“Do you, Miss Wallace?”
The question pulls me from my reverie. I sit on the edge of my desk and pull my laptop to my chest like it’s a teddy bear. “I do. It’s writing.” I smile. “And no matter how difficult it is, I know I’ll never be able to give it up—and thank you for reminding me of that, guys. Because it isn’t always something I can remember.” I drift to a stance. “That stuff isn’t always easy to remember, is it? So let’s remember to be the tree—not the little boy. Give all we can. Love with all we are. No matter what. Even if we become an old stump in the end, we still have use.”
They giggle once again.
I close my laptop and work my way to the board. As I scribble down the writing assignment, the dry-erase marker squeaks, and the anchor in my stomach has gone weightless. I giggle right along with the kids. Stump is a pretty funny word after all.
And I might just be an old stump, but I sure as hell am not sorry. Not for any of it.
* * *
Chapter 6
But that query was old. That manuscript was old.” Valerie flips the ends of my hair, and I offer a small smile, the air thick with beer and deep-fried hugs.
“I know. But it still sucks, getting a form rejection like that.”
“You don’t know—”
“‘Dear Author’?”
“I get it. It was a shitty way to start the day.”
I put my hand over hers for a second. “I know you don’t understand my obsession with publishing—”
“It doesn’t matter, Rae-Rae. It’s your dream, and honestly, I just wish I had one.”
Before I can delve into that little nugget, Quinn shows up with three pints of love. “Next round’s on you.” She hands me mine.
I raise the glass in approval, and we all take gulps like we’re sorority girls trying to outdrink our sisters at the ten-year reunion.
“So what’s going on with Phil?” I ask since all Quinn did during play rehearsal was talk on her phone outside and pace around the courtyard.
“Oh, you know.” She waves it off. Takes another sip of beer. And gets lost in the menu. “What kind of delicious grease shall we consume?”
I cut my stare to Val, and she just shrugs.
We manage to avoid all real conversation until after we order—mostly tales of e-mail woe: from helicopter parents to REPLY ALL work chains that no one even remembers who started anymore. (The point being, no one GAF about when Joanne Testaverde has recess duty or lunch duty or when she takes a shit for that matter, so why are we all being informed?)
I’m mainlining chicken nachos, and my friends are making me laugh with their Problems. They’re checking their phones every six seconds—Mike even has to FaceTime Val just to make her feel like a bad person for not being there to feed the kids dinner for, like, once in her life.
I snatch the phone from her clutches, tingly with bitterness and beer.
“What’s that, Mikey? Hiiii, Mikey!” I wave, kind of like a mental patient.
“Hi, Rae.” His tone has an edge to it, and he runs a hand through his sandy hair. Not sexy—annoyed.
“Valerie’s being such a good girl,” I continue, “and if you could just let her stay out a teensy bit longer because she’s with her best friends in the world— Say hi, Quinn.” I point the phone her way and she does a distracted flip of the wrist in the middle of finishing pint number two. “I personally guarantee she’ll go down on you tonight, once all the kids are asleep.”
Valerie gasps with laughter and starts grabbing for the phone.
Mike’s face lights, and he almost looks how he did the night we met him at that dive bar. Hair Hugh Grant–floppy over one eye. Dorky. But confident. His features now slightly rounder than they were.
“Very funny. They’re never all asleep,” he says just as Val reclaims her phone.
“Sorry, hon. I’ll be home in a little while. M’kay? You can do this.”
A snorting fit ensues. I love when she stands up for herself. Even passive aggressively.
But it’s just nice to hear her be real for once, instead of spewing out sunshine all the damn time.
“It’s like no one’s allowed to be in a bad mood ever anymore. Yanno?” I hiccup. “Oops—askew me.”
“What are you babbling about over there?” Quinn gives me the side eye.
“We’d better get to the Sparking before we get too drunk,” Valerie says.
“Too late.” Quinn giggles, and I order us another round. What the hell.
“I want you to know that I hate both of you,” I say.
“Well, that’s too bad. You’re stuck with us. Now take out your phone.”
“First up. ‘John, 35.’” My thumb hovers over the red X.
“Give. Me. That.” Quinn rips the phone from my hands and looks at it. “Why is he a no? He’s got a nice car—look at that beautiful Beemer. Oh, I love the green. Let’s see what his other pictures are.” She clicks.
“This is going to take for-damn-ever if you’re going to analyze every single one.”
“You have to ‘like’ five guys before we can leave,” she says and holds up her hand. “Got that? F-i-v-e.”
“Is this what it feels like to be in your class?” I smirk, and she ignores me.
She and Valerie flip through John, 35’s pictures for a few minutes and then they come to the conclusion that I came to—hello—in three seconds. That John, 35, is probably a douche because his main pic is of him and his car, and Who Does That?
“But you were almost fooled.” I wag a finger at Q and then let it hover over the red X. “Shall I do the honors?”
She shoots me a finger back and then obliges on her own.
NOPE.
We go through this a few more times. It’s a blur of faces and voices and judgments, but—thank God—we’re pretty much in agreement about all of them.
“How about him? He’s kinda cute…”
Nose scrunch. “Hipster beard.”
“Okay, this guy’s main photo is of LL Cool J.”
“I mean, the ladies do love Cool James…”
“Do you think there are some women who fall for that?”
“Based on the kinds of humans I encounter on a daily basis in life? I’d say yes. Yes, there are women who fall for that.”
They’re flipping and flipping and I’ve taken to laying my head on the table. “Like, how is it possible that this is my life, you guys?”
They ignore me.
“What about this one?” Quinn asks.
I study the profile. Squint at it. “No.”
“Why not?”
“You can tell he thinks he’s really good-looking. He loves himself. This isn’t just a case of ‘Oh, I’m a dude and I found a couple of decent pictures that make me not look like a murderer.’ This guy—this Steve—he’s posing for them. He’s got this pose perfected. He’s done it a hundred times.”
“It does kinda seem that way,” Valerie says, taking a pull of her dirty martini, to which she’s now switched.
“Kinda?” I laugh. “And, I mean, a man doesn’t do that. A boy does that. A guy who just wants to fuck something does that. Can you imagine your dad working on his truck and ever being like ‘Let me take a picture of myself while I strategically wipe off this strategically smeared grease from my strategically set jawline’? No. Not even when he was thirty-six years old. A real man is not vain like that. Not one I would consider dating, anyway. It’s one thing to care about your appearance. It’s another if you care more about that than the girl you’re with. I’m not at a place in my life where I feel like competing with some dude’s watch collection. Sorry not sorry.”
Silence from the two of them, and I take that as a mic drop.
Valerie pretends that didn’t happen, and she’s on to the next. “What about this one?”
Lip curl. And then: “Converse.”
She knits her brow at me. “Huh?”
“Converse sneakers. No.”
“Aw, I think that’s cute
.” Quinn stretches out her words in a whine, not even looking at the guy but at her own phone, which she hasn’t been able to part with all evening.
“Yeah, you know when that was cute? High school. Next. And here’s another one.” I reclaim my phone. “‘Work hard/play hard.’”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s like the douche-bag motto. NOPE. And when did everyone get so ‘laid-back’? I’m not laid-back at all! In fact, I want to put that on my profile. ‘I am as stress riddled as they come. Totally uptight.’”
“Don’t.” Quinn lowers her thin brows at me.
We’re making some real headway here. How are there this many single guys around, and how are they all this disappointing?
“Gah!” Valerie frowns. “I meant to swipe Right on that one. But it won’t let me undo it.” She taps at the screen. “Well, they now have a thing where you can pay for Spark—an upgrade, they call it—and if you have an account like that, you can have more Right swipes, they say. I guess they limit those? And you can also undo a Left swipe.”
Quinn laughs, her focus still on her device. “Something tells me that’s not a feature you’ll be needing.”
“Ha! No. Like, if you’re swiping Right so many times that even Spark’s like ‘Whoa, there, slick. Slow down,’ you should probably reexamine your life. This is how one can distinguish between the just plain single and the single and desperate.”
“Aw, look at this one. He’s got a dog,” Valerie croons. “You love dogs! Look how sweet!”
Eyebrow raise.
I consider him.
He only has that one picture. Him and a pit bull something-or-other mix that’s insanely smushworthy.
And then?
“No.”
“What?” They screech to a halt and gape at me. I might as well have just gutted the dog right there on the table, Ned Stark style.
“Look at the size of the dog…Now look at the size of the guy.”
There’s a full five-second lull as they do. Quinn is even paying attention now.
And they close their frickin’ yap holes. Allow a moment of silent respect because there’s no way they can dispute it.
“I never would have even thought of that, but you’re totally right!” Quinn marvels up at me, her stare glistening in what looks like admiration but might just be alcohol.
“I’m not trying to discriminate based on height. I’m no runway model, of course.” When they—shockingly—don’t protest, I continue. “But it’s not like that’s a Saint Bernard or Scooby-freaking-Doo he’s holding.”
“No, you’re right. He’s definitely not riding all the rides, if you know what I mean.” Val winks.
“Not this one, anyway.” Thumb to clavicle, and they chuckle.
We’re kind of loud, but we’re pretty much the only people in here—Thursday night must not be senior citizen night—so thank God we don’t have to bother with respecting others. Alex the bartender glances at me every now and then, a smirk sliding across that hot mouth of his every time.
“I didn’t think I’d say this”—Quinn picks at the last of her fries—“but this is harder than it seems like it’d be.”
“That’s what she said,” I say. I just can’t help it.
Valerie snorts and tries to smack me but misses. “I agree, but still.”
There it is.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little judgy, based on very little information?” Another one of her frowns.
I take a breath and prepare to blow their minds once again. It seems a bit ridiculous that I have to explain this to my best friends—especially Quinn, who was right where I am, and not too long ago—but whatever. I’m a teacher. I educate.
“Not really, no. But I’ll prove it to you if you want. If I have to.”
“How?”
I talk with my fork. “I’ll let you swipe Right on five people, and if we match up, I’ll meet them.”
“Even if you would have vetoed them?”
I sigh. “Yes. And you will see that these seemingly superficial details are actually indicators. I’ll even be more lax in my swiping on my own. How’s that?”
“What’s the catch?”
“The catch is, if I’m right, you have to admit it. And lay off. And maybe…buy me something nice.” I smile at my quick addition.
They exchange a look. “Okay.”
“And I don’t have to be in the wedding.”
Quinn rearranges herself in her chair and crosses her arms. “You’re just going to sabotage it. Be judgmental and not even try.”
“I promise I won’t.” I set down my fork and grab her hand in both of mine, a tad more dramatic than I intended, but whatever. “I mean, what’s the worst thing that can happen for me? Really. I might meet someone nice and give him a chance? Fall in love?”
They both grin.
And I spit the Amstel Light I’ve just gotten back into. “Okay, I couldn’t keep a straight face anymore. I’m sorry! But you know what I mean. And you can trust me. I promise I will try. As long as you promise to actually see and acknowledge the truth, if I’m right.”
And then: ding!
A text comes up. A photo, with a message to accompany it.
The Tongue: Hey, girl. Where you been all week?
He’s wearing the tightest of V-neck tees, gray workout shorts, earbuds hanging slack around his neck. His head’s cocked to one side, the phone visible in his bathroom mirror, his too-sculpted brows knit in what I guess is supposed to be his version of puppy dog eyes.
“Aww! Ty!” Valerie’s hands fly to her heart. “Write him back,” she singsongs, her pity for him grating in my ear.
“You put him in your phone as The Tongue?”
I wave off Quinn’s question and shake my head at no one in particular because—balls—doesn’t anyone get it?
Me: Busy, busy…
“That’s mean.” Valerie shoves a fry in her face.
“How is that mean? Look, if he doesn’t sense the tone—”
The Tongue: Too busy for this?
Another picture.
Valerie gasps, eliciting worried glances from the waitstaff, and Quinn spills half her drink.
“Is that—”
His manhood plunging angrily out of the fly of a pair of suit pants, his face beaming with what can only be described as pride in the background. He’s even pointing to it, as if it’s unclear where the recipient is supposed to be looking.
They burst into laughter, but I drown them out as I scrutinize this dick pic. This ever-perplexing, unsolicited assault on my eyes.
There’s something different about this one. Something—
“Rae?”
Lightbulb!
“What is it, Rae?”
“He just straight-up sent that bathroom selfie. Now he’s in a suit at the office hanging brain?”
They exchange horrified stares.
“What we’ve got ourselves here, ladies, is a recycled dick pic. I’m sure it’s not the first of its kind, but this is definitely unprecedented for me.”
More gasps that give way to laughter.
Me: Sending me used pics, are we?
There’s a pause. We hold our collective breaths. What can he possibly say to that?
And then:
The Tongue: Haha, busted.
I turn to Valerie. “I want to thank you again for setting me up with Ty…”
“I’m so sorry.” She snorts until she’s choking. When she finally regains her composure, she shrugs. “What am I supposed to do the next time I see him? Oh my God!” And then she’s back to wiping tears of laughter with her napkin.
Once we recover—and it takes a while—they’re a little more game to listen to me.
“So regarding this little experiment, we’ll see who’s right. I don’t want to, like, ruin your whole world or anything, but most guys out there…” I gesture toward the phone. “And I’m not saying this in a bitter way, I want you to know.”
Alt
hough, when you’re thirty-four and single and you’re talking to Marrieds or people in relationships and you say I’m not bitter, all this does is convince them of your bitterness.
“Single guys, maybe,” Quinn interrupts and bares her insecurity teeth.
“I’m not saying Phil. Or Mike. For Christ’s sake,” I snap.
Why is Quinn doing this?
She gives me a slow blink, like I’m supposed to watch it lest I wake her temper or something, and they continue their search.
I scowl into my beer.
What’s happening to Quinn? It happened to Valerie so long ago I’ve forgotten a time when she was just Val and not Val-and-Mike-Who-Share-a-Facebook-Profile.
But Quinn? She’s different. At least she was.
I see her the night we decided to shake Plantation off our shoes and go to Ibiza. We had originally wanted to go to Ireland because we had just finished watching P.S. I Love You and there was that hot Javier Bardem knock-off from Grey’s Anatomy waiting for Hilary Swank. But we settled on Ibiza because Quinn had a friend we could stay with there and we were poor schoolteachers, after all.
“That could be us!” she said, standing on her bed and brandishing a half-empty jar of queso we’d just opened that night. “Let’s do it.”
Or maybe the jar was half full?
We were thirty. Divorce survivors. It was fresh on the heels of Jesse disappearing from my life, and she’d just come off a broken engagement.
“Who needs retirement money anyway?” was my response.
And just like that, we said a big Eff you to Plantation and got out of Dodge for ten days.
One of the first nights there, we took in a few umbrellaed something or anothers at this beach bar around the corner from where we were staying, and Quinn got very serious.
“We are fearless,” she said.
It was like a battle cry. A promise.
I raised my glass at her. “And we are feared.”
She played with the ends of her hair, extra glisten bouncing off it in the glow from the hanging lights. “That might be true, but screw ’em. If women fear us, it’s only because they’re jealous they’re stuck. They’re worried their men want us. If men fear us, it’s because they’re not really men. We are strong. We will fight. We will win. And you know what? They should fear us.”
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