by Kara Hart
“Dogs,” Brian says. “Gotta love those guys.”
Quick, Marc...
Pulling from my memory, I focus on what this magazine could be if it was actually good. What is it about? Seattle. Women. Some kind of nostalgic freedom, a rebelliousness that’s at the heart of this country.
And then it hits me. A workable scenario. It’s not the idea of the century, but it’ll work.
“Teachers,” I repeat. “They’re our nation’s great heroes.”
Jim’s grey mustache twitches. “You’re already losing me.”
Clearing my throat, I run up to the front of the conference room and grab a tripod with a white board attached. Quickly, I start drawing a scene from memory. First, a station wagon at a gas pump. “Here’s our cover model, traveling across the city after a long day at work. She’s tired. She’s hungry.” I say, noticing Jim starting to open his mouth. “And she doesn’t need Jim over here to tell her what to do.”
Brian laughs, and surprisingly, the room follows. Even Jim chuckles once I come to his side and squeeze his shoulder. “She makes this long drive every single day, and she’s running on empty. Traffic is abysmal. Her dog is at home, waiting for their next big adventure together, as well as his dinner. To make matters worse, her card doesn’t work at the pump. Declined.”
“I’m listening,” Jim says.
“A new suburban market is piling up in droves. They’re older, they’re more self-conscious, and they’re a hell of a lot poorer too.”
“So what you’re saying is, what?”
“What I’m saying is we get a jump on something new and corner this market.”
Truth is, I have no idea where I’m going with this. I’m just spitballing ideas. This will never make it to the cutting room floor. But if this falls flat today, I’m going to be the laughing stock of the board room, and the door has my name on it. Must keep Jim entertained.
“This woman has given her all to help a few children in the classroom. Why? Because that’s what she wants to do with her life,” I say. “She’s not a rebel. She’s entirely normal.”
“I thought this magazine was about the Seattle counter-culture,” Jim growls.
A smirk forms on my face. “It is, Jim. That’s the point,” I say.
And even though Jim’s scowling, he’s going to be pleasantly surprised. If there’s anything I enjoy, it’s when a good idea takes me on a journey.
I make my way around the room, glancing over at Brian only to make sure I’m not going with the dumbest idea of my life. “She’s everything we should idolize,” I say. “But she’s been pushed aside like a...a…”
I’m starting to lose track, so I try to recall everything that night. She wasn’t traveling from her job. She was driving all the way to Tacoma to pick up a dog. Why? So that it could keep her company.
She’s not a rebel. She’s not a hero either. She’s just a good person that’s willing to put in the effort to make changes to her life.
That’s when I realize just how much she’s juggling. My days are broken down by meetings and worries of traffic and other inconveniences, but her days are a full sacrifice. Maybe I’ve been giving her a harder time than she deserves.
“She’s been pushed aside like a litter of cats,” I say.
Brian tenses up. Bad analogy?
I keep going before I lose them completely. “Look, I’m here to sell you an idea. But at the end of the day, this is a magazine for skeptical individuals who don’t like buying a lot of products.”
Jim cracks his neck and lowers his voice. He looks tired. “But that’s what we’re in the business of selling, Marc,” he says. “You’re good at this. Don’t make me explain the business to you.”
Brian meanders to the bar to get a few drinks. The situation is a little tense. I’ve got a feeling the magazine is going to get canned, and I’m not sure if I’ll be next. Placing the drinks on the table, Brian scratches his temples and nods.
“This isn’t bad, actually,” Brian says.
Actually? Did he really have to use that word?
I glare, and he redirects his thoughts with a jump to the white board. “She’s young and beautiful, works her butt off, and all she owns is a crappy station wagon. It’s not just that she’s been pushed aside. That’s not the story. The system has taken advantage of her, and now she’s ready to fight back with a new look. Activism is very popular these days among the youth.”
Brian usually keeps his mouth shut during these meetings. I’m not sure if this is helping or hurting my case. It sounds really fucking stupid.
Jim is staring at the board, eyes creased. He must know it’s a terrible idea, and now he’s coming up with the easiest plan to get rid of me. “Well, I think this is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, Marc.”
The other old men in the room agree.
In a calm daze, I slump in my chair. My salary isn’t necessary to survive, but this has been my life project. If I can say something to get them to rethink terminating this project, I’ll do it. “Look, Jim I—”
Jim cuts me off. “But I’m not someone who likes to give up,” he says, standing. “Now, I’ve invested in the company for ten years, and I’ve seen our profits nearly quadruple over the last eight financial quarters.”
Walking over to my side, he throws his crab-like fist around my shoulder and pinches down again, ruining what’s left of my nerves.
He continues his little speech. “This teacher thing sounds silly to an old man like me, but what do I know? I don’t care what you try, as long as you get the advertisers on board and make it sexy.”
“Sexy,” I say.
“Hot,” he says. “The first issue needs a good model. A trailblazer.”
Trailblazer? Man, this guy is full of these nicknames.
But I know exactly what he wants. Her name is Ali.
I’m not allowed to have her number. It’s… against the rules.
“Jim. You’re in luck,” I say. “I’ve got just the girl.”
It just may take some finagling to get her to show up.
He raises a brow and gives an award-winning smile. “Well, I’d love to meet her. Bring her to the Valentine’s Day unveiling,” he says.
Uh, what? “Unveiling.”
Jim checks his phone, exuding confidence. “The announcement party,” he exclaims.
“Fundraiser,” Brian whispers.
Jim continues. “I got an email from your team leader Sandra about it. Big Momma Bear Extravaganza. Her words. Not mine.”
Dammit, Sandra. She could have let me know about this. Now, I’m going to have to think of a way to shit-can this Momma Bear magazine, and find a way to avoid this party. It’s going to take up all my energy. There aren’t enough beta blockers in the world…
Sometimes, I wonder if I should just quit.
“Of course,” I say, smile returning. “The party.”
Jim winks. “You’ve got hearts in your eyes,” he says. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
No, that’s just my capillaries bursting from stress.
I take a deep breath.
I’m so fucked.
Ali
The first day teaching is always difficult. A handful of riled-up kids would be hard for any individual to handle. The thing about coming into an abandoned classroom, it’s like a tribe. They’ve already established a code, and I have to come in as an outsider.
Well, I’ve got a secret weapon. Make them laugh.
I walk into a class of laughing monkeys and hyenas, knowing the change of leadership is going to make them a little crazy. Luckily, the transition team the dean assembled did a pretty good job at making me feel welcome. Still, I have no doubt a few of the kids are setting up artillery units with spit wads and paper bombs. I have to quickly make my defense.
Setting my lesson folder against my new desk, I remain quiet. A few of the students tell the others to hush as soon as I step in front of the class.
A moment of silence for the queen...
A devious smile forms on my face. “I... farted,” I say.
Believe it or not, this is part of my lesson plan.
The kids don’t know how to handle it. Suddenly, they’re looking at each other in disbelief, unsure whether to lob bombs at me or burst out screaming. A few more seconds pass before the first student succumbs to heavy laughter.
The rest fall like dominos.
Sure, my plan of attack is a little different from most teachers. Some use discipline. Others use a mixture of persuasion tactics and bribery with candy or an easy grade. For me, it’s better to throw myself at the whim of the people, the populace that the dean and staff regard as developing.
I know how they tick. Farting is the holy grail of funny. It’s an icebreaker that allows the craziest kids to decompress. It also allows me to see who’s the meanie of the bunch.
Thank God, Marc isn’t here.
One kid stands on his chair and points. “Girls don’t do that!”
His name is Xander. He’s the boy who accused Sammy of pushing him. Dr. Berman warned me there could be trouble, but I’m going to protect her.
“Actually, we all fart,” I say.
Most of the classmates twist and respond with glee. “Ew! Do not.”
I walk through the row of desks, and all the kids go wild like I’m parting the Red Sea. I’m sniffing, playing the part well. It’s absolutely ridiculous, and even I’m feeling the urge to crack up.
Pausing, I feign surprise. “On second thought. You may be right, Xander.”
He leans back, proud. “See. Girls don’t fart.”
I start to meander through the room, until I get to Xander’s desk. Then I make a horrified expression, the craziest I’ve ever looked. “Wait a second. I smell something. It was you,” I exclaim.
Xander shoots out of his desk like a rocket. “No,” he pleads. “It wasn’t me.”
His friends gang around him, plugging their nose. I don’t want to shame the kid, so I back off. It’s a ridiculous entrance, but there’s a lesson embedded in the hilarity to be respectful.
“Okay, guys. Settle down. It’s a joke,” I announce.
We’re talking about kids here. I have a little room to maneuver here.
Returning to the white board, I write my name in big, cute lettering. “I’m Mrs. Greenwald. I’m your teacher.”
Ironically, Xander politely raises his hand. I call on him. “Is Ms. Hamel coming back?”
Making a sad face, I shake my head. “No, but she told me personally that you guys were the best class in the school. Is that true?”
I focus on Sammy and wink. She smiles, pushing her tongue through her teeth. “Yes,” she says. “We won the spelling bee against the class next door.”
She’s so cute.
After the fart joke, clears the room, I get on to the real lesson plan. Science and biology. We’re making volcanos today. Why? Because it’s awesome. Besides, I think I need something lighthearted and fun to get my mind off of Marc.
I like him.
But he’s also a little annoying.
The point is, I’m not sure how long I’ll last.
During recess, I watch over Sammy and Xander. She swings for ten minutes before playing with the other girls. Xander, however, doesn’t seem to have many friends. He tries to join a group of boys near the slide, but after an exchange of words, he’s dismissed. He walks away, staring at the ground, only to look back at Sammy.
When he looks at her, it’s remorseful. It’s like he’s asking her to rescue him. What can she do? Sammy doesn’t want to be ostracized from the group of girls, so she turns away.
But there’s a moment where she looks up again. They lock eyes.
I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know that kids can be super complicated. Getting to the bottom of this is going to take some time. For now, she’s safe. And in less than an hour, I’m going to take her back to her dad.
Her hot, rich father...
By the time class is over, I can’t stop going over the pros and cons of becoming friends with Marc inside my head. He’s funny. He’s doing something right with his finances to be living in the town of Sammamish, clearly. At the end of the day, he seems to be a really good father.
So – What are the cons?
After Sammy’s inside my car, I grill her for some inside information. “Does your dad work a lot?” I ask.
What does he do for a living?
Does he make good money?
How big is his… okay. Those are things I’m wondering to myself.
Sammy sits, digging all four fingers into a bag of candy valentines. Within seconds, her mouth is already full. “He’s always doing weird stuff,” she says.
I slow down at the stop sign. Their home isn’t that far away from school, and I selfishly want more time to find out more about Marc. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
She crunches a candy heart with her cute front teeth. “Like, he wears gorilla masks and acts all weird.”
I think I know what she means. “Does he put on funny masks to cheer you up?”
She nods, eyes beaming. “Yeah. I get sad sometimes about mom, but daddy has been really nice lately. He got me Ragamuffin and everything.”
Suddenly, I don’t feel the urge to continue digging. It feels a little too invasive. Still, I can’t stop my brain from quietly wondering about their family as we pull into the long driveway.
Was there a painful and messy divorce? Maybe Marc isn’t as nice as he seems.
I step outside, falling into a state of nostalgia as I peer up at the unused basketball hoop. The house itself is two stories and very cute, like something right out of a movie. Growing up without much money, I always wanted to live in a house like this one. Ours was a two-bedroom, so it wasn’t the worst it could have been. But it wasn’t this glamorous.
It even has a white-picket fence.
We’re far away from the Christmas holidays, but as Marc opens the door to greet us, I envision a massive green tree that reaches the vaulted ceilings, ceiling stereos playing jolly music, and a wall of presents for Sammy. Ragamuffin is sitting on the couch, tongue out, tail wagging.
It’s a brief picture, one that I immediately push out of my head. It’s not real, I tell myself. They put that stuff in movies because it puts a feeling of hope inside of the audience. It’s like a mirage. When you see the thing in person, it’s not the same.
“Daddy!” Sammy yells, snapping me back to reality.
Marc returns the sentiment, swinging out his arms for a giant hug. “Sammy!” he exclaims.
“You made it home early,” she says. “Finally.”
“It’s taken daddy a long time to get used to the traffic here,” he says.
It’s a really cute image, but it’s interrupted by the long-eared dog of my dreams. Ragamuffin runs in from the other room, barking like she’s the queen of this house, and then she rolls onto her back for a warm belly rub. There’s bits of foam stuck in her teeth, and when I follow a trail past Marc, I see a torn up couch. I’m still a little bitter about the dog, but it looks like she’s a misbehaver.
I point. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but your couch...”
Door open, Marc moves to the side. “Hey, Ms. Greenwald,” he says. “A couch can be replaced. A dog… well, I’m not quite there, yet.”
As soon as I’m inside, I realize he’s actually living in the fantasy inside my head. His living room looks like it’s been ripped straight out of a magazine cover. A fireplace unravels into parallel red brick, and a velvet bench rests near a curtained window. Two wooden tables overflow with succulents and books on white shelves.
The man is handsome, as he always was, but now it seems, in hindsight, that he only dressed like this for me. He wears a jean jacket, jeans, and black Nike shoes. His short, dark hair looks freshly combed. Everything about his life is surreal.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks, looking at me expectantly, but I’m lost. My entire body is frozen.
Like a zombie, I lumber into the kitchen to find a long marble island, so clean I could run my tongue across it and feel safe. Every type of pot and pan hangs from the ceiling, and brand new appliances heat up something that smells absolutely scrumptious. This room is almost as big as my bedroom.
To the left of the island is a wide, square dining area, and to the right is a family room. It’s lined with bookshelves of all kinds, and reading through the titles, I realize they’re original classics. Hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands. Most of them are in great condition.
A warmth spreads throughout my body. “Oh, wow,” I whisper.
I sense Marc walking up behind me. “Are you hungry? I’ve got some handmade lasagna in the oven. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
Great Expectations. Wuthering Heights. Tropic of Cancer. A whole collection of Jane Austin. I can’t believe my eyes. I’m in heaven.
I don’t turn around or respond. I’m transfixed by this little Garden of Eden he lives in, but he seems rather bored. Reaching my hand out, I brush a book binding with my finger and feel the indent from the gold lettering. For me, this is a bit emotional, akin to going to Disneyland for the first time.
I can’t even think straight. “Food sounds good,” I mumble.
He hands me a glass of red wine, winking.
It’s getting late. I keep forgetting I have a new dog, and I’m sure he’s hungry. Here’s to hoping he hasn’t urinated all over my stuff. “Cheers,” I say.
Clinking his glass against mine, we both take a sip before I return to his book collection.
Marc’s shadow grows behind me, until he’s positioned against my hip. For a brief moment, I brace for his touch and forget about my responsibilities. But when he reaches his arm above me, I realize he’s pulling a specific book from its place. It’s Pride & Prejudice, an obvious choice, but I can’t help but profess my love for the eternal romance novel.
“If you want, you can spend some time in here, while I finish up in the kitchen,” he says, practically pushing the book into my hands.
I look up from the book to his deep-seated eyes. “You mean it?”