Extra Credit

by Dunne, Poppy

  “The place looks great,” I say, taking in the surroundings. Looks like he and Mom had finally put their eight parakeets in cages. I love those little chubby birds, but they do have a tendency to crap on everything. I see them all now, fluttering their wings as Dad waves them on.

  “Say hi to Chelle, kids!”

  They all whistle in unison. Aw, such cuties. Then Jimmy the monkey leaps onto Dad’s shoulder, eating a banana. Looks like the gang’s all here.

  “How’s my baby?” Mom asks as she sits down next to Dad, holding a plate of brownies. Aw, she’s baking! That’s so normal it’s…oh.

  “Those aren’t legal baked goods, are they, Mom?” I ask.

  She shushes me and giggles like a schoolgirl. Right. It’s pot.

  “Looks like you’ve got quite a spread there!” Dad says, giving me a grainy, potato cam thumbs up. Well, considering they live in an Airstream with birds, monkeys, and until recently a miniature albino alligator (RIP Ethel), my cramped studio apartment is palatial.

  Mom and Dad have some pot brownies while I content myself with my Chipotle burrito. Archie dances around my feet, hoping for some pulled pork. I hand it over, of course. I’m not a monster.

  “I looked at my calendar, and guess what I realized?” Mom pulls out her Hot Clowns of 2017 poster. Think those sexy firemen calendars they sell for horny women’s favorite charities, but add wigs and a nose. Then, after you return from the screaming edge of the abyss of insanity, have a stiff drink.

  Right now, we’re on the month with the clown pulling open his expandable trousers, pointing suggestively at what’s inside with a rubber mallet.

  “Er, what, Mom?”

  “Your six year anniversary is almost here!” She squeals with glee, all but kicking her feet.

  My stomach sinks as I remember that promise I made to myself the day I drove out of Northwestern’s gates, graduation cap still askew. If I can’t get a real teaching gig by the time I’m twenty-nine, I’ll hike it back to the old Airstream. There’s no place like home. Granted, there it’s more “there’s no space at home.” Ha. Ha. I’m funny.

  Seriously, I didn’t expect to be standing on this particular precipice, looking down into a void of cotton candy and balloon animals. A very soft void, that. Anyone can get a job teaching, right? Surely someone in this country wants to hire a full-time theatrical faculty member, right?

  Right?

  Nope.

  “We’ve got your room all ready for you again.” Dad beams and takes a chug of his Mountain Dew. He drinks that stuff by the plastic gallon. Ever since I told them about my plan to move back if things didn’t take off, my folks have seemed psyched about the whole thing. Wish I shared their enthusiasm.

  “You mean my corner of the trailer, right?” I say weakly. My room. Ha. Funny.

  “We even put a curtain in so you can have your privacy. I’ll just be sorry to stop having wild screaming sex with your father whenever I like,” Mom says conversationally. Then she tears up. “It’ll be so nice to have you home, sweetie.”

  I love my parents, I truly do, but going back to Casa Richardson with all the plastic horns and the fake noses and the potential monkey bites just leaves me feeling sick. Archie whines and blinks up at me with his huge Disney eyes. I wonder how he’ll do with Jimmy. At least Ethel isn’t there anymore to swallow him whole.

  Poor Ethel. Jumbo the anaconda seriously eats everything in sight.

  “We’re counting down the days!” Dad says as we finish the Skype call. Then I go, lie facedown on my bed, and wonder how exactly I got to this point in my life.

  All children are wonderful and all children are insane. Never is that more apparent than during audition rounds for a school play. After a busy Monday full of macrobiotic smoothies and reestablishing each child’s crown chakras, I’m watching two solid hours of auditions for Oliver, ranging from adorably out of tune to a bit bizarre.

  Will sitting next to me, his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up, isn’t helping my concentration any. When I sent him the email asking about help with auditions, I was certain I’d get back a response along the lines of, “Being a master of the universe, I’m afraid I’ll be too busy pumping iron in my office while millions of dollars flood into my bank account as if by magic. Also, here is a high definition photo of me without a shirt. Salivate from afar.”

  I may have spent a little too much time imagining that last part.

  But here he is, on time, appraising each kid like they’re auditioning for the Broadway production of Sad White People: The Musical. The last four have been kind of strange, and he’s having a hard time keeping his manly composure.

  The first kid, Delilah, came in and sang Muse’s “Uprising,” complete with a self-written rap interlude in which she condemned global warming and talked about My Little Pony.

  The second, Jefferson Immanuel Kant (all his first name) belched the opening to the Communist Manifesto.

  Number three was Rubicon, who did the entire “You like Huey Lewis and the News?” scene from American Psycho, complete with plastic raincoat, axe, and lots of exploding ketchup packets for blood. I put a special note next to his name to ask his parents in for a special cleansing of “please monitor your child better.”

  And finally, Christine sang “Tomorrow” from Annie. In Elvish.

  Throughout all of this, I’ve been giggling and wanting to jump up, clap my hands, even sing along since I sort of know Elvish as well. Marathoning Lord of the Rings movies will teach you valuable life skills. However, Will keeps adjusting and readjusting his tie, doing it stoically. Manfully. Testosterone-ly.

  I have to say, Christine especially has something soulful going on. The gap in her front teeth also makes all of her S’s adorable, which is something that’ll translate great to an audience. When she skips off the stage, I turn to Will, beaming.

  “I think we’ve got our Oliver,” I say.

  But he’s not having any of that. The brows go down, the perfect lips scowl, and now he’s a frowny Calvin Klein model. Boy, I sure do love making this man sad. The view is fantastic.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “This is my serious drama face.”

  “She doesn’t have the right impish look! Look, I’ve made a chart,” he says, taking out an actual spreadsheet from the leather binder on his lap. Dear god, he has a pie chart as well. “By my estimations, Oliver needs maximum vulnerability with an offsetting cuteness. If you have cuteness tipping beyond vulnerability, the audience won’t be able to emotionally connect. There’ve been studies about this sort of thing.”

  “The vaunted studies of pulling pie charts out of your butt?” I snatch the binder out of his hands and head out of the auditorium, into the mellow late afternoon.

  Holy shit, this guy has everything. He even did a study of what kinds of vocal ranges are suited to hero versus villain roles. This man is both astonishing and clearly needs to get laid.

  I’m looking for volunteers, I mean. You know. Acting as his manager and such.

  “You don’t need to get so worked up about this,” I say, laughing as Will shoulders his way out the door after me. He’s set his phaser guns to stun, admiral. By phaser guns, I mean his eyes. By stun, I mean that in both the good and bad way. Even bad is good, in this case. Sorry, I digress.

  “We need to teach these kids how they’re going to be evaluated in the real world.” Will crosses his arms, bunching his (steely, perfect) muscles beautifully.

  “No, we need to teach these kids how to be creative and have some damn fun,” I answer hotly.

  Will snorts at that. Somehow, this man can snort sexily. It ain’t fair.

  “Sounds like my ex-wife,” he mutters. Then, quickly, he adds, “I’m not saying you’re her. It’s just that she’s always going on about how kids need to be free, but that usually translates to unsupervised and neurotic.”

  I’m getting a whole mixed fruit salad of emotions right now. The cantaloupe is exasperation—and it’s not the
good kind of cantaloupe, it’s that watery green kind. Yuck. There are a few blackberries of intrigue, what with the ex wife. But the unsyruped cherry on top is how he thinks children should be taught. That makes me both angry and hungry, because I shouldn’t have made this fruit salad metaphor so close to dinner.

  “Look, you’re not wrong. Not totally. A lot of the people around here,” I mutter, jabbing my thumb out at the holistic courtyard in front of us, “seem to think that any kind of discipline will shatter kids’ fragile little spirits. That’s total bullshit.”

  Will gives a surprised bark of laughter at that. Guess bullshit isn’t an approved word here at Bay of Dreams. Eh, screw it. Meet the real me, Will Munroe.

  “But art isn’t the same as finance, or medicine. I know it sounds corny to say this, but it’s about emotion. Connection.” I get that fizzy bubble feeling inside me when I talk about this next part—I always do. “Ready for a sappy story?”

  “From you?” Will’s eyes get what I might call a sparkle. “Always.”

  I’m not blushing. It’s sort of maybe warm out here.

  “When I was in Oklahoma, my school did a production of Sleeping Beauty, and the girl we cast as the lead was deaf. I got a lot of flack for that from parents, even from the principal, saying that the girl wasn’t going to be able to meet the requirements. They said she was too shy, and that the role should go to someone who could actually do it. But I knew this girl had the right quality so I dug my heels in. We changed her part up a little bit and it really worked! Turns out she was a pretty good dancer—which no one knew—so we made it almost a ballet pantomime. Everyone went crazy for it, and when it was over, this kid ran over to me and signed really fast. I needed to get her mom to translate for me, but she said she’d never thought she could be a princess before, but now she knew she could be one if she wanted.” Man, this is the part that always makes me ugly cry a little, so I have to take a minute to compose myself. Will’s listening attentively, I’ll give him that. “Anyway. That’s the reason you have kids do theater. They have to feel strong before they can go out in the world and be strong.”

  A full minute of silence ticks by. Will’s frowning now, his gaze piercing me through. Not in the sexy way, either. It’s like he’s trying to figure out how I work on a mechanical level.

  “So. Got a tis—”

  I’m asking for a tissue when he sweeps me up into his arms and kisses me. His mouth covers mine, nothing tentative about it. It’s a masterful kiss, him claiming my mouth over and over again. My arms twine around his neck, when what I should be doing is pushing him away with a Scarlett O’Hara “I do dee-clayah! Mr. Munroe!” But I don’t. Instead, I pull him closer, feeling the scrape of his stubble against my cheek. He tastes like breath mints from heaven, or something else celestial and minty fresh. When we finally pull apart—which body does not want, but brain insists on—I find I can finally exhale. Will lowers me back to the ground like I’m floating back out of a dream, back to my job and the school and…the fact that I’m still doing my job at the school.

  While snogging a parent.

  Snogging’s a great word.

  Okay, brain. Let’s get back to it.

  “That was…” Will’s voice trails off. The tone is deep, rugged, sexy.

  I respond, “Shhweee.”

  I think I was looking for the word sweet, but we’ll never know.

  “Very,” he agrees. He steps away, even though every molecule in my body right now is telling me to fling myself back at this tall, infuriating, infuriatingly gorgeous man. But just as I’m about to throw caution and my bra to the wind, someone adorable comes bouncing up to us, her mouse-eared hoodie still on.

  “Is it time for my audition yet?” Amelia beams up at me. I don’t think she’d be this casual if she’d seen me locked in a passionate clinch with her dad, so I think we’re safe.

  “Audition,” I reply helpfully. “Yet. I mean, yes. Your dad’s going to get some coffee, I think.” We arranged ahead of time that Will wouldn’t take part in casting Amelia, because of conflict of interests. Then again, I was just in a furious lip-lock with him, so my interests are conflicting all over the place today.

  “Soy bean coffee. Good for the digestion,” he tells his daughter as she gleefully races inside. Already, I can hear her warming up, singing “la la la” and “do re mi” and “Bootylicious.”

  Yeah, I let her listen to my iPod again. Sue me.

  “Look, before you get your soy on,” I say, feeling proud of myself that I’m not shaking, “that can’t happen again. I mean, not that it was awkward or you weren’t a good kisser.” Crap. Not how I meant that. “You’re an insane kisser. Like insane good, not insane psycho killer with an axe. Your tongue is not an axe. I’ve never had an axe in my mouth before.”

  “I’m sorry. I got caught up in the moment.” Will says it with that steely, casual air that you get when you’re earning a certain amount of cash. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Because I would worry about it a lot. I mean, it’d be great if your daughter weren’t here, and the school, and Mercury’s in retrograde, you know?” My flawless reasoning speaks for itself.

  “Like I said.” He gives an effortless, liquid kind of shrug. “My bad. It won’t happen again.”

  But as Will saunters off to get himself a cup of not-coffee, and Amelia leaps onto the stage ready and willing to sing her little heart out, I’m emotionally stepping on my own toes until my eyes water. Because my body is still reverberating with that kiss, and hot damn but I liked it.

  8

  Will

  Usually, the beginning of the day is my golden hour. As the sun rises over the Pacific, and the cars below on Ocean Avenue are just starting to pile up into traffic, I find myself at my most Zen. This is the time of day to make the killer decisions, pick the best stocks, and woo the most difficult clients.

  Today, however, there’s no wooing involved. I’m sitting here, squeezing my stress relief ball that’s shaped like Garfield the cat—which Amelia gave me for Christmas, making it the most perfect squeeze ball on earth. I’m squeezing the fat orange thing because I can’t get my mind off Chelle’s lips. I can’t stop thinking about how I want to make them my own.

  In a romantic way, not a terrifying way.

  I can negotiate; it’s what I’m known for, what my bosses expect of me. If I can navigate the pitfalls of the marketplace with ease, I can convince this woman that slamming the brakes on us—whatever this nebulous us is at this point—is the biggest mistake of her life.

  I didn’t mean to kiss her, especially not at Amelia’s school. But the way she was speaking about that kid in Oklahoma made me feel like a drowning man who’s seen a branch hanging over the river that he can grab onto. A really gorgeous, motivated, passionate branch that he wants to explore with his…

  I need to get off this topic. It’s starting to get weird.

  Chelle cares about everything she does. She’s not looking to game the system, to rig things so that she can benefit. She’s one of those people who wakes up in the morning feeling like things can be changed. It’s impossibly naïve. It’s something any sane adult knows you have to leave behind in your idealized youth.

  Chelle doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of that. I’ve never seen a more desirable trait in my life. So I kissed her, impulsively, I’ll admit. But then the thing happened that I really didn’t expect: it felt fucking amazing. The way she melted right into my arms, the way she pressed herself against me, wanting more. The little exhalation of surprise when we stopped—that one got me hard instantly. That one was a little difficult to walk off.

  Like I said. There’s a way around this predicament. For me, there always is.

  Rubbing my eyes, I return Garfield to his customary place of honor, next to Amelia picture 587b. Looking at my kid’s face, I’m also worried as hell about more than her gorgeous teacher. With my cup of what-the-fuck-is-this, I’d snuck in during the audition to watch. Amelia’s got enough ene
rgy to power downtown Los Angeles, but even I could tell she was a little unfocused. She got ahead of the music on her singing audition, and she kept smiling when reading the lines, even the dramatic lines where Oliver has to run away from the sweatshop owner shouting about the rise of the proletariat.

  Pretty sure that wasn’t in Dickens, but it’s been a while since college.

  But when my angel doesn’t get the lead—and I know she won’t, because Chelle’s already locked down the Elvish kid—is she going to be devastated? Maybe that’d be for the best. Then I wouldn’t have to hear about how amazing Chelle is, how fun Chelle is, and I could start disliking Chelle for ruining my little girl’s dreams.

  Anything to get over that goddamn kiss.

  My phone buzzes from Nicki at reception. I pick up. “Hey. New call?”

  “So sorry,” Nicki whispers. “She’s on her way now.”

  The way Nicki says she means I don’t have to ask who it is. I’m on my feet as my door swings open, and my ex-wife walks into the office. The morning sun creates a halo effect around her long blonde hair. She’s still as tall and slender as the day we met, if maybe a little more tanned. She snatches her sunglasses off, revealing eyes as blue as the ocean outside, still sparkling with life. Seeing her like this, it can be hard to remember why we separated in the first place.

  Then, without saying a word, she goes and sits in a corner of the room, facing the wall. She lets out a long om type of chant.

  That’s why.

  “Suze. Is there any reason this couldn’t wait until I was out of work?” I wonder what’ll happen if Bert comes in and sees this. Considering Bert’s on wife number three, he’ll probably give a commiserating nod.

  “Oh, it’s nothing at all, Will. Our daughter’s only been ensnared by a trickster spirit!”

  Every muscle in my body tenses as I think this is her way of telling me to put out a fucking Amber Alert, when I realize that in Suzonne speak, this’ll probably amount to “our daughter has some semblance of a mind of her own.”