by James, Sandy
***
The house was like a tomb.
I went over to let my cockatiel out of his cage, and he didn’t even whistle at me. The boys had taught the little gray bird to wolf-whistle, and Jellybean seemed to condition himself to make that particular sound whenever I walked in the door. It was the closest thing to a compliment on my looks I’d received from any species of male in years.
But he didn’t whistle at me tonight.
I wondered if Jellybean felt the same type of gloom that had settled over me the minute I drove away from the dorm. I decided that I’d have to leave the TV on for him to listen to when I went to school the next day. I’d hate to have a depressed bird on my hands. My own case of the empty nest blues was hard enough to handle.
How odd—an empty nest that still held a bird.
Logic told me that Patrick and Nate were only an hour away, just forty, teeny miles. Yet the house was still like a tomb.
I dropped my purse and keys on the table and let my eyes wander for a minute. The bottom floor of my Cape Cod was mostly one big open area. The kitchen and the great room were joined, and during the time my boys were growing up, the joint was jumping. Between raising Patrick and Nate and the litany of friends that drifted in and out of my home, there had been very few quiet moments.
As my gaze flitted about the room, I noticed that the place was spotless. The afghan was folded neatly and draped over the chair. The only pairs of shoes piled by the door belonged to me. The size thirteen and fourteen Nikes had all been packed away as they followed their owners to Indiana University. No Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues were strewn on the floor. The discarded food wrappers that couldn’t seem to find their way to the trash—unless a female took the initiative to move them—were absent. There was no blaring stereo, television, or iPod, just a home that was too neat and too silent.
Tears welled up in my eyes again.
I remembered some days wishing for a just few moments of peace and quiet so I could gather my own thoughts and catch my breath. All I really wanted was a short respite from the bustling world of raising two boisterous boys—three if you counted David.
A hard lesson, but I was learning to be careful what I wished for.
CHAPTER TWO
The first day of the new school year has always been a teacher work-day for our school district. Of course, it’s not as if the teachers actually get any real work done during those eight hours. Most of us start popping in the building during the last few weeks of summer vacation to get lesson plans ready, to make copies before the copier breaks down and stays broken for an entire semester, or just to hang some new posters on our bulletin boards. As a result, most staff members spend the teacher “work-day” attending faculty meetings and catching up on all the juicy gossip we missed over the break.
As I pulled into my usual parking space, a wave of déjà vu washed over me. It didn’t seem like I’d even been away from Harrison High School for more than a day or two. The familiarity was akin to that feeling when dragging the artificial Christmas tree up from the basement the day after Thanksgiving and setting it up. Doesn’t it always seem as though the silly thing got put away a couple of days ago? That’s what it’s like for teachers on the first day back from summer break.
With an exaggerated, resigned sigh, I forced myself out of the car and into the school. My sons were gone, but I took comfort in the notion that at least I could mother my new students.
My friends were waiting in the cafeteria as the arriving teachers congregated around the donuts provided by the administrators. I grabbed a couple of warm Krispy Kremes and vowed to walk a few extra miles after school to make up for them. After fetching a cup of coffee, I took a seat at one of the long tables our students used for lunch.
“I can’t believe it’s August already,” I complained.
The two women I considered to be my best friends dropped down on the benches attached to the table.
“I’ll be fine until I see my class lists,” Julie chimed in. “If I’ve got Trevor Taylor in world history for the third time, I’ll scream.”
Abby laughed. “There ought to be a rule about having a kid more than twice. Can’t we put some of the kids on waivers or something? Trade ’em like athletes?”
“That would be nice,” I added, “but what happens to the ones no one wants? It’s not like we can just release them from their contracts.”
“Bummer,” Julie replied.
When Keith Sloan came into the cafeteria, we all smiled. Sauntering over like a conquering gladiator, he had one hand on his hip, the other cradling a donut. With his chest spread wide, highlighting that nice middle age spare tire he carried around, he marched up to our table. “If it isn’t the prettiest women in the entire school corporation.”
The man was a shameless flirt and very politically incorrect, but we loved him anyway. He always made everyone laugh by passing along the dirtiest jokes and funniest comics. The fact that he’d been married to the same woman for thirty-five years only made him more appealing.
“What do you see when the Pillsbury doughboy bends over?” he asked with his usual twinkle in his eye.
We all waited for the punch line.
“Doughnuts.” He took a big bite out of his cruller, chuckled, and walked away.
Our laughter followed in his wake.
“Well...” I wadded my napkin. “Time for our meeting.”
My friends groaned. It was hard to work up any momentum to move, knowing we were in for a good two hours of sheer boredom when we’d learn all about the ridiculous new paperwork we’d need to fill out this year.
Things would go much smoother if the powers-that-be would simply put all of the useless information from our meeting into an email. The faculty would probably be more cooperative if they had set up several pitchers of margaritas instead of coffee.
***
As usual, our table at lunch was loud.
About a dozen of the veterans pushed several tables together at T.G.I.Friday’s and sat around to talk about our summer accomplishments while we toasted the end of our vacation with iced tea.
Unfortunately, the teas were not the “Long Island” variety.
Julie and Abby started in on me immediately. After allowing me a year to “get over” my divorce, they believed it should be their mission in life to get me back into a relationship.
The last two years of tolerating their meddling had been both endearing and exhausting. The fact that I had absolutely no desire to be tied down to another man was entirely beside the point. I just could not seem to convince either of them that I was happy on my own.
Who needed a man when Sharper Image makes several perfectly good vibrators?
Not that I would have known anything about that.
Julie was still happily married after thirty-some years, which drove her to actively seek a mate for me as loyal and wonderful as her Larry. That fact allowed me to forgive her interference in my lack of a love life.
Of course, if I still looked as great as Julie did, David might not have noticed Ashley’s many...assets. Julie didn’t have a gray hair anywhere in her warm brown hair. She still wore a bikini on the cruise Larry insisted they take every year. The Indiana Legislature actually passed a law last session that made it a felony for me to wear any type of swimsuit in public.
Abby was “Miss Fix-it” with everyone. She always knew someone who knew someone who would be “perfect” for whomever she was trying to wrangle into a blind date. Even though she’d never created a long-lasting relationship between any of the poor souls for whom she’d played matchmaker, she never gave up hope. I couldn’t help but admire the fact that she was the eternal optimist and believed that love would always find a way.
She probably still believed in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny.
“Seriously, Jackie,” Abby continued on her current tirade, “You’ve got to meet this guy. Suzanne told me he was a great date.”
I gave her a skeptical squint. “If the
guy’s so great, why isn’t Suzanne going out with him again?”
All Abby did was shrug in response.
The chap in question had to be another winner. Translate “winner” as a dud. I had a quick flash to a mama’s boy still living at home at forty-five. I wasn’t about to take her up on her offer. I’d done that once—the month after the divorce was final—and I still had nasty flashbacks to that date from hell.
“Suzanne thought this guy—”
“Give it up, Abs,” I insisted.
“He’s a cop and has two daughters. His wife died a couple of years back. Breast cancer, if I remember right. I really think you two would be good together,” my redheaded friend insisted.
Julie gave me a sympathetic look, but I knew she probably agreed with Abby.
I shot back a stern glare, but it didn’t faze either of them. They were like well-meaning mothers trying to get a child to eat more when she was already full.
Knowing they would never give it up, I groaned in resignation. “Go ahead and give him my number.”
Abby started clapping like a little girl at her first circus.
Amazing.
It wasn’t like the guy was going to call me anyway. Who wants to date a forty-something woman suffering from an advanced case of empty nest syndrome?
***
A teacher’s favorite place is always the closest and cheapest office supply store. After finishing the gossip sessions that often make up the teacher work-day, I headed to OfficeMax to round up the items on the list I’d made as I checked through my desk that afternoon. I needed all the things that kids “forgot” most days—pens, pencils, paper, highlighters. Having that stuff handy saved me writing passes to send students to the already chaotic locker bank.
Knowing I needed more than my arms could possibly carry, I grabbed a cart and prowled the aisles like a lion stalking a gazelle. My personality made shopping predatory. I always had to find the best bargain before some other underpaid teacher cleaned out the display.
As I shopped, I came across two girls with dark curly hair who were looking at day planners. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it seemed the older girl was trying to impress upon her pony-tailed sister the need to keep better track of her assignments.
When they mentioned Harrison High School, I couldn’t resist poking my nose where it probably didn’t belong—one of the personality traits that kept me from getting a really good husband.
“All of the Harrison kids will get a school planner tomorrow,” I offered, hoping not to appear too pushy.
The older girl flipped her long, loose hair over her shoulder and smiled. “See? Everyone should have a planner.”
The younger girl grumbled, twisted her ponytail around her fingers, and threw the planner she held back into the wire basket of the display.
Figuring it might be nice to make conversation instead of being bossy, I asked, “Are you both going to Harrison? I teach there.”
The older girl shook her head. She was very pretty with warm brown hair and big, dark eyes set in a heart-shaped face. “I’m going to Indiana University. I moved into the dorms over the weekend. I just came back to help get my sister ready for school.”
The younger girl didn’t bother to answer. She kept rolling her brown eyes and twisting her brunette ponytail into knots, showing her obvious impatience with having any type of conversation with an adult.
I smiled at her anyway as I asked the older girl, “Which dorm?”
The girl had a wonderful smile. “McNutt.”
“My son’s in Briscoe.”
“Oh. Party dorm.”
“Exactly what I wanted to hear.” I didn’t recognize her from school, but we had over three thousand students on campus. I couldn’t possibly have known every kid who went to Harrison High School. “Are you a Harrison grad?”
She shook her head. “We just moved to our new house a couple of months ago. I graduated from Evansville South.”
Having run out of polite conversation, I was just about to shuffle off when a man appearing to be in his forties came up to the three of us.
The first thing that crossed my mind was one word.
Yummy.
This had to be the girls’ father because I could see exactly where their dark good looks had originated. The guy had a face that looked like it was chiseled in the finest marble. Every plane, every angle, every line was perfect. Good God, those full lips were the sexiest things I’d ever seen. His hair was a warm chestnut and had an ever so subtle waviness to it, with just a peppering of gray at the temples. And he was tall. I always liked tall guys, especially those with brown eyes. Being five-nine, I appreciated someone I could look up to, and Adonis here was probably six-two or more.
I was in love.
Well, I was at least in lust.
“Daaaad!” the youngest girl squealed in that freshman girl voice that always found a teacher’s spine and worked its way up inch by agonizing inch. “Kathy was going to make me buy a stupid planner, but this lady says I don’t have to. Tell Kathy to leave me alone.”
He turned to me and smiled, flashing the most perfect set of white teeth I’d ever seen.
Oh, yes. I was definitely in lust.
“She doesn’t need a planner?” he asked.
I stood there drooling like one of Pavlov’s puppies. Even his voice was perfect. The good Lord just didn’t make them any yummier than this one.
When I finally located some of the few wits I had remaining, I smiled back. “No. If she’s starting at Harrison tomorrow, we’ll pass them out to the students. I’m Jackie Delgado. I teach science there.” I extended my hand, hoping he’d ask for it permanently.
The guy had one of those strong but not too strong grips. I instantly melted like a stick of butter in a hot pan. “Mark Brennan. Nice to meet you.” He inclined his head toward the youngest girl. “That’s Carly. “
The older girl quickly chimed in. “I’m Kathy.”
How does one politely ask a guy she just met if he wanted to go into the nearest closet, get naked, and play doctor? Especially when his daughters were standing right there... “Nice to meet you.”
“What science do you teach?” Mark asked.
The unusual thing was that he asked as if he really wanted to know. It didn’t seem like one of those questions asked politely when conversing with someone he had absolutely no interest in getting to know.
“Biology. Three Bio One classes for freshmen. Three Bio Two classes for seniors.”
“Maybe Carly will be in one of your classes. I think she’s taking biology.” His voice was rich and soothing.
He could sell water to a drowning woman.
“Maybe. They didn’t have class lists printed before I left.”
God, I hope she’s one of mine. I’ll put an hour or two aside for parent-teacher conferences. We can plan the wedding.
To keep my hands occupied so they didn’t reach out to touch his well-developed bicep, I grabbed one of the planners and threw it in my cart. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around school. Nice to meet you, Kathy, Carly, Mr. Brennan.”
“Mark. Please.”
“Mark. Please call me Jackie.” I turned to Carly. “Ms. Delgado at school.” Then I winked at her. She actually smiled at me. “Well, I better get going.”
I turned my cart and moved toward the next aisle, hoping I wasn’t drooling too awfully much. I couldn’t tell if it was just my imagination, but I think he actually watched my butt as I walked away.
CHAPTER THREE
Carly Brennan showed up at my classroom door the very first period of the next day. She seemed pleased to already know one of her new teachers, and I was thrilled to realize I had at least one normal teenager.
I went through my well-rehearsed spiel over the school rules, my classroom rules, and what I expected as far as student behavior. Judging from their looks, my hard-earned reputation of being strict had subdued my new kids.
Well, at least some of them. The young man sitting
front and center smiling at me obviously wasn’t afraid.
He’d braided his hair into small twists that popped out all over his head like tiny branches growing from a tree trunk. He’d also taken an obviously lengthy amount of time to dye the braids several different colors—green, blue, red, yellow.
He reminded me so much of an odd man who used to show up at every sporting event in the 1970s in a rainbow wig that I smiled despite myself.
He smiled back.
I sure hope God loves teenagers. They need him.
As class ended, Carly stopped to talk to me. I had to resist the urge to ask about Mr. Yummy. He was the girl’s father, after all.
I wasn’t honestly any better than the hormonal kids I taught. The man had plagued my thoughts—had even slipped into my dreams—since I met him the day before.
What the hell?
What happened to my cool self-control? Where had my casual aloofness where men were concerned gone? What happened to my independent streak that didn’t want another guy hanging around?
Must be perimenopause. Oprah said it made women a little loopy and sometimes horny.
I held tightly to that excuse to explain away my silly thoughts.
“My dad says, ‘Hi.’ He told me to make sure and tell you.” Carly gave me an enormous smile.
Was she serious? Mr. Yummy actually asked her to talk to me?
I had a quick thought about writing him a note and having her slip it to him.
That’s what I get for hanging around hormone-drenched adolescents all the time.
I finally decided to avoid the subject of Mark Brennan and focus on Carly. “Are you finding your way around okay?”
She nodded. “I think I’m going to like this class. I love science.”
“Nice to hear. I love it too.”
She scooted away with some students who passed my door.
Maybe Abby and Julie were right—I needed to get out more often. Here I was drooling over a student’s father. I couldn’t remember feeling as uncomfortable as I was at that moment in a very long time. It just didn’t seem right.