her mother was right.

“Guess what,” said Claire, still smiling. “Misty had braces when she was my age.”

“And look how she turned out,” Rachel said, finishing her daughter's thought. She'd had braces, too, and had told Claire that. It hadn't done a thing to encourage her. But then Rachel wasn't a model.

“I still wish I didn't have to get them, but I guess it will be okay,” said Claire, helping herself to a cookie.

All right. She still hated Misty, but she could at least be glad that Claire had come home, not simply resigned to her fate, but feeling better about it. “It will be okay,” Rachel said, and gave Claire a one-armed hug. “It always is. Isn't it?” she added, rumpling David's hair.

“Yep,” he said, and took two more cookies.

“That is enough cookies for you,” she told him, deciding she needed to get back in mother mode. “You'll spoil your appetite for dinner.”

“I'm not hungry,” said Claire. “We went to Pizza Heaven.”

Oh, well, Rachel told herself. Misty couldn't bake. So there.

Still, the possession of baking skills didn't seem like much of an upper hand when compared to trips to the mall and Pizza Heaven and looking gorgeous enough to inspire a preteen to accept the necessity of getting braces. Children didn't care how long you were in labor with them or how much you sacrificed to keep them in the same house they'd always lived in. They didn't tell themselves that someday they'd thank you for making them eat their vegetables, do their homework, and practice good hygiene. Children, when faced with a choice between boring old Mom and the Pied Piper in drag, always chose the Pied Piper. Her mother was wrong. Children could be bought.

Where was she going with all this? How much negativity could a woman pack in one brain? No more already, she told herself, and tried hard for the rest of the evening to be upbeat and positive. And in the process of being upbeat and positive she consumed six peanut butter cookies. Maybe she really did need therapy. Or another romance novel. She decided on the romance novel.

The next morning Rachel woke up determined to be optimistic. She was tough and resilient. She would be fine. She'd gotten kicked, but she wasn't down. She and her children still had a roof over their heads and she had a steady paycheck for a little while longer. If she couldn't find a full-time teaching position for fall she'd sub. Or she'd clean houses. Or she'd sneak over to Aaron's, steal Misty's lingerie, and sell them on eBay. Snort.

“What are you laughing about?”

Rachel turned from where she stood toasting bagels to find her daughter looking at her like she was crazy.

“Nothing. I just thought of something funny, that's all.”

Claire shrugged. She helped herself to a bagel and started slathering jam on it. “Can I hang out downtown after school with Bethany?”

“I know that Coffee Stop gift card is burning a hole in your pocket,” Rachel teased. “I guess, for a couple of hours.”

“Ummm, can I have some money?”

“You spent all your allowance?”

“Pleeease?” Claire begged, dodging the question.

Rachel noticed her daughter was wearing the new necklace and earrings she'd gotten at the mall with Misty. The woman poured money on Claire like it was water and Rachel was bickering
over a few dollars? “I have a ten in my wallet. You can have that.”

“Thank you, Mommy! You're the best mom in the world.” All smiles, Claire gave Rachel a kiss on the cheek and bounded out of the kitchen.

Ten dollars was a small price to pay for being the best mom in the world. Or was it? What was she teaching her daughter about money? Her head suddenly hurt.

Jess had called in to A-Plus Office Services first thing in the morning and learned that they had nothing for her. Michael was right; she had to cast her net further. So, back to the city she went and signed up with Solutions, Inc.

“You don't have a lot of experience,” said Ms. Solutions Inc., offering an empathetic expression to soften the harsh reality.

“You're right, I don't,” Jess agreed. But how hard could it be to sit at a desk and push those blinking lights on a telephone? And she knew the alphabet, for crying out loud. She could handle filing.

“We mostly get requests for data entry. It would help if you knew Excel. But we'll keep a watch and call you when something comes up that we think is a good fit for you.”

Jess nodded and left the office with a strong suspicion that she wouldn't be hearing from Solutions, Inc.
You need a Plan B.

On her way home she passed Heart Lake High, and catching sight of the school tennis courts suddenly inspired her. Now there was something she could do: teach tennis. She played doubles every Friday, spring, summer, and fall. She knew her way around a racquet. It had only taken her twenty years of playing to reach an
intermediate level of excellence, but nobody had to know she was nothing more than a jock wannabe. It was like dying your hair— don't ask, don't tell.

As soon as she got in the house she called her friend Mary Lou, the head of the Heart Lake Park and Recreation sports department and offered her services for the upcoming summer program.

“I wish you'd called about a week earlier,” said Mary Lou. “I hired my last instructor on Friday.”

It figured.

“But we just lost a kinder gym teacher. I could use some help there.”

“Kinder gym, like in gymnastics?” Tennis was one thing, this was quite another. “I don't think so. I can't even do a decent somer-sault,” Jess confessed.

“They call them forward rolls,” Mary Lou corrected. “You really don't need to know as much as you think you do.”

“I must have to be certified or something. Otherwise, what happens if some poor kid gets hurt on my watch?”

“Trust me. You don't have to be a gymnast to teach kinder gym,” Mary Lou assured her. “Anyway, you're not exactly teaching at a level that involves injuries.”

“But if someone did get hurt?” worried Jess.

“That's why we have insurance. Look, I'll train you myself. Okay? Come in and help me with my morning classes this week. That way you could start teaching when the new session begins.”

As in she'd be hired? Just like that? It paid to have connections.

“Okay,” Jess decided. It beat waiting by the phone, hoping to hear from temp agencies.

“Great! You'll love this,” Mary Lou enthused. “The kids are so cute. That's why I still teach a couple of classes. I love it.”

You can do this, Jess told herself as she hung up. How hard could it be to teach little kindergartners and preschoolers to hop around on a mat?

Not that hard, she decided the next day, watching Mary Lou in action at the old junior high gym where classes were held. All the kinder gym pupils were really young so it was mostly fun and games and an introduction to the basics of gymnastics with lots of stretching at the beginning. “Stand on your tippy-toes,” Mary Lou said, demonstrating. “Reach for the ceiling.”

All the little gymnasts (mostly girls in pink leotards) stood on tiptoe on cute, little baby fat legs. Jess fit right in with her hot pink tee. She stood, too, on legs that also had fat, the grown-up variety.

After stretching they worked on skill-building while parents sat in folding metal chairs on the far end of the gym and smiled at their future Olympians, oblivious to the smell of eau de sweat that perfumed the air. Mary Lou made it all look easy.

“See?” she said later as they waved good-bye to the last set of parents and children. “You can do this.”

“What if somebody asks me to demonstrate?” Jess worried.

“I'll work with you this week and teach you the basics, like how to do a forward roll and mount the beam …”

“Wait a minute,” Jess interrupted, “as in balance beam? They learn that in kinder gym?”