The F Word

  As we’re walking out of Escuela, I see that it’s started raining. Pretty hard, in fact. Caroline’s driver, Richard, is standing by her waiting car with an umbrella. He’s parked in the valet zone. Because Escuela is so cramped, a group of four people are forced to wait for their car outside. But the valet can’t pull in until Richard moves the Escalade. Being in Southern California and thusly never expecting it to rain, the group is getting soaked as their car idles just a few feet away. With the crush of paparazzi, they can’t walk around to get to their car. They are stuck and getting more and more drenched as Caroline eases her way out of the restaurant.

  We finally get outside, and Richard immediately comes over and puts the umbrella over Caroline, and everything is happening so fast that when one of the paparazzi yells, “Why does everyone have to wait for their car but you?” I can’t stop Caroline from saying:

  “Because I’m Caroline Lang.”

  And just like that, we’re in Damage Control.

  YOU LOOK LOST

  “Because I’m Caroline Lang?” I mumble to myself as I drive to Ben’s elementary school after an utterly sleepless night. By the time we got home, the major gossip sites had Because I’m Caroline Lang as their headline, and some were already connecting the two terrible pieces of what is fast becoming an abysmal puzzle: Why is Max Walsh cheating with Willa Lindholm?… because she’s Caroline Lang. It was a joke, by the way. That’s what Caroline said. The actual line was, “Because I’m Caroline Lang, right?” It was her way of taking a dig at how even though she’s the one getting cheated on, it’s her fault because she’s such an icy bitch.

  Except no one heard the “right.” And no one thought it was funny.

  And it’s only Monday.

  It took me way too long to get ready this morning. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard, or like I was flirting, or like I was desperate, or like I was fat or like I was too thin or like I was old or like I thought I was younger than I am. I wanted to find an outfit I felt good in, but everything I chose made me feel too … exposed, somehow. I ended up choosing a basic black skirt and a white shirt. Black pumps and a black bag. I have a black sweater if it gets cold. So, apparently one thing I wasn’t afraid of looking like was that I’m on my way to a funeral.

  I drain my morning smoothie just as I’m pulling into one of the diagonal parking spaces in front of the school. I search for the main office, skirting around little duckling lines of kids threading through the playground. There’s a part of me—a very small part—that’s thankful for Caroline’s flub: As I walk to meet The Ben Dunn, the only thing pinging around in my head is “Because I’m Caroline Lang. Because I’m Caroline Lang. Because I’m Caroline Lang.” Of course, that’s not completely true. Every time I imagine seeing Ben again and really talking to him this time, I get so nervous I have to stop thinking about it. I still put one foot in front of the other but I’m sure my face is frozen in some haunting death mask of horror.

  “You look lost,” a woman in a flowing skirt and Birkenstocks says.

  “I am. Desperately,” I say.

  “Who are you looking for?” She tells a little boy to slow down, shifts a stack of paper from one arm to the other, and focuses back on me.

  “Ben Dunn?” His name. His goddamn name still ripples through me like electricity.

  “Ah, yes.” Is she smirking? Does she … does she think this is … what does she think is—

  “I’m here on business,” I say, my voice about eight decibels louder than it should be.

  “Oh,” she says. Again with the knowing smile. I will kill this woman.

  “Is he…”

  “Principal’s office is through there,” she says, pointing two doors down the hallway. A little sign reads FRONT OFFICE.

  “Thank you,” I say. The woman walks on as I smooth my skirt down, hoping to dry my clammy hands in the process. I will myself to walk. A deep breath. A slow exhalation. A swallow. Slide my purse back on my shoulder. And I walk into the front office.

  A large counter anchors a tiny bluish room. Children’s art covers the walls in joyful explosions: pictures of circle people with stick legs, their grins tracing from ear to ear, rainbows and fluffy clouds all atop shaky lines of green grass. The large windows on the back wall are frosted? Filthy? Both?

  The little room feels like … real Cokes wrapped in tinfoil, and sitting by myself at lunch. It smells like being chosen last at team sports and packs of kids I wanted to be friends with more than anything making fun of me. It smells like wanting to belong and not understanding why I don’t get to.

  “You need to sign in.” THAT. SAME. WOMAN. She swans past me and stands behind the counter.

  “Oh,” I say, eyeing the clipboard and pen with a giant daisy on the tip.

  Olivia Morten 8:41 a.m. Ben Dunn

  “He’ll be right with you,” she says, settling behind a desk in the far corner. She motions to two child-sized wooden chairs like they’re just perfect for adults to sit in. I glance around the room. A door emblazoned with PRINCIPAL BENJAMIN DUNN is just next to the two chairs. She motions again. Her lank brownish-grayish hair, sallow complexion, and all-around ennui bring back the frustration I had even as a kid. I knew full well that certain authority figures had no right telling anyone what to do. I look at her old-timey nameplate: JOANNE BLANK. It takes all I’ve got not to break into hysterics. Never has a person been so aptly named. I squat almost to the floor and finally find the seat of the tiny chair. My knees are pressed against my chest and right then Ben bursts in.

  “Joanne, can you call Bryce, someone threw up by the baseball diam—oh? Olivia. Hi,” Ben says, stopping in front of me. I try to stand, but I can’t get any traction and the tight black skirt and the stupid fucking lowest chair in the world and can someone actually die from embarrassment and rage? LET’S FIND OUT. Ben extends his hand. “Little help?”

  Oh my god. I hitch my purse on my shoulder. One more failed attempt to do it myself. “Olivia. Let me help you.” In a fit of held breath and sheer unadulterated fury, I take his hand. Rough, strong fingers curl around mine, but I still don’t trust him. So I try again to get up on my own, at which time he puts his other hand around my waist and hoists me up out of the seat. “You’re as bad as Tilly.” He loops my purse back over my shoulder.

  “Thanks … I … my whole life passed before my eyes and it was apparently going to be spent sitting in that chair,” I say, smoothing my skirt down again. Ben laughs. I look up at him smiling. Tall and looming, he’s too close and his hand has yet to be unwound from my waist.

  “Principal Dunn? What’s a baseball dime?” Joanne asks in that unhurried, leisurely tone.

  “I’m sorry?” Ben asks, finally letting me go.

  “You told me someone vomited on the baseball dime, but I don’t think I know what that is,” Joanne says, smiling, the phone receiver in her hand. Ben’s starched collar. The nick he got shaving this morning. The faint brown speckles in the pale blue of just his right eye. Chipping pink nail polish on two of his fingernails that I’m hoping was done by one of his daughters.

  “The baseball diamond, Joanne. It’s the baseball diamond,” Ben says.

  “Oh, yes. That makes much more sense,” Joanne says, dialing the phone.

  “Shall we?” Ben asks, pushing open the door with his name on it in black lettering. He waits for me to enter first and then closes the door behind him. “Joanne came with the job. People keep telling me she’s an institution.”

  “Like the DMV,” I say.

  Ben laughs. “That’s … that’s it exactly. She’s the DMV of people.” He settles in behind his desk. He shakes his head and reaches for a mug that says World’s Best Dad and takes a sip of what looks to be stone-cold black coffee.

  “Thank you for seeing me today,” I say.

  “You’re welcome, but as I said—”

  “I assure you, it’s not—I’m sorry, I should let you finish.”

  “Please. Continue,” he says, sit
ting back in his chair.

  “Mom mentioned that you were looking for donations for the Halloween fair at Asterhouse,” I say, deciding to start at the beginning.

  “I am.”

  “I can help with that.”

  “Hm.”

  “What?”

  “My concern is that this charity will come at a cost and that makes me nervous.”

  “Caroline Lang can help. She wants to help.” I sit back in my chair. Think. “She’s a good person.” Another moment. I look at Ben. He’s listening.

  “So where do I come in?”

  “I want to show people the Caroline I know, and I think if she can donate some costumes and maybe just volunteer the day of the fair, it’ll allow her to be seen in a different light. No outside photographers, no media circus. She’ll post one picture on her own Instagram, but no kids will be in it.” Ben moves his chair forward and leans on his desk, folding his hands. The two chipped pink fingernails are on full display. “I also think it’ll be good for her. Personally.”

  “I’m having a hard time following—”

  “She’d be just another volunteer.”

  “No, that I get.” Ben unfolds his hands and taps his fingers. I wait.

  “And the kids would benefit greatly.”

  “I feel like we’re skirting around the biggest issue here,” he says.

  “I think her fame will bring much-needed interest to this charity.”

  “You hate me.” Ben waits. “Right?”

  “I … what?” First, I’m stunned. Maybe a little embarrassed. And then I get mad.

  “And? You’re not this nice,” he says.

  I lean forward in my chair. “I’m not this nice?” I repeat, making sure to hit the word “nice” with particular vigor.

  “Yeah.”

  I’m speechless. I’ve never been so obviously hoisted on my own petard before. I knew this was a fool’s errand, fueled by some teenage need to show Ben how much I’ve changed and how above everything I am now. Look at me, asking you for a favor. Yawn, let bygones be bygones. Ignoring the obvious: that our shared history should be toured like an old Civil War battlefield. Yes, and here is where Ben laughed when Olivia dropped her Lunchables. And if you turn to the left quickly, you’ll see where Olivia asked Ben this famous question, “Which do you think makes you dumber, playing football or being a ginger?”

  “I am not here to make you pay for who you were in high school. I am not here to humiliate you,” I finally say. He clears his throat. Locks his eyes on mine once again. A furrowed brow.

  “Why do I feel like that’s exactly what all this is about?” he asks, his voice a low growl.

  “You’re not the only one who’s haunted by who you were in high school.”

  We are quiet.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I’m sorry, too. I should have said it the other night.”

  “I don’t know. Lou was talking with me about those superheroes and how sometimes you need a person who is kind of a villain to take out the bigger villain. And the kind of villain who is … what did she say, only bad because people had been mean to them.”

  “So my badness was only because of you? I don’t buy it.”

  “No, not because of me. Because of something that happened before me. Your origin story, if you will.”

  “This is a very existential conversation about a bunch of people in tights.”

  “At least you’re not the bigger villain in this scenario. The one beyond redemption.”

  “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” I ask. Ben laughs.

  “Okay,” Ben says.

  “Okay,” I repeat.

  “No, I mean okay, okay—Caroline can come,” he says, pulling a pencil out of a little tin, grabbing a pad of paper.

  “Really?” I ask. Ben scribbles a list of names on the pad of paper.

  “Really,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say, breathing easy. I smile. “Thank you.” A pure, unadulterated smile. Ben rips off the top paper and slides it across the desk. He keeps writing.

  “Here’s a list of costumes some of the kids wished for and their sizes,” he says. Falcon. Doctor. Belle. Train engineer. Batman. “Can Caroline take care of all five?”

  “She’d love to.” I remember her Super Hobo story. I think she’s really going to love doing this. Ben stands. Caught off guard, I stand as well.

  “Falcon is the superhero, not the bird.” I nod. “And here’s your list,” he says, handing me another sheet of paper. “You’re donating, too.” I look at him. “And that’s every kid accounted for. I can finally be taken off Mom’s list. About this, anyway. I have yet to disclose whether my freezer can hold my parents’ excess bacon, sausage, and ham.” He smiles and I can’t help but join him. He walks around his desk. “I have a meeting in ten minutes. I’m sorry to rush you.” I walk toward the door reading my list. Rapunzel. Fireman.

  “What’s a Rocket? Like, a rocket?” I shoot my arm into the air like a spaceship. Ben laughs as he opens the door, motioning for me to go first.

  “No. That’s Rocket Raccoon. He’s … it’s hard to explain. Just Google him.” Joanne doesn’t look up as we pass through the front office. She’s misting some dying plant that’s next to her computer. The water misses the browning leaves and hits the keyboard.

  “Rocket Raccoon,” I repeat, folding the papers up and putting them into my purse.

  “He’s kind of amazing.” Ben folds his arms across his chest and stops just outside his office. He scans the hallways—his domain. Little kids chirp their hellos as they carefully pass, giggling and speeding up their pace as they get out of range. “The details for the Halloween fair are also on the paper. When and where and all that.” He smiles. “Let me think a bit about what booth she can work.” I pull a card from my purse and hand it to him.

  “That’s all my information, so you can let me know?” I ask, seeing that the fair is this Friday. Which is going to be tight. All hell may break loose before then. But, this is the right way. This is the plan.

  “See you Friday, then,” he says.

  “Friday,” I say, standing there. Awkward. “Okay. I’ll let you get to your meeting.” He extends his hand and I take it. “Thanks again.”

  “Drive safe,” he says. I nod. We let our hands go. Another nod. I wave. He waves. I walk down the hallway. I look back once. He’s still there. Another wave. I wave and turn back around and hurry out of the school before I make him wave again. Only when I get to my car do I see Ben continue on to his meeting. I close my car door and let the silence surround me.

  “What the fuck is a Rocket Raccoon,” I mutter. I file away the day’s events. I can’t think about … My face flushes as I remember my words. No. Don’t think about it. Remember? That was the … You’re not this nice. A sigh. I put the key in the ignition and take my phone out of my purse. Texts from Ellen. A missed call from Søren. I sit in the car and catch up on what was apparently the wrong twenty minutes to leave my phone in my purse. Putting out more fires. Setting up meetings. Putting in a call to Caroline’s agent and another to her manager. I schedule a time to speak with Caroline later on this morning.

  I reach over my shoulder for my seatbelt. It tangles and twists around my hand and my shoulder. It gets stuck. Pull … stuck. Pull … stuck. And I pull harder and … stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.

  “SHIT PISS FUCK,” I yell. The rage comes exploding out of me in the silence and calm of my car on this emptied-out street. “Shitpissfuck.” I bury my face in my hands. Make it go away. Make it all go away.

  What am I doing here? In what world does my only plan for Caroline’s redemption involve Ben Dunn, a man famous for saying that his high school conquests had “been done by Ben Dunn.” To what lengths am I willing to go to prove that my past is truly behind me? Mean shit? You better believe he said a lot of mean shit. And what? Just because he lets his adorable daughters paint his fingernails pink, he’s no longer the same person who tormented anyone wh
o couldn’t chug a beer or throw a football?

  Why do our teenage crushes hold such sway over us? Even as adults, these crushes continue to hold a place in our hearts that we would never bestow upon them as the people we are now. But, oh, to be the object of a teenage girl’s affection. Our crush’s mere presence will reduce a grown woman to rubble simply because he represents the ideal of something much too complicated to grasp as a teenager: True Love.

  I loved Ben Dunn at a time when he could be the only thing that mattered. I could pine away for him twenty-four hours a day because I hadn’t yet begun to exist. Factor in the worrisome amount of disagreement I received at the hands of my One True Love and you’ve got yourself quite the after-school special. Of course, I didn’t see that at all. I was taught—through movies and television—that if you argued with someone as much as Ben and I did, that you actually loved one another. I hate you! No, I hate you! (Cue passionate make-out session.) These unrealistic expectations, coupled with the glimpses I’d get of Ben being a good person (to other people), and I was hooked. We were meant for one another. He just didn’t know it yet … even though he totally did deep down.

  Loving him was simple and bewitching and in my dreams of us I was beautiful. He was my savior at a time when I didn’t know I could be my own.

  I could give him everything, because I didn’t yet know that I should save some for myself.

  But, that was then. Just because I had a crush on him when I was a teenager doesn’t mean I have to be shackled to him for the rest of my life. I can stop this. I can send one email to Ben, untangle this entire mess, and then never see him or anyone from high school ever again. But, I’m not the old Olivia, and even if he’s still the same old Ben Dunn, it shouldn’t matter. I can do this. I’ve got this. I’m not the Fat Me anymore. He can’t make fun of me if I don’t allow it. He can’t make me feel like shit if I don’t give him permission, right? That’s how this works. No. I have to go forward with this to prove to myself that I’ve changed. Ben can’t get to me like he once did. He can’t.