by S. Walden
“You have a really pretty voice, Cadence,” he said.
“Thank you,” I replied, eyes glued to the floor.
“If there was a choir, you ought to be in it,” he went on.
“No choir here. This is a contemporary church,” I said, grinning.
“I gathered as much. And I suppose ‘contemporary’ defines a place of worship that, in no way, resembles a traditional church?” he asked.
“You got it,” I replied.
“It’s very sneaky,” he said.
I laughed. “Sneaky?”
“Oh yes. You make it look this attractive, and who can resist?” he asked.
I instinctively smoothed my hair. I knew he was referring to our church service, but the way he looked at me suggested he was really talking about me. It was that same look. The one from Highway 28.
“Mr. Connelly?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry for being rude to you in the office when I was cleaning out my shoes,” I said.
“It’s all right, Cadence. You were having a bad day,” he replied.
I shrugged. “I washed your handkerchief. Again. This time on the delicate cycle.”
Mr. Connelly smiled. “Cadence, you don’t—”
“Please take it,” I whispered, digging around my purse. I handed him the handkerchief, and he took it reluctantly. “If I keep it, it’ll only encourage more crying,” I said lightly. “I’m trying to stop crying so much.”
Mr. Connelly nodded. “I don’t mind that you cry into my handkerchief, Cadence.”
I wanted him to stop saying my name so much. I wanted him to stop being so kind. It bordered inappropriate, and I realized I liked it too much. I didn’t want to get used to kindness from a man who was supposed to be marginal in my life.
“Cadence? You ready?” Dad asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “Um, Dad?”
“Yes?”
I thought about introducing Mr. Connelly to my father, but quickly changed my mind. They already shook hands and spoke. Maybe Dad knew he was my math teacher.
“Uh, can we go get Mexican food?” I asked instead.
“No.”
Of course, I already knew Dad would say no. I loved Mexican food, and he hated it, so we never ate it. Ever.
I turned around to say goodbye to Mr. Connelly. I’m sure I had disappointment written all over my face. I was tired of hearing the word “no.” I heard it every day, over the most inconsequential things.
“May I watch The Vampire Diaries?”
“No.”
“May I be excused from dinner early?”
“No.”
“May I take a walk around the neighborhood?”
“No.”
I couldn’t breathe for the “no’s” piling on top of me, pressing on my heart, smothering my brain, making it impossible to think positive thoughts.
I looked back at Mr. Connelly, giving him a “Well, there you have it” expression. He shook his head slightly and shrugged, silently saying, “Hey, what are you gonna do, right?”
“Bye, Cadence,” Mr. Connelly said.
I waved and followed behind my parents and brother out of the sanctuary.
***
I was shocked when Mr. Connelly placed a large bag on the table in front of me in the cafeteria. All I could do was stare at the name of the restaurant printed on the front: Moe’s Southwest Grill.
“Your dad left this for you in the office. I was in there, so I said I’d bring it to you,” Mr. Connelly explained.
It was a big, fat lie. Dad would never in a million years bring me lunch.
“You gonna eat?” he asked, taking the seat beside me.
All I could do was nod and stare. Mr. Connelly chuckled and reached into the bag, pulling out chips and salsa and a large burrito.
“Your dad got you chicken,” he said. “With guacamole on it.” It came out more as a question.
“I like chicken,” I replied. “And I love guacamole.”
“Good.” He sounded relieved, like he got my order just right.
I looked at Nicole and Riley who had sopping, unappetizing pieces of cafeteria lasagna on their plates. I looked back at my food knowing I could never eat it all. I felt a slight rumble in my stomach—something I hadn’t felt in a long time—but it wasn’t the kind of hunger that could put away all this food.
“Would you guys like some?” I asked.
They looked at me and furrowed their brows.
“I won’t be able to eat it all,” I said. “Nicole, give me your knife.”
She handed it over, and I cut my burrito into three pieces before remembering Mr. Connelly.
“I don’t want any,” Mr. Connelly said, when I apologized to him. “But thanks, Cadence.”
I don’t know why he didn’t want any of the food he paid for. And I don’t know why he brought it for me in the first place. Did I look that desperate and disappointed in church yesterday when Dad rejected my lunch suggestion? I tried to ignore how weird the situation was and passed Riley and Nicole a piece of my burrito. I also pushed the chips and salsa to the center of the table. We all scooted closer together to reach the chips, and in the process, I accidentally nudged Mr. Connelly. I mumbled an apology, then bit into the best lunch I’d ever eaten at school.
***
I decided the mannerly thing to do was to thank Mr. Connelly for buying me lunch, but I was too embarrassed to do it face-to-face. Instead, I ignored the history lecture sixth period and wrote him a thank-you note. It would have been so much nicer on a piece of stationery and not my notebook paper, but I couldn’t be choosy if I wanted to give it to him by the end of the day.
I watched him leave his classroom at the beginning of seventh period, and slipped inside quickly to place the folded note on his desk. I hurried out of the room before he came back; I didn’t want to be caught in the act. I tried to ignore the fluttering of my heart as I imagined him reading the note before class:
Dear Mr. Connelly,
Thank you for bringing me lunch today. I know it wasn’t from my dad. He would never do something that nice for me so soon after my “big mistake.” Plus, he hates any food that resembles Mexican food. Come to think of it, I don’t believe my dad has ever stepped foot inside a Moe’s. I guess my question is, how did you have time to pick it up when you teach a class right before lunch? Maybe you have secret powers that I don’t know about? In any case, I thought it was a very kind gesture. I guess yesterday in church I looked really disappointed not to get my Mexican food. You better be careful. I could find other reasons to look “disappointed” that might incite your generosity. Would crying over a bad quiz grade count for anything?
Sincerely,
Cadence
***
Tuesday morning I opened my locker to another note. I picked it up and groaned. I couldn’t imagine what was written. I thought the bullies had exhausted every conceivable bad name to call me and considered trashing it. But curiosity, as it so often does, won out, and I unfolded the letter to take a look.
My heart nearly fell out of my chest. I wasn’t expecting anything nice, and I certainly wasn’t expecting it from Mr. Connelly. I hurried to the bathroom and locked myself in the far stall. I wanted complete privacy when I read it, especially since my emotions read so easily on my face.
Dear Cadence,
I knew you were too smart to buy the story of your father bringing you lunch, but I couldn’t very well tell you I did in front of the students at your lunch table. And yes, your disappointment at church the other day spurred me to action. Every girl should be able to have Mexican food every once in a while. I hope you don’t think my actions were inappropriate. And as much as I’d like to claim secret powers, I can’t take credit for actually picking up your lunch. I was busy going over algebraic formulas with my ninth graders. My friend dropped it off. He was in the neighborhood.
I must confess that when you look sad, it compels me to act. I’m not sure it would be ethical
to change a grade over tears, but if anyone could do it, you would be the one.
Sincerely,
Mark Connelly
I read the note five times. And each time, I convinced myself a little more that Mr. Connelly was the man I was going to marry. It was ludicrous and immature, and I clung to the fantasy as long as I could until the first period bell rang, screaming at me to get to class.
I walked into math class a complete wreck. I kept my eyes glued to the floor and then my desk once I was seated. I couldn’t look at him. I was blushing too badly, and I knew he would know it was because I’d read his note. There was really nothing inappropriate in it unless you wanted to look at the entire situation as completely inappropriate. What would the checklist look like?
1. Male teacher buys female student lunch: Inappropriate
2. Female student writes male teacher a thank-you note: Appropriate?
3. Male teacher leaves note for female student in her locker: Inappropriate!
4. Note states that female student “compels” male teacher to act: FREAKING INAPPROPRIATE
Okay. So I had no idea what Mr. Connelly was up to. Maybe he just saw me as one really pathetic, lonely student whose father was an ass to deny her Mexican food, and decided buying me lunch would be his good deed for the year. Why the focus on me, though? There were tons of other losers at this school who could benefit from his kindness. And why would he take the time (and risk) to write me a note and stick it in my locker? Was I over-thinking it?
“Mr. Connelly? Do you have a girlfriend?” I heard from the back of the classroom.
I perked up immediately. A girlfriend? No way. Just the other day his mother was trying to set him up.
“Well, that has nothing to do with factorials, and I’m pretty sure it’s inappropriate for you to ask me about my personal life,” Mr. Connelly replied.
The class laughed.
“Seriously, Mr. Connelly,” Derek said. “You never share anything with us. I thought you were supposed to be a cool teacher.”
“Cool teacher, huh? I guess I totally fooled you with my kicks,” Mr. Connelly said.
More laughter.
“Oh, just tell us!” a girl pleaded.
“Why do you care about my life?” he asked. He was stalling. Just answer the question!
“Because we find you fascinating,” Kara said. “Now answer the questions. Why do you like teaching teenagers, and do you have a girlfriend?”
Mr. Connelly scanned the room. I guess he figured no one would pay any more attention if he didn’t answer the questions first.
“I haven’t decided if I like teaching teens yet,” he said. “I’m only a few years in.”
A few chuckles.
I held my breath for the second answer. I don’t know why. I knew he didn’t have a girlfriend.
Mr. Connelly glanced at me for the briefest second. But it was long enough for me to see him make a decision. “Yes. I’m dating someone.”
Some of the girls squealed. Others groaned. I made no noise; I just listened for the fracturing of my heart. How? How was that possible?
“Where did you meet her?” Trisha asked.
Mr. Connelly smirked. “It was a set-up.”
God, my stomach hurt! All of a sudden, it hurt like hell. I guess my heart fragments punctured it or something.
“How long have you been dating?”
“It’s brand new,” Mr. Connelly replied.
“Are you gonna marry her?” came a question from the far side of the room. The girls giggled.
“Moving on,” Mr. Connelly said.
I stopped gripping the sides of my desk. I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I guess it was a reaction to my aching stomach.
I kept my head lowered for the rest of the period. I didn’t hear a thing about factorials. I just doodled in my notebook, writing the same word over and over. Sometimes in bubble letters. Sometimes in block letters. Sometimes in cursive. Sometimes in all caps. By the end of class, I had a nicely decorated page filled with the same word.
“Stupid.”
I thought it was over—the bullying. I made it three weeks without any incidents apart from the occasional hate note slid through the slats of my locker, and figured the bullies had moved on to someone else because I was boring. And because I had a new lock. But then on Monday I opened my locker to flour. Lots and lots of flour dumped all over my books and binders, coating my hands and dusting the front of my shirt and tops of my shoes as I pulled out a notebook. I heard snickers across the hall and ignored them. I couldn’t hide my irritation, though. I kind of liked the outfit I was wearing, and now it looked ridiculous.
“Want me to say something?”
I jumped then whirled around. Oliver was standing behind me with his fists clenched. I shook my head.
“Don’t bother. And anyway, it could make things worse,” I replied. “Thanks, though.”
He nodded. “Want me to walk with you to class?”
I grinned. I kind of liked the idea of having a bodyguard, but I really didn’t want Oliver to go to the trouble. I didn’t want him fighting my battles or turning into me: an outcast. Well, semi-outcast. I had Nicole and Riley. At least during lunch.
“I’m a big girl, Ollie. I’ll be okay.”
He nodded again and left in the opposite direction. I hurried to calculus to beat the tardy bell. No time to wash my hands first.
I walked into the room and took my seat, ignoring the laughter behind me. What I couldn’t ignore was the gossip. I heard “Cadence,” “crack,” and “gun.” I really wanted to turn around and set the record straight. First off, I wasn’t high on crack. It was cocaine. Totally different thing. Crack was like the poor man’s cocaine. A cheap version of the white powder that jacked you up quickly but brought you down just as fast. I was high on really expensive cocaine, or so I was told. And it was a high that lasted a while. Second, I wasn’t holding the weapon. And it wasn’t a real gun. It was a tranquilizer gun. Because the people I was with were total morons.
The bell rang, and class began with a review of last night’s homework. I settled into a sort of numbness, listening halfheartedly to something about derivatives and linear approximation. I rested my chin in my hands, staring off to a point past the white board. Or maybe it was a point inside the white board. I’m not sure. I just know that Mr. Connelly’s voice was soothing, and it transported me to a silly daydream. Gracie was in it, and we were ten years old, passing notes back and forth during vacation Bible school. They were about our teacher, Mr. Arnold, and we were making fun of his receding hairline. He confiscated the notes, and we were in major trouble.
I grinned, thinking about the lecture I received from Dad about manners and respecting your elders. Mr. Connelly smiled back, jolting me out of the dream. The bell rang, and I was once again fully immersed in my reality.
“Cadence? Will you hang back a minute?” Mr. Connelly asked as students shuffled out of the room.
I nodded and stayed in my seat. I wasn’t sure why Mr. Connelly held me back. After he bought me lunch several weeks back, he all but ignored me everywhere at school. I realized my silly fantasy about him was just that: a silly fantasy. He wasn’t interested in me, and I’ve no idea why I got it in my head that he was. I kept thinking about that look from Highway 28. Actually, I was consumed with that look. I know I didn’t make it up, but he had a girlfriend. Case closed.
Once the room cleared, Mr. Connelly closed the door and pulled the shade over the window. I thought I heard the faint click of the lock. He walked back to his desk and reached into a drawer, pulling out a wet wipe. He walked over to me and kneeled beside my desk.
“May I?” he asked.
I gave him my hand automatically, and he took it, wiping gently, tracing the lines of my palms.
“I see a very promising future,” he said, staring into my hand.
“You read palms?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied.
“And when did you start reading palm
s?”
“Just now.” He smiled up at me. And there it was. The look that suggested he saw something in me that I didn’t. Something magnetic that compelled him to touch me at school when he knew he shouldn’t. There. I knew I didn’t imagine it!
I smiled back.
He looked down at my hand once more. “I see a happy woman.”
“Why is she happy?” I asked.
“Because she’s no longer attending Crestview High,” he replied.
I laughed, and Mr. Connelly continued cleaning my hand until there was no trace of flour left. I let him repeat the process on my other hand. I knew my face flushed scarlet, and I thought it would catch on fire for what he did next.
He folded the wet wipe to a clean side and brought it to my cheek. I had forgotten that I rested my face in my hands during the middle of class. I closed my eyes on reflex, something I did when I was little and Mom would wash my face. I stayed frozen like a statue while Mr. Connelly swiped my other cheek, dragging the wet wipe slowly and softly along my jaw, from the tip of my chin all the way to my earlobe.
I shuddered involuntarily and instinctively grabbed his hand.
“I’m ticklish,” I breathed, clutching his hand on my face.
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
I opened my eyes to see him studying me. I couldn’t stand the intimacy of the moment and searched frantically for something to say.
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” I asked.
“What girlfriend?”
I furrowed my brows, and he grinned.
“Why did you tell the class you had a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Because that’s what they wanted to hear,” he replied. His stare was piercing, and I tried to think of something less intimate to discuss.
“Why do you have wet wipes in your desk?” I asked.
“You know you’ll be okay,” he replied, ignoring my question.
My breathing came faster, and I couldn’t hide the rapid rise and fall of my chest. I wished it were winter and I was wrapped in a heavy coat, but even then, I feared he would be able to see my chest pound—my delicious, terrifying panic.