More Like Her (6 page)

“Mr. Sprague got into a fight with Mr. Stone. He attacked him in English class.”

“Harry is one hundred pounds soaking wet and goes to panels on how to learn the Vulcan language. Sean is a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound brute who slams soda cans into his forehead for fun. I assure you, this ‘fight’ has way more to it than you’re acknowledging.”

“No matter.”

“You’re going to have to walk me through how Harry having a black eye is ‘no matter.’ ”

“From what I’ve inferred Mr. Sprague provoked Mr. Stone, which then caused Mr. Sprague’s injuries,” Emma says, slipping on her glasses briefly to read the scribbled notes on an accident report.

“Provoked?” I ask, inching ever closer to the edge of my seat. Emma refers once again to her notes.

“When Mr. Stone threatened to throw Mr. Sprague’s backpack in the trash, Mr. Sprague ran to get Mr. Stone’s backpack from his workstation. Mr. Sprague then dropped Mr. Stone’s backpack out of the classroom window, saying, ‘How do you like that, you
effing penis-faced ape
?’ ” It takes everything I have to keep a straight face. I love that kid. Effing. Penis-faced. Ape. Emma takes her glasses off and looks up at me as if she’s just proven her case in court beyond a reasonable doubt. I breathe deep. Collect myself.

“What you’re describing is someone finally standing up to a renowned bully and then getting penalized for doing so.” Penalized. I can’t help myself.

“You’re arguing that his actions should be applauded?”

“Of course not, I’m not condoning violence, but it’s confusing to me why the reasons for the fight haven’t been discussed or looked into by you.”

“Mr. Sprague should not have provoked him.”

“I hope you’re not insinuating that Harry, in any way, asked for this beating.”

“In my opinion, and more importantly the opinion of the Markham School, Harry Sprague is to blame for this altercation.”

“I disagree. It’s well known that Sean Stone hits people. He’s just too Machiavellian to ever get caught. So, by your logic, and more importantly the logic of the Markham School, the inexperienced kids who finally stand up to their tormenters are the ones who deserve discipline?”

Emma is quiet. I’m beyond angry but more mystified. How could Emma’s take on this situation be so skewed? Bullying and pecking orders: middle school’s own lovely brand of Darwinism.

“Mr. Sprague shall be given a warning,” Emma finally says.

“Verbal only. This will not go into his record,” I say, scooting to the end of my chair.

“Fine.”

“And I’d like to request that we revisit Sean Stone’s ongoing behavioral issues at a later date,” I say.

“I’ll get back to you on that, Ms. Reid.”

“Thank you, headmistress.”

“You’re welcome.” Ha! I didn’t really mean it.

“Will there be anything else?”

“No, Ms. Reid.”

We are quiet.

Emma continues. “The board looks forward to meeting you and Mrs. Fleming at tonight’s head of department mixer.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, my eyes to the floor. Great.

“You don’t need to call me
ma’am
, Ms. Reid,” Emma says. She looks drained.

“Thank you, headmistress. I’ll take Mr. Sprague with me when I go, if this meets with your approval?” I ask. Standing. Straightening my skirt. Holding my temper. I will not scratch your eyes out, Emma Dunham. I will not blast “We Are the Champions” as I proclaim, “No one is ever going to be free until nerd persecution ends!” No. I will hold it together. For Harry. For the bullied. For nerds everywhere.

“Yes, that will be fine.” Emma lifts one of the files from her in-box and puts her glasses on once again. I look like a “before” picture in mine and she looks like one of the women in Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” video. Awesome.

“Good day, headmistress.”

“Please close the door behind you, Ms. Reid,” Emma says, not looking up. I walk the ever-elongating expanse to Emma’s door, becoming more and more upset. I can feel it building in my shoulders. My throat. I . . . I have to say something about this conversation to show that I am an effective leader in even the most pressing circumstances. To prove that I am the perfect person for the head of department job, not that I’m an insolent debater who overthinks everything. Before I go out the door, I whip around and find Emma, head in hands, hunched over at her desk. Her fingers are raking through her hair. Violent. Aggressive. Brutal.

I catch my breath and reach back for the door, hoping she hasn’t noticed me.

Emma lifts up her head. And I see a demon. A possessed woman. A deeply furrowed brow bordering on satanic, laser red-rimmed eyes and a mouth set in a hard line. Within a millisecond it flashes from recognition to pain to cool and collected. I give her a quick nod and let myself out, closing the door behind me.

“Is . . . uh . . . is everything good?” Harry asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, donning an easy smile and choosing not to correct his grammar.

“Oh . . . uh . . . ,” Harry says, looking around the office.

“Come on, sweetie,” I say, motioning for him to exit this hellish vortex of an office before Emma thinks better of it. Harry doesn’t question me as he quickly stands and shuffles out of the anteroom.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” I say to Dolores. Dolores doesn’t acknowledge or look up at me. The door shuts behind us as we walk down the hallway and toward the stairs. Harry trundles along, his hand holding the now dripping plastic bag of ice.

“Sweetie, you’ve got to keep the ice on your eye. It’ll start to swell,” I say, stopping and reapplying the bag to his delicate face. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, nonchalant. Easy. No big deal. Sharing your feelings is, you know . . . whatever, dude.

“Not really. Is that okay?” Harry asks, looking up at me through the overgrown brush of his blond bangs.

“It’s more than okay,” I say, having a hard time not getting emotional.

We are quiet.

I continue. “So, Sean Stone, huh?” I say, walking down the hallway. A smile curls across Harry’s pale face.

“
Kling akhlami buhfik
, Ms. Reid,” Harry says in perfect Vulcan.

“No, you’re right, Harry. Nobody is perfect,” I say at the base of the stairs.

“Frannie?” I look up. The sun streams in through the double glass doors at the end of the hall. The hard hat held loosely in one hand and the scrolls of blueprints in the other.

Sam.

“Hiya,” I say, my mouth going dry. Harry looks past his plastic bag filled with now melting ice from Sam to me. I see Sam inventory Harry’s eye. Sam offers a warm smile, tucks the blueprints tight under his arm and extends his hand to Harry. In the millisecond Sam’s eyes flick to me, I see the tiniest of imperceptible acknowledgments that Harry’s eye will be handled with diplomacy.

“Sam Earley,” he says, shaking the boy’s noodle arm with vigor.

“Harry Sprague,” he says behind his plastic bag.

“Nice to meet you, Harry,” Sam says, letting go of the boy’s tiny hand.

“Sam, this is my star pupil, Master Harry Sprague,” I say. Harry and I have been working on introductions and how to greet people for years.

“Nice to meet you, Harry,” Sam says.

“Where are you from?” Harry asks . . .
blurts
really.

“Tennessee,” Sam says, smiling.

“You talk funny,” Harry says.

“I know,” Sam says, looking from Harry to me. Smiling.

“
Harry
,” I say gently.

“Don’t you worry, Frannie,” Sam says with a quick wink to Harry.

“The correct way to say it is ‘You
speak
funny,’ ” I say.

“Ha!” Sam laughs.

“I’m quite fond of Mr. Earley’s accent,” I say, flushing immediately.

Sam looks at me. A smile. Flipping wildly through my slide show of Sam Earley smiles, I realize this is one I had yet to see.

I say to Harry, “Come on, sweetie. We’ve got work to do. Say good-bye to Mr. Earley.”

“Bye, Sam,” Harry says, resituating the plastic bag filled with ice. I lay my hand on Harry’s shoulder and guide him over to the stairs. Harry begins up the stairs.

“You’ll tell me later about the eye?” Sam asks, his hand reaching out just a bit.

“It’s a long story that ends in me tilting at windmills,” I say, trying to joke about a situation about which I’m still equal parts confused and enraged.

“That’s my girl,” Sam says, scanning the hallway.

Um, what?

“Yeah, well,” I say, looking from Sam to a very curious Harry. I motion to Harry with an apologetic smile and a wave.

Sam waves back. Standing where he was. Unmoving. I look back and give him a smile. A little wave.

He raises his hand, the hard hat held aloft.

Ouuuuuuuuch.

Chapter 6
I Was Pretty Good, Too

T
hat’s my girl’? What’s that supposed to mean?” Jill asks.

“I have no idea,” I answer. Truthfully. So begins the exhausting analysis of the cavalcade of unknowable smiles and cryptic sentences uttered by someone you’re newly interested in. When everything boils down to a succession of enigmatic moments. Moments played and replayed from the perspective you attribute to your lover-to-be, but that are actually from the part of you that’s sure you’re far too flawed to be loved. Every action, every word, every inch of one’s body is judged. Life’s normal fluidity melts away and is obliterated by the roller-coaster-like ups and downs of a really bad electrocardiogram.

Jill and I walk quickly up the long driveway to Emma’s house that night for the head of department mixer. We stop short of the house and take it in. Jill pulls out her phone and takes a quick picture. Emma and Jamie’s house is a midcentury modern. Two stories, lots of windows and clean lines. You can see the entire interior of the house from the driveway. No privacy at all. The minimalist staircase leading upstairs and the orange lacquered credenza and pair of Barcelona chairs that grace the main entryway are all clearly visible from the driveway.

“There better be wine,” Jill whispers just as the front door opens. I shoot her the first of many disapproving glances of the evening.

It’s Jamie.

“Hi, it’s so good seeing you again,” I say, extending one hand to Jamie as I’m holding a ridiculously expensive bottle of red wine with a name I can’t pronounce in the other.

“Jamie Dunham,” he says, his icy fingers curling around mine.

“Yes, I know. We’ve met,” I say, passing him the bottle of wine.

“I know,” he says.

“Good,” I say, looking into the living room.

“Jill Fleming,” Jill says, passing Jamie a hostess gift: a basket containing far too many decorative soaps, bath salts and lotions.

“Jamie Dunham,” he says, opening the door just enough to let us both walk in. He sets Jill’s basket in the hallway and takes my red wine over to the bartender.

As usual, everyone is milling around the living room and not eating a thing. The bow-tied waiters thread through cliques of people with full trays from which no one partakes. A perfectly catered fete and no one is touching the beautiful food. Welcome to L.A. But, of course, everyone’s wineglasses are constantly being topped off. That’s something we certainly don’t skimp on. Carbs—sure. Wine—
never
.

“Sam might have a woman back in Tennessee,” Jill says, taking a crab cake off a full tray.

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” I say, waving off the waiter.

Jill nods. An apologetic smile and a quick shoulder squeeze. She’s deftly treading water between giving me a pep talk and keeping my emotions in check just in case this whole Sam thing goes south. She has to prepare for the possibility of both outcomes this early on.

I continue. “It’s such a catch-22. I have to allow myself to be vulnerable in order to be open to something, but being vulnerable to him opens me up to getting hurt.” Tears sting my eyes. You’re at the head of department mixer, Frannie. Lock it up.

Jill can’t contain herself. “Maybe I can ask if Martin has some—”

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“How can you stand there and talk about other setups?” I ask.

“I’m not understanding,” Jill says.

“You talking about other setups makes me think that you think that this whole thing with Sam is over. That I’m—”

Jill interrupts. “Makes you think that I think . . . what are you talking about right now? I want you to be happy. If another dude makes you happy, then Sam can take a long walk off a short pier is all I’m saying.” Jill’s voice is quiet and intense. She’s serious. For once in her life. And I should be listening. I get it. I’m the queen of putting all my eggs in one basket. I always had the fear of only having one batch of eggs and one basket. Everything’s more precious when you think there’s no hope of more. Saved voice mails. Treasured notes scrawled on the backs of envelopes. Always being on hand for fear that I wouldn’t be there on the day he decided to proclaim his undying love for me. I’m afraid everything about me is fleeting.

Jill continues. “So, we’ll just play the whole setup thing by ear then?” She squeezes me close.

“That’s Jill Code,” I say, waving down the waiter again. I better eat something if I’m going to continue drinking like this.

“For lining up a rebound fuck, yes. Most assuredly—”

“Ms. Reid? Mrs. Fleming.” Emma Dunham.

“Oh, for crissakes,” Jill says under her breath. We straighten up.

“Yes, Headmistress Dunham,” I say, shoulders back, head high.

“Headmistress, I’m—” Jill starts.

“Mrs. Fleming, I don’t need an explanation. It seems you’re catching on however—at least you’re not in a public hallway during Back-to-School Night. One has to acknowledge the little victories,” Emma says, giving the smallest of smiles. She is beyond dazzling. Her blond hair is sleek and falls in a Veronica Lake–style wave down the right side of her perfectly sculpted face. She has more makeup on than usual, but it only amplifies her already glorious features. She’s wearing a simple light pink, sleeveless shift dress and a pair of silver Grecian sandals. Effortless, stunning and completely beyond anything I’d ever consider wearing.

“That’s right!” Jill says, guffawing.

“Thank you so much for having us. Such a lovely home,” I say, shaking her hand.

“Thank you. The board is anxious to speak with you two. We’re all so happy to have you,” Emma says, her eyes flitting from group to group, from Jill to me, from Jamie to the kitchen. She’s in complete control. Emma pulls over a well-heeled couple. “Jill Fleming, this is Mr. and Mrs. Murphy. Please.” Emma puts them together like an awkward pair of teenagers at a Sadie Hawkins dance. They fall into conversation easily. Weather. Markham. The usual.

“I want to thank you again for the invitation and the opportunity to be considered for the head of the speech therapy department,” I say.

“Frannie, you earned it, you don’t have to keep thanking me,” Emma says.

“I guess it’s about you believing in me then. It means a lot,” I say.

“You’re funny,” Emma says, smiling. Her smile is beautiful . . . and rare.

“How am I funny?” I feel like Joe Pesci.

“It’s just . . . your résumé is impressive, your educational background and work ethic are just as stellar, of course you’re in the running,” Emma says, taking a sip of her white wine.

“Did you always want to work in school administration?”

“Of course not.” Emma laughs. Another drink of her wine. I believe Emma Dunham is getting a bit tipsy. Jill and her duo of board members cackle with laughter. Jill is telling one of her stories. They’re riveted. The job is as good as hers anyway, so why not just wow the board while you’re at it? Not that I’m jealous. It’s just complex, right?

Emma continues. “I wanted to be a painter. I was pretty good, too.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Emma takes another drink and scans the house quickly. Efficiently. “It just wasn’t in the cards.”

I am quiet. Emma senses my trepidation. She continues. “My parents had a very clear plan for me. Rebellion was my sister’s full-time occupation, not mine.”

“That tends to be the case.”

“You have sisters?”

“No.”

“So, hypothetically speaking?”

“Yeah . . . um, yes, hypothetically speaking.”

“Clara, my sister, is the artist of the family. That’s quite enough for my parents.”

“What does Jamie think of your painting?”

“He wants what’s best for me. What challenges me. Academia offered me a respectable future and a very real career as well as . . . No, Clara paints. She’s happy and . . .” Emma laughs the tiniest, most intimate little giggle and continues. “She was always the one who questioned our parents. She questioned everything . . . she was so . . . wild. So strong willed. I loved her for that. She was always the stronger of the two of us.” Another drink and a little sway.

“I imagine it took a certain degree of strength to become the first female head of school at Markham. I don’t think they’re handing that title out to many weaklings.”

“True.”

“Have you ever thought about getting back into it? Taking some art classes?”

“Every day.” Emma doesn’t hesitate.

We are quiet.

Emma continues. “I simply don’t have the time. And I love my job at Markham, don’t get me wrong.”

“Well, at least you can live somewhat vicariously through Clara,” I say, offering the worst argument in the history of arguments.

“Clara and I haven’t spoken in quite some time, I’m afraid.”

Shit.

“That’s too bad,” I say.

“It really is.” Emma is suddenly distant.

Shit.

I scan the photos along the mantel as the awkward silence expands between us.

“And is this your dog?” I ask, pointing at a candid photo of an elegant, poised Weimaraner with a red collar, ice-blue eyes and floppy ears.

Emma’s face lights up; she grabs the silver frame in such a way that I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she clutched the photo to her chest and spun about the room.

“John Henry. He’s . . . he’s our baby.
My
baby.” Emma sighs, her entire face changing. Softness, dropping any and all professional airs.

“Must be hard to walk with that hammer in his paw.”

“I’m sorry?”

“John Henry? The folk hero? Challenged the steam hammer?”

“Oh, of course. Jamie named him. He always loved the symbolism: working class, dying with your hammer in your hand after conquering the establishment. Of course, now I don’t even think about the folktale. John Henry is just my baby now.”

“He’s beautiful,” I say.

“Thank you,” Emma says, setting the frame back down on the mantel.

“Where is he now?” I ask.

“We put him in his crate for the evening. All the guests. Jamie thought it’d be best,” Emma says, looking pained.

“That makes sense,” I say.

“I hate that he’s not here. He’s my . . . he’s my everything. Embarrassing, right?” Emma blushes slightly. A small smile.

“No way. Are you kidding? At least you have a dog. I’ve always been too scared. I just . . . I just know I’ll outlive them and I . . . ugh . . .”

“Well, that’s not going to be a problem for me,” Emma says.

“Oh, well—”

Emma cuts in with a conspiratorial whisper. “John Henry is immortal, so . . .”

“Ha!” I say, laughing, caught off guard by Emma’s wry humor.

The laughter subsides. Silence. Again.

“May I use your restroom?” I ask.

“Sure, up the staircase and to the left,” Emma says, pointing me in the right direction. She lays her hand on my shoulder as I pass. Gentle. Affectionate. I give her a quick smile. I motion to Jill that I’m heading upstairs. She gives me a nod of understanding and falls back into conversation with the now large group of board members who are hanging on her every word. Great.

I walk up the stairs and to the left, just as directed. Emma watches me as I climb. I look down and realize that if someone were standing beneath the staircase they would be able to see directly up my skirt. I grab the bottom of my skirt and hurry up the stairs.

“In a hurry?”

“What?”

Ryan.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m the head of the history department. Remember?” Ryan says, taking a long swig of his beer.

“Are you already drunk?” I ask, eyeing the bathroom.

“Maybe.”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea in the world.”

“Shocking. You’re thinking about something.”

“Okay, well. This has been nice, but—”

“I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry,” Ryan says, grabbing my arm.

“What are you doing?” I ask, looking from his hand and back to him. He quickly lets go.

“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I don’t want you to be mad at me,” Ryan says, slurring just slightly.

“I don’t want me to be mad at you either,” I say honestly.

“Then don’t.”

“Okay. Noted. Good talk,” I say, patting his shoulder and taking a few steps toward the bathroom.

“You’re making this way more complicated than it has to be, you know? We can just move on. Be happy with other people and just . . . go back to the way it was before we started dating. Friends. Can’t we do that?”
Friend
. How can such a seemingly lovely word also be one of the most reviled? At times I’ve thought that I would rather have someone hate me than “just want to be friends.”

“You mean go backward?”

“No, forward.”

“You just said that you wanted it to be the way that it was, meaning that it was a time in the past. You’re the head of the history department; surely you understand that concept. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“Ugh. Just . . . never mind,” Ryan says, steadying himself on the banister.

“Why don’t you go find Jessica and maybe a cup of coffee,” I say. I can’t make out what Ryan says in reply, but I know it’s mean. I can hear the bile beneath the slurred words. Tears spring up before I even know what’s happening. I notice Jill watching us from the ground floor. I see her zero in on Ryan just as he gets to the bottom of the stairs. She excuses herself from the group of board members and pulls Ryan aside. Her gesticulations are violent and her words are hushed yet passionate. Ryan is nodding; she grabs his arm, tugging him closer. I need to get somewhere private and fast.

My throat is choking closed and I’m thankful for my proximity to the bathroom. Once inside, I close and lock the door. The sounds of the party just downstairs are muffled and far away. And in the solace of this bathroom I allow myself to cry.

We can just move on
. Ryan’s words echo as I try to regain some kind of composure. I thought I’d have some post-breakup epiphany where I’d all of a sudden be this whole other person. Strong. Sure. Secure. But that’s not what this is. I feel cold and confused.

I splash cold water on my face over and over again. Wake up, Frannie. Wake up. I dry my face with a monogrammed guest towel and begin the long process of reapplying the mascara that is apparently going to be my plus-one for the evening.