by Kara Hart
Biting the inside of my lip, I feel the urge to smile. Holding it back seems like the better choice, so I bounce on my heel and nod once. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah. Maybe at Golden Gardens,” he says.
I just want to get home. “What?”
“The off-leash trail over by the water,” he says.
“Oh. Right. Yeah, maybe,” I say. “Well… Bye.”
“Bye, stranger.”
I step out into the warm sunny day with a pretty strong understanding that I won’t be going to the Golden Gardens. I’ll find a different dog park, one in Belltown or Capitol Hill, or another state entirely.
Later, as I’m nearing home, I pull off the freeway and turn off the bubbling engine. I stare at Rowdy’s massive body as he snores.
I round the corner and turn into a side street that leads to my boring apartment complex. “We’re almost there, buddy,” I call out.
I hear Rowdy’s tail thumping against the seat.
Just as I pull into the parking garage, I get a phone call. It’s not one of my contacts, but the number looks vaguely familiar. Not wanting to interrupt the network, I slam on the break before I’m underground. Rowdy’s pretty freaked out.
Hesitant, I answer the phone. “Hello?”
A nasally voice responds, tone squashed by the crap cell service. “Hello, Ali Greenwald?”
I push the phone between my cheek and shoulder, staring into the rearview mirror as I back up. I make it about a foot before a car turns behind me. “Uh, yeah. Sorry if the phone gets fuzzy, I’m just pulling into my garage. Who’s this?” I ask.
“This is Dr. Jordan Berman,” the voice says.
I’m so flustered and out of my element, the name isn’t ringing a bell. “Who?”
Something gets Rowdy’s attention. He darts up, nose pressed against the window.
Dr. Jordan Berman clears his throat. “The dean over at Shadow Park Valley Day.”
It’s such a rich school the principals call themselves dean. “Oh, right. Yeah, hiya-hey, how are you?”
“Well, not too good, if I’m being frank. One of our teachers quit.”
Quit? This could be the moment I’ve been waiting for. I’m stretching my mouth, attempting to reply, but I’m not sure what the right thing to say is. I’m still a little hurt about getting rejected the first time. Granted, I’ll do anything to get this job, including forgetting all about that.
The car behind me honks. I turn, motioning for the person to just hang on one-second, but of course, that brings a series of honks that swell like a crescendo. “Oh, Jeeze.”
Dr. Berman breaks through my awkward shell. “Listen, the reason I called is because we need an English teacher to fill out the rest of the year.”
The man in the car steps out, yelling something awful in the background. Rowdy starts to growl, low.
The dean of my dream school keeps talking. “I know it’s not much of a heads up. We called a few other applicants, but it appears they were snatched up by that Baelith Academy,” he asks.
I start to ease off my car break as the man taps on the glass. Rowdy bucks and roars, pounding against my window.
“Is this a bad time?” he asks
“Oh! No better time than now. I’m available,” I shout.
“Okay, astounding,” he says. “Can you send me a copy of your lesson plan and be here on Monday?”
What day is at again? Oh, yeah. Saturday. That gives me two days to come up with a lesson plan that might fit. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me.
“Sounds great, Dr. Berman. Thank you for the opportunity. You won’t regret it.”
Famous last words.
Marc
To get to my office, I have to cross over the bridge, usually through Redmond, but sometimes Mercer Island has less traffic. If I happen to miss traffic, which is just about never, I can make it to downtown in less than forty-five minutes. If I hit it, I’m screwed. Each minute gets shoved aside to make room for the next. By the time I’m done with work, it’s already nightfall.
It’s not the easiest trek in the world, and I hate to make it twice. So when I get a call from Sammy’s principal that tells me she’s in trouble for fighting, I’m more than livid. In fact, I can’t even comprehend it.
When I walk into the school, I’m pretty fucking pissed off. My daughter can be a handful, but there’s no way she did anything to instigate anything bad. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.
The Dean, Dr. Jordan Berman, meets me near his office. Sammy is sitting inside. A fearful look hangs in her eyes.
Before I greet the man in charge, I give my daughter some faith. “It’s going to be okay, sweetie. You don’t have to worry.”
Seeing her face brighten after a hard beginning brings a smile to my face. But her smile quickly turns into a frown, and I can tell she needs to get everything off her chest fast. This was not her crime. “Daddy, a boy pushed me and now he’s telling everyone I pushed him, but I didn’t push him. I promise.”
Dr. Berman’s hand falls by the wayside as I nod past him. “I’m late for a meeting,” I say. “Let’s get down to business. Tell me what you think my daughter did, and I’ll give you a thousand reasons why you’re wrong.”
Judging by the flinch of muscles near his jaw, I’ve hit a nerve. Nevertheless, he sits behind his desk, reeling in that last stitch of confidence with a quick sip of coffee. In my home, we offer guests a cup as soon as they walk through the door. They do things differently around here.
“Before I start, I want to say that no one is passing judgment. That’s not what Shadow Park Valley Day does with accusations like this. We’re simply collecting information and sorting it through the proper channels.”
“Sorting information to use against my daughter,” I say. “Without any sort of representation. Do you realize I could have your ass in court for this if you’re wrong?”
The man opens his mouth.
“But I didn’t do anything,” Sammy interrupts.
Before the Dean can get another word in, I speak. “Where’s the other kid?”
Dr. Berman leans back in his leather chair. “We’re taking cases one at a time.”
He must know he doesn’t have any power in this negotiation because he’s using police terminology like he’s a detective. Next, he’ll tell us they’re bringing in a forensic team to analyze the other girl’s tissue sample or DNA.
When you donate close to a hundred thousand dollars to the school, you buy your way into receiving special treatment. Sammy’s safe. Thing is, I’m not too keen on the kids here, and the new leadership just plain sucks. Most of them are spoiled little bastards, young and old. I want Sammy to grow up with a better understanding of the world.
In a way, I want her to grow up less like me.
“Is the other girl hurt?” I ask.
Berman taps his fingers against his desk, rhythmically before answering. “She attacked an older boy in her class who has been held back a year. We were told by two reputable sources that Sammy pushed him over.”
Sammy’s getting worked up. The more this Berman guy talks, the more she squirms in her chair. She has stayed silent this whole time, but eventually something gives. “He pushed me, daddy,” Sammy yells.
“The boy was older than her?” I ask.
“Well, yes.”
“What did the teacher say?”
Dr. Berman coughs, nervously. “She was facing the white board at the time.”
“Jesus. This is a new low,” I say, standing.
Even if it’s protocol, Berman must know how wrong this sounds. He’s cautiously waving his hands, trying to calm my nerves with gentle motions, but I’m not a child. It’s not working. I’m a man with lawyers who’d kill for a lawsuit like this.
“Mr. Wylan. Please, sit down. We know how hard it’s been for you, and I’m sorry if you’ve lost a little control,” he says. “But we are just stating the facts as we received them.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, I feel
my heart turn to flames. There’s a lot you can say to me about my kid before I react. You can tell me she’s not studying hard enough, or that she isn’t sharing her toys with the other children. But when you imply I’m doing a bad job at parenting by saying I’m losing control, I’m going to lose my shit.
He doesn’t know what we’ve had to go through to make this work. No one does.
My eyes are glued to his. If humans still lived amongst the wilderness, I’d lunge at him and tear his face off. “What did you say?” I ask.
“We just want to make sure everything is working at home.”
I got Sammy when she was two years old. I say “got,” but what I really mean is the authorities put her in my hand. They asked me one thing that night. “Are you ready to be a better man?”
It wasn’t a good night. Most nights weren’t back then, but this day was particularly bad. It was winter, sometime around Christmas because I still remember the lights around the houses glowing behind the firetrucks near my sister’s house. At the time, I didn’t have any presents under my tree. She was my gift.
Turns out, I was readier to be a better man than I thought. But the thing about parenting is that it never really stops. You’re chasing goal post after goal post, floundering through PTA meetings and neighborhood get-togethers that seem to pop up monthly. Raising a little girl on your own is tough. It’s even harder when the kid isn’t your own.
She still doesn’t know. I’ve tried to tell her, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s either that she still doesn’t understand or she knows all too well. I feel like I dodged a bullet today, but really, it’s just another reminder that there’s a lot more to do to be that better man I keep saying I’ve become. A dog isn’t going to cut it. I need more ammunition.
I take my little darling’s hand, and I smell the watermelon kids shampoo as I kiss the top of her head. “C’mon, baby. We’re going home,” I say.
She peers up at me, a warm smile shaping her face. “I’m not in trouble?”
I stare at the bald man. “No. We’re free to go.”
Th dean stands. “Mr. Wylan, you can’t just leave. We have strict guidelines the kids and their parents agree to follow. There’s still four periods left in Sammy’s day.”
Nice. I don’t give a shit.
Ignoring Dr. Berman’s stammering protests, I push the door open. Back in grade school, I was sent to the principal’s office on a weekly basis. The difference is I was a bad kid. I know my child is good.
Stepping into the hall, I look forward and see a shadow approaching the entrance. It grows bigger, forming the shape of a woman. Usually, I’d ignore something as mundane as this, but as the front doors give way to sunlight, I recognize the mouth, the nose, the glasses that magnify those beautiful almond-shaped eyes.
It’s her. The woman from the gas station.
What in God’s name is she doing here? Is she following me? She’s going to shame me forever.
I turn back around, racing through Dr. Berman’s office. He nearly falls over trying to stop me. “Mr. Wylan? Sir, what on Earth are you doing?”
Shit. What am I doing?
“Well. We’re going to talk about this,” I say, shutting the door. “And I mean, we’re going to really talk and hash it out. As far as I’m concerned, this could take hours.”
I’m trying to pass the time.
The woman’s shadow is growing bigger near the office door.
“But—”
There’s a thin knock. For a second, I pause and eye the door as if she might try the handle. Instead, she knocks harder, three more times. “Dr. Berman? It’s Ali Greenwald. You told me to show up today for the job.”
Ali Greenwald.
It’s a pretty name, far more decent than Marc Wylan.
Sensing something is off with me, Dr. Berman shares a worried glance. “Ali, yes. You’re a little late.”
I watch her shadow thin out as she bounces on the balls of her feet. “I’m really sorry. I’m not used to the traffic yet,” she says.
A fake apology shows how nervous she is. She really wants this job. I don’t blame her. It’s a good school. Great location. If you teach here, you’re pretty much a shoe in for the community. There’s a nature of competition between us, but I admire that type of boldness in a woman. It’s attractive.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he says, eying me. “Just give me two-seconds to finish this report up, and I’ll be right with you.”
“Don’t mind me. I’ll just be sitting on the bench in the hall,” she says.
He turns to me, shaking his head. “Do you know the woman out there, or something?”
Last night, I thought there may be something magical about that girl. It was a split second happening, a feeling and a flash of insight. Some experiences turn a man’s brain to mush, but Ali electrified me, inside and out.
Well, it lasted for a second. And then that dog tried humping her. Now, that was pretty funny.
The question is, how do I get out of this room without her seeing me?
Before he opens the door, I see an old hat on the coat rack. Pushing Sammy behind me, I take it and put it on as Dr. Berman shows me out. I mask my voice by making it an octave deeper. “Rest assured, we will be talking about this again.”
Befuddled, Dr. Berman calls out, “Mr. Wylan! Mr. Wylan?”
I almost forget I’m still holding Sammy’s hand tight. “Daddy, where are we going?”
“We’re going to find you a new school, baby.”
But just as we get to the door, I hear her voice. “Mr. Ragamuffin?”
I stop.
She follows up. “Is that you?”
Crap.
Ali
I don’t believe it. Three chance meetings in a row.
What are the odds?
Dr. Berman sighs. “You two know each other?”
Slowly, I nod. My lips form a tickled smile. This run-in is totally crazy, but it also feels natural. We’ve got a feud. That’s our connection. It’s… cute.
“A little bit, yeah,” I say.
Third time’s a charm.
As I narrow my eyes at him, he grows flustered. The businessman shuffles his fingers around his tie like he’s suffocating under pressure. “I’ve never met this woman before in my life,” he says.
Liar. Liar.
His daughter seems to think otherwise. She tugs on his suit jacket to get his attention. “Yes, we have, daddy. We saw her getting Ragamuffin.”
I kneel down and wink, pushing my fist out for a small bump to anger the pops. To my satisfaction, she enthusiastically pounds my knuckles and makes a big explosion noise.
“That’s right,” I say, angling my eyes up at her big-wig father. “How is she, by the way?”
The man’s lip flares. “How’s Rowdy?”
Over the last two days, my St. Bernard has eaten through one of my middle school photo albums, urinated on three of my pillows, and torn up my dream diary. Rowdy acts like a tyrant. That’s how he is. But he’s learning because I’m a great teacher.
“He has never been better,” I lie.
“That’s great,” he says, smile glowing.
We laugh, pretending to be excited for each other when, in reality, this is all out war. I thought the battle was over. Turns out, it’s just beginning.
Dr. Berman’s shoulders hunch as he pathetically twists and turns to keep up with our conversation. After a while, he gives up to slouch in the doorway of his office.
“What are you doing in Sammamish?” I ask. “I thought you lived in Ballard?”
Marc nods and purses his lips. Lowering his voice, he hisses, “Now who’s the one following who?”
I blink a few times. “Excuse me?”
“This is my school. You’re following me,” he says, furrowing his brow before glancing awkwardly at his kid. “And my daughter, Sammy.”
His school. Right.
“Oh jeez. And why do you think I’m doing that?” I ask.
His eyes shift. “I don’t know. Probably has something to do with that dog,” he says.
Sammy moans, “Dad, you’re being a weirdo again. I thought we were going home.”
“Home?” I ask, checking my watch. “But there’s still so much school left in your day.”
He runs taps his heel. “You done? I have an appointment I need to get to.”
I picture Ragamuffin’s sweet face. I see her small tongue lick across her wet nose and soft mouth, sliding away with a yawn. But then I remember which dog I ended up with, Mr. Slobberbutt, and wince. “Almost,” I say.
“Great,” he groans.
I take a step forward, facing him. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I say, “You know what I think?”
He takes a step, too. “I’d love to hear your thoughts.”
“I think you’re desperate for my number,” I say.
A look of hilarity pushes his lips open, and a hearty laugh follows. “Do you know who I am?”
I don’t know the man’s identity yet. From what I can gather, he’s rich, and he wants to use it to his advantage. Well, he’s seen the cobwebs on the inside of my purse. He knows I’ve got bills to pay.
Who cares if people know him? Certainly not me.
“I think we’ve got a pretty good idea of one another,” I say.
We’re standing so close to each other, I can smell his cologne again. It’s something foreign and alluring. Like a mixture of spice and fresh saltwater air. It takes me back to my youth, to days without worry or pain. For a brief moment, I imagine myself falling into his arms. What would that feel like? Probably pretty good...
“I don’t need your number,” he says.
I swallow. My lips are only an inch or so away from his, and I can feel his heartbeat send ripples through the air. “Yeah? Prove it.”
He bends his neck a notch. “Fine,” he says. “Even though I qualify to get your number from you, according to the rules, I’ll resist the hardest urge of my life.”
Licking the edge of my bottom lip, I laugh. “I’m sure you will.”
It’s a new game. Who can hold out the longest?
I glance at the bulge near his zipper. I’m not someone whose mind is constantly in the gutter, but I do wonder, does he feel what I feel? “How long can you last?” I ask.