More Like Her

by Liza Palmer

  “They should have canceled this,” I say, slumping in my desk chair.

  “It’ll be good. People need to be together in times like these,” Jill says. Her speech is clipped and agitated.

  “I had a whole thing last night. A whole . . . whole thing,” I say.

  “With Sam? What . . . like anal?”

  “You’re just . . . it’s all just . . . ,” I say, not able to really pinpoint the majesty of Jill. She looks like she doesn’t understand. You mean, that wasn’t what I was talking about?

  “After yesterday I went back to my apartment and I got all freaked out in the parking lot and I just . . . I panicked,” I say. Jill looks at me impatiently. I stand. We gather colorful banners, speech therapy handouts and container after container of the fudge I made and chocolate chip cookies. Jill scoops up the handouts. She points to a folded banner in a corner of our office and I pick it up. I load it and our cookies and fudge in a little red wagon and pull it behind me. We exit the office and head toward the elevator in our secret corner of the school.

  “I’m not used to this,” I say, my hand moving between us.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I mean . . . I never really had . . . real friends,” I say, admitting it finally. While Jill and I have only known each other for a short time, it feels like forever. We became fast friends and never looked back. It’s times like these when I feel the most tentative. When I’m exposing more of my crazy than I’m comfortable with.

  “Not even in school? Like when you were younger?”

  “I had a Sony Walkman, a Depeche Mode tape and a pair of roller skates.”

  “Can we just get this stuff down to the fund-raiser?” she asks, her voice short.

  “What’s going on over there?” I ask, opening the door for her. She wheels the wagon out into the hallway.

  “You know, not everyone likes to sit around and talk about . . . all this,” Jill says, motioning around the hallway.

  “Okay . . .”

  “A lot changed that day, but apparently one thing that didn’t was you blathering on about your feelings,” Jill says, her finger on the elevator call button.

  “So I’m a blatherer now,” I say, nodding my head.

  “Yes. You. Are.”

  “Jill . . .” We wait for the elevator to sloowwwwwlllly climb the one floor.

  “Oh, let me guess . . . you want to taaaalk about it,” Jill says.

  I am quiet. The door dings open and we shuffle inside. I pull the wagon in and tuck it between us. Jill pushes the button for the first floor and the doors ding closed. We are quiet as the elevator moans its descent.

  “Jill, I—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Frannie! Ever!” Jill yells, not looking at me. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Then she looks directly at me; her eyes soften and tears well up in them. The elevator wheezes to a stop. The doors ding open. The halls are alive and chaotic.

  “Sweetie, you’re going to have to talk about it. If not with me, then with Pamela. Or Martin?” I say, looking around at the bustling teachers and administrators as they get the main parking lot ready for the big tragic fund-raiser. White tents and cotton candy kiosks have appeared in the parking lot that contained every emergency vehicle in Pasadena just two days ago. Teachers and students are milling around putting up signs and decorating booths for this afternoon’s upcoming festivities where once there were body bags. People should be arriving within the hour where just days before a group of people ran for their lives. And I have fudge.

  “I can’t talk about it with Martin,” Jill says.

  “Why wouldn’t you be able to talk about it with Martin?” Jill is quiet. We walk in silence and finally reach our bare booth. It’s ready for banners and colorful handouts. Jill ducks underneath the table.

  “You guys look like you’re in the middle of something,” Lisa says, her arms heavy with costumes, hats and masks.

  “Shock of all shocks, Frannie wants to taaaaalk about her feelings,” Jill says, setting out the fudge and cookies.

  “Shame on me,” I say.

  “And you don’t?” Lisa asks.

  “What? No,” Jill says.

  “Sweetie, we’re your friends,” I say, handing her the platters from the wagon.

  “You’re a bunch of assholes is what you are.” Jill’s voice is hushed as she makes sure no kids are around. “If you don’t talk about it then enough time will pass and it’ll just go away.” Tears well in Jill’s eyes once again. I know where Jill’s rage is coming from, but why now?

  “It doesn’t go away,” Lisa says.

  “It has to,” Jill says.

  “Oh, sweetie,” I say.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that . . . I’ve never seen anything like that,” Jill says, angrily swiping at her tears.

  “None of us have,” Lisa says, stepping closer.

  “I’m having nightmares,” Jill says, her voice barely audible.

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Me too,” Lisa says.

  “Headaches,” Jill says.

  “Me too,” Lisa says.

  “I don’t have that one,” I say.

  “I just keep seeing it. Her. All that bl— . . . all that blood,” Jill says, still setting out fudge and chocolate chip cookies.

  Lisa and I just keep nodding. Everything Jill is saying is right on point. We’re all being haunted by the same ghost.

  “At least you didn’t get dumped in the same night. I’m sorry—I mean, the next morning,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. Jill pounces.

  “Sam loves you,” Jill says.

  I am quiet. Can love even be possible? In all this?

  Lisa continues. “This is a good thing, Frannie.”

  “Doesn’t feel too good,” I say.

  “Even if nothing comes of this thing with Sam, and I highly doubt that, it’s still better than anything you would have had with Ryan,” Jill says, her whole demeanor calming down. She becomes oddly quiet.

  Lisa and I turn to her.

  “What?” Jill asks, looking up.

  “Why are you so quiet?” I ask.

  “I’m just . . . I can’t believe Lisa and Grady are getting married. I . . .” Jill trails off.

  “What?” Lisa asks.

  Lisa and I finally notice. We both look at her.

  “I can’t believe it worked, you know? Crank grabbing and . . . now you’re getting married,” Jill says, mumbling to herself.

  “What do you mean?” Lisa asks. I say nothing. Thank god everyone is busy and distracted in this parking lot. This conversation could get ugly. Uglier, I mean.

  “I had these inalienable rights, you know? Pursuit of happiness, perfect husband and kids, tablescapes . . . the gamut,” Jill says.

  “I’m not sure that’s quite what Jefferson had in mind, but continue,” I say.

  “I’ve been on a diet for thirty years. I’ve brought hostess gifts to bitches I’m sure made a play for my husband and it . . . it’s all for nothing. Clearly,” Jill says, motioning at Lisa.

  I clap my hand over my mouth. It’s instantaneous and instinctual. Jill looks mortified. With herself. Lisa looks hurt.

  I start to speak. “Jill, you’d bet—”

  Jill blurts, “I don’t mean to say anything about your body. I mean . . . You know what I mean, right? You know what I mean. That there needs to be a certain layering of one’s personality when you meet the man you think is the One and apparently . . . apparently I was wrong.”

  Lisa is quiet.

  “Is that what you were saying about not being able to talk to Martin about the shooting?” I ask.

  “I guess,” Jill says.

  “So, your marriage is built on what, exactly?” I ask, treading lightly.

  “When Martin came along he had everything I knew I wanted in a husband, so I followed the rules,” Jill says, her voice detached and teacherly.

  “You’re not answering my question,” I say.

  “You’ve
got to be kidding me with this,” Lisa says.

  “That’s why we’re now married and I’m not just another notch on his bedpost,” Jill says, reaching back down for another container of cookies.

  “You realize that you’re saying that you not only hid who you really are from the man you later married, but that you are still hiding who you are,” Lisa says.

  “I didn’t hide anything,” Jill says.

  “That’s what you just said,” Lisa says.

  “I layer.”

  “You’re using fancy speech bullshit to evade the question.”

  “I am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Enough,” I say, cutting in.

  “I’m saying that there are parts of my personality that I believe to be more attractive than others and that it’s just good business to put one’s best foot forward,” Jill says.

  “Good business?” I ask.

  “You see your relationship with Martin as a business transaction?” Lisa asks.

  “In some ways, yes.”

  “It’s clearly a compliment that you can’t comprehend my relationship with Grady,” Lisa says, somewhat relieved.

  “A compliment?” Jill asks.

  “Silly me, I thought you were just calling me fat,” Lisa says.

  “I would never—”

  “Oh, I know that now. Your insanity goes faaaar deeper than just being shallow. Which is rather ironic, don’t you think?” Lisa says, her face reddening.

  “I’ve been up-front with both my insanity and shallowness from the beginning,” Jill says, wanting to win one part of this fight.

  Lisa and I laugh. And laugh.

  “You’re the wind beneath our wings, Jill Fleming,” I say in between hysterics. “And what were the parts of your personality you believed were your best?”

  “I’d heard that his ex-girlfriend was this bookish girl who didn’t really like sex, so . . .” Jill trails off with a flourish.

  “You what?” I ask.

  “I became this sex goddess. I knew it was the one thing I had that she didn’t. That, and I was way cuter,” Jill says.

  “What are you talking about right now? I am never taking advice from you ever again,” I say, looking around at the growing crowd of people gathering in the parking lot.

  “Those actually aren’t parts of your personality. You know that, right?” Lisa asks.

  “They . . . what?”

  “Dialing up your sexuality and your appearance is not why someone marries someone or stays married to someone,” Lisa says.

  “Men are visual,” Jill says.

  “So, you masked a lot of who you really are to snag your man,” I say.

  “This is going to come out in a way that I mean as a compliment but clearly you’re going to think is not. Honey, that’s not why Martin married you,” Lisa says.

  “It’s the first reason,” Jill says.

  “The first reason?” Lisa asks.

  “You get that all these rules about keeping up appearances and hiding who you really are . . . You know who the queen of that was, right?” I ask. Jill beams as if this is a compliment and that I’m about to crown her. I continue. “Emma.” Jill looks shaken. Lisa nods. We wait.

  “It’s not . . . it’s just . . . ,” Jill stutters.

  “It’s a dangerous lie you’re perpetuating here, Jill. More dangerous than you ever imagined,” I say.

  “Oh, okay, Ms. Sam Only Slept with Me Because He’s Duty-Bound!” Jill says.

  “That’s not the same thing! I’m just incredibly insecure! I’m not hiding who I am!” I say.

  “That’s exactly what you’ve been doing! Hellllloooo!?” Jill says.

  Quiet. Stunned.

  “They’re not . . . they’re not dangerous rules,” Jill mumbles.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” I say.

  “Headmistress Jackson is going to be coming around to make sure we’re all on the same page, so if you guys could tidy up and do any last-minute readying . . . that’d be great,” Debbie says. She’s eyeing Lisa, whose arms are filled with costumes, hats and masks that clearly need to be deposited somewhere else. Apparently our spiraled cookies and platters filled with fudge pass muster with Debbie.

  “We’ll be ready,” I say, raising a victorious fist aloft. Debbie smiles and moves on to the next booth. I narrow my eyes at Jill as she sticks her tongue out at me.

  “We’ll talk later,” Lisa says, giving us a quick nod and walking off into the growing crowd.

  “Very mature,” I say to Jill. I scan the parking lot. Ryan and his fifty tiny glass bowls filled with water are set up at the far end of the parking lot.

  I look over to the left and see the dunk tank. Martin is holding a hose connected to a spigot at the side of the school and is almost done filling up the tank with water. I see one of the other architects holding his hand beneath the steady stream of water and making a face. It’s freezing. He shakes his head as Sam approaches them. The minute I see Sam, I feel like I am made a fool. Whatever lies I tried to tell myself about his being a duty-bound saint or some other crazy bullshit I’m trying to sell, my body isn’t buying. It reacts to him as purely as it should. Clammy hands, racing heart and a flushed face reveal my true feelings for him. He affected me. He affects me. I want him to continue to affect me. And not in a conceptual detached kind of way. It’s a good thing. It’s a good thing . . . right?

  Sam is wearing a pair of swim trunks and that same bright orange University of Tennessee hoodie from that night. My stomach flips.

  I see Sam and the rest of the architects huddled around the dunk tank. They’re doing rock, paper, scissors. The crowd reacts. Sam throws his head back and then just shakes it. Shakes it, closing his eyes and raking his fingers through his hair. He throws up his hands and I can hear him saying, “Fine! Fine!” over and over again.

  The parents begin arriving. Everyone is hesitant and . . . cautious. As if they’re expecting another gunman to appear. There might as well be eggshells spread out on the cement. The kids don’t really understand and it’s better that they don’t. That is one thing on which all of us can agree.

  “Ms. Reid!” Harry Sprague and his parents.

  “Hey there!” I say, melting just a bit. I duck under the table and extend my hand to the Spragues. Harry, tears welling in his ice-blue eyes, pounces on me. His arms wrap around my body, his hands tugging at my sweater.

  I hug him back, pulling my arm around his lanky body and cradling his head in the other. Tears choke in my throat. I kneel down. “Sweetie, I’m okay. See? I’m okay. Harry?” I wipe away the tears streaming down his blotchy face. He’s nodding, nodding, nodding. I look up at the Spragues. Not a dry eye in the house.

  “He was so worried,” Mrs. Sprague says, pulling a handkerchief out of her Hermès bag.

  “We all were,” Mr. Sprague says, pushing his sunglasses up a bit more.

  “I thought that man got you,” Harry finally squeaks out.

  “No, baby. He didn’t,” I say, pulling him in for another hug.

  “He didn’t,” Harry repeats.

  “No, baby. He didn’t,” I say again, tears now streaming down my cheeks as well.

  “Oh, for crissakes,” Jill says, blowing her nose into a napkin reserved for fudge and chocolate chip cookies.

  We all laugh. A much-needed laugh. As I bring Harry in for another hug I turn. Sam. Watching. Smiling.

  “I told my parents you were making your famous fudge,” Harry says, gathering himself.

  “Five-minute fudge, easiest recipe ever,” I say, passing all three of them napkins filled with treats and trying to get back on a professional footing even as my heart melts right there and then.

  “You guys want more fudge?” Jill blurts through tears.

  Harry’s parents and I have a good laugh as Jill swipes her wet cheeks and offers Harry a handful of fudge. She won’t take no for an answer. He accepts it.

  “We’ll leave you to it,” Mr. Sprague says, ta
king his wife’s hand.

  “Thank you again, Frannie. We just don’t know what we’d do without you,” Mrs. Sprague says.

  “He’s such a good boy. I’m the lucky one,” I say. Barely.

  The Spragues walk hand in hand through the fiesta.

  “Are you kidding me?” Jill says, pulling the roll of paper towels from the wagon. She takes one and starts dabbing at her eyes.

  “That kid. I swear. I try not to play favorites, but that kid gets me every time,” I say, ducking under the table and starting to take the tickets from the newly formed line of kids. I place the tickets inside a large jar. We give them each a napkin with one cookie and one piece of fudge on it. They shove the treats into their mouths and run off to the next activity. The Fiesta Fund-raiser, which is not a fiesta at all, has officially begun.

  “Wouldn’t the kids be more excited about dunking teachers and not architects?” I ask Jill.

  “Teachers were probably smart enough to steer clear of something as embarrassing as a dunk tank. I’m not complaining, though. We’ve got quite the view,” Jill says, handing out more treats to another group of kids. She motions to the dunk tank. Or more specifically, she motions to Sam. I breathe in. As the line of kids rabid to dunk an adult becomes more and more crazed, Sam unzips his University of Tennessee hoodie and hangs it over a folding chair. A plain white T-shirt is just underneath. Of course it is. It’s the same outfit from that night. Sam looks over and gives me a wave. I smile and give a thumbs-up back. He just shakes his head.

  As Martin hands a softball to a little girl at the front of the line, Sam climbs the ladder to the dunk tank like a man approaching the hangman’s noose.