He sent it eight minutes ago.
Before I can even get the rest of my robe on, my fingers are flying over the screen, and I’ve sent the reply.
Me: Uhm. It’s Jerry Rice. #nailedit
Immediate response: Oh, there’s a Ray Rice. #Googleit
And I do. And goddammit.
Him: Admit it. You only know Jerry Rice from Dancing with the Stars.
Me: I admit nothing.
There’re a few minutes of lull during which I get all the nightly routine stuff out of the way—if he could see me now, all head-toweled and face-creamed—and then he messages again.
I can hear the swagger in his words.
Yes, his words swagger.
Him: Date with Mr. Used-to-Be-Fat must not have panned out. You’re home pretty early, no?
Me: That’s DOCTOR Used-to-Be-Fat to you, and I was home by ten. #backtothedrawingboard
I linger over the app for a solid thirty seconds and then something in my chest yanks me back.
Me: Hey, aren’t you…attached? What are you doing on Spark anyway?
I can’t resist.
But his answer is immediate.
Him: My profile is old, actually. But when I heard you talking about Spark this afternoon, I thought I’d sign on and mess with you. #consideryourselfmessedwith Besides, you never contacted me about when you want to discuss the set.
Me: The set—right! Are you available tomorrow after school? We’re having rehearsal.
Him: I’m your man! And it sounds like, after tonight, you’re gonna need one!
Me: Har har. Well, as much as I’d love to stay and hear all your theories on why my date was Destined to Fail, I need to get my beauty rest. You subbing at all this week?
Him: Time will tell…See you at rehearsal.
But I stare at the design in my ceiling for a spell and wait for my heartbeat to slow down. Why does talking to him make me so nervous? I didn’t do anything wrong, say anything wrong. The only thing wrong is how succulent he looks in his suit pants. Because that just ain’t right.
I stare and I stare, wondering with each passing minute what he would have said next, had I not shut down the conversation.
Why he messaged at all.
To mess with me, for real? Because I hadn’t texted him about the set?
I decide I’m reading too much into things.
But, dammit, why can’t I just effing find someone who can banter like that, who’s as sexy as that, who is not, in fact, attached like that?
What am I sending out into the world to deserve this, and do I have the energy to wade through it all?
Probably not.
Everything haunts me long after my eyes drift shut and into the morning when I sneak back onto Spark to see if that really happened last night. Long after I message Andrew back while I zigzag through traffic. Long after I get to work late (again) and zigzag through the parents’ hundred-thousand-dollar cars.
Through small talk, through kids in the hall, through e-mails, through lessons.
Off to zigzag my way through another day.
* * *
Chapter 11
At rehearsal the next day, Val and Quinn leave it to me to do all the directing, and they simply act as kid wranglers, which is exactly what I need them to be. If not for them, Damian Adler (aptly named—why do parents still name their kids Damian??) would be lighting things on fire backstage and Jenny Linn may have succeeded in climbing up to the rafters this time.
I’ve finally got the first scene staged and we’re running through the blocking when Nick comes in—and, of course, derails all the discipline and focus I’ve worked so hard to create, as anyone new, any distraction, any reason to lose focus, does in first grade (in any grade).
“Mr. Greene!” It’s like Justin Timberlake himself has graced us with his presence, except for the fact that these kids probably don’t know who that is. Kids are yelling, other kids are screaming because their friends are yelling, and they’re all running around like they snorted some kind of bath salts during their afternoon snack.
Quinn and Valerie have given up their duties in light of this new stimulus, since it seems there’s nothing to do but allow it to run its course—a quick and brutal downpour before the storm lets up.
We watch him as he raises a long finger to his lips and grins. “Hey, guys.”
And, like he’s performed some kind of hot-guy voodoo on them, they begin to settle down.
“Can you all sit for me for a minute?” He glances at me. “That okay?” he asks.
I gesture toward him like Be my guest.
He continues. “Did you know that Miss Wallace wrote this play you’re performing?”
Even though I absolutely did tell them, their faces brighten with the excitement of hearing about it for the first time. Ella Ryan lets out a “Wow, really?” that is audible above the murmurs of enthusiasm.
“Yes, and did you know it’s true?”
“What do you mean?” she wants to know.
“Well, what’s it about?” he presses.
“Native American tribes in Florida,” a few of them chant on top of one another.
“Right, and so these are actual cultures that actually originated here.”
This is met with more oohs and ahhs.
“It’s a part of our history. Which is particularly cool to me”—he turns back toward me a sec—“because I’m usually a history teacher. I’ve taught history at other schools.”
“Very cool,” I chime in and join him at the front of the stage. “And let me know if you guys have any questions about anything in the play. Kind of goes along well with what we’ve been studying in social studies.”
“Miss Wallace?” Madison LaRue waves her hand high.
“Yes?”
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
“I hope you can…”
She just looks at me.
“Go right ahead, sweetie.” I snort. “Now let’s get back to it.”
When the kids have settled into their places and we’ve started scene three again, Nick joins me, Val, and Quinn at the center of the auditorium.
He sits in front of the three of us and flips around, face full of concern. “Hey, I didn’t mean to ‘mansplain’ to them why the play was cool—which it is, by the way. Deborah gave me a copy of the script. Good stuff.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Naw, and we’re used to having kids listen more quickly and attentively to male teachers than female teachers, no matter who they are. It’s just a fact of education. No matter how much they respect us—which they do,” Quinn says.
“It’s the same at home even,” Valerie chimes in. “My husband doesn’t say too much by way of discipline or direction, but the minute he does, they’re giving him their rapt attention.”
“Well, then…I’m sorry?” He winces. “But I’m also glad to be of help?”
“Good answer.” Quinn pats him on the arm. “I can tell you’ve been trained well.”
After the next scene is over, Valerie and Quinn supervise the kids while Nick and I pore over the set design.
“It’s a simple concept, really,” I say. “This is first grade, and our budget is, like…a dollar.”
“I got this. I’ll draw up some things and we can talk about them at the next rehearsal.”
“Sounds good.”
“Yanno, I did read the script,” he says, tongue flicking across his gleaming teeth.
“Yeah?”
“And I was really impressed.”
“Oh, you’re a theater critic now?”
“I’m just saying…Indigenous People of Florida? Not a topic most first-grade plays tackle. I’m not even sure I could pronounce indigenous when I was in the first grade.”
“Or now.” I laugh. “Well, I happen to think these kids can handle more than what we give them, you know? Not that I want them to grow up too fast, but I don’t think we should baby them either. We should challenge them. Hold them to hig
h standards. Because when we do, they rise to the challenge.”
“Are you always like this?”
“Pretty much.”
“Good. I like that.”
We hold a stare a little longer than is comfortable for me, and then it’s back to the Apalachee scene.
When I get home, I send him a text:
Me: Thanks for your help today, Mr. Greene.
Nick: My pleasure.
* * *
The next few days are a blur of Spark messages and dates. I’ve never been more exhausted, mentally and physically, but I’ve also never felt as powerful and desirable as I do right now.
“So who’s on tap tonight?” asks Sarah when she stops by the lounge to grade during her break and pops a squat next to me at the table.
“Gross,” I say and then crack up at the insinuation. “I have not given a blowie to a single one of these guys, you filthy animal—let alone have I even wanted to make out with any of them. In fact, the whole thing has been The Worst so far.”
“It was just a question.” She bats her eyes. “But if you’re not having any fun with these guys, why are you doing this? Why the date marathon?”
I shrug into my pile o’ papers. “It’s a sociological experiment.”
“And?”
“And”—I hook an eyebrow at her—“I’m learning a lot. For instance.” I put up a One second finger and scroll through to tonight’s bachelor of choice. “Tonight, there’s Barrett. A marathoner. He does Ironman races too. ‘I eat a lot of kale, but I do enjoy a burger every now and then,’ he says on his profile. See? He’s down to earth.” I snort.
“Are you going to take up running?”
“Ha. No. But I don’t seem to be getting anywhere following my rules, and I promised the girls I’d venture out of my comfort zone. Bend some of my Spark rules to appease them. There’s got to be someone who’s wedding date acceptable. And what’s so wrong with going out with someone who’s healthy?”
I stop at the sound of a jaunty little whistle making its way toward us from down the hall, and then Nick struts into the lounge. He masterfully pulls off a pink dress shirt like so few men really can—despite what their significant others tell them. He’s whistling absentmindedly, in a way that feels like it’s not absentminded at all, and I both love and hate him for it.
I’ve thought about him since our little encounter at play practice, but I haven’t seen him since then, and of course my worst fears are being realized—I’m flushing to what has got to be a deep shade of berry at the mere sight of him.
Kill me now.
“How’s it hanging, ladies?” He breezes right past us and parks his nomable tuchas over by the coffee station.
“We’re fab-ulous,” Sarah says, a flirty little drag leaking into her response. “Sixth grade taking it easy on you today?”
His eyes bug and he hooks a finger under his collar like he’s letting out some steam. “Man, twelve-year-old girls will say anything. Sheesh!”
“Between them and Ida, you have to be feeling pretty good about yourself this week.” I laugh.
“I don’t know about that, but that Ida sure doesn’t let up, does she?” He’s shaking his head at the Keurig, a deep smile exposing those gleaming teeth.
“She’s harmless,” I say. “But if you think she’s going to let you escape easily, you’d be wrong.” I gesture with the purple pen I’m using for grading.
He laughs. We all do.
Actually, the sound that comes out of me is more like the chattering of a rabid capuchin monkey, but it’s the best I can do. I’m all fluttery because he’s in here, and I’m pretty sure my face is a few degrees away from catching itself ablaze.
I’m like a sixth grader myself; and the more awkward I am, the warmer I get. My entire torso is, like, steaming through my blouse. Why in the Sam Hill did I wear this unbreathable fabr—
I just want him to leave.
Idaaaaaaaaa.
My attempts at mental telepathy aren’t working, and so Sarah makes small talk with Nick while he waits for his java to brew, one arrogant leg draped over the other. His gestures are animated as he speaks.
“I suppose I’d better be getting back to the lions’ den,” he says when his coffee is ready, and he begins his mosey on back toward the door. But before he’s gone, he does an about-face.
It catches me off guard when he snags my gaze for such a split second that I’m not sure it even happens. But then there’s no mistaking the knowing twinkle in his dark eyes.
“You have yourselves a lovely day, ladies.” He’s all dimples and double finger points in ironic douchiness (or is it just that I want it to be ironic? I don’t know) and he flips back around, waggles a few fingers at us behind his back, and disappears.
Once he’s gone, Sarah’s mouth goes agape and she starts hitting me. “Whattttt was that?”
“Whatever do you mean?” I’m rubbing at the sore spots her gel-manicured fingers are leaving on my arms.
“You turned bright red the second he came in here and your snarky little Rae comments were conspicuously at a minimum. Spill.”
I run my tongue along my teeth and gauge if Sarah can be trusted. I don’t want to tell Valerie and Quinn about this yet—I just want to bask in the excitement of…whatever this is…a crush? For just a liiiiiiittle while longer.
But I need to process it with somebody!
So I grab Sarah’s hands like a middle schooler. This is who I am today. I’ve accepted it.
And I spill.
When I’m done dishing on, really, the nothingness of what has happened, she leans all the way back in her chair and twirls the ends of her platinum waves. “Oh. It is on.”
“But it’s not on. It can’t be on. He has a girlfriend. Don’t encourage me!” I can’t contain the smile forcing my mouth as wide as it will go, and I’m giddy with laughter.
Maybe telling her was bad because now it’s, like, legitimizing it.
“I heard he made it up,” she says, her gaze a dare. A challenge.
“Where’d you hear that from?”
“Just a rumbling among the fourth-grade teachers…”
“Regardless. Work is work,” I say, firm. Hoping to convince myself.
“Well, then you’d better hope this Barrett is a welcome distraction tonight,” she says into her tea, “because it seems pretty on to me.”
I throw her an eye roll, and just as I do, my phone buzzes.
“Oh. My. God.” She screeches. “It’s him, isn’t it?” She’s practically pulling my arm off as I’m shushing her like some old school librarian.
Palm pressed into the air to calm her, I confirm, failing miserably in my attempt to look annoyed. “It’s him.”
“What did he say?” She’s whiny and we’re ridiculous and adorable (I mean, probably) and so, so annoying, but we don’t GAF.
Until I do, because Quinn saunters in with her leather teacher bag.
“What did who say?” Suddenly she’s all copper eyes in my face, and I have to yank my phone away and set it facedown on the table.
“The guy I’m seeing tonight. Barrett.” I set my jaw at Sarah and give her a side eye, and I pray to jumping Jehoshaphat that she’s catching what I’m throwing.
This answer seems to appease Quinn, though, and Sarah plays along with “Ooh—where’s he taking you?” so my blood goes back to normal human speed and I calm the hell down.
“We’re just going to a beer-tasting place.”
“He’s not feeding you?” Sarah hitches an upper lip, Elvis style, and returns her attention to the math tests in front of her.
I chuckle. “I actually have no idea. We’re meeting at six thirty, so I’ve got to fly like a bat out of hell to get home and take care of Billie. Shave the ol’ legs. You know—”
“You’re shaving your legs this time? Muy impressive!” Quinn and Sarah cackle like the bitches they are and smack each other five.
“What’s this? I don’t like this new little alliance.
” I gesture between the two of them with my grading pen. “I always shave my legs before these dates. How dare you. Even for the ones I know are going to be bad.”
They’re still laughing, and I decide to change the subject.
“Where are you off to, missy?” I stab at Quinn’s bag.
“I have to go meet with the cake lady real quick. Hot Sub Guy is going to watch my kids until I get back. I just ran into him in the hall. Pretty in pink if I ever did see it!” She fans herself.
Sarah is squeezing the circulation out of my leg under the table, and I’m choking back the urge to full-on guffaw.
Middle schoolers indeed.
“Oh?” is all I can muster. I bite down a tad too hard on my bottom lip.
“That sounds fun,” Sarah says, doing better than I am at holding it together.
“Fun, annoying. Potato, potahto. Don’t get married.” She tosses a limp wrist at us, blows me a kiss, and then she’s out.
And part of me stews as I watch her leave.
Don’t get married. Seriously? Who the hell is she trying to convince she’s so cool? Sarah? She damn well isn’t doing it for me.
But the fakeness to her tone—her very air of blasé—leaves a bad taste in my mouth for the rest of the afternoon, and I can’t even enjoy the texts Nick sends, which are all hilarious things Ida has done today or surprisingly suggestive things sixth-grade girls have said to him (I might need to have a talk with their teachers!).
Sarah grilled me when Quinn left: “So now you’re lying to your best friends?”
But I just can’t deal with their judgy comments right now.
This is the first fun I’ve had in a long time. And I know it’s just flirting and I know it can’t go anywhere but #goddddddddd.
* * *
Barrett is already inside the brewery when I arrive—has already paid for himself and is a few “tastes” in before I even get there—so I am already somewhat disenchanted with him when I have to shell out my own twelve bucks to get in. I mean, #independentwoman and all that, but still. Really, pal? He is deep within the crowd of yuppie thirty-somethings and nowhere near the entrance waiting for me. Swoon. And I have to play a less-fun version of Where’s Waldo? amidst plaid button-downs and sloppy corporate attire, loose ties and rolled sleeves. Girls who’ve shed their blazers and are now allowed to expose their shoulders to whomever they want.
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