“Why three?” Sarah-Jane asked, as she stepped her feet into the uniform.
“Well, there are certain things that don’t work on camera. Guests can’t be wearing any branded items, for example; we can’t have somebody wearing a top with Adidas emblazoned across it, of course. And then there are color clashes we don’t want and certain designs that don’t display well on camera.”
“Such as thin black-and-white stripes.”
“Exactly,” Isla said. “Things like that look blurred or fuzzy. And so we assume that if they bring in three outfits, then they’ll at least have one that doesn’t blur on screen and that doesn’t advertise a brand.”
Sarah-Jane snapped the tight shoulders of the cheerleader’s unform on and then stepped toward the mirrored wall. Her reflection took her back to being sixteen years old at Esbon High School; the colors of the uniform were the exact same—mostly red with white trim and a big gold logo emblazoned across the chest.
“You look hot,” Isla said.
“This is so wrong,” Sarah-Jane whispered to her own reflection.
Isla didn’t reply. Instead, she strolled to the back of the room and grabbed an oversized gray overcoat hanging from one of the racks.
“Here, wear this going up in the elevator.”
Sarah-Jane’s sigh fogged up the mirror, and by the time she had thrown on the overcoat and received another double-kiss from Isla, Phil had opened the door of wardrobe to allow his boss to re-enter the maze of dark hallways.
“He’s a fucking pervert,” Phil said out of the side of his mouth as they went in search of the golden double doors of the elevator.
Sarah-Jane didn’t reply. But she shared Phil’s suspicions, in much the same way anyone would after they’d been told that they must wear a cheerleader’s unform for a dinner date with their new boss.
“Are you gonna let him fuck you?” Phil whispered when they finally found the golden double doors and Sarah-Jane had pushed at the button. “Well, are you?” he asked again when he received no reply. “Is this what he does, hires beautiful women and then gives them their own show if they fuck him?”
“Phil!” Sarah-Jane snapped, just as the double doors slid open with a ping. She pressed a hand to her cameraman slash producer’s chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. Not at you.”
Then she stepped inside, staring at herself in the walled mirror of the elevator and noting that she would probably look less suspicious if she had worn just the cheerleader’s uniform rather than the oversized overcoat.
Then she spun around, to press her finger on button number 60, and as the golden doors slid toward each other, she stared through the narrowing gap at Phil standing in the dark hallway, her purse clutched tightly to his chest.
“I don’t know,” she mouthed back to him.
CAOIMHE LARKIN
He was awkward. As if it was the first date he’d ever been on. Which I guess isn’t as bad as it sounds. Cos I only had three dates back in Ireland before I came here. Or two and a half, I guess is fair to say, given that Carl Murphy didn’t even realize we were having a date when we went on a walk around the park that time. But it wasn’t Meric’s inexperience or all of the awkward silences that was the problem for me while we met in that coffee shop. It was the things he said whenever he wasn’t being silent that were the problem. We share no interests. He’s into his school newspaper and playing video games. I want a boyfriend who’ll take me out to the cinema on dates, or at least somebody who watches the same TV shows as I do. “The news,” is all Meric said he watches on telly. The feckin news!
“So you don’t watch Beverly Hills 90210 or anything like that?” I asked.
He snort-laughed. Then went all shy again, probably because a tiny spray of snot flew out of his nose. It wasn’t hard snot or anything. It was just a spray. I didn’t mind. Course I didn’t. I minded that he doesn’t watch Beverly Hills 90210!
I think I’m gonna have to go back to Madam Aspectu again, because I need more information on this MM boy. It can’t be Meric Miller, surely. Though every now and then I find myself surprised at the coincidence of her telling me my boyfriend would have MM in his name and then on my first day, in my very first lesson at my brand new school, I happened to sit right next to him.
It’s been three days since we went on our “date” but he’s said pretty much nothing to me since, even though I’ve sat beside him in Miss Decker’s class for an hour twice. I think he grimaced a smile at me the morning after we met at the coffee shop, but by the time I looked up at him, his eyes were gazing back down at the edge of his desk from underneath his long fringe again.
“Okay, so did anybody take a look at the news networks over the weekend?” Miss Decker asks.
“I did,” I shout. And then I cover my mouth with one hand and shoot the other straight into the air.
“Yes, Caoimhe,” Miss Decker says, laughing at me. I think Meric laughs too. But I can’t be sure ’cause I don’t look at him. It sure did sound like a laugh. Or maybe it was a sigh.
“I did, Miss. And I thought about the two tasks you set us.”
“And your findings were, Caoimhe?”
“I think there should be no ads on the news channels because news shouldn’t be sponsored. And… oh yeah, and news reporters shouldn’t be giving us their opinion on politics because that would mean the advertisers are agreeing with the news networks.”
She opens her mouth a little. But says nothing. And while she’s saying nothing, I’m pretty sure Meric looks up from under his fringe, too, while the rest of the class twist their necks to stare over their shoulders at me.
“Very impressive, Caoimhe,” Miss Decker finally says, nodding.
“I don’t get it,” the brown-haired girl with the sharp bob on the far side of the room, whose name I haven’t yet remembered, says.
“Well, Nicole,” Miss Decker says. I note the name Nicole and repeat it three times inside my own head, just so I can tattoo it to my memory. “What Caoimhe is saying is predominantly what I will be aiming to teach you this term. All about the power these news networks hold, especially when they are funded by commercial sponsors.”
“I watched the news networks with my dad over the weekend,” I say, “and he pointed out to me how the hosts of the shows all give their opinion on what is happening in the news. He said it was the opposite in Ireland; that news hosts back home literally just tell us the news, but they can’t give us their opinion. They aren’t allowed to have an opinion.”
“Well, he’s a smart man your father,” Miss Decker says. “Is he involved with media for his work?”
“Oh, no,” I say, “He’s a golfer. S’why we moved over here. He saw a job as a golfing instructor at Lebanon Golf Club posted on the internet and applied and well… he got offered the position and it was his dream come true… so, here we all are.”
Miss Decker smiles at me again. I think she likes me. She’s pretty cool for a teacher. She’s interesting to listen to anyway. There’s always a discussion to be had in her classes, always a debate. She makes me think. And she never says who’s right or wrong in those debates or discussions. She just lets everybody have their say and then the bell normally rings right on cue and she lets us go to our next class. It’s a kinda cool school, I guess. Sure beats the hell out of reading chapters from ancient textbooks with nuns who look just as old as those textbooks themselves.
The bell rings to let us know American History is over and math is about to begin. So it’s no surprise that the students start groaning. They tend to do that at the end of this class. I might join in with the groaning tomorrow.
“Miss Decker, I have the money and the signed form for the Europe trip,” Nicole cries out from the other side of the room.
“Give it here,” Miss shouts back as we all begin to stuff our American History books into our bags.
“Are you going to go on the trip to Europe?” I whisper to Meric.
He lifts his gaze as he swings his bag
over his shoulder, then shakes his heavy fringe from side-to-side.
“Move the fuck outta my way, weirdo,” Stevie says, pushing Meric aside before sliding in to the chair next to me. “Kway-va, I’ve been thinking...”
“It’s pronounced Kwee-va, Stevie,” I say, my eyes squinting, wondering what the hell he wants. He hasn’t so much as looked at me before, let alone wanted to talk to me.
“Just wondering what you get up to after school? Was hoping you’d like to hang out with me…”
What the hell? Isn’t he supposed to be the popular one… the football star? What’s he doing asking the little ginger Irish girl out?
“Hang out with you and…?”
“Well just me,” he says, a big grin on his big face.
“As in, just the two of us? What would we do?” I ask.
I glance at Meric who has been left standing behind us, trying to fit his already curled-up notebook into his bag.
“Well... how about an ice cream at Daisy’s Dairies?” He looks over his shoulder, catching Meric slowly zipping up his bag while still staring downward. “Move the fuck along, weirdo,” he says, shoving him in the back.
Meric goes to walk on, but I stand up, blocking him.
“Are you asking me out on a date, Stevie?” I say.
The grin drops from his square face.
“Kinda... I guess...” He shrugs.
“Well I’m already dating somebody,” I say. Then I swing my arm around Meric’s neck and walk out of the classroom snuggled in to his shoulder. He smells kinda damp.
BRODY EDWARDS
“She sure likes getting involved in class,” Stevie whispers to me.
“She’s too intellectuable for you, dude,” I whisper back.
“Bullshit,” Stevie says. “I’m way outta her league. You gave me an easy dare, dude. All I have to do is make my move… and she’ll be peeling her little Irish panties off in no time.”
“You keep sayin’ that, man,” I whisper. “But you ain’t made no move yet. And we made these dares two weeks ago.”
“Alright, alright. Well…”
“Well, what?”
“Well I’m gonna make my move right after class.”
I shrug at him, then tune back into what Decker is saying, ’cause even though me ‘n’ Stevie talk a lot through every class, we talk less through hers. Only because her classes can be interesting. Sometimes.
When I glance at my watch, I realize there’s only one minute left. Then it’s math. I hate math. What is the point of the bullshit they teach us in math class? I don’t get it. It don’t make no sense.
“Oh, no,” the Irish chick says, answering Decker. “He’s a golfer. S’why we moved over here. He saw a job as a golfing instructor at Lebanon Golf Club posted on the internet and applied and well… he got offered the position and it was his dream come true… so, here we all are.”
“That accent is kinda sexy, ain’t it?” Stevie says.
“You have a weird mind if you think that’s sexy,” I reply. “Look at her. She’s a redhead. And she’s got lots of freckles.”
Then the bell rings and Stevie stands up to shove his notebook into his bag as if he’s in a race.
“A dare’s a dare,” he says. “So I’m going in, dude. This should be easy.”
I laugh as I spin around in my chair so I can watch Stevie in action. He pushes Meric out of the way with his hip, slides himself into the chair beside Irish and gives her one of those big grins of his. I try to strain my neck, to hear what he’s saying to her, but between Decker shouting across to students about collecting money for the trip to Europe and the chatter of all the other students in the hallways changing periods, I can only try to lip read. Then Irish stands, spins around, and after saying something to Stevie, she wraps her arm around Meric. What. The. Actual. Fuck? My mouth snaps open as they stroll past my desk, her leaning into him as they join the chatter out in the hallway. I look back at Stevie, and notice his jaw is open further than mine. Then I double over into the biggest fit of laughing I think I’ve ever doubled into my whole life.
“What the fuck, dude?” Stevie says, walking up to me with his arms straight by his side, like a zombie.
“Boys!” Decker calls out. I lift my head, but I know it must be bright red from having it between my legs, laughing. “Haven’t you got one more class to get going to? ”Sorry, Miss Decker,” I say, raising a hand while trying to stop laughing. Then I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Bye, Miss Decker.” I wiggle my fingers and wink at her again.
As soon as I step outside, with Stevie behind me — still walking like a zombie — I double over into a fit of laughing again.
“She dissed you for Meric, dude,” I say when I can catch my breath.
“She didn’t diss me… that’s bullshit, man. She said she was already dating Meric before I asked her out.”
I slap Stevie on the back.
“Oh man, that is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen happen to you. The quarterback dissed for Meric the weirdo. Looks like your dare is pretty messed up now, dude. No chance of you screwing her before the end of October. I’m gonna win this.”
“You’re not far ahead, Brody,” Stevie says as we turn onto the math hallway.
“I’m way ahead of you, dude,” I say. “I’ve already been giving Decker the ‘come fuck me’ eyes. And from the signs I’m getting, I think I’m gonna be in there, even before we get to Europe.”
“Bullshit,” Stevie says.
“You are both late for class!” Charlton roars, poking his bald head out of the door. Charlton is a dick. I hate his classes.
“Sorry, Mr. Charlton,” I say. “We were held up by Miss Decker.”
LUCY DECKER
I relax into the chair facing Mia, slide a coffee across to her, and then giggle.
I know I giggle in class. A lot. But that’s all rehearsed giggling, instructed by me, for me, within the scripts I have perfected in over eleven years of teaching the same lessons over and over again. I love my students. Well… most of them. But I never giggle with them the way I giggle with my twin. It’s only in her company that I actually truly feel like myself. It’s funny. I went in search of who I really am by traveling all throughout my twenties when I could have found the answer all along in the bed opposite mine in our family home. Lebanon is home. Being near Mia and her two boys is home. And as lonely as this existence feels to me, most of the time, it’s probably as full a life as I am ever likely to have.
“Hear anything from the doctor?” she asks, before lifting the mug to her mouth.
“He says I can continue with the injections if I want to. But he was adamant my best chance is IVF. It’s a guaranteed insertion to the egg, not a crapshoot like I’ve been attempting. Either that or I have actual sex, with an actual man, and not just with a turkey-baster.”
“Ugggh, Lucy, stop using that phrase,” Mia says, crinkling up her nose.
“Well, you know what I mean. I can’t keep buying,” I look around the coffee shop, then lean across the table to whisper, “sperm from sperm banks and then go inserting it myself. It clearly doesn’t work. I’ve accumulated eighteen months of proof that it doesn’t work.”
“So you need a man or a miracle?” she says.
“Finding a man would be miracle.”
“It’s not a miracle to meet a man, Lucy. I found one. All of our friends found one. You just don’t have the—”
“I don’t have the address, Mia. I don’t have the zip code. I live in Lebanon, Kansas. It’s hardly a blossoming orchard, growing Brad Pitts from every branch of every tree, is it?”
“He doesn’t have to be Brad Pitt, Luce. Look at Zachary, he’s no Brad Pitt. In fact, yours doesn’t even have to be a Zachary, does he? He doesn’t have to stay with you like my Zachary has stayed with me for fourteen years. He just needs to… y’know… have sex with you… get you pregnant.”
I shake my head. She knows my position on this. Mia would. She told me she would, if she were in
my situation, have sex with some random guy just to get pregnant. But I couldn’t live with myself if I took that road.
“How much have you given to these sperm banks over the last eighteen months?”
“Not that much,” I say. “It’s only sixty dollars each time. Peanuts compared to what I’ll have to pay going down the IVF road.”
“And what’s that? Ten K?”
“Yup,” I say, before taking from my mug. “The doctor told me that in my situation, with what he called my ‘receptive eggs’, IVF would give me an eighty percent chance of getting pregnant. Only they remove my egg, inject the sperm and then… then it all goes back inside me.”
She purses her lips at me, while gripping her coffee mug with both hands.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
“You don’t need to be sorry for anything—”
“For not being able to give you any money toward—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “This is not your burden to bear.”
I shake my head sharply, to signal the end of this line of conversation. I don’t want money from Mia. She shouldn’t even think that way. It actually bothers me that she feels burdened by my inability to become a mom. As if my crying about it for the last eighteen months hasn’t been enough for her, now she has to live with the guilt that she can’t help me out financially. They do okay, Mia and Zachary. Enough to live in a lovely four-bedroom home on Chicago Avenue; enough to bring up and spoil two perfectly cute little boys. I love them all so much, I envy all they have. But I certainly don’t expect them to help me. I would be a horrible person if I expected them to help me.
“So… eighty percent chance of a pregnancy if you can raise ten grand is pretty much what the doctor said?” she says. I nod. “It always costs big money, doesn’t it? Anything they have a remedy for… it always has to cost thousands.”
I laugh while sipping from my mug, and as I do, the bell chimes over the door, and in walks this bulk of a man, his figure eclipsing the shine of the sun as he stands in the doorframe wearing a khaki uniform, with stars and stripes stitched to the bicep, squinting at the chalkboard over the bar. Then he marches his desert boots inside.
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