“I told you she’d be fine,” Joey said. He shrugged into his hoodie and grabbed his back pack. “I just have one question, Ab.”
I turned and looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Zoey. Where did she get her name?”
“I…” I was unprepared to answer that. I bit my lip unexpectedly. “Evan liked it.”
“Hmm,” he answered, but I knew he was thinking it meant something else. He wasn’t far off. I braced for his next question, but it never came. Instead, he said, “Well, I’ll be off.”
“No,” Zoey said, her hand out to him.
He grasped it in his own, rubbing his finger over hers. “I have to go, Z, but if your mom lets me, I’ll be back.”
“You sure you won’t stay?” I said hesitantly. These were troubled waters, and I wasn’t sure if I was wading out too far. “I’d love to make you dinner sometime.”
He eyed me. “Is that a date?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t date soldiers.”
He stepped forward. “Why is that, exactly?”
I glanced up at the family portrait.
He retreated, smart enough to see my reasoning. “For Zoey’s sake, stay for dinner. Please.”
Sighing, he dropped his pack by the door. “Alright, you’ve got me. I need to call my mother and…what?”
I couldn’t stop laughing. I just couldn’t. The picture of his soft-spoken mother and her eyes lighting up that her third son was at a girl’s house; well, it was too much. Instead, I said: “You live with your parents now?”
He shrugged and pulled out his phone. “Nowhere else to go.”
“Mike? Randy?”
“Mike?” he laughed, firing off a text. “No way. Mike’s an asshole. Randy’s in college.”
“That’s right,” I said, remembering. I put Zoey down and she ran back to her puzzle. “Kelly?”
“Kelly’s out to sea until December, I think?”
“Hmm, alright.”
He punched in a number, and his quiet, unassuming mother answered on the first ring. “Mom? Yeah, I won’t be home for dinner.” He paused. “Abby’s Mom…yes, I’ll be home tonight. Seriously, Mom? Okay, I love you, too. See you tomorrow. Tonight! I’ll be home later!”
“Awkward,” I said, making my way to the kitchen.
Joey beat me there. “No less awkward than the mess in your freezer,” he said, pulling open the left-hand door to the fridge.
I was busy pulling out a few pots from the cupboard. “I always had the good notion to fill it on pay days. A throwback to our poorer days during grad school, when Evan was in the military.”
“Good thinking,” he mumbled. He pulled out a slab of pork chops and held them up. “This work?”
“Sure, and there’s some asparagus in the fridge, I think.”
“Ugh, no. Gross.”
“Mashed potatoes?”
“Better.”
“Potatoes!” Zoey yelled from the living room.
Joey popped the chops in the microwave to defrost and pulled potatoes out of the fridge. He tossed them to me: one, two, three, four. I caught every single one. “There’s beer,” I offered.
“I saw that. Ya mind?”
“Go ahead.”
He took one and popped the cap off, and held the bottle up, examining it. “German, huh?”
“Evan liked it. I got a taste for it.” I shrugged. We were doing a lot of talking about Evan. I wasn’t sure I was okay with that. It still hurt to talk about him, but my mother had been right—it did get easier with time. Just not by much.
“Evan was a good guy, at least that I remember. A little angry at times, maybe.”
You have no idea, I wanted to say. “You guys were on the team together in high school, right?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded. “That I do remember.”
“You were our favorite cheerleader.” He took a potato from me and started slicing it for the pot.
I laughed at that, and struck a pose, my hand on my hip. “With this body? I was never a cheerleader, Joey!”
His eyes roamed me from top to bottom. I wasn’t uncomfortable—hadn’t he done it a million times in high school?—but something about the way he stared—that hungry look. Oh, no. I’d seen it plenty before. I’d made a mistake.
I cleared my throat. “I’d better get Zoey,” I said lamely, and handed him the last potato.
I fetched Zoey from the couch where she was busy playing with a couple of dolls, and deposited her in her high chair, where I preoccupied her with some snacks.
Thawed pork roasting and the potatoes boiling, we found ourselves at the table, chatting about friends from high schools. I updated him on Sarah, who actually was a cheerleader, and how four kids and six years later, she definitely did not look like one anymore. He told me about Cole, who joined the Marines shortly after he did.
“I remember Cole. He loved pizza day in the cafeteria. What ever happened to him?”
Joey finished his second beer. “He, uh, he died.”
“Oh.” I swirled my own barely-touched glass bottle. “Was he shot?”
Joey half smiled. “Good lord, no. He had a heart attack.”
“What?” I looked up at him sharply. Behind us. Zoey was hitting her tray, demanding more food. I got up and poured the last of her snacks out. “How did that happen? He was a year younger than us!”
“You said it, he liked pizza.” He stood to check the food. “Unfortunate.”
I felt like crying. I didn’t even know Cole. But the thought that he was gone, like Evan, deeply disturbed me. The way that Joey could just, well, not even act like it happened bothered me even more. “How can you carry on like that? Wasn’t he your friend?” I said softly.
He turned and looked at me. “When it happens every damn day, it’s just another Tuesday in Fallujah.”
I looked back at Zoey, blissfully engorged with her snacks, too young to understand our conversation. “War is hell, I guess,” I offered.
He shrugged. “I lived.”
I said nothing.
“These are about done. Want to whip them up?”
“Sure,” I said, my head spinning from how quickly we had changed topics.
I set about the potatoes, while Joey entertained Zoey for a bit, who gleefully giggled at the faces he made when he stole, and promptly ate, her vegetable flavored rice puffs. She clapped her hands and begged, “Again, again!” and his actions were more dramatic every time.
I stood at the counter, the bowl of potatoes pressed to my stomach, as I whisked them smooth. I couldn’t help but laugh to see Joey moving around my kitchen, dancing like a monkey.
“Elephant!” Zoey called.
Joey set about making his arm into a nose and calling the most awful noises.
“That sounds nothing like an elephant!” I laughed.
He looked over his shoulder at me. “How do you know, Mom?”
“Yeah, Mom!” Zoey echoed him.
I shook my head and spooned the potatoes into a bowl for Zoey, then two plates for us. The pork was perfectly browned, and I slid them onto the plates as well.
Joey took his and sat next to Zoey, who clapped when I spread her bowl on the tray. Full of snacks, she began to draw in the potatoes with her pointer finger.
“Wow, that looks like fun,” Joey commented. “Can I try?” He leaned forward, and she painted his cheek with buttery, starchy mess.
I nearly choked on my bite and tossed him a napkin. “Oh, Lord,” I said, laughing as I tried to swallow.
He chuckled. “She’s a hoot, this one.”
“Hoot, hoot. Owl!” Zoey yelled, laughing.
We finished the rest of our meal, with Zoey and Joey going back and forth with animal sounds. Joey collected our plates and got out two more beers. I turned mine down and, rethinking, he poured us water into crystal tumblers instead.
We chatted for a few minutes, until I noticed Zoey starting to nod off. “I’d better get her cleaned up and ready for bed,�
�� I said, standing.
“I’d better go,” he started, then I saw his face as he changed his mind. He lightly grabbed my wrist. “Wait,” he said.
“What?” I said. “Do I have potato on my…”
He leaned in and kissed me.
Warm and savory, his soft lips pulsed into mine. A natural, long awaited kiss. Wow, he had gotten so much better than high school, when he was all teeth and tongue. I was in so much shock I didn’t pull away.
It was a quick kiss.
When he pulled away, I stood there, frozen.
“Abster? Say something.”
The use of my old nickname brought me spiraling back to life. Zoey was completely zonked out in her high chair behind him, and I focused on her. Nervously, I cleared my throat. “I think you’d better go,” I told him.
He eyed me, searching for something else. What, I didn’t know. “That’s it? You want me to go?”
“Yes!” I said harshly, controlling my voice as I hoisted Zoey from her seat. “You need to go.”
“Tell me that you…”
“Joey!” I was mad, now.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the first day I saw you walk into class.”
“I told you, I don’t date soldiers.”
He frowned. “I’m not a soldier. Not anymore.”
“You were,” I glared at him. “Now get out.”
Graciously, as I knew he would, he nodded to me, and grabbed his coat and pack at the door. “See you in class next week, professor.”
The door shut behind him, and I huffed for a few seconds before getting Zoey to bed. I touched my tongue to my lips. How could I tell him I’d liked it?
Chapter 5
Abby Girl: Last night was interesting.
Jo-Jo: You mean when the petting zoo broke and the goat raced around the fairgrounds, or what?
Abby Girl: The Ferris wheel, you idiot.
Jo-Jo: You’re always so mean. What about the Ferris wheel?
Abby Girl: You know. At the top.
Jo-Jo: When I yelled I’m at the top of the world?
Abby Girl: Joey!
Jo-Jo: What?
Abby Girl: You kissed me.
Jo-Jo: So I did.
Abby Girl: I liked it.
Jo-Jo: I know. Why do you think I did it?
Abby Girl: I’m not really sure. I’m not a cheerleader.
Jo-Jo: You’re my cheerleader.
I don’t know why those texts always stood out in my mind, especially as I trudged to school Monday morning. I’d been thinking a lot about Abby, especially the Abby I knew before now. I hadn’t heard a word from her over the weekend, but I hoped Zoey was feeling better—and that her mom wasn’t pissed as hell at me.
I plodded through a business class, jotting notes and doodling idly about corporation types as the professor lectured on. I snacked on granola—the only thing my poor ass could afford until that illustrious VA check kicked in in a few weeks—and hurried to my next class, Introduction to College Success. I tried hard to stay awake as the instructor passed out assessments, a pop quiz, and lectured us on the importance of setting goals and maintaining good motivation in college.
The clock crept closer to lunch, drawing me closer to Abby’s class. Despite how much she protested, I was in this for the long run.
Thinking about her methodical, often dry texts when we were in high school, I watched this new Abby stride into the room with that almost fake self-confidence she possessed. Eighteen-year-old Abby had been neither hot nor cold with me; always saying thank you, sorry, and okay, cool. Like the night of our first kiss, when she told me it was ‘great’. We never spoke about it again, and I didn’t try that stunt twice, because she had just shrugged and said it was ‘okay’. Back then, she didn’t have many great passions—including me—except history, which she could talk about at great length for hours.
I’ve only known this version for a week, but so far, twenty-six-year old Abby had transformed into a beautiful curvy woman who was twisted with all the anxious fears of adulthood; and parenthood, for that matter.
But God, was she as gorgeous as hell when she walked into my classroom. She wore a lacy, light orange dress today, ending at her knees, despite the freezing weather outside that still held hopes for a winter resurgence. Her legs shimmered lightly, evidence of pantyhose, which made me shift in my seat as I had to stretch my, uh…yeah. She even wore those flat shoes that nearly all the female teachers seemed to wear now—the kind you always see in billboards urging people to vote for some education bill or other. I slid into the farthest back seat next to Sam, who acknowledged me with a quick nod before turning back to his notebook.
“Jessica, George, Juan. Joey,” she took the roll, pausing when she got to my name and quickly rolling it out like it was a mistake. I didn’t miss the way her lip curled slightly, and it wasn’t downward.
She’s thinking about that kiss, I thought.
“Did I miss anyone?” She looked around the room expectantly.
A hand shot up in the corner. As a class, we all turned and looked. “Jason Kitchener,” he announced, crossing his arms over his chest.
He looked military. I could tell them from a mile away. That straight-backed lounge, the alert way he assessed the room, the confident stare he countered every single look with. He reminded me of Randy and practically oozed asshole right out of high school. They almost always did. Football career ended too soon, I decided. He looked like a jock; I would know.
“You know, they fucked up my registration,” he blurted, “I can’t believe this school.”
Abby frowned slightly as people in the class laughed but only nodded as she jotted something down and returned to her computer, ignoring his statement. I dismissed the way Jason humphed at her, his bad attitude clear when she wouldn’t argue with him. I didn’t care about some random student. I cared more about Abby.
You’re my cheerleader, I had told her all those years ago. She would never have the figure for one; for some reason, eighteen-year-old Joey had hated that. But after being around the world and being shot at, seeing her face in my mind and reading her words on paper and in emails for close to a decade, I realized she was my moral support. Better than being just a cheerleader.
She carried on the class, which started with the causes of the Civil War, her lively discussion of politics woven in with quips of her unique humor.
Dusting the dry-erase marks from her hands, she turned to us. “So, Buchanan, the fifteenth president, was kinda a tool, ya know? Why? Anyone?”
A girl in the front raised her hand. “He didn’t do anything about slavery.”
“Yes!” Abby smiled and gave her a thumbs up. “He stuck his head in the sand and refused to admit that anything was happening. In a way, he ushered America hurtling toward civil war; in fact, it was only a couple of weeks after Lincoln’s election that seven states declared succession.” She turned back to the board. She wrote a large word in quotes: Doughface. “The Northerners called him this, a slur meaning he was from the North but supported slavery. In four years, he divided the country more than his last five predecessors.”
“There’s nothing wrong with slavery,” the new guy, Jason, piped up. “We had to have someone to pick all that cotton.”
The class dropped silent, followed by a few gasps that echoed around the room.
Abby turned so quickly I could hear the swish of her skirt in the quiet. “Mr. Kitchener, being a college student requires an open mind. I’ll not tolerate hateful language in my classroom.”
I stared, as did half the class, our communal dare for him to answer her. I almost thought he would. He cleared his throat, adjusted his pants by pulling down at the knee, and resumed his cross-armed position. “Whatever.”
Abby cleared her throat, her voice gentler this time. “Please, next time, raise your hand with a question that contributes to class.” She turned back to the board and drew out a table with dates and locations.
Blinking, I shared a look
with Sam, who rolled his eyes at me. Army, he mouthed. I nodded curtly.
As Abby continued to talk about pre-Civil War America, a memory of one of our conversations was so crisp in my mind that as soon as she turned, I cleared my throat and shot my hand into the air. “Professor Years,” I started, not missing the way she slightly winced when I said it, “isn’t it true, however, that Lincoln himself was one of the main causes of the war, since he refused to negotiate with terrorists…oops, I mean the slave holding states?”
A few people in the class chuckled at that. It was a red herring, I knew, meant to fluster her.
Glaring at me briefly but flashing a smile, she turned back to the board and wrote Lincoln and Buchannan across the top, lines separating them both down the center of the board. She called out for comparisons and contrasts between the two leaders, and the classroom erupted into students fighting to provide the next answer. Even Sam’s hand lifted slowly, and Abby called on him first.
They’re loyal to her, I’ll give them that, I thought. Not even in high school had I seen a classroom so engaged like this.
It wasn’t hard to realize that Abby wasn’t just a good teacher; people liked her. She was friendly and supportive and always treated her students like they were the most awesome person in the room.
She wasn’t just my cheerleader, she was everyone’s. It made me smile to think since high school she’d turned that energy on her classroom. I wanted to take credit for it, but I knew I couldn’t. She’d had that in her all along.
When she was done with the chart on the board, she turned to us, glancing up the clock. “For the last fifteen minutes of class, free write your first journal entry for your final term portfolio. I’d like you to record in one or two paragraphs how impending war impacted the development of the United States from 1850-1859.”
A rustle of papers as people ripped lined sheets from notebooks and the clack of keys as some typed into their laptops or tablets filled the room. From the corner, Jason mumbled, “This is bullshit. It’s a history class, not a writing class.”
This time I could see Abby was mildly flustered, but she focused on the papers in front of her, homework form last week, which she preceded to hand around the classroom.
Abby's Promise Page 4