More Like Her (11 page)

As Sam’s headlights light up in my rearview mirror, I hate that tomorrow, instead of tales of a night of passionate sex and cooing whispers of newfound love, I’m going to have to tell Jill and Lisa that tonight ended the same way all the others have: driving home alone. Wondering what I did wrong. Sam’s headlights dim and fade as he pulls out of Jill and Martin’s driveway and out into the night. He’s gone. And I’m here. And there’s never been anything more unfair in the entire history of the world.

As I drive home, I have that old sinking feeling. I’ve been overly available, sickeningly sweet and forever enabling all in the name of being “liked.” I’ve compromised myself. I’ve suffered fools, idiots and dullards. I’ve gone on far too many dates with men because I felt guilty that they liked me more than I liked them. I’ve fallen deeply and madly in love with men I’ve never met just because I thought they looked “deep.” I’ve built whole futures with men I hardly knew; I’ve planned weddings and named invisible children based on a side glance. I’ve made chemistry where there was none. I’ve forced intimacy while building even higher walls. I’ve been alone in a two-year relationship. I’ve faked more orgasms than I can count while being comfortable with no affection at all. I wouldn’t know the first thing about my own pleasure.

As I drive down Lake Avenue in a haze, I realize I have to make a decision right here and now. Do I go back to the sliver of a person I was before or do I, despite whatever bullshit happened tonight, hold on to this . . . this authenticity? If I go back to the way I was before tonight, I’ll have to compromise myself, follow rules with men who have none, hold my tongue, be quiet and laugh at shitty jokes. I have to never be challenged, yet be called challenging when I have an opinion or, really, speak at all. I’ll never be touched by someone and get goose bumps again. I’ll never be outside of myself. I’ll never let go. I’ll never lose myself. I’ll never know what real love is—both for someone else and for me. I’ll look back on this life and wish I could do it all over again.

As I sit at the red light at Orange Grove, gnawing on my fingernails and unable to focus on anything, I finally see the consequences of that life.

The path more traveled only led to someone else’s life: an idealized, saturated world of white picket fences and gingham tablecloths. A life where the Real Me is locked away in an oubliette with nothing but bread and water in which to live. Sure, I had a plus-one and a warm body in my bed, but at what price?

No. No matter how awkward and painful this gets, I can’t go back.

The light turns green.

Chapter 9
The Catalyst

M
y apartment feels even colder as I toss and turn in bed that night. I get up in the middle of the night and slip some wool socks on, hoping they will stem the frigid tide. Nothing. The sheets feel like an ice floe and my skin just can’t get warm. I’m exhausted and inexplicably smell of pizza and abandonment. I flip onto my other side and thank god the upcoming week is a busy one. I just won’t think about it. Him. I won’t think about him. Sam. Nope.

I DON’T STOP AT
the breezeway and ogle Sam the next day. Or the day after that. I can’t hear another pep talk from Jill and/or Lisa. And I certainly won’t think about the promotion I probably didn’t get based on my snooping and then getting into a slight altercation among the headmistress’s toiletries. No, this week is all about smoke and mirrors. Authentic smoke and mirrors, but smoke and mirrors nonetheless. It’s now Wednesday.

Jill barrels through the door of our office. She’s already pissed and midsentence. “That hag in the front office? You know the one . . . with the hair? I was eating a bag of trail mix and she stops everything and says, ‘Oooh, I wish I could eat like you!’ clearly insinuating that I’m so fat that I no longer care about watching what I eat.” Jill slumps into her office chair and rests her hands on her nonexistent belly. Just rests them there.

“Or that you eat really healthy and she doesn’t,” I say.

“Unlikely!” Jill yells. She heaves a big sigh and continues. “So, are we fudge packing tonight after the party?” Jill asks.

I just hang my head.

Jill clarifies. “You know, making fudge for Friday? For the booth?”

“Oh, I know what you meant.”

“Well?”

“Sure, that sounds good. At your place?”

“Yeah, totally.” Jill is now standing and looking at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of our shared office door. From the side. From the front. From the side. She is smoothing her Lilly Pulitzer shift dress down and down and down. A rolled eye. A look of disgust and she finally slumps back down into her office chair.

She opens her desk drawer and pulls out a sandwich bag filled with trail mix. She offers the now-open bag to me. Jill swirls her chair around—obstructing the full-length mirror and the offending reflection.

“Can we start walking around the Rose Bowl? Like . . . this Sunday?” Jill says as I take a handful of trail mix from her. The Rose Bowl is not only a world-class stadium, but for locals it and the surrounding roads serve as a gathering place for recreational activities of all kinds. The bike path covers a distance of three miles from Seco Street up to Washington Boulevard with the actual Rose Bowl Stadium at its center. It’d almost give us enough time to catch up on the happenings of the week.

“Sure, that sounds good,” I say, trying not to play into whatever emergency Jill thinks is happening with her body.

We are quiet.

I continue on the thinnest of ice. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Fiiiiine,” Jill says, her teeth grinding.

“Yeah, you sound fine,” I say.

“I’m just . . . I want to get this stupid day over with, get through this lame-ass birthday party and then we’ll fudge-pack tonight. I’m just really looking forward to fudge packing,” Jill says, shoving another handful of trail mix in her mouth.

“You would literally do anything just to keep saying
fudge packing
,” I say, heading out for a full day.

“Damn skippy,” Jill says as I step into the hallway.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jill says, joining me.

Jill and I walk toward the teachers’ lounge and, in so doing, bring my streak of “no breezeway ogling of Sam” to a very abrupt halt. I “innocently” look out from the breezeway and take in the construction site just to the left of the school’s parking lot. A dirt lot alive and humming with different trucks I recognize only from their Tonka counterparts. Caution tape, red webbing and building supplies form a makeshift obstacle course at the dirt lot’s fringes. Men wearing hard hats swarm around with tool belts and shoulders heavy with stacks of wood. At its center is Sam. He’s wearing a hard hat and pointing at the large dirt expanse, surrounded by a group of construction workers. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, exposing the blond wheat field of hair and tan skin I had yet to see until now. A scroll of blueprints is tucked tight under his other arm. His white-blond hair is ruffling in the early morning wind. Ouchhhhh.

“Stop staring,” Jill says.

“It’s just not fair,” I say, tearing my gaze away.

The group of construction workers gathers around Sam. He pulls the blueprints from under his arm and smooths them on the ground at his feet. He squats down. They quickly follow. One last look down at the construction site just as Sam nods at the group of construction workers and begins rolling up the blueprints.

“Come on. Coffee,” Jill says.

I continue on down the hall. I won’t look down at the construction site again. I won’t. My head turns of its own volition. Sam is standing in the same position; this time, however, he’s turned around—his hand over his eyes shielding them from the sun—staring right at me. He raises his hand, his eyes squinting into the sun. It’s not a wave, really. It’s more of an . . . acknowledgment. I put up my hand. And we stand there, hands raised. Jill stands by helplessly, able only to watch in horror as I, with my hand aloft, look like I’m protesting oppression at the 1968 Mexico Olympics.

“You need to walk away, Frannie. Frannie? You need to walk away,” Jill says, her mouth not moving, like she’s a ventriloquist.

“Okay . . . okay . . . ,” I say, my hand lowering.

“Leave him wanting more,” Jill says, giving Sam a wave and smile. Sam takes a few steps toward the school, but once I continue on toward the teachers’ lounge I can see that he’s stopped. His shoulders lower. Someone calls his name. He turns. It’s over. Jill gives me a sympathetic smile as the doors close behind me. I’ve seen him since that night by the Ferrari. It’s over. And I survived. I didn’t hurl myself over the breezeway railing. I held it together and now I’m here.
Know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em.

All the bravado in the world won’t mask the haunting feeling that while Sam may have been important, he might be just a catalyst. Someone who made me see how I was living my life but who won’t be a part of the life he had a hand in creating. I don’t think I get to keep him. He’s the adorable puppy you find roaming the streets, only to have to pass him on to a pigtailed child later as proof that you understand the real power of love.

I know I’m desperate when I start using words like
catalyst
.

The morning fades away in a blur and surviving the day becomes my singular focus. I’ve shifted into high gear, pulling students, talking and laughing with Jill, sitting in on a lengthy Individualized Education Program meeting—or an IEP to the cool kids. And after a full day, I knock on Jill’s door and peek my head in. It’s almost time for Emma’s birthday cake and ice cream in the teachers’ lounge. I figure if we get there early, we can leave early and I’ll have made it through the longest day ever. One that’s been heavy with epiphanies and rebellions. Kaylee and Jill look up from the desk where they’ve been busy at work.

“It’s almost time,” I say as the last bell of the day sounds.

“Yep,” Jill says, giving Kaylee a quick nod. Kaylee begins to pack up her stuff.

“Do you want me just to meet you over there?” I ask, giving the little girl’s white-blond hair a tousle as she squeezes past me in the doorway. She giggles and skips down the hall.

“I can’t believe we have to go to this thing,” Jill says, packing away all of her supplies.

“I know,” I say, stepping inside.

“Martin and the rest of the architects are going to be there. Thought it would look good in front of staff. Wanted to warn you,” Jill says.

“Why are you talking like a telegram? ‘Sam might be in vicinity. Stop. Hold yourself together, spinster. Stop.’ ”

“Stop doing that. Stop.”

“That wasn’t really the correct usage of that. Stop.”

Jill just sighs. A long, weary sigh.

“Fine,” I finally say.

“Remember, we’re—”

“I know,” I say, cutting her off.

“We’re fudge packing after,” Jill says, finishing with a flourish. She picks up the phone and continues. “Let me make a quick call first.”

“Who are you going to call?” I ask.

“Ghostbusters.”

“Nice. But really.”

“I’ll tell you later on tonight . . . you know, when we’re fud—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Fine, I’ll save you a section of the wall,” I say, closing the door. Kids straggle out of classrooms and run through halls like little bats out of hell, late for buses and parents. They’d probably think that cliché is quite accurate given the circumstances. I tell kids to slow down, I’ll see them tomorrow, and to make sure to check their homework online. I get nary a reply—well, not counting eye rolls.

“Frannie? Frannie?” Emma glides across the hallway as if on a cloud. Her body is elegantly poured into matching black separates with pops of tasteful gold jewelry glistening under the neon lights. Lights that make me look like Edward Munch’s
The Scream
. She is, once again, wearing impossibly high-heeled stilettos that would be more at home on a catwalk than the crowded hallways of a private school.

“Would you mind taking a second before the festivities?” Emma asks, motioning for us to stop and chat among the buzz of the quickly emptying hallways.

“Not at all,” I say, my stomach dropping. I want to blurt out that I needed a tampon that night in her bathroom but reconsider. That might not be where this conversation is going, so it’s maybe not the best idea to lead with that.

“I wanted to have a quick follow-up regarding Mr. Sprague,” Emma says.

“Oh?” I ask.

“I’ve asked around and have found that your evaluation of Mr. Stone was correct. He is quite the bully.”

“I know.”

“I understand that it looks like I was being mulish and not seeing the boys in a clear light. Clearly Mr. Stone is much bigger than Harry, but in my experience bullies come in all shapes and sizes.” Emma is calm and collected. And way cool apparently.

“I love that you look at every child on a case-by-case basis,” I say truthfully.

We are quiet.

Emma continues. “There have been significant studies done on bullying in the last few years and I have decided to focus on the needs of the victim here at Markham. It’s a method that began in Scandinavia—I’m sure you don’t want to know all the boring details, but it basically boils down to a switch in what, or rather whom, we focus on. While it is usually the case that staff focuses on the why of a bully—why does he/she feel the need to victimize—it is my feeling that while we’re offering a kind ear to the bully, the victim’s needs go unmet. Mr. Stone knows the difference between right and wrong without a discussion with me about whatever deficiency might have caused such chronic lapses in judgment. I feel the concern needs to be for Mr. Stone’s victims. I’ve extended the use of Pamela Jackson’s psychology services to any and all students who come forward—privately, of course—as victims of Mr. Stone or, for that matter, anyone’s bullying.”

I am speechless.

Emma continues. “I defer to you as to Harry.”

“In what capacity?”

“Do you think he needs to speak with Pamela regarding bullying?”

“I honestly don’t know. I could ask him about it,” I say.

“That would be lovely.”

“He’s kind of a quiet kid.”

“A bully wouldn’t pick on someone who spoke up, now, would they, Ms. Reid?”

“I suppose not.”

“That’s what needs to change.”

“I agree.”

We are quiet.

I say, “Thank you.”

“For?”

“You’ve really done some serious research. It’s going to make a huge impact on a lot of lives. A lot of little lives. I wish someone had been so thoughtful when I was in school.”

I am quiet. Emma waves hello to an excited throng of teachers on their way to the lounge. She lets them know she’ll be there in a second. Happy birthday, they say. She thanks them.

“Well, you’re welcome, Ms. Reid,” she finally says, her voice quiet and touched. “I have also taken disciplinary action against Mr. Stone. Probation from the lacrosse squad, weekly assessments, etc. . . .”

“Thank you.”

“I would hope that you would pass along my apologies to Harry.”

“Apologies are certainly not necessary. He used violence to solve a problem and you were correct to bring him in.”

“Most assuredly, but I was incorrect in my assessment that it was, in any way, his fault.”

“I agree.”

“What time is it?” Emma asks, picking up her pace.

“You can’t be that late if you’re the birthday girl, right?” I say.

“I got caught on a phone call. My husband’s going to be a bit late,” Emma says as we bob and weave through the crowded breezeway. Must be an emergency on the Internet where he works. Extension student in need of an emergency comma consult? Short-story idea that just can’t wait? Thwart another party guest snooping in his en suite bathroom? The mind reels.

I am quiet. Nodding.

Emma continues. “One more thing, Ms. Reid. This may not be the best time, but I’ve decided to give the head of department position to you rather than Mrs. Fleming. You were the obvious choice in not only my eyes but the board’s, as well as the other heads of department. It was unanimous.” Emma extends her hand. She is smiling. She’s excited. She was looking forward to telling me this.

“I’m stunned,” I say. The job is mine.
The job is mine
. But if the job is mine that means that it is not Jill’s.

“Thank you, Emma,” I say, extending my hand to her.

“You’ve earned it,” Emma says, giving my arm a squeeze. Can I hug her? Do we hug? Is . . . I lean in—maybe it’s a lunge, I can’t think about that now—and give Emma a tight hug. The gathering teachers in the hallway smile, gawk and sneer depending on their place in the pecking order. Emma hugs me back.

“Thank you . . . This means more to me then you’ll ever know,” I say, unable to stop saying thank you.