More Like Her

  “Yeah, you sound fine,” I say.

  “I’m just . . . I want to get this stupid day over with, get through this lame-ass birthday party and then we’ll fudge-pack tonight. I’m just really looking forward to fudge packing,” Jill says, shoving another handful of trail mix in her mouth.

  “You would literally do anything just to keep saying fudge packing,” I say, heading out for a full day.

  “Damn skippy,” Jill says as I step into the hallway.

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jill says, joining me.

  Jill and I walk toward the teachers’ lounge and, in so doing, bring my streak of “no breezeway ogling of Sam” to a very abrupt halt. I “innocently” look out from the breezeway and take in the construction site just to the left of the school’s parking lot. A dirt lot alive and humming with different trucks I recognize only from their Tonka counterparts. Caution tape, red webbing and building supplies form a makeshift obstacle course at the dirt lot’s fringes. Men wearing hard hats swarm around with tool belts and shoulders heavy with stacks of wood. At its center is Sam. He’s wearing a hard hat and pointing at the large dirt expanse, surrounded by a group of construction workers. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, exposing the blond wheat field of hair and tan skin I had yet to see until now. A scroll of blueprints is tucked tight under his other arm. His white-blond hair is ruffling in the early morning wind. Ouchhhhh.

  “Stop staring,” Jill says.

  “It’s just not fair,” I say, tearing my gaze away.

  The group of construction workers gathers around Sam. He pulls the blueprints from under his arm and smooths them on the ground at his feet. He squats down. They quickly follow. One last look down at the construction site just as Sam nods at the group of construction workers and begins rolling up the blueprints.

  “Come on. Coffee,” Jill says.

  I continue on down the hall. I won’t look down at the construction site again. I won’t. My head turns of its own volition. Sam is standing in the same position; this time, however, he’s turned around—his hand over his eyes shielding them from the sun—staring right at me. He raises his hand, his eyes squinting into the sun. It’s not a wave, really. It’s more of an . . . acknowledgment. I put up my hand. And we stand there, hands raised. Jill stands by helplessly, able only to watch in horror as I, with my hand aloft, look like I’m protesting oppression at the 1968 Mexico Olympics.

  “You need to walk away, Frannie. Frannie? You need to walk away,” Jill says, her mouth not moving, like she’s a ventriloquist.

  “Okay . . . okay . . . ,” I say, my hand lowering.

  “Leave him wanting more,” Jill says, giving Sam a wave and smile. Sam takes a few steps toward the school, but once I continue on toward the teachers’ lounge I can see that he’s stopped. His shoulders lower. Someone calls his name. He turns. It’s over. Jill gives me a sympathetic smile as the doors close behind me. I’ve seen him since that night by the Ferrari. It’s over. And I survived. I didn’t hurl myself over the breezeway railing. I held it together and now I’m here. Know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em.

  All the bravado in the world won’t mask the haunting feeling that while Sam may have been important, he might be just a catalyst. Someone who made me see how I was living my life but who won’t be a part of the life he had a hand in creating. I don’t think I get to keep him. He’s the adorable puppy you find roaming the streets, only to have to pass him on to a pigtailed child later as proof that you understand the real power of love.

  I know I’m desperate when I start using words like catalyst.

  The morning fades away in a blur and surviving the day becomes my singular focus. I’ve shifted into high gear, pulling students, talking and laughing with Jill, sitting in on a lengthy Individualized Education Program meeting—or an IEP to the cool kids. And after a full day, I knock on Jill’s door and peek my head in. It’s almost time for Emma’s birthday cake and ice cream in the teachers’ lounge. I figure if we get there early, we can leave early and I’ll have made it through the longest day ever. One that’s been heavy with epiphanies and rebellions. Kaylee and Jill look up from the desk where they’ve been busy at work.

  “It’s almost time,” I say as the last bell of the day sounds.

  “Yep,” Jill says, giving Kaylee a quick nod. Kaylee begins to pack up her stuff.

  “Do you want me just to meet you over there?” I ask, giving the little girl’s white-blond hair a tousle as she squeezes past me in the doorway. She giggles and skips down the hall.

  “I can’t believe we have to go to this thing,” Jill says, packing away all of her supplies.

  “I know,” I say, stepping inside.

  “Martin and the rest of the architects are going to be there. Thought it would look good in front of staff. Wanted to warn you,” Jill says.

  “Why are you talking like a telegram? ‘Sam might be in vicinity. Stop. Hold yourself together, spinster. Stop.’ ”

  “Stop doing that. Stop.”

  “That wasn’t really the correct usage of that. Stop.”

  Jill just sighs. A long, weary sigh.

  “Fine,” I finally say.

  “Remember, we’re—”

  “I know,” I say, cutting her off.

  “We’re fudge packing after,” Jill says, finishing with a flourish. She picks up the phone and continues. “Let me make a quick call first.”

  “Who are you going to call?” I ask.

  “Ghostbusters.”

  “Nice. But really.”

  “I’ll tell you later on tonight . . . you know, when we’re fud—”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Fine, I’ll save you a section of the wall,” I say, closing the door. Kids straggle out of classrooms and run through halls like little bats out of hell, late for buses and parents. They’d probably think that cliché is quite accurate given the circumstances. I tell kids to slow down, I’ll see them tomorrow, and to make sure to check their homework online. I get nary a reply—well, not counting eye rolls.

  “Frannie? Frannie?” Emma glides across the hallway as if on a cloud. Her body is elegantly poured into matching black separates with pops of tasteful gold jewelry glistening under the neon lights. Lights that make me look like Edward Munch’s The Scream. She is, once again, wearing impossibly high-heeled stilettos that would be more at home on a catwalk than the crowded hallways of a private school.

  “Would you mind taking a second before the festivities?” Emma asks, motioning for us to stop and chat among the buzz of the quickly emptying hallways.

  “Not at all,” I say, my stomach dropping. I want to blurt out that I needed a tampon that night in her bathroom but reconsider. That might not be where this conversation is going, so it’s maybe not the best idea to lead with that.

  “I wanted to have a quick follow-up regarding Mr. Sprague,” Emma says.

  “Oh?” I ask.

  “I’ve asked around and have found that your evaluation of Mr. Stone was correct. He is quite the bully.”

  “I know.”

  “I understand that it looks like I was being mulish and not seeing the boys in a clear light. Clearly Mr. Stone is much bigger than Harry, but in my experience bullies come in all shapes and sizes.” Emma is calm and collected. And way cool apparently.

  “I love that you look at every child on a case-by-case basis,” I say truthfully.

  We are quiet.

  Emma continues. “There have been significant studies done on bullying in the last few years and I have decided to focus on the needs of the victim here at Markham. It’s a method that began in Scandinavia—I’m sure you don’t want to know all the boring details, but it basically boils down to a switch in what, or rather whom, we focus on. While it is usually the case that staff focuses on the why of a bully—why does he/she feel the need to victimize—it is my feeling that while we’re offering a kind ear to the bully, the victim’s needs go unmet. Mr. Stone knows the difference between right and wrong wi
thout a discussion with me about whatever deficiency might have caused such chronic lapses in judgment. I feel the concern needs to be for Mr. Stone’s victims. I’ve extended the use of Pamela Jackson’s psychology services to any and all students who come forward—privately, of course—as victims of Mr. Stone or, for that matter, anyone’s bullying.”

  I am speechless.

  Emma continues. “I defer to you as to Harry.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “Do you think he needs to speak with Pamela regarding bullying?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I could ask him about it,” I say.

  “That would be lovely.”

  “He’s kind of a quiet kid.”

  “A bully wouldn’t pick on someone who spoke up, now, would they, Ms. Reid?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “That’s what needs to change.”

  “I agree.”

  We are quiet.

  I say, “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “You’ve really done some serious research. It’s going to make a huge impact on a lot of lives. A lot of little lives. I wish someone had been so thoughtful when I was in school.”

  I am quiet. Emma waves hello to an excited throng of teachers on their way to the lounge. She lets them know she’ll be there in a second. Happy birthday, they say. She thanks them.

  “Well, you’re welcome, Ms. Reid,” she finally says, her voice quiet and touched. “I have also taken disciplinary action against Mr. Stone. Probation from the lacrosse squad, weekly assessments, etc. . . .”

  “Thank you.”

  “I would hope that you would pass along my apologies to Harry.”

  “Apologies are certainly not necessary. He used violence to solve a problem and you were correct to bring him in.”

  “Most assuredly, but I was incorrect in my assessment that it was, in any way, his fault.”

  “I agree.”

  “What time is it?” Emma asks, picking up her pace.

  “You can’t be that late if you’re the birthday girl, right?” I say.

  “I got caught on a phone call. My husband’s going to be a bit late,” Emma says as we bob and weave through the crowded breezeway. Must be an emergency on the Internet where he works. Extension student in need of an emergency comma consult? Short-story idea that just can’t wait? Thwart another party guest snooping in his en suite bathroom? The mind reels.

  I am quiet. Nodding.

  Emma continues. “One more thing, Ms. Reid. This may not be the best time, but I’ve decided to give the head of department position to you rather than Mrs. Fleming. You were the obvious choice in not only my eyes but the board’s, as well as the other heads of department. It was unanimous.” Emma extends her hand. She is smiling. She’s excited. She was looking forward to telling me this.

  “I’m stunned,” I say. The job is mine. The job is mine. But if the job is mine that means that it is not Jill’s.

  “Thank you, Emma,” I say, extending my hand to her.

  “You’ve earned it,” Emma says, giving my arm a squeeze. Can I hug her? Do we hug? Is . . . I lean in—maybe it’s a lunge, I can’t think about that now—and give Emma a tight hug. The gathering teachers in the hallway smile, gawk and sneer depending on their place in the pecking order. Emma hugs me back.

  “Thank you . . . This means more to me then you’ll ever know,” I say, unable to stop saying thank you.

  “You’re quite welcome. I’ve notified human resources of the promotion; they’ll be expecting you tomorrow morning to go over the promotion paperwork,” Emma says, breaking from the hug.

  “Thank you again,” I say, almost to myself.

  “You’re the right person for the job, Frannie,” Emma says, waving to a group of teachers. They wave back.

  “And happy birthday,” I say, beaming. Smiling. From ear to ear. I can’t wait to tell . . . well, my parents. Lisa. Less Jill, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. Sam. Shit, I can’t wait to tell Sam.

  “Thank you,” she says. Emma and I catch up to the rest of the teachers who are gathering for her birthday. Debbie and her minions are making everyone wait outside the teachers’ lounge in the breezeway. The room isn’t ready yet, apparently. Isn’t ready yet? Put a cake on the table, sing happy birthday, how hard can it be? As I stand there craning down the hall to see if Jill is on her way and where Lisa is, and trying to act like I’m not looking for Sam, I eavesdrop on the teachers as they oozingly wish Emma a happy birthday. She’s lovely and polite in reply. I actually don’t mind being here to celebrate Emma’s birthday now.

  We’re finally allowed to go into the teachers’ lounge. As we all stream in, I notice that round tables and chairs have been set up in the now-cramped lounge. Emma looks from me to a free table in the front of the lounge. The tables are set for dinner. Breadbaskets, linen napkins and the promise of a very long night. She raises her eyebrows and motions for me to nab it. I oblige. I grab three seats right across from Grady, who’s also saving two seats. I find myself seated next to Emma and an empty seat her creepy husband will eventually occupy. Jill whips open the door to the teachers’ lounge and I can read her lips from here: “What the—” She scans the room and we lock eyes. I’m pinned behind Emma and next to an empty chair.

  “Grady? Who are you saving for?” I ask, leaning across the table.

  “Hey, darlin’,” Grady says, his body languidly melting over his folding chair.

  “Hey,” I say quickly.

  “I’m saving one for my baby and then that one’s for Sam,” Grady says, pointing at the chair directly next to me. Grady gives me a quick wink. Great. My face drains of color. Jill scans the room again and motions for me to look. Martin’s saving a seat for her at another table. I don’t need to worry, she mouths. She walks over and plops down next to him. Martin wraps his arm around the back of her chair. I settle in and freeze a smile on my face. It’s going to be a long night. Emma is thanking Debbie for the amazing party. Debbie looks like she’s about to cry or try to make out with Emma. It’s a toss-up.

  In an attempt to avoid being ensnared in Debbie’s inappropriate Emma fantasy, I try to insinuate my way into various conversations around the table. I stare furtively at Grady until he catches my eye. He gives me a big smile and a wink and then falls back into conversation with a couple of the architects who are seated a table over. Close enough for conversation with Grady but not with me. I resituate my napkin on my lap, recross my legs under the table and ponder whether to try the same tactic on someone else. I find Ryan at a table way in the back sitting next to that teacher who glared at me earlier in the breezeway. They’re laughing and talking, passing around the bread, pouring wine. A veritable party. I heave a long . . . long . . . weary sigh.

  “I don’t know how you do it. Living alone just seems . . . I mean, all those different windows people could break into. Jamie told me that you and Ryan split. That you live alone. He and Ryan really hit it off at the mixer, apparently,” Emma muses. What is happening here? Jamie hit it off with Ryan? What . . . how did this evening go from totally cool one minute to completely, surreally terrible the next?

  “I live in a pretty safe neighborhood,” I say, trying to put a stop to an internal dialogue that’ll surely end with me rocking back and forth in some dimly lit corner of my apartment, clutching a flashlight and a kitchen knife.

  “Still. Jamie was excited to hear you’d gotten the promotion. Said that women like you are perfect for advancement,” Emma says.

  “Women like me?” I ask, not wanting to know the answer. Soooo not wanting to know the answer.

  “Yeah, you know. Unmarried, no family,” Emma says, matter-of-fact. What happened to the Emma I was just talking to? The door to the teachers’ lounge opens and I know before he turns the corner that it’s Sam. We need to stop talking about this right now. Right. Now. Grady waves him over to our table and points to the chair next to mine. Sam’s face is . . . unreadable. I act like I don’t notice h
e’s walking over. It’s a proud moment. A mature moment. A moment women like me are quite familiar with, to be sure.

  As Sam sits down, Grady goes around the table for drink orders, motioning to the bar Debbie has set up on the far wall. I want to kiss him full on the lips for saving me, if just for a moment. I say I’d just like sparkling water, Sam asks for a beer—whatever they’ve got is fine. Emma says she’d like sparkling water for herself and a glass of red wine for Jamie.

  “He loves the Spanish reds,” Emma says, giving Grady a coy smile.

  “I don’t know about a Spanish red, but it looks like they’ve got some Two-Buck Chuck back there,” Grady says, smiling.

  “That’ll be fine, Mr. Davis. That’ll be fine,” Emma says, laughing. Lisa rushes into the lounge and scans the room, finds Grady, and they smile.

  “Beer, baby?” Grady asks, motioning to the bar.

  “You know it,” Lisa says, and walks over to our table. I have yet to acknowledge that Sam is sitting next to me.

  “Hey,” I finally say.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Tight squeeze,” I say, motioning to the chairs and tables that have filled the teachers’ lounge to bursting.

  “Definitely,” Sam says, smiling.

  “What?”

  “Tight squeeze just sounds wrong,” Sam says, laughing.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” I say, smiling.

  “I mean . . . that’s what you open with?” Sam says, laughing more.

  “I just . . . I’m just making conversation.”

  “Tight squeeze,” Sam repeats, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Laughing.

  “All right. Enough already,” I say, touching his arm. Warm. So warm.

  “Tight squeeze. Didn’t you say that about those pizzas, too?” Sam sighs, bending forward now, eyes open. I take my hand off his arm, my fingers now resting inches from him. I smile at Emma as she settles into her seat. I hear her take a breath. Before she continues her out-of-the-blue one-woman jihad against my imagined musty life of spinster solitude, I turn to face her head-on.

  “Emma Dunham, have you met Sam Earley? He owns the Earley Group. They’re working with the architects to make the school expansion project more sustainable,” I say.