Not So Nice Guy
Page 42
The rest of the afternoon drags on forever. By the time 3:05 rolls around, I’ve chewed my nails down to sharp daggers and have stress-eaten the second piece of cake I stole from the lounge on my way out. I feel jittery from all the sugar.
Ian and I walk into the PTA meeting with Principal Pruitt by our side. I wish I were wearing a helmet or armor. I have no clue what to expect: angry scowls? Pitchforks? Rotten tomatoes? I swiftly remove my delicate scarf, just in case.
In reality, we walk in to find Mrs. O’Doyle sitting at the front of the classroom with her arms crossed. A self-righteous scowl mars her face—though, from the deep set of those wrinkles, that might just be what she looks like normally. I don’t think her smiling-related facial muscles have been utilized since the early 90s.
Meanwhile, all the other PTA parents are hovering around the snack table in the back of the classroom, picking their way through nuts and what looks to be a plethora of homemade cookies, macadamia chocolate chip if my nose doesn’t deceive me. If it goes as planned, I’ll grab a fistful of them on my way out. If things turn south, I’ll take the whole damn tray.
Mrs. O’Doyle’s eyes follow me into the room, but she doesn’t offer any greeting. Two seats are marked with little reserved signs at the front of the classroom and I realize they’re for Ian and me when Principal Pruitt tells us to have a seat. Oh, I get it: this is a trial. Mrs. O’Doyle is the judge, jury, and executioner. Ian and I are destined for the guillotine.
I check for a scythe near her feet, but instead I find bright orange wedges. I did not see that coming. How can someone so pissy enjoy such bright footwear?
“I hereby call this PTA meeting to order!” she says, banging a wooden gavel against the desk. She looks like she’s pretty comfortable with that thing. I bet if I looked closely, I’d find that it’s engraved and everything. She sleeps with it under her pillow and takes it with her into the shower. “The first order of business is the discussions of last week’s Whipped Cream-gate.”
That gets everyone’s attention. The crowd around the snack table disperses as everyone vies for a good seat.
“Mrs. O’Doyle, this incident is not on the level of Watergate. Let’s not make this more tedious than it needs to be,” Principal Pruitt demands. “I only brought Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher here so we might clear up a few things and move on.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher?” asks a PTA mom beside me, mouth full of cookie. “I thought the whole issue was that they weren’t married?”
There’s a chorus of disgruntlement. These people came for a show and now they feel deprived.
“Yeah! What gives?”
“ORDER! ORDER IN MY COURTROO—I MEAN, CLASSROOM!” Mrs. O’Doyle shouts, banging her gavel so hard I hold my hands up to protect my face in case it splinters. “What do you mean, Mr. and Mrs.?”
Principal Pruitt sighs and turns to us, like, Well, get on with it. With glee, I hold up my ringed finger like I’m flipping her off. If I were Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting, I’d toss in, How ’bout them apples?
“No!” Mrs. O’Doyle’s face crumples. “A sham marriage—you can’t! Surely there’s something in the teacher handbook about this. Principal Pruitt this cannot, must not, will not stand. Teachers can’t go around canoodling and then getting married just to escape consequences. I will take this all the way to the highest court in the land—THE SCHOOL BOARD!”
He chuckles. “The board has reviewed the incident as well as the district policies. So far, the only judgement they’ve handed down is one of congratulations.”
“So what about their probation?!” She’s red-faced now.
“It’s over as of today.”
“Because they got hitched?” Angry spittle spews from her mouth. “I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!”
I stifle a laugh. Might be, lady. Check your prescription.
“All right, now that that’s cleared up,” a parent shouts from the back of the room, “can we move on to the issues with the single-file carpool lane? I shouldn’t have to wait in line for nearly forty-five minutes just to pick my kid up.”
“Yeah!” a chorus of parents agree.
“Also, what about our end-of-year fundraiser for the softball team?!” another parent demands.
Our trial is over. Principal Pruitt gets our attention with a small wave and tilts his head toward the door. It’s time to scram. We did our part by showing up, and I didn’t even have to apologize.
“Do you think I can take a cookie?” I ask Ian under my breath as we stand.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder like he’s worried I might give it a go. “I think O’Doyle made them. Better not push our luck.”
I sigh like I was afraid he’d say that.
“I’ll get you something on the way home. C’mon.”
A perky soccer mom with a blonde ponytail and a pearly white smile reaches for my arm, intercepting me before I reach the door. “Hey, I was going to tell you…” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Between us girls, if you’re into whipped cream, you really ought to try some chocolate sauce warmed up just a little—not too hot though.” She winces. “Learned my lesson the hard way with that one, ha! Oh, by the way, I think you teach my son—Nicholas?”
Oh JESUS.
I run-walk the hell out of there.
24
S A M
Ian has a soccer game today, and I’m in attendance as always. Things are back to normal. The throngs of young, hot female teachers have moved on to the lacrosse game taking place a few fields over. If I squint, I can see their cleavage and orange slices. Oak Hill High just hired a new lacrosse coach from LA. He’s tan, and cute, and allegedly went on three dates with one of the stars from Vanderpump Rules. Ian is old news—my old news.
The soccer stands are pretty empty, just me and a few parents. I thought about remaking my GO IAN signs, but instead, I had a shirt printed. It has a large screen-printed picture of Oak Hill’s mascot and beneath that, in big, black typeface, it reads COACH’S WIFE. It lacks subtly, but then again, so do I.
Ian laughed when I showed it to him last night.
“I don’t have to wear it,” I said. I mean, it was kind of a joke.
But he shook his head, smile plastered wide. “No. Wear it.”
I had it strategically hidden under my sweater all day. If Nicholas had seen it, he would have spiraled. He still thinks he and I are destined for one another someday.
“I guess I understand that you need someone to bide your time with until I’m old enough.”
A shadow falls over me and I glance up to see Ashley making her way down the line of bleachers in my direction. I brace for the worst. After all, she’s all but been inducted into the Freshman Four (Five?). Maybe she’s here to do their bidding. I check her hands for knives and find them empty. There’s a chance I’m being a tad bit dramatic. I don’t think murderers coat their nails in baby pink nail polish.
“Hey,” she says, gaze falling to my shirt. She smiles. “I like that. Did you make it?”
I look down. “Oh, thanks. I, uh…had it printed.”
I wish I still had my sweater on. I feel silly now.
She nods and waves to the expanse of open seating beside me. “Is it okay if I sit here?” Again, I’m confused, but she doesn’t wait for me to think of an answer, just takes a seat and props her feet up on the bleacher in front of her. “Listen, I don’t care about you and Ian.”
My face is a mask of shock. “You don’t?”
She laughs. “I just started here. Why would I care who’s dating whom? I just thought he was hot, that’s all.”
“But you sit with the Freshman Four at lunch…”
“I sit with them because it’s better than sitting by myself.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting kind of old. I’m considering eating lunch in the library by myself from now on. At least then I won’t have to listen to Gretchen ask Bianca if mayonnaise has calories.”
I laugh.
There’s a chance I might have misjudged Ashley. Imagine that.
Ian and I walk into the PTA meeting with Principal Pruitt by our side. I wish I were wearing a helmet or armor. I have no clue what to expect: angry scowls? Pitchforks? Rotten tomatoes? I swiftly remove my delicate scarf, just in case.
In reality, we walk in to find Mrs. O’Doyle sitting at the front of the classroom with her arms crossed. A self-righteous scowl mars her face—though, from the deep set of those wrinkles, that might just be what she looks like normally. I don’t think her smiling-related facial muscles have been utilized since the early 90s.
Meanwhile, all the other PTA parents are hovering around the snack table in the back of the classroom, picking their way through nuts and what looks to be a plethora of homemade cookies, macadamia chocolate chip if my nose doesn’t deceive me. If it goes as planned, I’ll grab a fistful of them on my way out. If things turn south, I’ll take the whole damn tray.
Mrs. O’Doyle’s eyes follow me into the room, but she doesn’t offer any greeting. Two seats are marked with little reserved signs at the front of the classroom and I realize they’re for Ian and me when Principal Pruitt tells us to have a seat. Oh, I get it: this is a trial. Mrs. O’Doyle is the judge, jury, and executioner. Ian and I are destined for the guillotine.
I check for a scythe near her feet, but instead I find bright orange wedges. I did not see that coming. How can someone so pissy enjoy such bright footwear?
“I hereby call this PTA meeting to order!” she says, banging a wooden gavel against the desk. She looks like she’s pretty comfortable with that thing. I bet if I looked closely, I’d find that it’s engraved and everything. She sleeps with it under her pillow and takes it with her into the shower. “The first order of business is the discussions of last week’s Whipped Cream-gate.”
That gets everyone’s attention. The crowd around the snack table disperses as everyone vies for a good seat.
“Mrs. O’Doyle, this incident is not on the level of Watergate. Let’s not make this more tedious than it needs to be,” Principal Pruitt demands. “I only brought Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher here so we might clear up a few things and move on.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher?” asks a PTA mom beside me, mouth full of cookie. “I thought the whole issue was that they weren’t married?”
There’s a chorus of disgruntlement. These people came for a show and now they feel deprived.
“Yeah! What gives?”
“ORDER! ORDER IN MY COURTROO—I MEAN, CLASSROOM!” Mrs. O’Doyle shouts, banging her gavel so hard I hold my hands up to protect my face in case it splinters. “What do you mean, Mr. and Mrs.?”
Principal Pruitt sighs and turns to us, like, Well, get on with it. With glee, I hold up my ringed finger like I’m flipping her off. If I were Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting, I’d toss in, How ’bout them apples?
“No!” Mrs. O’Doyle’s face crumples. “A sham marriage—you can’t! Surely there’s something in the teacher handbook about this. Principal Pruitt this cannot, must not, will not stand. Teachers can’t go around canoodling and then getting married just to escape consequences. I will take this all the way to the highest court in the land—THE SCHOOL BOARD!”
He chuckles. “The board has reviewed the incident as well as the district policies. So far, the only judgement they’ve handed down is one of congratulations.”
“So what about their probation?!” She’s red-faced now.
“It’s over as of today.”
“Because they got hitched?” Angry spittle spews from her mouth. “I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!”
I stifle a laugh. Might be, lady. Check your prescription.
“All right, now that that’s cleared up,” a parent shouts from the back of the room, “can we move on to the issues with the single-file carpool lane? I shouldn’t have to wait in line for nearly forty-five minutes just to pick my kid up.”
“Yeah!” a chorus of parents agree.
“Also, what about our end-of-year fundraiser for the softball team?!” another parent demands.
Our trial is over. Principal Pruitt gets our attention with a small wave and tilts his head toward the door. It’s time to scram. We did our part by showing up, and I didn’t even have to apologize.
“Do you think I can take a cookie?” I ask Ian under my breath as we stand.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder like he’s worried I might give it a go. “I think O’Doyle made them. Better not push our luck.”
I sigh like I was afraid he’d say that.
“I’ll get you something on the way home. C’mon.”
A perky soccer mom with a blonde ponytail and a pearly white smile reaches for my arm, intercepting me before I reach the door. “Hey, I was going to tell you…” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Between us girls, if you’re into whipped cream, you really ought to try some chocolate sauce warmed up just a little—not too hot though.” She winces. “Learned my lesson the hard way with that one, ha! Oh, by the way, I think you teach my son—Nicholas?”
Oh JESUS.
I run-walk the hell out of there.
24
S A M
Ian has a soccer game today, and I’m in attendance as always. Things are back to normal. The throngs of young, hot female teachers have moved on to the lacrosse game taking place a few fields over. If I squint, I can see their cleavage and orange slices. Oak Hill High just hired a new lacrosse coach from LA. He’s tan, and cute, and allegedly went on three dates with one of the stars from Vanderpump Rules. Ian is old news—my old news.
The soccer stands are pretty empty, just me and a few parents. I thought about remaking my GO IAN signs, but instead, I had a shirt printed. It has a large screen-printed picture of Oak Hill’s mascot and beneath that, in big, black typeface, it reads COACH’S WIFE. It lacks subtly, but then again, so do I.
Ian laughed when I showed it to him last night.
“I don’t have to wear it,” I said. I mean, it was kind of a joke.
But he shook his head, smile plastered wide. “No. Wear it.”
I had it strategically hidden under my sweater all day. If Nicholas had seen it, he would have spiraled. He still thinks he and I are destined for one another someday.
“I guess I understand that you need someone to bide your time with until I’m old enough.”
A shadow falls over me and I glance up to see Ashley making her way down the line of bleachers in my direction. I brace for the worst. After all, she’s all but been inducted into the Freshman Four (Five?). Maybe she’s here to do their bidding. I check her hands for knives and find them empty. There’s a chance I’m being a tad bit dramatic. I don’t think murderers coat their nails in baby pink nail polish.
“Hey,” she says, gaze falling to my shirt. She smiles. “I like that. Did you make it?”
I look down. “Oh, thanks. I, uh…had it printed.”
I wish I still had my sweater on. I feel silly now.
She nods and waves to the expanse of open seating beside me. “Is it okay if I sit here?” Again, I’m confused, but she doesn’t wait for me to think of an answer, just takes a seat and props her feet up on the bleacher in front of her. “Listen, I don’t care about you and Ian.”
My face is a mask of shock. “You don’t?”
She laughs. “I just started here. Why would I care who’s dating whom? I just thought he was hot, that’s all.”
“But you sit with the Freshman Four at lunch…”
“I sit with them because it’s better than sitting by myself.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting kind of old. I’m considering eating lunch in the library by myself from now on. At least then I won’t have to listen to Gretchen ask Bianca if mayonnaise has calories.”
I laugh.
There’s a chance I might have misjudged Ashley. Imagine that.
