I had to face the fact that, even though I needed to get out of Aspen and spread my wings, I might be destined to be there for the long haul, cooped up and pinned to the destiny everyone but me saw as something positive. Don't get me wrong or look at me like I was some piece-of-shit spoiled brat. I was at a snapping point-Emily was done with me, my friends were all working and moving away, and my dad was done with the excuses I'd been giving him about joining him at GP. I was getting restless and, sooner or later, something had to give.
“Hey, honey, something came in the mail for you today. From Wesley,” my mom chimed with a swell in her throat.
“Is it a thick envelope? Heavy? Does it look like something important? Here, just let me see,” I said as I swirled my rollie chair around, hopped up, and met her halfway.
She handed the huge manila envelope to me. It was thick, heavy enough to have registration papers. This could be it … my ticket out. I held it, just feeling its weight and texture.
“Well, open it!” my mom snapped.
I pushed my finger into the corner. It was as exciting and nerve-wracking as my acceptance to the University of Michigan. Everything I needed hinged on the words typed across the letterhead.
I ripped it open, slipped my fingers around the stack of loose papers and glossy brochure, and pulled. I curled my lower lip between my teeth and gnawed the fleshy part of my lip until it was raw. This was it. This was my moment of clarity. Either I was going to California or staying in Aspen and living in my dad's shadow.
I let the envelope fall to the ground. I pulled the top letter off the stack of papers and dropped the rest of it onto my desk. My eyes were burning. The font scrolling across the paper was fancy enough to mean something important. I scanned the sentences looking for words like congratulations, next round, even the date I was supposed to be there for my interview.
Dear Mr. Maximillain Goldstein -
We would like to extend an invitation to visit Wesley Academy for Girls … (blah, blah, blah) our internship program is world renowned … (words, words, words) the program will be for an entire year. I kept scanning the letter. We are the one of the only schools that offers this type of extensive training and dedication to our student intern program. (blah, blah, blah and words, words, words) … then there it was, the words I wanted to read.
We are requesting an in-person interview with you on August 1st at 9:30 a.m.
I skimmed to the bottom of the page.
Sincerely, Dean McCallous, Principal of Wesley Academy for Girls.
“Sooooo?” My mom stood waiting to hear the news.
“I got an interview. They want me there August 1st. I got the interview!” I laughed, pulling my mom into my arms.
“I'm so happy for you,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “Honey, August 1st is only a couple days away.”
“I know. I'd better book a flight and get ready to go.”
“You could ask your father to use the plane.”
“Ahhh no, Ma, I don't think so. I don't want Dad to know anything until I know that I have the internship. Please, just don't say anything.”
“Maxi, this is your thing, your business. I just want you to think about your father and his feelings too. That's all I'm going to say.”
“I understand and thanks for keeping it between us, Ma.”
She smiled at me and, with that, she turned on her heels and left my room.
I knew this was bittersweet for her. I knew she looked at this as losing me to the West Coast. But for me, everything was right again. The stars aligned and the Gods were smiling on me. Finally.
I didn't want to use any services affiliated with GP, so I asked Cal to drive me to the airport in my car.
“So how far away from Tahoe is this girly school of yours? If it isn't too far, heck I can come crash with you and hit the slopes. I've heard people talk about how nice the skiing is there,” Calvin rambled. This was his way of settling into the fact that I was going away … again.
“I'm not sure. I think it's about three or four hours,” I answered.
I really didn't know much about skiing in Tahoe. Even though snow skiing is a big part of our lives, right then skiing was the last thing I was thinking about. I know Cal just motor-mouths when he's either avoiding an issue or doesn't want to deal with his feelings.
“What time do you have to check in again? Did you get a rental car in California? When are you coming home? If you move out there, I volunteer to drive your B-mer out to you,” Cal rapid fired as he drove us down to the Aspen Airport.
“Oh geez man. Come on, bro, you're starting to sound like Mom. I have to be there two hours before my flight. I have a hotel room near the school. I rented a car from Budget, I think they gave me a Ford Focus, and I will be flying back in a couple of days. Anything else? Are you done with the fifty questions?”
I noticed Cal's shoulders drop slightly lower as he let out a deep breath. “A Ford Focus?” he leered.
“Yeah. Hey, Cal, I'm sorry. Look, if I get this internship, you'll have to come down and stay with me. Find out if Tahoe even compares to Colorado's skiing. And sure, you can bring the Z4 out to me.” I punched Cal in the arm. “Out-of-state license plate.” I pointed to the car next to us with California plates.
“Yeah, just don't forget that if you're in California next time you play that game, Colorado will end up being the out-of-state plate, asshole.”
Calvin pulled up to the curb and that was the first moment it really sunk in that I could be in California for more than just a school year. That if the whole job thing worked out, I could be calling California my home state.
~ Max ~
Two Years Later…
When I decided to take the student teaching internship at Wesley, I did it for two reasons. One, it meant I'd be far enough from home to keep myself an arm's length away from my father; and two, I was still close enough to feel the sting of his wrath. I wasn't a sadist in the least, but it motivated me to be the best teacher I could be, because it kept me aware of what I would be going back to if this teaching gig didn't work out.
I had gone home for holiday breaks and the summer and tides had changed slightly for the better. My dad softened on his determination to get me to work for him at GP. However; there was never a visit without a couple digs about the choices I had made. I'd come home and, I swear, I would gain fifteen pounds. Mom kept me fed and always reminded me when I need a haircut. Cal started making himself a little scarcer than he was before. I guess he and Dad had been fighting a lot, and without me as a buffer, it'd been tough. Camille and Dan were fine; same old same old. Dan was still busting his ass for my father, working for a position he would never get, and Camille, well, she was still determined to be mother hen when I came home. And Emily? Well she came around and we talked again about our misunderstood kiss. She was dating the son of the owner of Aspen Snow Park and Resort. Our kiss became old news; all it took was some time and a new interest.
When I found out that Wesley had decided to hire me on permanently I was determined to get my own place. I came back to California after the Fourth of July and started looking. I appreciated the on-campus housing my first year, but I was ready to have my privacy, something that campus living didn't offer. Let's just say everyone knew your business.
A year into it now … I know that I made the right choice. I loved California and my job. There was something innately rewarding in seeing the light go on in the heads of those girls. Sure, it's a school where the entitled are plentiful and money flows like rivers through their hands. Plastic is treasured and the attitudes are about as big as the task of keeping the boundaries drawn. I had thought I was going to be nothing more than a babysitter who just happened to know a thing or two about government and history. I was surprised to realize that there were just enough students who truly cared about their education.
I found an apartment about ten minutes away from campus, and moved in a couple weeks before school started. A week later, I received my class
assignment: Government and U.S. History. It was a lot better than the World History I was originally hired to teach. I never expected Mr. Foust to retire one week before school was about to start. I guess Dean McCallous pissed him off, so instead of hanging around for another year or two, he took his retirement a few years earlier than planned. When Dean McCallous called me into her office, she told me that I was the only logical choice because I'd trained under Foust last year and I knew how he worked. Plus I was the only one who could read his writing. It wasn't that bad … his writing, that is.
I showed up the day before school started, figuring I'd organize the classroom the way I wanted it. I relished the fact that it was going to be the first time in that room without having Mr. Foust hanging around critiquing my job as a young whippersnapper with my “newfangled” style of teaching. It never seemed to fail, when I would take over his class, he'd always leave through the back door grumbling something about “back in my day” under his breath. But I knew I would survive that first year on my own … a room filled with senior girls who were all worried about what Ivy League school their daddies were going to bribe them into.
I noticed the class schedule and roster on my desk. Dean McCallous must have left it for me. It was the perfect opportunity to find out what type of students I was going to encounter. All the personalities of twenty eight students ranging from the self-centered to the self-reliant. But as I ran my finger down the list of princess's names, my eye caught one that didn't have the delicate taste of letters that rolled off your tongue or the snap of brazen femininity like the other ones ending in an “a” or “e” sound. I immediately assumed it was a misprint or a mistake: Wilson Mooney. Falling in line when it came to the Briannas and Britneys of the world, maybe Wilson would have something more to offer than belonging. Maybe the girl's names ending in an “s,” “a,” “y,” or “e” weren't what drove this girl's parents to choose something so intently different than most. Wilson … what would possess someone to name their daughter Wilson?
I noticed an asterisk and a check mark by her name. When a student had both marks next to their name, it indicated that they were a financial burden to the school. The checkmark represented the student's enrollment in the work-to-learn program established by the board of directors. The asterisk indicated that the student was receiving a sizable scholarship. Not that it was important, but I hadn't had any students the previous year who had any financial aid whatsoever. It left me curious about what job she'd been assigned to work off her education. Did she have to sweep the halls, mop the science lab's floor? What job could she do around this pristine campus that would warrant paying off a tuition that's over fifty thousand dollars a year? Personally, I felt like it was one way Wesley used humiliation to devalue a student who wasn't really supposed to be there in the first place. Let's face it; Wesley is a school for the elite and privileged. Not for a wannabe who's hanging around begging for scraps and nibbling on the leftovers. Never would I ever condone it … but calling a spade a spade kept the haves and the have-nots in total perspective. I wondered if this Wilson girl was someone who was working hard to keep herself in school. Or maybe she was a total fuck-up that Wesley kept there to prove they are compassionate. Either way, it would be interesting to put a face to the name.
I pulled out the chair behind my desk, sat down, and wrote out each name across the small rectangular box in my grade book. Cindy Browler, Jacky Burlington, Joanie Emerson, and so on, until I got to Wilson Mooney. Still, I was at a loss as to why someone would name their daughter Wilson.
The door slid across the floor as my pen scribed the last student's name, Bonnie Wente. I didn't look up immediately, knowing it was most likely the twelfth-grade English Lit teacher, Theresa Clouser, coming in to tell me about the blow-up Dean McCallous had with Bill Foust. If there was one person who tended to perpetuate the drama blow by blow, it was Theresa. She was the one person you could go to and find out about everything happening on campus. Who was sleeping with who, who hated who, whose husband was having an affair with the babysitter, even down to the reasons why someone missed a day of work. So when I heard someone clear their throat, I didn't expect to look up and see such a beautiful girl.
“Oh … I'm sorry, I thought this was Mr. Faust's Government class?” she offered as she turned quickly to leave. “Oh. My. God … I'm in the wrong place,” she mumbled under her breath. I stood up, letting the pen I was using drop with a thud on the desk.
“No, you're not in the wrong place. This is Mr. Foust's-I mean-this is the right place. Mr. Foust quit-well, um, retired suddenly,” I said as I fumbled my way from behind the desk, slamming my thigh firmly into the corner. I bit my bottom lip and pulled in a quick breath. The girl noticed.
She was very pretty, in a natural kind of way. Her wavy blonde hair bounced across her shoulders and her indigo blue eyes capped her delicate yet more mature features. There was something very familiar about her, like I'd seen her before, but I couldn't place her.
She cast her eyes down at the floor. I could tell she wanted to say something. She swallowed with an exaggerated gulp. It was as if words that needed to be said got caught up in the back of her throat.
“I'm Wilson,” she mumbled. Her cheeks pushed a shade darker. Not offering her hand, she shoved them in her pockets.
“Oh, right, Wilson. I'm Max, umm, Mr. Goldstein. I think I have you, I mean, you are going to be in my government class.”
My heart began to speed in my chest. My hands tied up with each other as I tried to make my words make sense. I thumbed through my roster to show her … that she was mine, my student. It was Wilson, the girl with the name that didn't belong to any debutants or princesses.
“Well, my guidance counselor told me it would be a good idea to introduce myself, and to tell you that I've been assigned to erase your whiteboards this year; so … hi.”
She kept looking everywhere but into my eyes-down at her feet, over my shoulder, across the room, but eventually her intense blue eyes glistened with a slight radiance as she looked at me.
“Hi, Wilson. And I appreciate your help … with my, uh, boards,” I said with a slight nod of my head.
There was an awkward moment of silence between us; she fiddled with the edge of her khaki shorts. I took a deep breath, pulling her scent of coconut and flowers through my nose and down into my lungs. I was captivated by her and the delicate curl of her blonde hair as it danced on her shoulders. Her exaggerated smile obliterated every lonely place I'd tried to avoid for the last three years.
Who was this girl?
She pulled a wide grin across her face before she bit her bottom lip between her gorgeous, white teeth. I felt her eyes as they tapped across my thrashing heart.
“Well, 'bye,” she uttered before she turned away.
“Hey, wait!” I blasted, causing her to spin back around.
Everything that made my body react became primitive. I wanted to recognize where these feelings were coming from. How could I get twisted for someone I didn't know beyond an introduction? There was something in her eyes, her tone, the way she carried herself against the air in the room.
What am I doing? I can't look at her this way … but there's something different about her … something entirely different.
I could feel the swirl build in my gut, an excitement that had nothing to do with the fact that this girl was going to be my student. My eyes instinctively raked over her chest. Her breasts, flawlessly round, pulled her sweater just enough for me to notice her nipples were unleashed against the dark blue cardigan.
Damn, shit, stop! I can't look at her like this … I can't look at her at all.
I dropped my sight to the floor before I decided to look at my classroom door. I was desperate to have someone come in and save me from where my mind was taking me into images of inappropriate behavior with this girl named Wilson.
“So, I'll see you tomorrow, in class and after school, to do my boards … I mean erase my whiteboards,” I spluttered.
<
br /> She nodded. A genuine smile broke across her face, and as if walking on a cloud, she turned and floated out the door.
~ Wilson ~
There I stood at the entry to my government class, the same classroom I had visited a couple of days ago. My eyes burned from staring at this drop-dead-gorgeous guy leaning against the front of his desk. My throat ran dry and my head got a little swimmy and my heart started to flood my bloodstream with tingling endorphins. His arms were folded against his chest, his ankles crossed. Casual in his demeanor, he started instructing everyone to take a seat. The door was wide open, propped against the vacant wall behind it. Clearly, my whole reason for coming to fourth period had totally changed.
Mr. Goldstein had taken over for Mr. Faust. I can't say I was terribly upset by it. Mr. Faust had been there for over twenty-five years. Teaching had carved every deep line around his mouth, every craterous pox mark across his rosy, bulbous nose exaggerated by his puffy jowl and droopy eyelids. The guy's skin was riddled with patches of spider-webbed red splotches and milky brown age spots. Let's just say he wasn't too easy on the eyes.
Now, Max … Mr. Goldstein? He was really nice on the eyes, and if I was going to enjoy learning about government, then at least I'd have a reason to show up to his room every day. Looking at him made everything better, even having some of the bitchiest girls in the school sitting in my class didn't seem to matter so much.
When he tracked his thin, long fingers through the edge of his thick, black hair, all the girls swooned; I swear I heard a unified sigh erupt simultaneously. It was the tiny, almost unnoticeable acts like running his hand through his hair or curling a half smile across his lips before catching it between his teeth that drove all the girls crazy. It could have been that he was also one of the youngest teachers on campus. Most of the other teachers were already past the prime of student gawking. This guy was barely out of college. My heart thundered in my chest and my legs shivered as if it was 30 below zero.
The Wilson Mooney Box Set Page 83