by Liza Palmer
“Try saying that ten times fast. Friday’s fund-raising fair, Friday’s fund-raising fair . . . can’t do it,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“And we have that head of department mixer thing tomorrow night,” Jill says, eyeing me.
“I’m the one who told you about it, weirdo,” I say, scanning the teachers’ lounge once more. Jill looks from me to Lisa.
“You told me about us going to the head of department mixer tomorrow night?” Jill says again.
“Head of department mixer?” Lisa asks, standing. She’s wearing capri pants and a pastel sweater set. Her figure is an hourglass—feminine. I can see her tugging on her sweater set, trying to conceal this obvious capital crime. Shaped like a woman? In Los Angeles? I don’t think so, missy. I’m sure some good Samaritan has a nice glass of lemon juice, cayenne pepper and honey with your name on it. Whether you like it or not.
“Hm?” Jill asks.
“The head of department mixer?” Lisa asks again.
“Oh, that. No big deal,” Jill says, a yawn at the ready. I roll my eyes.
Lisa continues. “You guys want to grab a beer after?”
“Absolutely,” Jill and I say in unison, standing.
Lisa starts for the balcony door. Jill is panicking.
“I don’t think we know which bar,” I say. Jill narrows her eyes at me.
“Lucky Baldwin’s,” Lisa says, opening the door.
“Perfect,” I say.
“I knew that,” Jill mutters. Lisa stands in the open balcony door. Debbie is cornering Ryan with the birthday card for Emma. Her approach with him seems much more . . . affectionate.
“He’s cute. Ferrell. He’s your ex, right? He’s cute,” Lisa says, looking back. I balk.
“Yeah,” I say. Ouch. Ryan thanks Debbie and quickly exits the teachers’ lounge, away from her and her offer of a first day back rub. Debbie gloomily moves on to another group of teachers. They are wary.
“Tiny penis though, right?” Lisa says, door wide open. Full lounge.
Silence.
Lisa asks again, “Right?”
I am quiet. My words. My knowledge. All caught in my throat.
Jill and Lisa wait. Jill looks like she’s about to explode.
“Frannie?” Jill finally yelps.
“Yeah,” I say, looking away.
“What?” Jill looks shocked.
“You can tell,” Lisa says.
“How?” Jill blurts. The teachers in the lounge are busy acting like they’re not eavesdropping. On one hand, I feel fiercely loyal to Ryan. It doesn’t feel right airing his dirty, albeit tiny, laundry. I focus back in on Jill and Lisa’s conversation regarding my ex-boyfriend’s endowments already in progress.
“I checked his package. He had a little something, but it’s all balls, right? It’s all balls,” Lisa says, letting us into the lounge first. Lisa’s Jersey accent combined with the word balls causes an atmospheric concussion within the four walls of the teachers’ lounge. It seems to reverberate like Big Ben at noon—ear-piercing and unrelenting. Balls. Balls. Balls.
I cut in. “Yes. It’s all balls.”
“That’s what I thought. Better off without him then, right?” Lisa says.
“Hm,” I mutter, and give a quick nod. I stride past the Coven of Front-Office Hags, who have done nothing except offer me either the contact information for the local sperm bank with a Post-it note saying, Don’t waste any more time! or the phone number for the local suicide hotline. Lisa hardly gives them a second glance.
“I’ll come get you guys after school,” Lisa says. And she’s gone. The door closes behind her.
“Ladies,” Pamela says, oozing over to us. Pamela Jackson: the school psychologist and recently promoted lower master. Last year’s lower master quit once he found out he was being passed over for the head of school position. For a woman, no less. Big scandal at the Markham School.
“Hey, Pamela. Congratulations on the big promotion,” we say in unison. Pamela’s cocoa skin is dewy, wrinkle free and made up to look natural. Her expensive clothes are just deconstructed enough to convey that she’s naturally spontaneous.
“Oh, thank you. It was a huge honor,” Pamela says, clutching at the strand of pearls around her neck.
We are quiet.
“You’ve met Lisa Campanari, I see,” Pamela says.
“She’s amazing,” Jill says.
Pamela is quiet . . . in that way that people are quiet when they want their silence to talk shit for them.
“Well, we’d better head on out,” I say, only after I’m sure Pamela’s silence suggested I’m going to die alone. She allows a quick nod as we walk away from her and her judgmental silences.
“I texted that Jeremy person the other night,” I say, continuing out into the breezeway.
“And?”
“He had no idea who I was.”
“Wait, what?” Jill stops me just before we walk back inside the school hallways.
“He had no idea who I was,” I repeat.
“What exactly did he say?”
“Hey, who is this?” I say, doing my best Jeff Spicoli impersonation.
“You know my theory and he doesn’t sound like that.”
“I know your theory and he does sound like that.”
Jill continues. “You shouldn’t text. Texting doesn’t count.”
“You’re right. I knew I was being chicken, but in the end we can both agree that it was actually the smart thing to do. Had I called it would have been way worse.”
“You’d think you would have learned your lesson about the dangers of texting after the whole Ryan debacle,” Jill adds just for good measure. I wonder if by “the whole Ryan debacle” Jill means just the chucking via text or the entire two-year relationship.
Jill shrugs as if my texting faux pas has prevented us from ever knowing the majesty of an outdoor wedding—complete with dragonflies, strings of lights and a couple of thirtysomethings who’ve settled for one another as they dance to Lynyrd Skynyrd.
As I’m about to launch into yet another speech about how thirty-six years old plus newly single doesn’t equal Threat Level Midnight in Datingland, a knot of men and women in rolled-up shirtsleeves, wearing hard hats and carrying roll upon roll of blueprints, hurry down the breezeway just outside the teachers’ lounge. Jill pulls at her dress and tucks her hair quickly and neatly behind her ear. I see her do a quick once-over of her reflection in the windows of the HR department. They seem to approve, but it’s clear that Jill is not pleased with what she sees. She shakes it off and greets her husband, who is front and center, as if none of the past few seconds has occurred. Martin Fleming: a man perfectly comfortable being Mr. Jill Fleming.
“Hey, sweetie,” Martin says, bringing the clutch of suited workers to a halt.
“Martin!” Jill trills, her entire demeanor changing. I like to think that Jill’s transformation is because Martin makes her so blissfully happy, but sometimes I’m afraid Jill’s chameleonic personality is due to much darker reasons.
“Hiya, Frannie.” Martin pulls me in for a quick hug.
“Great to see you,” I say as the brush of the stubble forming on his jawline tickles my cheek.
“Introductions are in order, I suppose,” Martin says, turning to present the now inconvenienced yet overly pert group of architects hovering just behind their fearless leader. Martin goes around the circle quickly. Names. Hands held aloft as if answering “Present” on a new day at school. Polite smiles. I’ll remember no one and no one will remember me, yet we all act like we’re clearly thrilled meeting each other. Martin looks around the group of now old friends with a gleam in his eye.
“We’re all meeting at the bar tonight. You guys should come!” Jill looks from Martin to me to the group of architects, or more specifically, from Martin to the few single men among the group of architects.
“The bar?” Martin asks.
“You know. Lucky Baldwin’s?” Jill’s voice is sure. Knowing.
“Great!” Jill says, now eyeing those few single men in the group as a lioness eyes the few straggling wildebeests.
Martin waves one last time and hurries down the corridor and into the depths of the school.
“Cute,” Jill says, downright beaming.
“Yes, Martin is very cute,” I say, certain she’s not referring to her own husband.
“You know who I mean,” Jill says as we nod at a couple of lower school teachers who are rushing into the lounge for a last-minute cup of coffee.
“I didn’t even notice,” I say, telling the truth. Which is kind of sad in its own right.
“Help me help you, Frannie. Help me help you,” Jill says, her hands clutching at her chest.
I give her a quick wink as we walk into the bustling hallways of the first day of school.
Chapter 4
J. T. and Kermit the Frog
Lucky Baldwin’s is as advertised: a local Pasadena pub that’s been allowed to stay just as it is for years. Red vinyl booths and wobbly wooden tables that serve as a background for a crowded maze of regulars. The oddly beguiling aroma of greasy fish and chips and spilled beer wafts over the revelers. The same faces appear night after night. Muted football games play on the various TV screens while the jukebox blares Led Zeppelin, ZZ Top and Al Green.
Jill takes my arm and pulls me past a blur of architects who, I gather, are either in a couple already, female and/or deemed undatable. She squares me off in front of two men. Single, I’m gathering by Jill’s viselike grip on my arm.
“Frances Reid, this is Grady Davis and Sam Earley. They’re originally from Memphis. Martin is working with the Earley Group, Sam’s firm, on making the school’s expansion more sustainable,” Jill says, her voice quivering with excitement.
“We order yet?” Lisa asks, appearing after her first smoke break.
“Not yet,” I say.
“Lisa Campanari, this is Grady Davis,” Jill says, pulling Lisa over to the two men. I take this opportunity to really look at Grady. Black hair with piercing blue eyes. Bright orange tie. He looks like the guy you send for the keg, the guy who bails you out of jail no questions asked or the guy who urges you to “drink! Drink! Drink!”
“Pleasure’s all mine, darlin’,” Grady says. Lisa’s entire body is now a puddle on the floor. Wow. She gets darlin’ and I get ma’am. If this night goes really well, maybe Grady and Sam will help me across the street later so I can get my weekly blue rinse at the beauty parlor. I’m going to need a lot more beer.
“And Sam Earley.” White-blond hair. Tall and lanky. And waaaay out of my league. I give Jill a quick melty smile in these seconds. Amid all of her more shallow inclinations and superficial dress-downs of other women, Jill has always seen me as beautiful. Beautiful in a way I have yet to see myself. Beautiful in way I don’t even think she sees herself as, despite all evidence to the contrary. The night Ryan left I sobbed to Jill that my brown hair was too drab. It’s mysterious, she said. I think I should take off a few pounds. You’ve got great tits, she said in a particularly uncomfortable moment. I have no style. Let’s face it, I wailed, it boils down to me wearing a lot of beaded cardigans. You’re rocking a hearth-wear-meets-vintage thing! It’s effortlessly perfect, she said. I may believe I’m not up to snuff, but Jill? Jill thinks I can date the Great Gatsby.
“Nice to meet you,” Sam says.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Lisa says, still eyeing Grady.
“They’re not from here,” Jill trills. The other nameless architects tuck into the table with pitchers of beer and empty cups. Let’s face it: they might as well just go home.
“We kind of got that when you said they were from Memphis,” I say.
“The accents don’t help, I expect,” Grady says.
“I expect!” Jill swoons. My face flushes. Jesus. These are two grown men, not adorable, southern-accented golden retriever puppies in a cardboard box.
“Men from here aren’t as chivalrous.” Jill giggles, motioning to the random riffraff (which includes her husband) already drinking and in deep conversation, as if that simple action is akin to their soiling themselves in public.
I cut in. “What are we drinking?”
“No, please. Allow us,” Grady says.
“First round’s on me, boys. Relax,” Lisa says, and she’s off. Grady and Sam stand awkwardly as they watch their southern hospitality get trumped by a Jersey girl who wants her drink without ceremony. I follow Lisa on her beer run.
Lisa orders a couple of pitchers and hands the bartender her credit card.
“Here, let me get part of it,” I say, digging in my purse for some cash.
“Nah, I said the first round’s on me,” Lisa says, brushing me off. As the silence grows between Lisa and me, I realize I’m intimidated by her.
“What about them Lakers?” I ask, startled that the words have actually escaped from my mouth.
“What?” Lisa asks.
“The Lakers. They play basketball,” I say, clearing my throat.
Lisa rolls her eyes and continues. “So, Grady’s kind of cute, right? Built like a brick shithouse.” She signs her name to the credit card receipt and passes it back to the bartender.
“He looks kind of old-fashioned to me . . . you know, shithouse aside,” I say.
“I like ’em old-fashioned,” Lisa says, smiling.
“Is that why you insisted on paying for your own beer . . . and theirs?”
“Oh . . . right.”
“Dirty feminist,” I say.
“I’ll just grab his crank later,” Lisa says, lifting the pitchers one-handed and motioning for me to grab the glasses.
As Lisa steps away from the bar, I start to make a joke about checking packages, but my tongue gets tangled up as I try to be offhandedly hilarious. I’m left standing there alone with six empty pint glasses as an older gentleman in an ascot stares at my boobs, the word crank hanging in the air between us. Moving on.
“So, you teach with Jill?” Grady asks Lisa as I slide into the booth with the glasses.
“Jill and Frannie are speech therapists. I teach upper school science,” Lisa answers, pouring herself a glass of beer from one of the two pitchers. She passes the pitcher to Grady, who pours himself a glass. Sam takes the other pitcher and pours me a glass, then one for himself. I nod a quick thank-you. He offers a tight “You’re welcome” back.
I let myself linger on Sam just long enough to really see him. I realize how rarely I allow myself to truly take people in. Somewhere down the line (read: junior high school) I learned that taking notice of people yielded more unwanted attention than I was comfortable with. I’ve yet to loosen my grip on the PTSD terror level of a junior high school hallway.
“You teach people how to give speeches?” Grady asks. Sam takes a pull on his beer. He quickly licks his lips, ridding them of a tiny mustache.
“No,” I say, and smile.
“Oh, right. Right,” Grady says, his eyes darting around the room. I take a deep breath. Why don’t I, at least for once, try not to be so intense?
“Teaching science doesn’t take any explanation at all,” Lisa says, nudging Grady.
I press out what I hope is an easy smile and continue. “We help kids who have trouble with speech, voice and language.” The waitress takes our orders: different variations on fish and chips. Sam calls the waitress “darlin’.” I’m not sure if this is awesome or misogynistic. Jill is going back and forth between her matchmaking candidates sporting a wide grin.
When the waitress leaves so does our conversation. And then it’s quiet. For a long time. I sip my beer. Sam sips his. I almost down mine. This is going great. The jukebox plays: “Summer of ’69.” Lisa and Grady suggestively pat and “hit” one another.
With Grady and Lisa off in their own world of Uncomfortable-for-Others Public Displays of Affection, it’s down to just Sam and me
. And we’re quiet. Tight smiles. I sip my beer and act like I’m ridiculously interested in the football game on the TV, the posters of various beers, the ant moving across the sticky floor. I stop scanning the bar and smile at Sam again. I think he’s smiling back. Fine.
“So, you’re an architect?” I ask, motioning to the other people as if “so you’re an architect” wasn’t clear enough.
“Yes, and I do the—”
“Green.”
“ ‘Doing the green’ seems a bit suggestive,” Sam says.
“Maybe a new tagline for your consulting firm.”
A brief silence.
Sam cuts in. “You’re thinking of—”
“Kermit. Yes . . . with Kermit.”
“Thank god.” Sam laughs. He eases back against the booth. I hear the sounds of years and years of old vinyl shifting under his weight. The smile lingers across his face as he lets the joke roll over him again.
“You could have totally left me hanging, been all ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Girl I’ve Barely Met,’ ” I say.
“Can you imagine? Just met me and I’m already the biggest dick.”
Jill almost falls out of her chair.
I continue. “You calmly excuse yourself with a rolled eye and a heavy sigh.”
“Maybe a muttered, ‘This girl wants to do it with Kermit! Jim Henson’s little angel!’ as my pace quickens,” Sam says. His eyes crinkle as he lets his head dip back. Another laugh.
We lean toward one another across the sticky, wobbly table. Our beers slosh out of their pint glasses as our sentences overlap. I’m not thinking about anything before I speak. No Frannie Peed gauntlet in the forefront of everything I do and say.
I quickly continue, not wanting to halt the momentum. “How do you like L.A.?”
“I’ve been here for a few years now. Went to school at University of Tennessee—”
“Go Vols!” Grady says, cutting in. Sam smiles. A cracking smile right across his face. Beautiful.