The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  “Finally, you’re on the move. Maybe now we can start having some fun around here. What do you want to eat and I’ll order?”

  “A burger. A steak. I don’t care,” I call over my shoulder.

  Blake opens a menu. “On it. I’m ordering you a salad, heavy on the olives. That’s what you get for asking me to babysit you all night . . .”

  I give the room an eye roll. I’ve never needed a babysitter, and I sure as heck don’t need one now. I walk backward a few steps to call out to him over the loud music.

  “If I don’t come back, eat it for me.” For one fleeting moment, I picture myself asking Olivia to have dinner with me. Then I’ll ask her for a ride home. Then I picture one thing leading to another and now I’m smiling to myself like an idiot. Maybe I could offer to meet that stupid cat of hers. At least that could be my excuse to get inside her apartment. As for excuses to stay . . . I’ll just have to make those up as I go.

  “Hey, you.”

  I stand at the edge of her table, staring at the back of that severe ponytail, but she doesn’t turn around. Unused to getting a nonreaction from women—even crazy ones who try to pretend they’re not into me—I try again. “I saw you from across the room. Completely forgot you said you were coming here tonight.”

  I wait. Wait some more. What is it with her?

  Finally, she turns.

  My confidence wavers right along with my expression.

  It isn’t Olivia.

  I blink. Look up. Scan the room for one second . . . five. Where is Olivia? And why isn’t she here? And why isn’t this her? And why does it matter?

  The woman in front of me holds out a manicured hand: red nails, sharp points, good for scratching, fake. I study it for a second and finally reach out. Sharp edges aren’t always bad. She offers a smile—the kind of practiced smile worn by pageant queens and sorority girls everywhere—all kinds of meaning hidden inside it.

  “Hey, yourself. Aren’t you Will Vandergriff?”

  And that’s all it takes. All it ever takes. Just like that, my mind empties of everything but blonde ponytails and suggestive expressions. I’m suddenly not particular about who either belong to.

  I nod. Scan the room one more time for Olivia, because maybe I am just a little particular, then sit down in the seat she offers. Something about this girl seems a bit familiar, but I chalk it up to her predictable—though definitely bombshell—blonde look.

  No matter. I spend the rest of the night getting to know the girl. Her name is Lexi. She’s a dental assistant who works in downtown Dallas and . . . I never caught the rest. Because turns out it didn’t matter. It wasn’t that kind of night. It was the kind of night that goes down in memory, even if the memory is shrouded in a haze of too much drinking, too much dancing, and not enough talking.

  But the best part about the evening? The part that I found out about just two hours later? A personal record for me, by the way.

  Lexi doesn’t have a cat.

  Chapter 7

  Olivia

  The thing I like most about the end of the year is the smooth way it normally sails toward the finish line, gliding along the proverbial water with very few breaks or waves on the horizon. I realize this is abnormal; most of my teacher friends spend the last two weeks of school complaining about the immense amount of paperwork, the out-of-control children, the overwhelming calls from parents wanting last-minute meetings and verbal end-of-year assurances that their children will, in fact, graduate from eighth grade and move on to high school.

  But that kind of chaos has never been an issue for me. I’m just fortunate, I guess.

  “Ms. Pratt, we have a problem.”

  Mr. Ellis, our school’s band director, walks into my classroom holding a sugared doughnut, white powder all over his lips like he just spent time inhaling cocaine the wrong way. Not that I’ve ever done cocaine or even know the right way, but I do have cable television and I do occasionally watch it. I learned a lot from Breaking Bad, primarily that you should never use acid to clean a bathtub. It spells disaster in so many ways, and all your efforts would be for nothing.

  I briefly think about handing him a Handi Wipe, but decide against it when my stomach growls. Our principal personally delivers doughnuts to the teachers’ lounge every Monday morning as an incentive for the staff to show up early, ready to face the week; sadly, it almost always works for me, though I haven’t had one today. I make a mental note to grab one before lunch. It’s the blueberry ones. The blueberry cake ones, specifically. They get me every time. Much more of a downfall than movie-theater popcorn.

  Mr. Ellis plants a hand at the edge of my desk and glances at my chest—a move I’m used to, as is every other female teacher in this school. He knocks a small stack of papers to the floor but makes no move to pick them up. I try not to cringe as I close a tab on my computer and look up at him.

  “What’s the problem today?” I eye the papers. Unable to take the sight of them just lying there, I suppress an eye roll and crouch down to gather them up.

  “Our guest speaker. He just cancelled.”

  My hand pauses mid-reach, and my skin tingles with a chill that travels like pointed fingers exactly down the middle of my spine. What did he say?

  “What do you mean, our speaker cancelled?”

  Tomorrow is the last day of school, and fourth-grade graduation is today. This afternoon. In three hours, to be exact. And I’m in charge of it. I was put in charge of it two months ago. In that time I ordered the decorations, chose the desserts, and booked the speaker—the vice president of our local community college. He’s known to give inspiring speeches at these sorts of events. Sure, he has a tendency to go a bit long, and there is a rumor floating around that two kids and a father fell asleep in the front row during his last commencement speech, but that’s probably just nonsense. There’s no valid reason for the man to cancel at this short notice. No reason at all.

  “Why in heaven’s name would he cancel?”

  “His wife was in a car accident earlier this morning and broke her leg. He’s at the hospital with her now.”

  Maybe that’s a valid reason. But of course it would happen today. If she was going to have an accident, why couldn’t it be at a more convenient time, like tomorrow? Or next Tuesday, when summer vacation is in full swing?

  I press a hand to my forehead and will my racing heart to slow.

  “What are we going to do?” With a sick feeling weaving its way through my insides, I slowly stand and return the papers to my desk. “If I have to find a replacement, it has to be within”—I check the wall clock above the SMART Board and feel my eyes go wide—“two hours. And if I can’t . . .” My words trail off. I’m too horrified to think of any other possibilities. I have to find someone, and fast.

  I forgot to take my St. John’s Wort this morning, and right now I’m severely aware of the deficiency in my nervous system. Heart palpitations, sweaty palms, labored breathing. All the classic symptoms of a nervous breakdown.

  “If you can’t, you’ll have to give the speech yourself, I guess.” Leave it to Mr. Ellis to verbalize what I refuse to acknowledge.

  I feel my mouth drop. “I’m not making the speech myself. There are a lot of things I’m willing to do for this school, but public speaking isn’t one of them.” I walk a few steps toward the back of the room, then turn and retrace my steps. There’s got to be a solution. Something that doesn’t involve me, a case of hives, a quivering voice, and the very real possibility of passing out in front of three hundred people. I halt and face the band director. White powder dots his charcoal suit jacket. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  He brushes sugar off his hands and onto his pants, then shrugs. “I have no ideas at all. Hopefully you’ll think of something soon. Otherwise, happy speaking.”

  And with that, he walks out. I glare after him. There’s white powder on the back of his pants too, but I say nothing. He can just walk around like that all day for all I care. Hopefully the kids will
make fun of him. If I’m lucky, someone will kick him.

  I spin to look at my desk. My students will be back from art class in five minutes. What am I going to do?

  And then, like a bad nightmare that just keeps getting worse, I have an idea.

  An awful idea.

  The worst idea I’ve ever had as an adult—maybe even as a teenager, if I could remember back that far. With shoulders slumped in defeat, with feet dragging in protest, I make my way toward my classroom phone and pick up the receiver. I punch in four numbers and wait for the ring.

  “Susan,” I say, “can you find someone to cover my class for an hour? I need to run an errand.”

  The receptionist assures me she will find someone, and I hang up. Now I have only one thing to do. Maybe two. Both of which I dread more than I’ve ever dreaded anything in my life.

  Swallow my pride.

  And do a whole bunch of begging.

  Will

  It’s freaking ten o’clock in the morning, the game went into extra innings last night and didn’t end until almost eleven, I fell asleep sometime after three, and now some idiot won’t stop banging on my door. It’s pissing me off, to say the least, but the ignoring I’ve done for the last five minutes hasn’t worked. The person keeps knocking. I fling back my comforter and jump out of bed. I’m about to pound whoever just woke me up, and I’m going to enjoy it.

  I stalk into the living room wearing black boxer briefs and nothing else, and I don’t give a crap. If someone wants to see me this badly, they’re gonna see more than they bargained for. Without checking the peephole, I fling the door open and brace myself against the doorframe. Sunlight slams into my eyes. I blink at cream-colored floor tiles while my corneas burn—seriously, I probably won’t even be able to see to pitch tonight. My career ruined by some lunatic with no manners. Never mind I’m already doing a decent job of ruining it myself.

  I rub my eyes. “What do you want?”

  It isn’t until the words are out that I fully look up.

  I wish to God I hadn’t looked up. I wish I’d gotten dressed. I wish a lot of things.

  Olivia. Olivia wearing a V-neck white tee and fitted black pants, looking more casually sexy than I’ve ever seen her look before. Her ponytail is looser, little strands falling around her face like even they don’t want to obey her rigid rules today. The sight of her nearly flattens me, but then I remember I’m supposed to act cool. Ticked off. So I slam a glare into my expression and look at her.

  There. That’s better.

  I start to ask her what she wants again, but then I see her look of horror. The way her cheeks redden at the same time the rest of her face drains to white. And then my evil side scratches its way to the surface. My cute neighbor is embarrassed and trying really hard not to look at me. Her eyes are locked on my forehead like the key to happiness and long life are tattooed somewhere along my hairline. She’s mortified.

  Now it’s my job to keep her that way.

  I inhale a deep breath, flex as much as my muscles will let me this early in the morning, and brace both hands at the top of the doorjamb. I read somewhere that women like this sort of pose in a man. But a barely dressed one? She won’t know what to do with herself.

  “Did you want something, Olivia?”

  I’m a terrible human. I should be shot. Someone should put me in my place. But right now, I’m having too much fun.

  She fiddles with a gold hoop earring. “I need you.”

  When I wink, her eyes go wide from my nod to her unintended innuendo. It’s all I can do not to laugh, especially when she looks on the verge of passing out.

  “You need me, huh? Like, right now? Here in the entryway or . . . somewhere else?”

  She sways for a second before catching herself on the doorframe. But when she does, her eyes narrow, chin goes up, hand falls to her side, and face gains back a little color. She clearly just reached her limit with me.

  “I see what you’re doing, and you can stop with the ego trip. I don’t need you in that way, I need you to do me a favor. An important one. My job is on the line if you don’t help me, so can you?”

  Something about the way her gaze flicks to the side makes me think that last part might be an exaggeration, but I humor her anyway.

  “Wow, something so important you might get fired from teaching. That sounds awful. What is it you need?”

  She sighs, obviously annoyed. Women are cute when they’re mad.

  “I need—” She finally scans my frame and rolls her eyes. “Can you please put on some pants? It is ridiculous for someone your age to stand here unclothed in the middle of an open doorway. People can see you.”

  My age?

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m thirty-one, not sixty. And there’s no one but you out here, so I don’t see the problem.”

  She just looks at me. “Of course you don’t. You’re a man.”

  Did she seriously just pull a gender insult? “You know, if you need me to help you, you’re going about it the wrong way. Insults don’t usually work on me.”

  She bites the inside of her cheek, pulling her pink lips into a pout that is incredibly sexy, and she doesn’t even know it.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I need you to speak at a fourth-grade graduation ceremony. Say something motivational. Something encouraging. You can talk about the baseball thing you do.” She waves her hand dismissively in front of her. “Can you help me? I would owe you forever.”

  Even the baseball thing comment doesn’t offend me, because I’m still staring at her lips.

  “Will, please?” she asks again.

  This time the words register, and my gaze snaps to her eyes. One thing about men—a little lip biting . . . a little forehead scrunching . . . and definitely a little begging always work.

  I run a hand through my hair. “Sure, I’ll do it. What time do you need me there?”

  Those lips morph into a smile so brilliant it sucks me right in. “In an hour? At Washington Elementary. Search for it on your phone, it’s easy to find. You’re a lifesaver. And don’t forget I owe you.” She pats my arm before backing out of the doorway. Pats my arm. Like I’m one of her students. Like she totally forgot about the sight of me—Will Vandergriff, famous baseball player, God’s gift to a lot of American women—in Calvin Klein boxer briefs and a whole bunch of muscles. I’m a freaking GQ centerfold is what I am. Now I am offended.

  And I won’t forget. I definitely won’t forget.

  “You do owe me, but I’ll be there,” I say, moving to close the door. I leave it cracked for a moment, watching until she fades from view. When she rounds a corner, I shut the door completely.

  Suddenly I’m tired. Worn out and sleepy and annoyed and more excited than I should be. It’s that last thing that bothers me. No matter how pretty my neighbor appears to be, she isn’t my type. She’s too uptight to be even close to my type. The attraction I feel is ridiculous.

  I head back to my bed. Obviously I need to sleep this thing off.

  Sleep always helps.

  Chapter 8

  Olivia

  “And so, once again, I would say to work hard. To be yourselves. To go out into the world and show them what you’re made of. Because there’s no one like you, no one with your ideas and your character and your outlook on life.” There’s movement behind me as someone snickers, causing the fourth graders on stage to shift in their seats and begin another round of whispering.

  Sweat slides down the back of my neck, and my nose itches. It’s the third time I’ve said these words line for line, but I didn’t have time to write a speech. Even if I had, I have no idea what I might have said in place of this catastrophe. Public speaking isn’t my thing; if we’re being honest here, neither is private speaking. I’m an introvert to the highest degree. Some might think the trait doesn’t pair well with grade-school teaching, but shy people will endure all sorts of things when they’re passionate about a subject. I love children. I want this generation to love lear
ning as much as I do.

  I sweep my gaze across the audience, then immediately wish I hadn’t. Yet another child yawns in the front row. That, in addition to the cell phone usage by nearly every person in attendance, the blank stares scattered everywhere, and the occasional eye roll from men and women alike, might make me pass out. This speech is terrible, the worst anyone has ever delivered at a commencement, more boring than an eight-member presidential debate; no one has to tell me that.

  I catch Kelly’s eye and send her a look. She shifts in her seat and bites back a smile, and it’s at that precise moment that I know I’m going to kill Will Vandergriff for putting me through this. I’m going to tell him that right before I grip his neck with both hands and squeeze with all the strength I possess.

  With a shaky hand, I tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear and grip the paper in front of me—the one scratched with words like encourage, motivate, talk about middle school—the only notes I could come up with at the last minute, all completely useless. I begin what I hope is a very short wrap-up.

  “So to the students onstage, go out there and conquer middle school. It’s been a great year, but I know next year will be even better.” I turn toward them and give a little fist pump to emphasize my lie, which I’m sure looks about as natural as my attempting to make a three-point shot in a basketball game. I remember fifth grade. It was the worst year of my middle school career, the year Sarah Davenport dubbed me “snot face” and blamed me for cheating off her test. Sarah was not the smartest girl in school, plus she spit through a very large gap in her front teeth every time she spoke, so I tried not to get too close to her. Definitely not close enough to cheat. I never did like Sarah, and I’m still not over it.

  I rub sweaty palms on the back of my pants and utter my last words. “Thanks for coming, and have a great summer.” People stand and stretch. The words long, boring, and Why did Ms. Pratt have to be our speaker? drift toward me, but I try my best to shrug them off.

  Thank God it’s over.