Getting Warmer

by Carol Snow

  I smiled back. “I don’t know, but I’ll be living off that food for days. I don’t want it falling on the floor.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets. “It was nice to see you again.”

  “You, too.” I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. It had been warm during the day, so I hadn’t brought a jacket.

  Paul tilted his head to the side. “Can I call you some time?”

  “Um, sure,” I said, trying to figure what he’d ever need to call about. “Why?”

  He laughed nervously. “To, you know, see you.”

  “You mean, like—on a date?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  I squinted at him. “You have a girlfriend.”

  His eyes flickered involuntarily back to the house. “Not really. We’re just . . . friends. Well, more than friends. But we’re just dating. It’s not exclusive or anything.”

  “Does she know that?” I asked.

  He was quiet for a minute. Then he sighed in irritation. “Just forget it,” he said. “I thought you might be lonely. I was just trying to be nice.” He turned and started back up the Clausens’ front walk.

  “Paul!” I called out. “Wait.” He stopped and turned. I spoke clearly but not so loud that the neighbors would hear. “Just so you don’t think I’m talking about you behind your back, I want you to know something. I think you’re a jerk. And since you’ve probably found the only woman in the world who finds you interesting, you should probably stick with her.”

  My heart thudding, I strode around to the driver’s side door and got in, shutting the door with a satisfying thud. As I drove away, I snuck a peek at the house, but Paul had disappeared inside. In the front window, though, the curtains were drawn back, and a pale face peered out at me. I wasn’t sure, but I think I saw Mrs. Schroeder smile.

  twenty-eight

  I’d been awake for at least twenty minutes when Jill called. “Oh, sorry—did I wake you?”

  “No, I was up.” My froggy voice cracked a little.

  “Go back to sleep—I’ll call you later.”

  “I was up.” I cleared some morning phlegm from my throat. I should never answer the phone before my first cup of coffee. I’d turn off the ringer in my room—but what if there was an emergency? What if Jonathan called?

  Jill kept her voice light. “I just wanted to see if you had any interest in shopping. The day-after-Thanksgiving sales and all. I was thinking about checking out Fashion Place, though parking could be tough. There’s always Nordstrom Rack if that doesn’t work.”

  I checked the clock next to my bed: nine twenty. “No, thanks,” I said.

  “It would just be the two of us.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Two cups of coffee later, I almost wished I’d said yes. Four days away from school had sounded like such bliss. I would watch movies, soak in the spa, sip my coffee at leisure. The problem was, I’d watched three movies since Wednesday, and if I drank any more coffee, my stomach would start to hurt. A few days ago, the idea of soaking in a spa alone had seemed indulgent, but now the reality struck me as pathetic.

  I did some laundry, changed my bed, read The Arizona Republic. That took me almost to lunch. Finally, I came up with a plan. During the remaining three days away from work, I would, well—work. I was behind on my grading. I was behind on my planning. If I couldn’t be happy, at least I could be productive. Unfortunately, I’d left a pile of ungraded essays in my classroom, along with my grade book. I had a key to my classroom, though; with any luck, the building would be open.

  The road to school was almost eerily empty. Everybody must be at the mall. Maybe when my parents came back to town my mother and I would spend an afternoon at Fashion Place. I would splurge on cosmetics at whatever counter was offering a free gift. For lunch, we’d eat at Café Nordstrom.

  At the first traffic light, I fished my cell phone out of my purse and dialed Shelly’s number. My mother answered.

  “Happy Thanksgiving plus one,” I said. (My parents and I had traded messages the day before, but we’d never had a chance to talk.)

  “Are you driving?” my mother asked. “You shouldn’t use your cell phone when you’re driving.”

  The light turned green. I pressed the accelerator. “There’s hardly any traffic.”

  “There’s always traffic in Scottsdale. It’s getting to be like L.A.”

  “When have you ever been in L.A.?” I flicked on my blinker and began to change lanes. An SUV sped up to block me. “Jerk,” I muttered, swerving back into my lane.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you want to call me later? When we can talk?”

  “I can talk now.” The SUV passed me on the right. I slid in behind him.

  “I have something to tell you.” Her voice sounded serious.

  Adrenaline flooded my head. I thought of Mrs. Schroeder. I thought of irony. Of cruel justice. “Is everything okay? You’re not sick, are you?”

  “Of course not. I’m fine. Your father’s fine. It’s Shelly we’re worried about.”

  I thought of Krista. “Is something wrong with the baby?”

  “No, the baby’s fine. He’s fine, I should say—we found out on Wednesday.”

  “A boy. Wow.” The thought of a tiny penis growing inside my sister’s womb seemed intimate and beautiful and grotesque all at once.

  “But Frederick’s not coming back,” my mother continued, “and we don’t think Shelly is up to doing this alone.”

  “Doing what? Giving birth?”

  “Not just giving birth. Giving birth is the easy part. Taking care of a baby—feeding it, making a home. Natalie, your father and I have decided to move to Rhode Island.”

  A car horn blared. I realized too late that I had run a red light. I checked my mirrors frantically: no sign of a police car. My heart thudded in my chest and up through my throat.

  “Natalie? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” I said. “I’m still here.”

  I sat in the faculty parking lot for a good fifteen minutes. There were only two other cars in the lot, one of which I recognized as Dr. White’s silver Ford Taurus. The other was a beat-up two-door sedan that probably belonged to a janitor. In front of me, the school building loomed blocky and anonymous, the spiky succulents in the landscaping making it seem even more forbidding. If I moved away, would I miss the school? Would I miss the woodpeckers in the saguaros, the lizards on the stones? Would I miss anyone? Would anyone miss me?

  Moving was my mother’s solution. “There are plenty of teaching jobs in Rhode Island.” I couldn’t see living in Rhode Island, but I could always go back to Boston. I still had some friends there, though others, like me, had moved away to start their “real lives.” I had followed my parents West. I could follow them back East. At what time, though, would I stop following my parents and start leading my own life?

  The front door was locked, but it didn’t take long to find an open side door. Ahead of me, the corridor loomed long and empty. It looked like the setup for a slasher movie. If someone jumped out of a doorway and slit my throat, no one would hear me scream.

  But there were no slashers at school today. Presumably, they had gone to the mall like everyone else.

  The knob to my classroom turned before I’d even put in the key. Darn it. Nicolette had locked up; I should have told her to jiggle the knob. A glance through the glass panel told me that the room had been undisturbed, however: my stack of papers was in place, as were my tape dispenser and stapler. Really, there wasn’t much in here worth stealing.

  I pushed open the door. The smell hit me immediately. I stuck a hand over my nose. I stepped back into the corridor and stared at my classroom. Nothing seemed amiss. I crept in slowly, my hand still over my nose, my eyes darting around for the source of the odor. It seemed to be coming from my desk.

  He’d left it on my chair: a Ziploc bag filled with feces, the top unzipped. The bag was one of those special ho
liday kind, a design of orange and yellow maple leaves trailing across the front. A perfect bag for holding pumpkin cookies or sunflower seeds. Or shit.

  I had to get it out of there. I rummaged through my drawers until I found a plastic Safeway bag. I managed to get the Ziploc bag inside without touching it. I scurried down the hall and out the door, flinging the bag in a Dumpster. I stood there for a moment, just staring at the blue Dumpster, until I realized that I had left the door to my classroom open. Anyone could go in. Who knows: maybe someone was waiting in there now, had been waiting there since Wednesday. I flung open the school door and ran down the hall, breathing hard. The door to my room as still open. My tote bag lay untouched on my desk. Aside from the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the room was quiet. It stank.

  The windows were sealed shut, eliminating any possibility of a cross breeze. There was some disinfectant cleaner and a rag in my desk. I doused the chair and rubbed furiously, even though nothing from the bag had spilled. Had the perpetrator spared me on purpose, or had he simply run out of time?

  The perpetrator. I stared at the student desk in front of me, front row center. The perpetrator had a name.

  I couldn’t be expected to like all of my students equally. Or, to like some of them at all. Professionalism, however, dictated that I treat each student with respect.

  Unless a student crossed a line.

  I walked over to Jared’s desk and stood there for a moment, as if I could conjure up his image. With a hissing noise, I spat. My saliva landed on the edge of his chair. The spit looked like venom to me. Like hatred. Like desperation. Without warning, my eyes filled. One tear, then another, dropped on Jared’s desk like those first fat raindrops that fall seconds before a monsoon hits.

  I wiped my eyes angrily on my sleeve. I grabbed the disinfectant and sprayed Jared’s desk and chair. With the rag, I rubbed and rubbed until my tears were gone—along with my spit and any lingering essence of Jared. I rubbed and rubbed until the desk was just a piece of metal and wood.

  twenty-nine

  Monday morning I wore my charcoal gray suit and arrived at school five minutes before the first bell. That would allow me enough time to ensure there were no more surprises waiting in my classroom without forcing me to spend too much time thinking about what had happened on Friday.

  Robert was sitting on the floor outside my room, talking on his cell phone. He glanced up at me, said, “Gotta go,” folded up the phone and stuck it in his pocket. He scowled.

  “What?” I said. I yanked on the doorknob. It didn’t give. I relaxed somewhat, fished keys out of my bag and stuck them in the lock.

  “I’ve been here twenty-five minutes.”

  “Did we have an appointment?” I did a quick scan of the room. It looked fine. More important, it smelled fine.

  Robert heaved himself off the floor. “It’s Monday.”

  I looked up at him—way up. He must’ve grown an inch since the school year began. “Last Monday you said you didn’t have time to meet before school,” I said evenly. “Same with Tuesday and Wednesday.”

  “But I didn’t say it about today.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and trailed me into the room. Now that the weather had turned cooler, Robert had traded his basketball shorts for athletic pants that made whooshing noises when he walked. “Over the weekend, you know, when I was working and stuff, Suzette and me were talking about school and stuff, and she said it’s really important that I graduate.”

  “Suzette and I,” I interrupted.

  Robert rolled his eyes. “Right. Whatever. Anyway, Suzette said maybe I could go to cooking school someday, but they’re gonna want to see how I did in high school. Plus, she said it’s important when talking to clients to sound, you know, educated. And to be able to write notes and letters without making any mistakes.”

  “Those are all good points,” I said, not adding that I’d made them countless times before he’d ever even met Suzette.

  “So, anyway, I got up extra early today, and I remembered my notebook and everything, and you weren’t even here.”

  I dropped my bag on my desk. “Look, Robert. I have over a hundred students. I have no personal life and I hardly ever sleep. If you want to come in for extra help, great—let’s set a time, and I’ll be here. But I’m not going to get up an hour early and drag myself over here on the off chance you might show up.”

  “Forget it,” he said, heading back out the door. “I’ll just hire a tutor.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your precious time,” he said, slapping the door frame on the way out.

  The day didn’t get much better. My first class was Freshman Honors. Over the break, they had finished Lord of the Flies. Jared sat in his assigned seat, front row center, and stared at me with his reptilian eyes. I stood next to my desk, wondering which was worse: to sit in the chair, knowing what Jared had placed there, or to stand up the whole time and give Jared the satisfaction of knowing that he had frightened me.

  I pulled the chair out from behind my desk and dragged it to the front of the classroom, creating a shrieking sound that caused several students to moan and cover their ears. “How about we do something a little different today,” I said. “You’re probably sick of hearing me talk.” I smiled. Claudia smiled back, even laughed a little. Claudia’s suck-up reflex was flawless. “I’d like to give someone else a chance to lead the discussion.” I glared at Jared. He glared back. “Jared. Why don’t you take a seat up here? In my chair.”

  He pulled himself out of his seat and slithered over to my chair, slipping onto it without hesitation. He was nothing if not cold-blooded.

  “Jared. Tell us this. What part of the book did you find most compelling?” I kept my voice even, unemotional.

  “You mean, what part did I like?”

  “Sure. Or what you found the most interesting.” I’d be shocked if Jared had even finished the book. I expected him to comment on the cover or to proclaim total ignorance with a sick kind of pride.

  “I liked the part where they kill the fat kid.”

  “Piggy?” I said.

  “Yeah. Where the boulder hits him and stuff. That part was really funny.”

  The palms of my hands were sweaty. My armpits, too. “Most people,” I said, “most people don’t find that part funny.” After three months of talking to the kids about the subjective nature of literature, I had backed myself into a corner. Jared’s opinion wasn’t wrong; it was simply unusual. Which meant that Jared wasn’t a raging sociopath; he was just an original thinker.

  “Cody,” I said, abandoning the idea of letting Jared lead the discussion. “What about you? What was your favorite part of the book?”

  “I didn’t . . .” He mumbled something I couldn’t hear.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t read it.”

  I blinked at him. “Why not?”

  “I just didn’t.”

  “None of it?”

  “No.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and sighed in exasperation. “Okay. Cody, you get a zero for today and for every day until you finish your reading. Let’s move on. Sarah? What were your thoughts on Lord of the Flies?”

  “I had an orchestra concert,” she mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  She kept her eyes on her desk, her voice low. “I had an orchestra concert. I play the clarinet, and I had a solo, so I had to practice. But I’ll finish the book tonight, I promise.”

  I snatched my grade book off my desk. “And a zero for Sarah, too. Anyone else?”

  During my first free period, I went to talk to Dr. White about Jared. She was on the phone when I knocked on her door, but she held up a finger to let me know she’d be off in a moment, finally ending the conversation with, “Yes, yes, I understand your concerns.” Dr. White had a knack for understanding people’s concerns without actually agreeing with them.

  I sat down in one of the two c
hairs on the far side of Dr. White’s desk. Like Jill, Dr. White had enough chairs for one (truant, antisocial, drug-addicted or otherwise self-destructive) student and for his or her (failed) parent. The principal’s office was surprisingly stylish for a school: black laminate desk, stainless steel chairs, potted succulents. Student art framed on broad white mats hung on pumpkin-colored walls.

  When she hung up the phone (which was silver and looked really cool on her black desk), she smiled and leaned forward. “I’m glad you’re here. I need to talk to you.”

  “You do?” Was she going to fire me? Effective when? What kind of unemployment check could I hope to draw?

  “You know about Lars, of course.” She stopped smiling.

  “I do.”

  “It was a shame. And we’re going to miss him. But we have to move on.”

  I nodded. I had no idea what she was getting at.

  She looked me straight in the eye. “I’d like you to take over the drama program.”

  “Me? I’m—I’m honored, but the truth is, I don’t know anything about drama.”

  She shrugged. “Neither does anyone else around here. At least you have some experience from the last play.”

  “Lars did everything, really. I mean, I helped the kids run their lines, rounded up some props—that’s about it. I couldn’t direct or anything.”

  “Natalie.” She sat back in her chair. “I understand how you feel. But this isn’t Broadway. This isn’t even off-off-off-Broadway. You’ll be fine.”

  I opened my mouth to protest further, but then I shut it. That was that, and I knew it. Dr. White wasn’t asking me to take over the drama program. She was telling me to. At Agave, each teacher had to take responsibility for at least one extracurricular program. Drama was intimidating, but it could be worse. I could get hit with detention duty, parking lot patrol or the knitting club.

  “Now that we’ve got that settled, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  I blinked at her. Oh, right. The bag o’ poop.

  “It’s about Jared Spitzer,” I said. “There was—an incident. Over the weekend.” I took a deep breath. “I came in on Friday to pick up some work, and I found a bag of feces on my desk chair.”