Southern Charmed

by Melanie Jacobson

  Max’s expression didn’t change while he patiently waited for the rest.

  “I thought I’d always be the teacher to tell them they could do whatever they put their minds to. And then the second I talk a student into stretching herself, I’m the first one to tell her she’s gone as far as she can go.”

  “I have a hard time imagining you as a dream killer. I guess it’s possible that you’re a horrible person and I’m too dumb to see it, but I’m going to need more information to decide. What did you tell her no to?”

  “Awesomeness. I said no to awesomeness. Her ideas went way beyond the scope of what I expected. She wants to recreate CJ Walker’s life but with a modern setting against a contemporary backdrop and use multimedia elements. She’d be staging an entire one-woman show, but there are so many elements, and she doesn’t have the resources or the technical know-how to put it all together. So I had to tell her the thing everyone else in her life tells her: lower your expectations.” I tugged my hand out of his so I could jam it through my hair, so frustrated by the situation that the energy clawed its way out any way it could, as if yanking my hair out by the roots was going to help anything.

  “I don’t know. Everyone tells you that you’re going to walk into the first year or two of teaching with stars in your eyes, sure that your dedication and belief in the kids will be enough and that you’ll figure out pretty quick that it isn’t the case. I always thought that was so cynical. Drove me nuts last year when all the old teachers would give me this condescending look when I would talk about how excited I was for an upcoming lesson or about a student breakthrough. They would be like, ‘Yeah, yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts.’ And I was sitting there thinking, ‘No way. I’m not going to be like you. I believe in these kids.’ And here I am, not even at the end of year two, and I’m like, ‘Quit dreaming so big, kid.’ This sucks so bad.”

  “I can fix this,” he said. “I bet you anything I can fix this. All you need to do is break it down like a work project. Assess resources, delegate, all that. This is totally doable.”

  I took a step away from him. I could almost hear gears grinding in his head as his business-school learning engaged and went to work on the problem. Maybe I should have been ecstatic that he was so willing to rush in and help, but it bothered me. I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was his “All you need to do is . . .” Like I hadn’t thought it all out before I’d had to crush Kiana’s vision. Did he think I didn’t understand project management?

  I took a deep breath.

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “That’s the sound my mom makes when she’s trying to hold on to her patience.”

  I hesitated. He’d been nothing but awesome, showing up to feed me, going on a walk to hear me out. I wasn’t going to be mean now. “I think I might have a frustration hangover from about a million things right now. Are you okay if we call it a night? I’m worried that I’m going to end up pitching about a half dozen more fits about things that don’t matter.”

  “Sure,” he said, his tone flat. Ouch. “Are we almost back to your house?”

  “We’re a few minutes out.” We walked in silence, although I slipped my hand into his again so he would know I wasn’t mad. I didn’t know what I felt, exactly, but it wasn’t anger.

  He gave me a hug on the front porch and headed for his car. I walked through the house and down to the lake, making my way to the pier to sit and think. I hated that I kept shutting down as if I were figuring out the same thing about Max and me over and over again.

  What had he done wrong, really? He’d asked to listen to my problems and had had the nerve to suggest solutions. That was what I was going to get upset over? I lay back on the pier and stared up at the sky.

  Max was too impressed with his own intelligence and life experience, and as much as he thought I was trapped in a box of limited perspective, he was just as distinctly trapped in his. But it didn’t make him a bad person. And I guess the positive side was that he had a lot of confidence in himself and his ability to get things done. I could respect that.

  I still didn’t like him sweeping in to be like, “I can fix this for you.” What would I have wanted instead? Sympathy? Yes. And I would have been fine if he’d said, “Maybe I can help you brainstorm.” Not, “I can fix this for you.” And definitely not, “All you need to do is . . .”

  But that boy was right to trust his brain. It came up with good stuff. And I didn’t want to stand in Kiana’s way if there was a way to solve this. I got up off the pier and walked back to the house. Time to hitch up my britches and work some stuff out with Max like a grown-up.

  But tomorrow, when I’d rested on it.

  For now, I sent him a text. Sorry I was so weird. Think I figured out my mood. Thanks for trying to help. Would love to hear your ideas at dinner tomorrow.

  I went back to work on my grading but sent a whole stack of papers flying trying to grab for my phone when it went off an hour later. It was Max. Sorry I was being the supreme idea overlord. Stoked I’m not kicked out of Sunday dinner.

  I smiled. My mom would be mad if I banned you.

  Max’s reply was instant. I get that. I would be mad if I couldn’t see your mom.

  Hey! And ME!

  You? Well . . . sure.

  You’re so going to pay for that.

  Can’t wait.

  * * *

  After Sunday dinner we found ourselves driving Bridger home instead of walking down to the pier. Maybe because Mom had said, “Would you gentlemen like to walk down to the pier with me?” and Brother Lewis had said yes at the same time Bridger had said no. And they had both glared at each other. Mom had looked like she was about to drop the invitation when Max had whispered to me, “Don’t be mad,” before offering to give Bridger a ride home, which Bridger accepted. Brother Lewis and Mom both looked pretty torn as to what they were supposed to do, but Max had pushed back from the table, his keys already in his hand.

  The Lewises lived about fifteen minutes away, and Max talked video games with Bridger all the way there. Bridger was tense and angry but too well-trained to be flat-out rude, so he answered Max’s questions, and we survived the drive.

  After Bridger climbed out of the car, I looked over at Max. “Why did you tell me not to be mad?”

  He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel a few times before he answered. “After I left last night, I called my mom because I had the feeling I’d screwed up somehow, but I wasn’t sure how. She had some thoughts.”

  He’d called his mom for advice? My innards melted like ice cream in July. “What did she say?”

  “Um, well, if I understood her right, I probably need to ask you a question instead. What did I do to upset you last night?”

  “When you jumped in trying to solve the Kiana problem, it made me feel like you weren’t giving me credit for having considered all the available options, like I don’t have the ability to think through all of that myself. I have a bigger ego than I thought. Sorry you got caught in it.”

  He sighed. “No, I’m sorry. I’m a hardwired problem-solver. I like to pretend it makes me a good leader, but mostly it makes me that Michael Scott guy on The Office. Did you ever watch that show?”

  “I tried a couple of times, but I kept wanting to punch Michael Scott in the face.”

  He smiled. “I bring that out in people sometimes too. My mom was like, ‘Listen, Max.’ And I said, ‘I’m listening.’ And she was like, ‘No, that is the wisdom: Listen. To her. To other people. To a hammer, everything is a nail. You’re a hammer.’ So I’m going to work on being less of a hammer. Then maybe I can level up as a human.”

  “Oh, man, your mom is smart.”

  “Yeah,” he said on a breath powered by tiredness and frustration.

  I rubbed his arm. “Hey. Hammers are incredibly useful.”

  “Sometimes. But they’re not exactly finesse tools.”

  “Maybe not, but the thing is, your mom was right that I was upset because I wanted you to listen. But when I
calmed down, you know what I wanted?”

  “Cobbler?”

  I squeezed his arm in a mock threat for the teasing. “Stop ruining the moment, Max.”

  “We’re having a moment? I love moments. I’ll shut up now.”

  “What I wanted when I calmed down was a hammer to help me nail Kiana’s problem. Help me, not do it for me.”

  “Got it. So can I help? And how can I help?”

  We’d reached a red light, and I couldn’t help myself; I pulled his head down to meet mine for a fast, hard kiss. “You’re a fast learner. That’s hot. Yes, you can help. Let’s go home and brainstorm.”

  At home, Brother Lewis’s car was still parked in front of the house. Max nodded at it. “You okay with that?”

  “With what?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Don’t ‘nothing’ me. There’s nothing going on. My mom made Brother Lewis into a project, that’s all.”

  “Okay.”

  His tone was totally unconvincing, but I let it drop in favor of setting us up at the coffee table with my laptop. I poked my head into the kitchen while I waited for it to boot up.

  “Are they back yet?” he asked when I came back to sit down by him.

  “No. And don’t even try to make anything out of that. It’s just a walk to the pier.”

  “Uh-huh. Like the ones we take. Alone.”

  “Max . . .”

  “Fine,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender when he heard the lava in my voice. “We were going to talk about how I can help you with Kiana?”

  I let him change the subject and clicked through a few web pages about Madame CJ Walker to give him an overview of who she was, explaining Kiana’s concept for her project as I went.

  “I can’t believe we didn’t study her in business school. She’s the original Mary Kay.”

  I squinted at him. “How do you know Mary Kay?”

  He held up three fingers. “Sisters, remember?”

  “Right. But yes, that’s pretty much what she was doing.”

  “It’s so cool that she rewarded the women who were helping their communities as much as she rewarded the ones who did a lot of business. She was leveraging the TOMS Shoes business model a hundred years before it was trendy. If there’s anything that could make me jump to a different company from Taggart, that would probably be it. It’s crazy that with the way business and social trends are running, Taggart hasn’t tried to do more philanthropic outreach.”

  “So you want to switch to a company with a social conscience?” Hope, that stupid, fickle bird, twittered in my chest.

  “I need to stick with what I’m doing so I can learn and get the experience I need. I’m more hoping that I can move up enough to do something about aligning Taggart with a progressive operating model.”

  “Why not switch to a nonprofit organization? I’m sure there are tons of them dying for someone with a brain like yours.”

  He shook his head. “I love the business world. I love the challenge and the competitiveness and the innovation. I like that there’s immediate feedback in the numbers you can crunch to measure the job you’re doing.” He broke off and shook his head. “Man, I told you I have a massive ego. It probably makes me a weak man, but I thrive off of winning, off being the guy who does the best job on a team. I’m hoping that doing my best with Church callings builds up my karma since I don’t do it in my work.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for that. If everyone wanted to be a teacher, the world wouldn’t work. Some of us have to train you future CEOs for balance.”

  “You should probably drop the mic and walk away now.”

  I grinned at him, and he reached over to pull me into a hug, tucking me into his chest. “I like you. A lot.”

  I nestled my face into his neck, inhaling his delicious Max smell of soap and a light trace of spicy aftershave. “Ditto.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Totally.” It should have scared me to say it, much less feel it. But it didn’t. And I stayed right where I was until I heard the french doors open to let Mom and Brother Lewis in.

  “Thanks for taking Bridger home,” Brother Lewis said when they found us. He cleared his throat. “I apologize for him being difficult.”

  I smiled at him. “It’s okay. I deal with that age all day long. He’s a good kid.”

  A hint of gratitude shaded his return smile. “Thanks for saying so. It’s been a hard couple of years for him. For both of us.”

  I nodded. “Brady was the same age when my dad died. It gets better. Not easy but better. You add a hard age to losing a parent, and I’m telling you, Bridger is doing awesome, considering.”

  “That’s what Hattie said too.”

  “She’s a smart lady,” I said.

  “That she is,” he said, glancing over at her.

  Her cheeks reddened at the compliments. “You don’t have to butter me up. I already fed you.”

  “And it was fantastic,” Brother Lewis said. “The only reason Bridger comes out of his room on Sundays is so he can get supper here.”

  “Then let’s get him out again. Y’all come next week too,” Mom said, walking him to the door and closing it after exchanging polite good nights.

  “It’s good to see you looking relaxed,” Max said.

  A soft flush colored the top of Mom’s cheekbones. “It’s nice to be relaxed for the first time in forever.”

  She headed back into the kitchen, and I turned back toward the laptop, but Max’s gaze pinned me, his eyebrows lifted like I’d told him the sky was purple.

  “What?” I said.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Tell me more about Kiana’s project.”

  I spent the next twenty minutes explaining it all—her research, how she wanted to present it, why I didn’t think it was possible. Even repeating it put a sick feeling in my stomach. After I’d gone through all the information, Max leaned back against the sofa and stared into space. He was quiet so long I wasn’t sure what to do. Was this how he thought? Should I give him space?

  I rose from the couch, but he gave a slight start and reached out for my hand to pull me down beside him. “Sorry. I faded out, didn’t I?”

  “It’s okay. I didn’t want to distract you, but I did anyway, huh?”

  “I’m glad. I might have some ideas, but I need to think about it for a day or two. Does that mess you up?”

  “Not at all. You’re already way farther along than I got with this.”

  This time it was him who got up from the couch. “I better go. I have to go home and make some family phone calls before I cash out for the night.”

  “You calling your mom?”

  “And all my siblings.”

  Aargh . . . more melting. “Do you do that every week?”

  “With my brothers and sisters, yeah. I talk to my mom more than that though. Probably every day, actually.”

  Puddle. I was one big ice cream puddle on the floor. Somehow I made my puddle legs support me as I walked him to the door. He gave me a good-bye kiss that was even better than peach cobbler, and I shut the door behind him. I leaned against it, thinking for a minute. When he’d shown up three months before, I’d thought I’d known all his flaws and had wanted nothing to do with him. Then I’d learned those flaws were the kind a boy could grow out of. And it was all stuff I could live with.

  Live with. LIVE with. Like in a marriage.

  I’d made my choice. I just hoped I could live with it too.

  Chapter 21

  Kiana sat in my classroom Tuesday afternoon, her face a locked vault, but her hands wouldn’t stop moving, first twisting a piece of scrap paper into an impossibly tight spiral, then tracing an ink drawing someone had done on the desk during the day. Southside Boys graffiti, a budding gang in the neighborhood. Davonte Lackey, then. I’d make him clean it off tomorrow and give him a pad of blank paper to work on instead—as long as it wasn’t gang tagging.

  “Don’t be nervous,” I said.

/>   “I’m not.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “Just because I don’t want to meet some dude you want to bring in don’t mean I’m nervous. It means I don’t like it.”

  Oh, man. My completely nontraumatic upbringing was getting in the way again. How many times had this kid had to speak to strange adults she didn’t know in situations where the stakes were much higher? How many times had an authority figure signaled some new, unwelcome change in her life? Cops. Social workers. Other teachers. I knew from her file she’d dealt with all of them—often because of her mother’s choices.

  “Kiana, I’m an idiot.” She drew her head back in a “what are you talking about” move. “I thought it would be cool to surprise you with some good news about your project, but this is stressing you out, isn’t it?”

  Her eyebrow went up. “I don’t really like surprises.”

  “I’m sorry. Here’s what’s happening right now. I told my friend Max Archer about your idea for your presentation, and he wants to help you with it.”

  “You said it wasn’t doable.”

  “I didn’t dream as big as you did, and I should have. I think Mr. Archer has some ideas, if you want to hear them.”

  She gave me the eye. “He your boyfriend?”

  The question shouldn’t have caught me so off guard. This was how high schoolers defined things, and I should have been ready for it. But instead, the question put me right back in high school. I felt ridiculous saying he was my boyfriend, but there was absolutely nothing else to call him. I struggled to find an answer, like “Yes” or “No” had suddenly become the most difficult words to pronounce. Max chose that moment to walk in with a beat-up backpack slung over one shoulder. His light-blue button-down shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows and his polka-dotted tie juxtaposed against the backpack that had obviously seen him through college was insanely attractive. I couldn’t even explain it.