November Surprise

by Laurel Osterkamp

  "I said no!" I yell, and kick him squarely in the balls. He gasps in pain and I begin to run, pulling my dress back up as I go. I don't run towards the dance, to the safety of a crowd. That would be the obvious choice, the smart direction to choose. But instinct or my gut or some unnamed force propels me the opposite way down the hall, and I have only moments to escape.

  Because he recovers quickly. "You bitch!" he yells, and runs in my direction. Even in pain he's quite the athlete, and soon he's close enough to tackle me, forcing me to the floor. His hand covers my mouth, but I scream through it anyway, a muffled scream swallowed with fear and nausea. He climbs on top of me, tugging my dress back down, and I think, This is it. This is really going to happen.

  Then, like magic, his weight is no longer pressed against me. He's been lifted away, and I open my eyes to see light from a classroom spilling out into the darkened hallway. Mr. Linden's classroom. We are in front of Mr. Linden's classroom, and Mr. Linden has grabbed Axel and shoved him against a wall.

  "What the hell are you doing?" he cries, as he shoves Axel again, banging his head and perhaps punching him in the stomach. I can't quite tell. Then he lets go of Axel and comes over to me. Too late I grab my torn dress to cover myself. Mr. Linden looks away but I know what he saw. And I realize I don't care, because in the space of a moment I have discovered what this night is actually about. Tonight is about destiny; it is destiny that drove me towards Mr. Linden's door. I'll be tied to him forever.

  "Are you okay?" he asks.

  Instantly a fresh batch of tears surface, and they are much more passionate then any I have yet to cry. It's just - I can't remember the last time anyone has cared enough to ask me if I'm okay.

  2. Samantha

  Early spring, 2006

  When I was three years old, a miracle happened. It wasn't quite on the level of seas parting or water turning to wine, but within my own personal context, it was definitely epic. My dad took me to see my first movie, Cinderella, and I discovered a more perfect and entertaining version of the world, reflected off that giant silver screen. From that moment on, real life just couldn't compete, and I began to watch whatever my parents would permit me to see.

  I'll admit it: occasionally I like to pretend that my life is a movie, and that I'm the star. No problem feels insurmountable if I'm humming a heart-rousing movie soundtrack in my mind. No conversation is too painful or awkward if I can utter a truly quotable line. And no mistake is too asinine if I can imagine an audience's sympathetic laughter at my ineptitude. This used to work for me all the time, but lately, not so much.

  You see, there are very few leading ladies over thirty-five. I think it's quite unfair. There's such a double standard in Hollywood when it comes to age and gender. Harrison Ford is almost twenty years older than Julia Ormand in Sabrina, and it's a barely mentionable plot point. Yet, in Prime, nearly forty-year-old Uma Thurman falls for some guy in his twenties, and that's what the movie is about.

  Anyway, no, I've haven't been preoccupied with this inequality for my whole life, and I realize there are far more serious concerns to devote my energy to, like curing cancer, ending world hunger, and stopping global warming. However, this particular issue hits close to home since I myself married a man ten years my junior. That sort of thing doesn't happen in movies, and neither does the following:

  1. Peoples' eyes immediately darting to my belly whenever I tell them about my sudden wedding. Since my belly is naturally a little bloated, their eyes stay there slightly longer than is comfortable or even decent, in an effort to ascertain whether my belly is in fact, any larger than normal.

  2. After deciding that it's impossible to tell whether or not I'm pregnant just by looking at me, they are left with a decision—are they going to be blunt, or indirect? Most people take the latter route, and say things like, "Wow, that's great! You must be so excited to start a family?" But I actually respect directness more, like when my dad said, "Sam. Tell me you married him because you wanted to, and not out of some false nobility that you've never even had."

  3. Bad as these questions may be, at the end of the day I'm haunted with another question that nobody has been rude enough to ask—What does he see in you? Even I don't have the answer to that one.

  The only person I've shared this with is my best friend, Jane.

  "You need to trust him, Sam. That's what marriage is about."

  She says this to me as we're driving home from her nineteen-year-old cousin's baby shower. It's 1:30 p.m. on a cloudy and cold Monday afternoon, and Jane suspects she was only invited to this thing because her aunt thought she'd be working and unable to come. Jane teaches film and television production, full-time, at the local community college. However, Jane has no classes on Mondays. Still, I don't understand why she went, even if she does believe in the value of putting herself in uncomfortable situations to "appease her fears and develop her ability to grow." I volunteered to go with her; nobody should have to grow on their own.

  "I do trust him," I say, focusing on what she just said to me. "It's myself that I don't trust."

  Jane cocks her head and tightens her mouth into a firm little line. "I can't think why. You're certainly the most honest person I've ever met."

  "You are mad, aren't you?"

  "Sam, I just think there's a time and a place…"

  "I was standing up for you!"

  "And I appreciate it. But was it worth it, after the commotion you caused?"

  Jane is referring to a comment I made at the shower. You see, her cousin Brittany did not plan this pregnancy. So people were talking about how it must be God's will for her to have gotten pregnant, because God believes that Brittany will be a fantastic mother. After several minutes of this conversation, I couldn't take it anymore, and I broke my silence with, what I still maintain, was a very simple question.

  All I said was: "Come on! Do you all really believe in this 'God's will' stuff?"

  I was faced with a bouquet of blank stares. There was that awkward silent time that went on for a few seconds too long. I kept hoping someone would answer me with laughter in her voice, but it was not to be. So I continued.

  "All I mean is, Jane would make a fantastic mother. And God hasn't willed her to have a baby. If it is God's fault that Jane hasn't had a baby yet, then I think she has reason to be pissed off."

  Jane's aunt answered me. "We can't rationalize God's will. It's not for us to question, but to accept. God works in mysterious ways, and we have to trust him."

  All the other women, sans Jane, started nodding their heads in agreement. I know I should have let it go, but the look on Jane's face reminded me of a toddler in the school yard: the littlest one, left out of the bigger kids' games, the one who is trying to be brave but is utterly transparent.

  I shook my head. "No. I won't accept that there's some cosmic reason why Jane can't have a baby and Brittany can, not while every year tons of babies are born to unfit mothers who won't love them. The minute I accept that…" My voice trailed off. If I accepted that, then what? I wasn't sure, and being glared at by everyone in the room wasn't making my thinking any clearer. And it also didn't help that I was looking right at Brittany when I said that "unfit mother" thing, because people got really worked up.

  Jane and I left the party fairly quickly after that.

  Now, I look over at Jane, who is gripping the steering wheel as she speeds down the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic. Jane drives like someone who suffers from ADHD and a bladder problem at the same time. It's her one habit that doesn't fit with the rest of her calm and nurturing personality.

  "It wasn't that much of a commotion…" I say.

  "We were asked to leave."

  "So? You didn't want to go anyway."

  She takes a deep breath. I can tell she's trying not to yell, but her words sound like they're being forcefully pushed out of her mouth anyway. "Not the point!"

  "I'm sorry! Okay? Really."

  She breathes again, and her death grip on the stee
ring wheel loosens just a little. "Sam. It's all right. It's just, are you sure it was me you were sticking up for?"

  "Who else would I have been sticking up for, if not you?"

  "Yourself."

  "Yeah, right."

  "No. Really. I was thinking at the time, maybe what they were saying was pushing your buttons."

  "Well, it wasn't. That was about you." I brush my hair out of my eyes and turn my face away to look out the side window.

  "Okay. Whatever." She speeds up, and honks at the guy to her right as he tries to cut her off. "Where did he learn to drive? Geez." Suddenly, her whole body relaxes. "Oh whatever. You were right. Brittany is going to suck ass as a mother."

  We both laugh and the tension in the car evaporates.

  "Let me take you out for a late lunch," I say. "There's a Don Pablos over there. On such a gray and icky day we need margaritas and greasy Mexican food."

  Jane smiles in answer as she exits off the highway.

  Later, after two full size margaritas and way too many chips with salsa, I head home. It's 4:00 in the afternoon when I open the door to our apartment, and the first thing I see is Nathan, lying on the couch and reading a book. He's changed out of his formal school clothes into jeans and his college sweatshirt, so he looks like a frat boy.

  "You're home early," I say.

  Nathan smiles—the type of smile that changes the entire shape of his face—the type of smile I worried I would never elicit from anyone again. He gets up, and crosses the room to kiss me.

  "I missed you," he says as he leans down and kisses me. "Besides, I had no meetings, no after school activities, and I'm even up-to-date on my grading. Figured I'd take advantage of my good fortune and rush home to see my wife."

  I giggle, as I've done every time he refers to me like that. Wife! Even during our wedding vows the word made me giggle. Good thing the witnesses were people we only met that day at the Wisconsin Dells.

  "So what do you want to do? We could go for a bike ride, or a walk, or out to eat for an early supper. You name it—I'm yours for the entire afternoon and evening."

  I wrap my arms around him, a gesture made partly to express affection, but mostly to reassure myself that my good fortune is real. He is not just a figment of my imagination.

  "I thought you were mine forever," I say.

  He hugs me back and kisses the top of my head. "That too," he responds. "That too."

  I close my eyes and revel in his warmth. Surely God didn't will Nathan and me to be together. Yet, in his arms, I feel that I've finally discovered what my fate is. It's to love Nathan Linden.

  3. Melody

  This morning when I get to school I find whore written on a piece of paper, taped to my locker. I pretend I don't care while I rip it off the hospital-green metal door. I hear someone laughing behind me, but I refuse to turn around. I won't let them think they're affecting me.

  It's been a month and a half since Mr. Linden saved me from Axel and Axel got expelled. But the school hasn't forgiven me for it. The very next weekend we played in our division championship basketball game and lost. Lost—because Axel wasn't there to win the game for us. And whose fault was that? According to popular opinion, it's mine. Mine and Mr. Linden's.

  So even though his classroom is way far away from my first hour, I stop in every morning to say hello. Outcasts have to stick together, after all. When I walk into his room I see him sitting at his desk, his blond head leaning over a book, his fingers messing with the collar of his shirt. Mr. L wears a tie to school every day. I'm not sure why because he's always tugging, trying to loosen it. But his ties are his trademark, and I think it's nice he makes an effort. So many people are slobs nowadays, but not Mr. L. Today his tie is dark blue with green polka dots, and it brings out the color of his eyes beautifully.

  "Good morning Mr. L."

  He looks up, and half a smile teases the corners of his mouth. He can't act too pleased to see me, it wouldn't be professional.

  "Miss Madsen, how are you this morning?" Every morning he asks me this, and every morning my answer is a lie.

  "I'm great, how are you?"

  "I'm fantastic," he beams, "as usual."

  This is what we do; it's our code. But I know the truth. He's hurting on the inside from being ostracized just as much as I am.

  "I looked for you yesterday after school, but you weren't in your room."

  "Yeah, I was actually able to get out of here early for a change. Did you need something?"

  My right index finger is twisting itself into the metal wire that loops through my notebook and binds it together. The top part had become unwound from its pages, and now my finger's circulation is cut off. "Well, I was wondering if you could use an aide next trimester."

  He frowns and digs his heels into the floor, pushing himself backwards with the wheels of his office chair. His chest raises and lowers with a careful sigh before he answers me.

  "Melody, do you really think that's a good idea?"

  This is the first time he has ever called me by my first name! Mr. L always, always calls students by our last names. Finally, the moment I have waited for has arrived! Now I know without a doubt that I mean something to him, that I am more than just a student. In my shock and joy I forget to answer his question though, so he continues on.

  "I just think we need to be careful. People in this school love to talk, and if I took you on as my aide things could get worse before they get better."

  My joy increases—he just referred to us as a "we." We need to be careful—it sounds so scandalous! "But I'm fine," I say, wiggling my finger free and holding my notebook tightly to my chest. "And I don't care what people say. Besides, I could do a great job for you." I walk over to his file cabinet and open the top drawer. With a grin I turn to him. "Really Mr. L! This drawer is a mess! I could organize this; I could organize all of these!" I sweep my arm up and down, gesturing toward his cabinets. Then I walk over to his bookshelf. "And these shelves!" I look back over at him, expecting to see him smile, but I'm met with a scowl instead. "I'm sorry," I continue. "I don't mean to insult you. I know you're creative and smart and all, and you don't have time to think about details. That's why you need to let me do it for you."

  "Miss Madsen…" he tries to cut me off, but I step in before he can.

  "Mr. L, please! Let me do this. Give me the chance to thank you for… you know." I look down, and will my cheeks to flush. I can feel the warmth creeping across my face, and I mentally pat myself on the back for spending hours alone in my room, mastering this skill. After all, older guys like girls who embarrass easily, so that they can feel worldly and experienced.

  He hangs his head down momentarily, like he's memorizing the scuffed linoleum floor. "You don't need to thank me any more than you already have. You never needed to thank me. I just did what anyone would do."

  "That's where you're wrong," I say. And I mean it. Mr. L doesn't realize how special he is. That's why he needs me. He needs me so much that I'm willing to do anything in order to be in his life. "What you did, it's the nicest, most decent thing anyone has ever done. Please, Mr. L, let me be your aide. I'll work really hard."

  His hand creeps up to massage his neck. "I have no doubt you would, but I still think it's a bad idea."

  I look down, away, and wipe a phantom tear that, if it were real, would be blocked from his view.

  "I see," I say, and start out the door. His voice stops me, just like I knew it would.

  "Miss Madsen…" but he doesn't finish. So I take my last, best shot. It's a gamble to play this card so soon, but I'm confident it will work. Besides, it's the truth.

  With my back turned, still half way out the door, I say, "It's just, your room is the only place in the whole school where I feel…safe."

  He sighs again, this time with resignation. "My prep hour is fifth."

  I turn around. "That's perfect! All I have fifth hour is study hall!"

  His same half-smile threatens to escape again. "I'll let th
e office know."

  4. Samantha

  The phone wakes me up. I pick up on the second ring. "Hello Dad," I say, before he has a chance to greet me.

  "How'd you know it was me?"

  "I've told you before; you're the only one who calls me this early."

  He raises his voice, and I hold the receiver away from my ear. "It's 10:00 a.m.! I've been up for hours!"

  "Yeah, but you go to bed at 9:00. I work till midnight."

  His voice lowers back to a normal level. "Well, I'm sorry honey. I guess I forget your schedule. You know me. I was raised with the farmer mentality. Early to bed, early to rise, and too much sleep is a sin."

  "I think we can agree that sleeping till 10:00 is the least of my sins."

  He chuckles like what I just said was a joke, even though we both know it isn't. Then his voice turns serious. "Samantha, it's never too late to change."

  I count to three and remind myself how much I love my father. "Did you need something?"

  "I just wanted to know if it's okay for me to sell your old bedroom set. I found a second hand store willing to buy it."

  "Dad, I've told you twice that I don't care. It's fine if you want to get rid of it."

  "I just thought you might want it someday, in case you ever have kids. Now that you and Nathan are together…"

  His voice trails off and there's a pause. Sometimes I worry. He's been living alone in Chicago, in the home I grew up in, for most of the last seventeen years. But I left that home more than half my lifetime ago, and he still has trouble accepting that except for visits, I'm not coming back.

  "Dad, do what you think is best. If you want the space it's okay to sell it. If Nathan and I decide to have kids there are plenty of cheap bedroom sets around."

  "But this is a nice set, been in the family for years. Not like the cheap stuff from that Swedish place you like…"

  "Ikea?"

  "Yeah. That stuff is made of cardboard. I wouldn't want my grandchild sleeping in a cardboard bed."