You Only Get So Much (10 page)

Chapter 19

I really was madly in
love with Michelle in high school. We attended junior high and high school
together—six years, four of which she didn't know I was alive. Michelle
was a soprano in the all-girls competition choir and a star on the stage for
every school production of just about anything. She was tall and lean, but as stunning
as any high school girl could be back then. She had a presence that announced
her when she walked into a room. At least she did for me. I was secretly dating
her in my own mind since the seventh grade, which sounds super creepy, until
you yourself admit that you, too, probably had a secret crush on someone who
didn't quite know about it.

It started with us early
one morning—before regular classes started during my junior year—on
one of the weeks we were supposed do the pre-SAT tests to get ready for the
real SATs the next year. I was sitting in the back of the school auditorium,
the only place I could find that morning that wasn't already crammed with other
kids trying to study in silence. The only light was this little pen light I had
and the green exit sign above me, which shone just brightly enough to allow me
to see my prep book. It wasn't ideal, the darkness was the reason why, when
Michelle flipped on the bright stage lights and walked slowly to the center of
the stage, she didn't see her secret crush—me—hidden in the back
row of the auditorium. I flipped off the pen light to remain hidden.
 

She proceeded to sing
some song—and give the performance of a lifetime. I don't know what song
it was. I can only assume given the theatrical movements that it was something
she was practicing for one of her school musicals. Her voice filled the room
and touched every bit of me. I felt like a voyeur watching her in
secret—seeing what no one else had. It was at that moment that I finally
decided to ask her out. I would tell her how beautiful her song was and she'd
be putty in my hands—but just as I stood to reveal myself hiding in the
shadows, she turned toward the wings of the stage, flipped off the lights and
left. My one chance gone forever.

No. I couldn't miss my
chance, I thought. The hallway behind the stage ran down the back of the
theater and wrapped around the band and choir classrooms. If I could make it to
the top of the steps that led down to those classrooms, I could head her off as
she left. We'd be in love before the first bell even rang.

I scooped up my books
and bolted out the back of the theater and raced down the main hall toward the
steps. The school vice principal, Mrs. Gortsema, who roamed the halls in the
early hours of the day, shouted in my direction, "Where's the fire,
Redmond?!"

I kept running and
ignored her, as most students did.

I got halfway down the
back steps—mere feet from my destiny, Michelle Sherwood—when in my
haste I forgot that I was holding not just one, but two prep books. The bottom
book had been slowly slipping away from me as I ran down the hall and flew down
the stairs. As I reached the bottom steps that turned toward the lower hallway,
that forgotten book got the best of me. But I was looking up—toward Michelle,
who had heard my stampede down the steps and knew I was coming. Our eyes
met—ever so briefly—before I placed all my weight on the book
hanging halfway over the last step.

I launched
myself—I'm not kidding—at least four feet into the air from that
last blasted step and landed flat on my face. My destiny and dignity were gone
in the exact same instance. I lay there with a carpet-burned face, hoping the
floor would swallow me up; but thankfully it didn't.

I rolled over. Squatting
next to me was Michelle with a concerned look on her face.

"You, OK?" she
asked.

Was I OK? No. Not
really. I wasn't hurt—at least not physically. But displaying how much of
a moron I was in front of her was completely the opposite of what I had
intended to do. I pulled myself up and leaned against the wall. Due to the
early hour, the hallway was deserted except for us. She sat down next to me. My
chance wasn't gone—yet.
 

"Would you like to
go to the dance with me this Friday?" I asked, through clinched teeth as I
noticed the marks on my hands from trying to catch myself.

"The Sadie Hawkins'
Dance?" she asked. Her voice seemed as sweet then as it was moments
earlier singing that song that I'll never remember the name of. "Aren't
the girls supposed to ask the guys?"

What an idiot. Yes, that
was traditionally the rule. Guys weren't supposed to ask girls out this time
around.

"Well, I just
thought that maybe if you were free that—"

"So you're a rule
breaker, huh?" she said, smiling.

I returned the smile and
shrugged my shoulders as if to say,
oh, yeah, I'm Mr. Badass rule breaker. I rip the
tags off mattresses and cross the street against the signal and everything . .
.

"OK then," she
continued. "Will you go with me?"

Well, that was easy.

"Let me think about
it a minute," I replied, trying to be funny.

"Don't think too
long, there'll be another clumsy oaf falling down those stairs any minute and
I'll ask him."

I couldn't tell if she
was serious or not. I didn't want to chance it.

"Yes, of course I
will."

*
* *

That episode lead to two
years together until graduation when we went to different colleges and simply
lost touch. Long distance doesn't work. This was before you could follow your
friends or ex-girlfriends on Facebook too, not that it would have made much
difference. I met Jane and didn't look back.

Michelle Sherwood is
Gracie's teacher. Unbelievable. Sorry, Michelle
Dixon
.

Chapter 20

"You certainly know
how to knock a person off their game," Michelle says at 3:02 p.m. in the
hallway outside room 132. The stream of students and their overjoyed voices
nearly drown her out. A pinball game of hyper children bounces around us.

I couldn't wait much
longer to see her. I wasted most of the day tinkering around at a coffee shop
trying to write. Black ink stains cover my right hand. Standing in front of
Michelle, my hands are shaking, but not because I'm nervous. I drank so much
coffee that my blood-to-java ratio is painfully out of whack.

"I could say the
same to you," I say.

"Your daughter is
very sweet. She's quite the chatterbox."

"Oh, Gracie's not
my daughter," I say to correct her assumption. "I'm her uncle. She's
Trevor's daughter."

"That's your
brother, right?"

"Yes. He and his
wife passed away at the beginning of the summer and I'm sort of watching out
for my nieces now. His oldest daughter is in high school at Gonzaga Prep."

"I'm sorry to hear
about your brother," she says, then quickly changes the subject. "I
heard about your book. Congratulations."

"Yeah,
thanks."

And then comes the one
question that every author knows is coming.

"Working on
anything else?" she asks.

I can't blame her for
asking. Of course there are variations of this question too. I wouldn't have
been surprised with, "When's the next one come out?" Or "I've
got a great idea for a book." It's human nature to look for the next
thing—to assume that what you've done to this point in your life can only
get better. So why wouldn't you again be pushing yourself through hell to crank
out another novel? One that may or may not validate your original work and
sense of being. Sure, let's do that. People ask all the time, not knowing what
flames they are really fanning.
 

But I ignore my internal
angst and answer the question like I always do.

"It's coming along
slowly. But I'm getting there."

Of course, she sees
right through me.

 
"Wow, that's a B.S. answer if I've
ever heard one," she says, looking around to see if any of the kids heard
her mild curse. "It's been what? A decade?"

"Roughly."

"So what have you been
doing with yourself? Other than growing that terrible beard."

Excellent question. What
have
I
been doing?

A wild pack of children
race by us. A perfect distraction.

"No running in the
halls!" she shouts at them. They slow to a speed walk.

"What about
you," I ask. "How long have you been teaching?"

"I see what you did
there," she says. "Not answering my question."

"That obvious,
huh?"

"Afraid so,"
she says. "I'll help you dig out. I've been at Five Mile for . . . wow,
almost 10 years now. I taught second grade for the past eight years and this is
my first crack at first grade. You're daughter—niece, sorry—is in
for quite the experience."

"I think she's up
for it. She's pretty resilient."

"You'd be surprised
how true that is for kids," she says. "They just need to know what's
expected of them. They living with you now?"

"More like I'm
living with them. Oh, and you'll appreciate this. My parents are living with us
too."

Her reaction is
priceless. Hand over her mouth, trying to hold in a laugh that can't be
contained. So she doesn't. It's a beautiful, reserved laugh. Very fitting for
both her personally and for the comic strip that is my living situation.
 

"We all have our
crosses to bear," she says, continuing to laugh.
 

I can't help but smile
at that. So very true and she fully understands what a pain in the butt my
mother truly is.

"There's a
smile," she says. "I wasn't sure if you could still do that under
that wig on your face."

"Wig?"

"Oh, come on,"
she says. "You trying out to be another brother on Duck Dynasty or is
there a lumberjack pancake-eating contest tonight?"

"Easy, I'm
sensitive," I say, playing with her.

"I think you need
to be a hunter to pull off that look; and if I remember right, you're far from
it."

"I've been known to
shoot an animal or two before."

This is true. Last year
some cat kept climbing on the cabin deck and pooping, so I bought a BB gun and
fired off a few shots in its direction to scare it off. OK, so it was only one
animal and a BB gun doesn't really count, but I'm trying to sound tough. A
manly man.

"Oh, impressive.
Maybe I'll take you out with me next time I go elk hunting with my cousin in
the Okanogan."

"Yeah, that'd be
great," I lied.
  

"So, I've got to
do some wrap-up for the day before a few meetings, but it was really great
seeing you," she says, but doesn't make a move to walk away.

"Good to see you
too."

"Oh, I should
ask," she said. "Since you're a writer and everything. We're
recruiting reading mentors for the students. It's a pretty easy gig. You just
read with the kids and help them along when you can. It's during the school
day. A few days a week. Whatever you can handle. I think they'd really like to
have an author as a mentor."

"I think I can
handle that," I say.

And if there's a
chance I'll get to see more of Michelle, then I'm definitely in.

I say goodbye and
can't help but watch her as she turns back into the classroom and out of sight.
Such a beautiful woman.

Chapter 21

Lesson learned. I should
have asked more questions before agreeing to become a reading mentor. Not only
are the kids not in Michelle's class, they are in the Kindergarten class.

The first day went like
this. The teacher, Mrs. Weston, parades me up in front of a gaggle of little
kids in mismatched clothing. The kids sit in a semi-circle, legs crisscrossed.
Some rock back and forth from shear boredom before I even begin.

"Class, this is
Billy Redmond," Mrs. Weston says to the throng.

"Hi,
Billy-er-man," the class collectively mumbles. If they were adults they'd
already be checking their phones for "important messages" that might
allow them to flee without doing irreparable harm to my ego. No such luck, they
are just kids.

"Mr. Redmond is an
author," she says. "He writes books."

"Ohhhh," the
class says. Clearly impressed beyond words.

A little boy wearing a
black Batman shirt, raises his hand and sort of bounces until his teacher
notices him.

"Yes, Connor?"
Mrs. Weston asks.

"So, um, you know
the Batman book?" Connor asks, but he's not really asking a question.
"Yeah, I wrote that one."

I catch the Mrs.
Weston's glance. I'm wondering if it's my sworn duty as an adult to call out
this little punk for lying about writing a book. A book about Batman no less. I
think the fellas at DC Comics would take issue with such a claim. Mrs. Weston
seems to sense my unease.

"Connor, I think
you mean you have
read
that book. An author wrote it a long time ago."

"Um, yeah," he
says, "That's it."

A girl in green
coveralls raises her hand, but doesn't wait to be called on.

"I wrote a book
too!" she says. "It's in my bedroom. I like to read a lot."

"Hanna, we don't
talk unless we're called on," the teacher says. "And I think we're
getting a little confused here. We're all learning to read in kindergarten.
It's going to be some time before we can write long stories like books."

"Then why is
he
here?" Connor asks.

I give the little twerp
the stink-eye, but I happen to agree with him, so I'm in a bit of a tough spot.

"He's going to read
us a story," she says. "In fact, why don't we get started?"

I take chair in front of
the carpet.

"Since it's
Clayton's birthday week, he picked his favorite book for the class today,"
Mrs. Weston says.

She hands me a green
hardback copy of Shel Silverstein's
The Giving Tree
, a classic children's novel
that has been read by schoolchildren for decades. The story is about a boy who
takes and takes progressively more from a tree throughout his lifetime, until
the tree is cut down to a stump—dead for all practical purposes—and
the author proclaims the tree is happy. I've always found this to be troubling
as a children's book.
 
What exactly
are we supposed to learn from this sadomasochistic relationship? That we can
continually ask for what we want, even when it inflicts pain on another person
or, in this case a tree? That our needs should be selflessly filled by others,
regardless of the consequences? Of course the kids sitting cross-legged in
front of me aren't pondering the literary intent of this book. They just want a
story at story time. Fair enough.

I read the story aloud,
voicing the highs and lows of the book to the best of my ability. And when I'm
finished I feel a modest sense of accomplishment knowing that I somehow
contributed to the education of these little people. Even in a small way. I
close the book and set it on my lap, ready to have a discussion about what was
just read. These were the instructions given to me by Mrs. Weston before I
began reading.

Connor raises his hand.
I hesitate to call on that little troublemaker. Thankfully another kid raises
her hand.

"Yes?"

"Can I pull on your
beard?"

"No."

I continue to ignore
Connor as another kid raises his hand.

"It's not as big as
Santa's beard," the kid says. "I pulled on that one at the mall. It
was real too."

"We won't be
pulling on my beard today," I say.

"Does anyone have a
question or thought about the book?" I ask.

A girl with two
ponytails raises her hand, "Did you write that? I didn't like it."

"Well, no, I didn't
write this one; but why didn't you like it?"

"I need to go
potty," she says.

I look up for Mrs.
Weston to intervene. She's apparently decided this is a good time to go on
break, because she's nowhere to be found in the classroom.

"I guess you should
go then," I say. The girl gets up and half-runs out the door into the
hallway.

"You aren't
supposed to do that," Connor says. "You didn't give her a pass. And
she can't go without a Potty Buddy either. Yer gonna be in trouble."

"I think I'll
survive," I snap back at Connor only then realizing that he's got the
upper hand, in that he knows the rules and I'm just some idiot reading someone
else's story.

"OK, kids, I give
in. Who wants to pull on my beard?"

Yet again, I'm in over
my head.