by S. Walden
He tried for a new topic. “Are you taking good care of my handkerchief?”
I glared at him. “Can I give it back to you now?”
“No, I was just asking if you’re taking care of it.”
I had no idea what he meant. What was I supposed to be doing with his handkerchief? I instinctively slid my hand in my pocket. It was still there. Safe and secure.
“It’s in my pocket,” I replied.
“Good.”
I couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Why are you sitting here?” I demanded. I didn’t mean for it to come out as an accusation.
“Any reason I can’t sit here?” he asked.
“It’s just weird. There’s a teachers’ table, you know.”
“I don’t wanna sit at that table.”
“Well, you’re at the reject table, just so you know,” I said, and Riley’s head snapped up, a look of disdain painted on his face. “It’s true,” I argued.
“I don’t see any rejects,” Mr. Connelly said. “And you’re being rude.”
“Whatever.” I stood and picked up my tray. “I’m outta here.”
“Good riddance,” Riley mumbled.
“Enjoy the rest of your day, Cadence,” Mr. Connelly said.
“You enjoy the rest of your day,” I shot back. I sounded like a moron.
I stomped down the hall to my locker. I was pissed, though I knew I had no right to be. It was Mr. Connelly. Always here. Always there. I saw him way too much, and it was only the second day of school. I didn’t like the way he made me feel, mostly because I couldn’t define the feeling. And I didn’t like carting around his handkerchief. What was that? I thought it was some kind of power play, and decided I’d leave it on his desk after I changed out my books.
I opened my locker to sand. It poured out all over my feet, worming its way into my ballet flats. What the hell? Who knew my locker combination? The jumpsuit yesterday was one thing: I didn’t have a lock yet. But today I did, and I still had a present waiting for me.
I leaned over to take off my shoes and dump out the majority of sand before heading to the office.
“I need a new lock,” I said rudely.
The receptionist behind the desk, Mrs. Kinder, pursed her lips.
“May I ask why?”
“Because some students know my combination, and they dumped sand all in my locker,” I replied. “I have sand in my shoes.”
Mrs. Kinder furrowed her brows. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“Yes, it is,” I clipped. “And who’s in charge of monitoring the surveillance videos? I mean, you’ve got cameras plastered on every wall of this school. Why has no one gotten in trouble for harassing me?”
“Please calm down,” Mrs. Kinder said.
“No!” I screamed. “And I’m not cleaning up all that fucking sand!”
Oh shit. Shit shit shit.
“Excuse me?”
It wasn’t fair. I had never, in my entire life, said that word in front of an adult. Especially one who held so much power over me. I was in major trouble.
“Mrs. Kinder, oh my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I wasn’t cussing at you. I was cussing at the situation,” I said. I decided my best hope of evading punishment was to bring on the tears. “It’s just been awful!” I cried. “I’m getting picked on, and I’m tired, and there’s sand everywhere!”
Mrs. Kinder’s face relaxed.
“You have every right to be mad, and I should get in trouble, I should! But I’m begging you. Please don’t call my parents! I’ll do morning detention all year if you don’t call my parents!”
I sniffed and wiped my nose with the back of my hand like a four-year-old. It was so pitiful, and I wasn’t even pretending anymore. I pulled the handkerchief out of my pocket and cried into it.
“Honey, it’s okay. And you won’t have to clean up the sand. Calm yourself down and take a seat.”
The hitching in my chest made it impossible to answer, so I nodded and sat down. Right then the office door swung open, and Mr. Connelly walked in. Of course he walked in. Because I was sitting in the office, crying, holding his used handkerchief.
“Cadence? You okay?” he asked.
“Seriously?” I whispered. “Do you have to be in here right now?” I wouldn’t look at his face.
“Yes,” he replied. “I needed to check my mail. I’m sorry if that bothers you.”
“It doesn’t,” I snapped, then took off one shoe and started wiping it out with his handkerchief.
“Hmmm,” he said, watching me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I replied, looking up at him, waving the handkerchief in his face. “Does this bother you? ‘Cause I’ve been trying to give it back to you, and you won’t take it, so I figured I’d just use it however the hell I want to.” I only cussed then because Mrs. Kinder had gone into the back office to call a janitor. I continued cleaning out my shoe.
Mr. Connelly squatted beside me. “You can use my handkerchief however the hell you want to,” he said softly.
The breath caught in my throat. Breath, Cadence. But I couldn’t remember how.
“Now, will you tell me why you’re wiping sand out of your shoes?” he asked.
“Sand in my locker,” I choked out. “It—” I took a long, satisfying gulp of air. “—poured out when I opened the door.”
“Hmmm.”
Just then, Mrs. Kinder came back into the room and called me to the counter.
“Cadence, this is your new lock,” she said, handing it to me. “Here’s the combination. I suggest you learn it immediately and then throw this paper away.”
Twenty-six, 17, 2. Twenty-six, 17, 2. “I’ve already got it,” I said. “And please shred it.” I turned to leave then stopped and faced Mrs. Kinder once more. “Thank you,” I whispered.
She smiled and nodded.
I left the office without acknowledging Mr. Connelly and returned to my locker. Kenny, the janitor, was already vacuuming the sand from the floor. He turned off the vacuum when I approached.
“Didn’t wanna vacuum your locker ‘til you got your books out. Didn’t wanna touch your stuff,” he said.
“Oh, nothing in my locker is important. If you wanna destroy my textbooks, I wouldn’t care. You can steal them if you like,” I offered.
He chuckled. “Been a long time since I was in high school. And it was bad enough the first time. I don’t need your books to remind me.”
I laughed. I liked Kenny. He was an older gentleman in his mid-sixties with gray hair and a large belly who had worked at Crestview High ever since I started. He was kind to all the students, and most were kind back.
“Do you mind vacuuming out my shoes?” I asked, piling the last of my books on the floor.
Kenny finished cleaning my history textbook before moving on to my shoes. I took one off at a time, standing on one foot then the other so that my bare feet never touched the dirty hallway floor. Kenny was even nice enough to run the vacuum hose over my bare soles, sucking up the last of the obstinate grains stuck to my skin.
“Thanks, Kenny,” I said, shoving my books back in my locker.
“Not a problem, Cadence,” he replied. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”
I shrugged. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t have landed in juvie. Then it’d be a nonissue.”
“Doesn’t matter what happened in the past. Kids shouldn’t be doing this to you,” he said.
“It’s okay. I’ve got a new lock,” I said, holding it up and wiggling my eyebrows.
“Good girl,” and then he said goodbye, pulling the industrial-size vacuum behind him.
***
I was surprised when Oliver slid into the bench beside me. The bus driver yelled for everyone to hurry and sit down. We were behind schedule already.
“Any better today?” Oliver asked.
“What? My day?”
Oliver nodded. I snorted.
“Just peachy,” I said.
“What
happened?”
“Well, Gracie wouldn’t sit beside me at lunch, and then after lunch, I opened my locker and a bunch of sand poured out everywhere,” I said.
“How’s that? You’ve got a lock,” Oliver replied.
“Apparently a bad one,” I said. “Or a kid who works in the office is tipping someone off.”
Oliver sighed. “Why don’t we just run away?”
I chuckled. “You and me? We’d kill each other. And anyway, what’s got you wanting to pack a bag and leave town?”
“Like I’d tell you,” he muttered.
“Well, you already have in a sense. You alluded to it.”
Oliver sighed again.
“Okay. Quit sighing and just tell me,” I demanded.
“I thought Kim wasn’t dating Daniel anymore,” he said softly.
“Ohhh.” I shifted in my seat. “Well, if it’s a rumor you heard, then you know it’s not true. Rumors seldom are.”
“They aren’t?”
“Am I a whore?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Are you?” Oliver asked, and grinned.
I punched his arm. “You’re such a butthead.”
He laughed and shook his head. “I really like her.”
“I know you do. You’ve liked her for two very long years.”
“Daniel’s such a tool,” Oliver muttered, balling his hands into fists.
“Yes, he is.” I didn’t know Daniel at all, but I agreed with my brother because he was hurting. If he had said that Kim was a stupid bitch, I would have agreed with that, too.
“When do you think you’ll be able to drive, Cay?” Oliver asked. “This bus thing sucks.”
“I’m trying, Oliver. I really am. Can’t you tell how hard I’ve been working?”
Oliver nodded. “What’s the deal with Mom and Dad?”
“It’s called brutal punishment,” I replied.
“Yeah, but wasn’t that what juvie was for?”
“That was the state’s punishment. Not Mom and Dad’s,” I clarified.
Oliver sighed. Again.
“You’re never getting your car back.”
I draped my arm over his shoulder. “Oh, sure I will,” I said airily. “Probably when I graduate.”
He snorted. “You’re totally ruining my life.”
I stood at the doors to the sanctuary holding a stack of programs. I wore a blue and white striped dress with ballet flats. My hair fell over my shoulder in a thick side braid, and my eyes sported no make-up except for a bit of mascara. I was going for an innocent look. I tried not to sweat on the programs, but my palms were clammy. This was the ultimate form of punishment—saying “hello” to every church member as they passed by me with suspicious or pitying looks. Now I understood why Dad gave me this job. He wanted to remind me that I was being judged, that our church had not forgiven me for my transgressions, and that I had a lot of work to do to reclaim that “good girl” status.
“Good morning, Ms. Warren,” I said sweetly, extending a program.
“Cadence,” she said, and snatched the paper from my hand.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Sunder.”
“Nice to see you, Cadence,” Mrs. Sunder replied. It was kind but reserved.
“Good morning, Mr. Connelly.”
What?
“Hi, Cadence,” Mr. Connelly replied.
“You go to church?” I asked. I’d never seen him before.
He smiled patiently and ignored my question. “This is my mother, Naomi.”
“I’m the one who goes to church, dear,” she said. Her eyes twinkled, and I thought she was up to something.
“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Connelly,” I replied.
“I dragged Mark here today,” she said, nudging me. “Like church is so scary, right?”
I forced a smile. Right now for me, it actually was.
“And I have an ulterior motive,” she went on.
“Mom . . .”
Mrs. Connelly ignored her son. “This church is pretty large, huh?”
I nodded.
“And filled with beautiful women who love the Lord.”
“Mom . . .”
“I’m playing matchmaker,” she said, looking me up and down. She grabbed my arm and pulled me close. “Mark’s been in a dating slump for about—”
“Mother!”
Mrs. Connelly looked up at her son, her eyes suddenly soft and sad. “Honey, I don’t mean to be insensitive.”
“Please stop,” Mr. Connelly said through gritted teeth. His body was tensed to the max, and I was dying to know what Mrs. Connelly was going to say before he interrupted her.
She turned back to me and looked me over once more. Apparently she liked what she saw because she smiled her approval and said, “What are your plans after church, dear? Care to have lunch with us?”
My eyes nearly bugged out of my head.
“Mom, Cadence is one of my students.”
“Oh my!” Mrs. Connelly cried. She grabbed the program I automatically extended. “I swear girls don’t look their ages anymore. Cadence, dear, I’m so sorry.”
I opened my mouth then closed it. And then I opened my mouth again and closed it again. I looked like a fish trying to breathe.
Mrs. Connelly cleared her throat. “So what grade are you in?”
“Twelfth,” I replied. I thought I looked very much like a senior. Mrs. Connelly ought to see some of the girls in my class. They looked like they were in their late twenties.
“A senior,” she said. “Good for you. Do you know where you’ll be going to college?”
She was only asking me these questions because she was embarrassed after discovering I was an inappropriate match for her son.
“I’m waiting to hear back from a few,” I replied. We stood awkwardly before Mr. Connelly addressed his mother.
“We should go in now.” He placed his hand on his mother’s elbow and steered her into the sanctuary.
I watched them meander through the crowd to some available seats. Beside my parents! Dad shook Mr. Connelly’s hand and pointed to the seat next to him. Mr. Connelly nodded and left it open. My seat. Right in between my father and my very cute, very off-limits math teacher.
I wanted to die.
As soon as I heard the music start, I knew it was time to go in. I placed the rest of the programs on a nearby table and tentatively walked inside the sanctuary. I slipped into our usual row and tried my hardest not to look at Mr. Connelly. But it was impossible, and when I did glimpse him, I saw a tiny smile playing on his lips. What was that? I rolled my eyes and directed my attention to the large screen on stage that highlighted the words to the current song.
Ours was your typical big ass non-denominational church complete with Starbucks-toting attendees, a church band that liked to play U2 hits before the service, and a pastor who always wore jeans. He did more teaching than preaching, which I liked very much, never having been the type of girl who enjoys being yelled at or sweated on.
The church was more an auditorium than a classic sanctuary, and there were no pews. Just rows and rows of cushioned chairs. No hymnals. No cross up front. No pulpit. None of the traditional “churchy” things. We rarely took communion. And many people dressed inappropriately, at least according to my mom. She went livid the first time she saw a teenage girl walk in wearing sweatpants with the word “Juicy” plastered on her butt.
After the offering was collected, Pastor Tom took the stage and began his lesson. Mr. Connelly didn’t have a Bible, and while the verses were displayed on the screen up front, I shared with him. Another clichéd habit: when you see someone without a Bible, you share yours. I shouldn’t have, though, because when he leaned into me to get a better look at the page, I smelled his cologne. And it made me feel something I wasn’t supposed to feel inside a sanctuary. Or auditorium. Holy auditorium. Whatever.
“So it’s really about weighing options: what I can do versus what I should do,” Pastor Tom continued. “We have the will to choose. That’s
how God designed us. Free will. Everything’s permissible. Go on and do it. But understand the consequences first.”
I inhaled deeply, almost tasting the cologne on my tongue, and wanted to rest my head on Mr. Connelly’s shoulder.
“Let’s read this verse again,” Pastor Tom said. “Paul says, ‘Everything is permissible, but not everything is beneficial. Everything is permissible, but not everything is constructive’. So yeah, you can do whatever you want, right? Sure. But why would you do something that would ultimately harm you? What you really need to ask yourself before you engage in anything is, ‘Does this glorify God or me?’”
Mr. Connelly has nice lips.
“And why don’t we take it completely out of the “Christian” context for a minute,” the pastor went on.
I wonder what it would be like to kiss them.
“Whether you believe in God or not, whether you’re a Christ-follower or not, Paul’s words resonate with all of us. Ask yourself this: I’m permitted to do whatever I want, but how will it affect my life, my health, my relationships, my friendships, my community? Because whether you’re a Christian or not, those things matter. And unless you’re completely self-destructive, you want to live a healthy life. You want to have healthy relationships. You want what’s best for your community.”
What am I thinking? I can’t kiss my math teacher!
“So, in essence, that’s living ‘beneficial’,” Pastor Tom explained.
But maybe I could kiss him. Just a little.
You think that’s a good idea, Cadence? I heard my conscience ask. I mean, have you not been paying attention to the lesson for the last thirty minutes?
What lesson?
The lesson about not doing things you shouldn’t be doing. Like your math teacher, for one. Pay attention! my conscience cried.
I shook my head and huffed.
I was only fantasizing, I argued.
And that’s where the trouble begins.
Whatever, I replied.
At the end of the lesson, we sang one more song. I didn’t sing any of the songs in the beginning of the service because I was too nervous being so close to Mr. Connelly. But I couldn’t resist the closing song, and sang along with the crowd, forgetting for a moment that Mr. Connelly was standing beside me until he mentioned my singing after church.