Her expression goes so open and wide and innocent that I know she’s having me on. “Only a monster would make a pun about snuff films.”
“Maybe you’re the one I have to watch out for.”
“Maybe,” she echoes.
This girl is joy. So much younger than me. She’s like a kitten who needs to be wrapped in a blanket burrito—and then she goes and makes a joke about death films. I’m not entirely sure what to do about her.
So I kiss her. That way neither of us has to think.
And, damn, is that a good decision.
Tansy
“No, Edgar, we don’t lick paint off our fingers. That’s not organic.” I snag Edgar’s wrists in one hand and wipe pastel pink off both his palms.
“Sorry,” he says. His smile is missing his two front teeth. “Do you like my picture?”
I clothespin it to the drying cord that stretches above my head. “It’s lovely. Is it going to be a present for your mommy?”
“No, probably for Daddy’s new girlfriend. She’s nice, but he says that she’s only one of his temporary—” His missing teeth turn the t into a th, and he stumbles over the rest of the word. “Daddy’s friend for a little bit. So I wanted to make her a picture for when she goes away.”
Good lord. I squeeze Edgar’s narrow shoulder. He’s a sweet boy with a propensity for saying exactly what’s on his mind. I wonder if his dad, an insanely successful record producer, has any idea what gets out to the rest of the world. If I sold this story to a tabloid, I’d have a fat check. Not that it would be enough to counter being sued within an inch of my life for violating my nondisclosure agreements.
Of course, that’s part of why I make such a fantastic salary. I’m paid for my discretion as much as for my skills.
I place a finger over my lips and lift another in the air as I circle the room. All five of my students rush to the Swedish hand-knotted rya rug and sit. Edgar leans his head on Stella’s shoulder. I’d say something about it, but she’s playing with his longish brown hair, winding it around a finger, so I don’t think she minds. “Who wants to lead our end-of-day discussion?”
“Me! Me!” Corbyn bounces on her knees with one hand in the air.
“You went yesterday, Corbyn.”
She looks around. None of their little faces look ready to challenge her. “They don’t mind.”
I gentle my voice. “We were going to work on letting others vocalize their feelings, remember, Corbyn?”
She blinks at me. Her lashes are long, framing unnaturally green eyes. They’re the kind of color I would suspect to be contacts in a grown-up, but I’ve seen her mother. Millions of Americans have seen her movies too. The eyes are real. She turns to Mink, sitting beside her with his legs crossed. He has both hands twisted in the carpet’s long tufts. “Mink, tell me you don’t mind.”
Mink is a quiet little boy. I think he might have a crush on Edgar. It’s hard to navigate such a small classroom sometimes. “I don’t mind,” he whispers.
I hold in my sigh and let Corbyn proceed with our after-action review. She starts with the top three lessons learned from the day before moving on to her favorite part: praise and promotion. “And I did the best with my penmanship.”
“No one does ‘the best.’ You experienced your full potential.”
“Mink did good too,” she throws out by way of making up. She bestows a smile on the boy. She’s sure lucky she takes after her mother and not her awkward and knobby musician father.
“Mink did well,” I say, correcting her grammar. “Stella, why don’t you tell us a little something about your time with Madame Pillet?”
“Le début de la nouvelle année scolaire me lasse.”
“Well done!” Each of the children go in pairs for their French lessons. I clap. I don’t actually know what she’s saying—I took Spanish. “Madame Pillet said you are learning very quickly.”
Her cheeks turn pink, but she doesn’t look away. It’s a vast improvement on the nearly mute girl who’d first joined our class mid last year. “Thank you, Ms. Gavin.”
“Thank you for your efforts.”
We wrap up a few more things, and then I help them gather their bags. Edgar has a Transformers backpack. Corbyn’s bag was hand sewn in Tibet. Stella puts her notebooks in a purple Hermes messenger bag.
My job is so weird sometimes. As Jody used to tell me, there are a thousand teachers in Southern California who’d kill for this job. I’m lucky as heck, but I don’t know if I’m right for it. I’m not meant for this tiny world of privilege.
I walk the kids to the courtyard. The semicircle is paved in red stone that blends in with the water-conscious semi-arid design of the front gardens. The long line of Lexuses and Mercedes and Teslas kind of stands out a little bit, however.
I wave to Imogene, the fifth-grade teacher who’s as close to what I can call a friend at the school. She has Wren Baccus by the hand, and she rolls her eyes subtly, then tips her chin down at the eleven-year-old, who’s wearing a T-shirt with a kitten dressed as a knight, riding a llama. Good lord, what could that child have done now?
The first car that pulls up to my small pod is a convertible Rolls-Royce. Mrs. Dousseau has the top down. One of our school aides-de-camp ushers Mink into the back seat and begins buckling him into his leather-lined booster seat.
“Good afternoon, Therese. Mink has a particularly challenging logic puzzle this evening. We’re evaluating expressions with variables.”
She has one hand draped on the steering wheel and the other resting on the stick shift. Her outfit is immaculately put together. Even though on one level you could call it a simple athleisure set, it’s not. Not with the way her legs look in those leggings and not with the artfully casual drape of the tank top over her strappy sports bra. And the cleavage. Jesus Christ, she has gorgeous cleavage.
Even with the butterflies I get thinking about Cai, I can still appreciate Mrs. Dousseau’s ample bounty. She’s a trophy wife of the highest caste. It would be insensitive to ignore her perfection.
It helps that she’s nice. “Thank you, Tansy. You help him achieve so much. Are there instructions?”
“Of course.” I handwrite carefully crafted parent guidelines for everything that goes home with my kids. It’s the personal touch that our academy strives for. It’s also another piece of why I make my nice salary. “They’re in his folder.”
“I think Meredith will have a nice snack waiting for us, and then we’ll settle in to work on it together.” She catches Mink’s eye in the rearview mirror. “How does a berry bowl sound, sweetheart?”
“With whipped cream?” His hair slides into his eyes.
“Most certainly,” she assures him.
I’m guessing he doesn’t mean the type that comes in a metal can and not the kind in a tub, either. Meredith is in an airy kitchen with travertine counters holding a bowl and a whisk at this very moment.
“Great,” he says in his little voice.
“Have a nice afternoon, Mink. Mrs. Dousseau.” I step back and wave as they drive away.
One down, four more to go. It’s not my favorite part of the day. The parents who send their children to Woodbridge Academy are the kind who thrive on personal attention. I’m expected to interact with them as if I wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else. I’m able to go more quickly with Stella’s ride, as the nanny is way more interested in getting on with her day than in chitchat.
And then my children have all been sent off and I’m alone in the courtyard except for a couple of other teachers. Imogene waves me down.
“What happened?” I ask, ready for a good one.
“I’m fat.” She says it deadpan, which makes it all the funnier because when she’s holding her mouth flat, her cheekbones are stupidly sharp and high. Her skin is a dark, rich brown and her hair is trimmed into a teeny-weeny afro that emphasizes the starkness of her features.
I gasp and laugh at the same time. “What in the world?”
“I had both butter
nut squash and feta on my salad.” She lifts her eyebrows. “Wren thinks I should have picked either one or the other, and skipped the dressing too. Since she’s looking out for me, with that twenty pounds I should lose and all.”
“Oh that sweet baby angel.” I’m torn between laughing and dying of worry. “You know she’s got to be hearing that at home.”
Imogene sighs. “I know. Best-case scenario, she’s hearing her mom talk. Worst-case, someone’s nitpicking her food like that.”
“We might want to pop into Teddy’s office and let him know.”
She loops her arm through mine. “Does Wren need the psych eval or do I?”
“I think we all do for working here,” I tease. I have my hair twisted up on my head, so the sun feels good on the back of my neck. “You doubly do if you believe Wren that you’re overweight. If you lost twenty, you’d be ill.”
“You’re such a sweetheart. But if we’re going to the administration building, we absolutely have to swing by the front desk.”
“Why?” A little knot appears between my brows. I rub it with two fingers. “What’s going on?”
“I stopped in earlier and saw something special.” By the last two words, she’s using a singsong voice.
“What is it?” My heart and stomach switch places.
Obviously everyone knows that I walked out on the wedding. I tried not to make a big deal about it, but I came back to school without a wedding ring and without even an engagement ring. No pictures of a tropical honeymoon either. People didn’t really make a fuss. I’ve always kept my relationship private. I used to think I did it because I was a private person, but lately I’ve started to realize it’s because part of me knew if I talked about what Jody said to me, everyone would know how wrong things were.
Imogene was thrilled that I’d finally be able to join “the girls” for drinks a week after school started. I felt awkward in my usual way, but I made it through. It had been easier knowing there was no one at home stewing in their upset, preparing to ice me out with three days of silent treatment.
But no one understood what my breakup with Jody had really been like. What it had done to me.
We live in a world where bad things happen in the dark. But we also live in a world where bad things can happen in the daytime and look absolutely normal to the people around us.
Imogene shook her head. “I’m not going to be the one to ruin the surprise.”
I swallow and try to act like this is normal. Like everything’s going to be fine.
The administration building is at the back of our twelve-acre campus. It doesn’t seem that large until I remember all over again that it’s nestled between Beverly Hills properties and land is at a premium. The three-thousand-square-foot Craftsman cottage is the original house built for a movie producer in 1917. It was his son who started the academy in the late forties in order to service the children of movie stars who wanted an environment that guaranteed privacy.
The pitched, single-clad roof casts shadows over us before we even climb the porch. I shiver. My mind can’t even come up with what I’m fearing—all I know is that my dread is wrapped up in Jody.
Imogene rubs my arm. “Everything okay?”
“Sure, yeah.” I manage to smile. “Caught a chill. What’s the old saying? ‘A goose walked over my grave’?”
“My grandmamma used to say that. She also used to say ‘Don’t kid a kidder.’” She stops with one hand on the brass knob of the front door.
I can’t see the front office through the leaded glass. I don’t know what’s waiting for me. I’m not okay with doing this right now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“When I was seventeen, I had a boyfriend who liked to pick my outfits. It was cute. At first. But then he started talking about how maybe I should throw out the things that he didn’t like since it wasn’t like I needed that trashy stuff anyways. I did it.”
My gaze jumps to hers. I can’t say anything. My throat is filled with bees.
“Things got worse from there.” She looks away from me and to the flawless tennis courts next to the admin building. “They got better eventually, but … if you need to talk to anyone, I’m here.”
What I’m supposed to feel is gratitude. As if the arms of friendship have been opened to me. But I’m consumed by all-encompassing anger. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want to make assumptions.” Her eyes are dark brown and filled with a kind of pity that makes me sick. “I wasn’t sure if you’d listen to me anyway.”
Instead she let me stay in an unhealthy relationship. She let me become smaller. I know staying with Jody was my fault. I made my own choices. But I can’t help but wonder if things would have been different if I’d had friends who were willing to speak up. I don’t know how much of that is my fault and how much is living in Southern California where no one really knows anyone and how much was Jody making sure that I didn’t have friends.
My chest clenches, and my eyes go wide enough that I must be giving that girl on Orange Is the New Black a run for her money. Crazy Eyes 2.0, that’s me. “Does everyone on staff know? Did they? Do people talk about me?”
She shakes her head, but I see the way her mouth twists before she can assemble it into calming reassurance. “Gossip sucks.”
I’m a walking wound, made of vulnerability and flayed open. “Sure.”
At least I’m not scared of the mysterious surprise awaiting me at the front desk anymore. I could practically laugh, except I hold it in because I’m thinking adding hysteria to all this is not so good. Not so great at all.
I’m shaking my head as I go inside, because my other option is probably screaming. I’m made of probably and maybe. I can’t think my way through anything right now. “Hi, Tracy.”
Tracy Macnamara, the academy’s receptionist, looks up from her computer and waves. “Hi, Tansy.”
I don’t see any roses or obvious bouquets waiting for me. The main office looks like a cozy living room that just happens to have Tracy’s desk in the northern corner under a window framed by hand-painted wainscoting. No curtains are necessary since the deep profile of the Craftsman-style roof shades all the windows. Deep wing chairs upholstered in worn brown leather frame both sides of the fireplace.
Even Tracy’s desk is bare but for her MacBook Air and the phone console she controls as brusquely as one of those old-school telephone exchange operators. She points to the open archway beside her with her usual nearly psychic sense of what people need. “In the kitchen.”
“Thanks.”
The kitchen is as striking as the rest of the house. The subway-style tile is cream and green, with more of the bright-green splashed above the counters. Since it’s used as an occasional classroom and to prepare food for staff meetings, everything is top of the line and commercial grade.
Sitting next to the eight-burner Vulcan range is a basket wrapped in pale-green cellophane. Instantly I know that Jody had nothing to do with it. The painted basket is too quirky and filled with a pile of cat toys. Jody always hated Gyoza. This has Cai’s name all over it. “Is this it?”
“Yeah,” Imogene confirms. “It was on Tracy’s desk, but you know how she is. Can’t stand even a Post-it Note. What’s in it? Are those sex toys?”
I flare red-hot, and it’s an indescribable combination of embarrassment and pure turn-on. I wonder what it would be like to get there with Cai. To feel her hands on me and her mouth on me and her attention on me. I shiver. “No, I think they’re cat toys.”
From across the spacious room, the black sticks with feathers looked a little like ticklers, but they’re cat teasers. I run pink feathers through my fingers. There are also toy mice and a catnip toy and some treats in a cellophane bag. “Gyoza is going to love these.”
“Somebody definitely knows you’re a crazy cat lady.”
“It seems like it.”
I hate to keep comparing Cai to Jody, but isn’t it okay if it’s always in her favor? She
thought of and found something that’s really me, just from a few minutes of me talking about my cat. Jody … Jody’s go-to was red roses. I hated to complain, because she’d get so hurt and tell me I never appreciated anything. She’d swing back the other way then. It hurt when she didn’t talk to me for days.
“Is there a card?” Imogene pokes a fluffy knot of fleece.
I don’t growl. I don’t smack her hand away territorially. Points to me for being a grown-up? I guess. I pick up the whole basket instead, as if I’m turning it to look for the card. Really, I just want to keep it all to myself. It’s my perfect present. My thing that makes my chest warm and my heart happy in a way that, oh crap, is also bringing tears to my eyes. “No card.”
“But you know who they’re from?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it Stella’s parents? Do they want you to babysit again?”
God, why wasn’t she this nosy when I was stuck with Jody? “No, it’s personal. I’m just going to take this to my car. I’ll catch you later, okay?”
“Let’s get brunch this weekend,” she calls as I leave the room.
I wave. “Sounds good. I’ll call you.”
And isn’t that a weird feeling? I’m free to call her—or not call her—as I like. It’s all my choice. I don’t have to worry about whether anyone in my life will mind if I go out for pancakes and leave them alone, or if I don’t make them breakfast.
I’m free. I have my own life to build.
I put the basket in the back seat and lean against my sun-warmed car. Too impatient to even get in, I fish my phone out of my pocket.
Tansy: Thanks.
Cai: :) You like?
Tansy: I do. And Gyoza will like it all even more. How can I thank you?
Cai: Dinner?
Tansy: Sure. Want me to bring something to the tattoo shop? What do you want me to cook?
Cai: No, you and me going out.
My heart, the one that had felt so soft and gooey moments ago, leaps up to my throat and chokes me. I’m an idiot. I’m such a fucking idiot. The way my hands start to shake makes it hard to type my response. Sure. Tell me when & where.
Her Hometown Girl Page 6