by Jo Knowles
Ms. Lindsay was shy. She was also picky. She hadn’t had many dating opportunities since she started teaching full-time, and she’d been beginning to feel lonely. Even so, her first reaction to Jared’s invitation was no. She’d said she would get back to him so she could think about it. Then she’d gone to get Betsy’s advice and was so bothered by her reaction, she’d decided to say yes.
“He doesn’t drink,” Ms. Lindsay confided in Betsy, who was sipping her third Cadillac margarita. This concoction, Betsy explained, was a margarita with an extra shot of Grand Marnier. Like two drinks in one. Ms. Lindsay had done the math and was surprised Betsy was still able to balance on the bar stool.
Betsy choked on her Cadillac. “Why not?”
“He’s a recovering alcoholic.”
“You don’t say.”
“We spent most of the night talking about it,” Ms. Lindsay explained. “He’s had a pretty tough life. I asked him what made him get sober, and do you know what he said?”
Betsy waited.
“He hit a deer with his car. He was driving drunk and hit it. And then he left the scene without seeing if it was dead or alive.”
“That’s what sobered him up?” Betsy asked incredulously. “Either that guy is the most sensitive bastard on earth or he’s lying.”
Ms. Lindsay nodded. As she recalled the conversation, she remembered thinking something similar. In fact, as she listened to him go on and on as if she were his AA sponsor, she almost had the sense that Jared hadn’t been talking about hitting a deer at all. He talked about it as if he’d done something far worse and uncommon. “I’ve never told anyone this before,” he said quietly. “I don’t know why I’m telling you. I probably shouldn’t.” It had made her feel uncomfortable. Scared, even.
“She left behind a child,” he told her. Ms. Lindsay asked if he meant a fawn, and he looked confused. “Yes. A fawn. You . . . you remind me of her.” Ms. Lindsay looked confused again. She reminded him of a fawn? Well, she did have big eyes. She smiled awkwardly at the strange compliment. But Jared only seemed to be getting more agitated. At this point Ms. Lindsay wondered if Jared French was on medication. He was so upset. So confused. “Why am I telling you this?” he kept asking. He had stopped being able to look at her. And that was when Ms. Lindsay suggested they call it a night.
“Did you pay or go dutch?” Betsy asked, not nearly as disturbed by the story as Ms. Lindsay had been.
“Dutch.”
“Figures.”
“Well, I probably make more than him, so it’s only fair. Plus, I had a glass of wine.”
“How insensitive!” Betsy had covered her mouth in mock disapproval.
“I ordered it before I knew he didn’t drink!” Ms. Lindsay protested. “I ended up having one sip. It was so awkward. We paid and went our separate ways.”
“What will you do on Monday?”
“Try to avoid him.”
Betsy shook her head. “I told you not to go.”
Ms. Lindsay did not argue. She also didn’t mention the awkward good-bye she’d had with him when they went outside. They’d stood under the streetlight, both probably wondering how to end it. In the light, she’d noticed a crumb of Italian bread in his beard patch. She hoped it would fall out before he discovered it himself, when he went to brush his teeth and get ready for bed that evening. She wondered what his reaction would be at the discovery. Would he laugh? Blush? Be horrified? She wasn’t sure.
She said good night and thank you. And he apologized for going on and on about his own problems and not asking her much about herself, though he still couldn’t seem to look at her.
“Oh, me, I’m boring,” she’d said.
She reached out to shake his hand, which felt like a stupid thing to do, but she didn’t want to kiss him, that was certain. But instead of taking her hand, he moved out of the way and said good night, rushing down the sidewalk.
It was such a strange moment, Ms. Lindsay didn’t even know how to retell it. And besides, she didn’t want to share the “boring” comment with Betsy, who would surely agree.
“What exciting lives we lead,” Betsy said, signaling for the check.
The waiter, who was decidedly not gay, divided their bill. Ms. Lindsay did not tell Betsy he’d written his phone number on her customer copy. And while she wondered, just briefly, if he’d done the same on Betsy’s bill, she quickly dismissed the thought. She was sure Betsy would have pointed it out.
“See you on Monday with the beasts,” Betsy had said when they parted ways outside.
“Don’t remind me,” Ms. Lindsay replied.
“Little fuckers,” she heard Betsy mutter as she walked away.
On the way home, Ms. Lindsay stopped at the liquor outlet and bought a bottle of pinot noir from the sale display. She put on her pajamas, opened her laptop, and watched a movie in bed.
It was not the best girls’ night out.
It never was.
And then on Monday there she was, barely making it through the day, and certainly not the start of sixth period. Ms. Lindsay had sighed and looked at the clock. She had two more minutes before the students would come pushing through the door. She wasn’t sure why she’d been thinking about her dinner with Betsy Yung. It wasn’t particularly eye-opening and certainly wasn’t inspiring. But maybe that was just it. When she got home that night, she had promised herself she would not turn into Betsy. She would not. She would not be bitter. She had also decided to be on the lookout for Jared French today and try to be friendly. But so far, he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was the one avoiding her. Either way. She was going to be kind. Positive.
That was her plan. This morning, she had tried to feel hopeful. She got up early so she could take an extra-long shower. She carefully lathered her hair with her awapuhi shampoo that smelled like Hawaii, which was the only tropical place she’d ever visited. She had been eleven and still young enough for her wealthy grandmother to think she was cute and a nice thing to take along with her on vacations to impress her other elderly friends. Tiny Lynnette (she allowed her grandmother to call her this because she loved her) had spent most of the week by herself, wandering around the hotel pool while her grandmother played cards with two old men she’d met. “This is Lynn-ette,” her grandmother told them.
“Ligh-net?” one man had asked in a horrible southern drawl.
“Goodness, no. Lynn-ette. LYNN! Just for that horrible pronunciation, you will buy me a drink.”
Lynn-ette never forgot the smell in the air as she walked past the plants and shrubs lining the pathways at the hotel. That sweet, pungent smell of flowers and nectar. And the beautiful poolside bartender who smiled at her in a sexy way and made her feel attractive for the first time in her life. Even if she had only been eleven. She wondered how old he was. Maybe in his early twenties? It wasn’t so wrong of him, was it? It was the best vacation of her life. As soon as she was hired for this full-time job, she’d started saving to return, though her grandmother had died years ago. She didn’t mind planning a trip alone. Maybe that bartender would still be there. She could dream. What else was there?
She looked at the clock again. Twenty seconds. She thought of the bartender’s hungry smile, but to her dismay his face quickly morphed into Jared’s, with the bread crumb in his beard. She wasn’t going to allow herself to think about their date, and here she was, already remembering again. Jared. She shuddered. What was she thinking?
She took another calming breath, but it didn’t help. She felt the fear building so strongly, her heart began to race. It pounded and hurt with each beat.
It was time.
The students filed in, pushing each other from one seat to another. Joking. Laughing. Checking out what she was wearing without even trying not to be obvious. Ms. Lindsay cowered behind her desk, ashamed.
As usual, she lost her positive outlook three minutes into class.
The chaos only built.
Tanner G. leaned forward and flicked Tanner F.’s ear with h
is finger, turning it purple-red. Tanner F. tried not to cry. Ms. Lindsay cleared her throat and was ignored. She took more slow deep breaths and thought of Betsy’s words. For the first time she looked out at her students and thought the vile phrase. Little fuckers.
She didn’t want to feel that way about them. She wanted to love them. But as Alicia Crowley pushed her chest out at Max Findlay, who reached forward and pretended he was going to pinch her nipples, Ms. Lindsay decided enough was enough.
“Quiet!” she yelled. Her heart was really racing now, and she wondered what it would take to have a heart attack. She could feel it out-beating the second hand on the big wall clock by four to one. Her students looked at her and waited. She breathed and felt her chest rise up and down, then caught Cal Hogan staring at her breasts, which, she realized, could easily be thought of as “heaving.”
“We’re going to try something different today,” she said, trying to sound stern. Serious. Her eyes moved from face to face. She thought she saw Sapphie Lewis roll her eyes, but it was hard to get a good look at her face — hidden, as always, under the hood of her sweatshirt. Keith Sears studied her thoughtfully, as if he sincerely cared what this something different would be. At least one of them cared, she thought.
Then, interrupting her big moment, Nate Granger entered late. He waved his late pass and held up his hand as if he had a question, but on further inspection she realized he was holding it up because he had a splint on his finger. His middle finger.
Cal, sitting nearby, snickered.
“It’s Finger Boy!” someone whispered loudly as Nate took his seat.
He did look like he was giving them all the finger. She felt her mouth twist into a smirk. Good for him. She’d seen him bullied all fall. Now he had some respect. So long as he didn’t aim that finger at her.
She waited for him to sit and get settled, then looked at them all as they waited for whatever this something was she wanted to try. She felt a mixture of disgust and ownership, knowing it was up to her to change their ways. Up to her to make them respect her. Not out of fear, but because she’d earned it. She wanted, she realized, for them to like her.
But Ms. Lindsay was also realistic. She knew, at that moment, as one kid picked his nose without shame and another fiddled with her phone right out in the open even though it was against school rules and Allen Quimby mouthed the words I want you to the girl across the aisle — that they never would.
They just didn’t care.
“You know I have a soft voice,” Ms. Lindsay went on, trying to use a loud voice, “so from now on when I want your attention I’m going to do this.” Ms. Lindsay raised her hand in the Girl Scout pledge, just like the woman from her discipline workshop. As she did, she remembered the Girl Scout promise she made as a child.
On my honor, I will try to serve God and my country, to help people at all times, and to live by the Girl Scout Law.
If only she could remember the Girl Scout Law. Was the Girl Scout Law simply to try to serve God and her country, and to help people at all times? She wasn’t sure. She had failed as a Girl Scout, clearly. She’d only lasted two years. That was how long her mother had put up with taking her to all the meetings and sewing all the patches on her uniform sash and ironing her uniform and making sure she had the proper color knee socks. Until, in her mother’s words, it was too much, and Lynnette was “too old for that stuff anyway.”
The class continued to watch her intently, almost eagerly, as if they thought the moment had come at last when perhaps they had finally succeeded in driving her over the edge. Had they learned nothing from Mr. Weidenheff? Why was she so different? Instead of sympathy, grief, and sadness, there was satisfaction in their eyes. Glee. They were quiet. Waiting.
The moment was brief, but time had stopped.
She searched again for someone to connect with. Her eyes settled on Nate Granger. Finger Boy. He smiled at her, and she summoned one more ounce of courage.
She stared at her three fingers raised in the air and was surprised to have another quick childhood memory, this time of her mother, years ago, getting so upset with her father, she thought her mother’s eyes would pop out of their sockets. But even in her fit of rage, her mother could not bring herself to curse. “Read between the lines, Harold!” she’d hissed, holding up three fingers and glaring at him. Her father’s mouth dropped open first in shock, and then hilarity, as he burst out laughing at her ridiculousness. “Just say the words, you old fool!” he’d shouted back. “My God, you’re a prude.”
Her mother burst into tears. Her father made it clear he could care less. He pushed back his chair and stomped out of the room, leaving her mother sitting at the end of the table with her shoulders shaking, tears slipping down her cheeks. And quiet little Lynnette in the middle, with no idea what to do.
It wasn’t until the next day when she asked her best friend Rose what it could have meant that she learned her mother was giving her father the finger. And what giving someone the finger meant.
Ms. Lindsay looked at her three slender fingers facing the class. She looked at her students, staring back at her with curiosity and — could it be? — amazement. Slowly, she turned her hand from the pledge position to the sign her mother had used all those years ago.
Read between the lines, class, she whispered in her head. Ef you.
Yes, she really thought ef and not the F-word. Her mother had a big impression on her after all. She didn’t care that her father would laugh at her, too, if he could see her. To Ms. Lindsay, her mother had shown the greatest restraint. That was class. She stuck to her morals in the face of great adversity. And so, now, would Ms. Lindsay. She even felt some of her old Girl Scout pride. Was there a badge for that?
She held her three fingers firmly in the air and marveled at the silence and the curious looks on the faces of those who simply didn’t understand what they’d missed out on, if only they could have given her half a chance. She could have been a great teacher. To Miss, with Love. But no. They never even gave her a chance to try.
The little fuckers.
No.
No, she wouldn’t sink to Betsy’s low.
For now, she heard and repeated her mother’s words in her head instead.
Read between the lines, class.
“It means the F-word,” Rose had told her in a whisper.
“What does that mean?” innocent Lynnette had whispered back.
“It means I hate you,” Rose told her. And then, seeing the look of horror on poor Lynnette’s face at the thought of her mother telling her father she hated him, Rose changed her mind. “No, I mean, it means I’m really, really mad at you.”
Sweet Lynnette had nodded. “Oh,” she said, and accepted the misinformation for two more years, until she learned the true meaning of the rude gesture.
Read between the lines, class, she thought again, knowing full well that she was more than really, really mad at them.
They looked at her, confused.
It felt good.
Did they know what she was doing? She was sure not. They simply continued to peer at her curiously and watch.
Read between the lines.
She hesitated another moment, for effect, and then slowly lowered her hand.
“Well,” she said happily. “Good. That seems to work.”
She turned and walked to her desk, trying not to smile. Trying not to laugh.
“Everyone get out your writing journals, please,” Ms. Lindsay instructed before she sat down.
To her amazement, they did.
Now, as she sniffs the lavender-scented sleeve of her bathrobe hopelessly, Ms. Lindsay feels guilty for giving her crowded class of bored teenagers the finger. She even starts to cry. For not being able to make a difference. For not even getting close to achieving the respect she’s worked so hard for, has hoped for, all her life. She cries, and then begins to run a hot bath, emptying the entire bottle of awapuhi shampoo into the water to surround herself with the smell — forget the use
less lavender — and the Hawaiian memories of one good time. Of a time full of hope and wonder and being loved, if only superficially and for selfish purposes, by her grandmother.
She settles into the tub and leans back as the warm, comforting water slowly covers her body like a blanket. The sound of the water hides the chirp of her phone ringing in the next room. It is the school guidance counselor letting her know about the day’s happenings, so that she might be prepared to help the students cope tomorrow. She explains that Stephen Holland’s father had a heart attack and is in stable condition at Mount Ivy Hospital; that Jared French (the janitor, she notes, as if Ms. Lindsay might not know who he is) appears to have had some sort of mental break and was found on the side of the highway but was also taken to Mount Ivy Hospital for observation; and that Keith Sears had been hit by a car — hit-and-run, the poor kid — and wouldn’t be in school the next two days because he had a mild concussion. There is a pause and the sound of a breath being exhaled. Of disappointment perhaps, that Ms. Lindsay isn’t available to gossip about all of this with her. Maybe they could have bonded over it and become friends. “What a wacky day,” she says, to end the one-sided conversation. “We’ll have a faculty meeting first thing in the morning to discuss how to handle things. Have a good night!” But Ms. Lindsay won’t get the message until the next morning, when the night will already be over.
As the water rises to her neck, Ms. Lindsay closes her eyes, surrounded by the smell of her Hawaiian vacation memories. She sees that bartender in her mind’s eye, and this time he does not morph into Jared French and his ridiculous beard. No. He remains her beautiful Hawaiian boy, with his white-toothed smile, the dark dimples in the middle of his cheeks. His green, mischievous eyes.
I remember you, she tells him, speaking into the sudsy water.