We both step out of our matching Jettas (purchased at the same dealership on the same day for a better deal) as she surveys my outfit, then whistles.
“Whoa! Eat your heart out, Will!” she says a little too loudly, exaggerating her Texas twang for effect. Everything about Sydney is big—her eyes and lips, her hot-rolled hair, her saline-filled breasts, her brash personality—and although I normally embrace her larger-than-life attributes, there are times, like now, that I wish she could be a little more discreet.
I shush her, nervously glancing around the parking lot.
“Re-lax, sister,” she says. “You got this.”
I tell her I think I might faint.
“You do look a little…ill.”
“Ill?” I say, feeling queasier by the second. “Oh, great.”
Sydney grabs my hand, stops in her tracks, and forces me to look at her as the new choral director, whom we haven’t quite determined whether we like, passes us with a terse hello.
“Okay. Listen to me,” she says, her voice finally lowered. “You look absolutely fantastic. And skinny.”
I thank her, even though I know she doesn’t mean skinny—just skinny for me. I’ll still take it.
She continues, “How many pounds have you dropped since Friday?”
“Six. But they’ll all be back tomorrow,” I say, putting on my Ray-Bans even though we’re steps away from the entrance and already in the shade of the building. “Plus one or two, knowing me.”
“Well, we’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow,” she says, summing up her philosophy of life as we enter the building and wave hello to a half dozen colleagues. “And seriously, Josie, that dress is killer.”
Promptly worrying that “killer” isn’t really the look you want on Open House Night, I furtively ask if it’s too short.
“Maybe too short to play hopscotch in,” Sydney says with a laugh. “But it will certainly make Will’s wife jealous.”
“Um. That’s actually not my goal here, Sydney,” I say, knowing that such a thing is impossible anyway. Not only does Andrea have Will and his two children, but she also happens to be prettier, younger, and thinner. The damn trifecta. I tell myself there’s a decent chance that I’m funnier or smarter or nicer.
“And remind me?” Sydney says. “What is your goal, again?”
“I don’t know….I guess I’d like to make him a little…wistful. Maybe give him a small, nostalgic pang,” I whisper as we round the corner, then glance down the corridor at a sea of smartly dressed parents, some making effusive small talk while others diligently fill out their name tags at the checkin table.
“Do you see him?” she asks, scanning the crowd along with me.
I shake my head.
“Maybe he got fat and bald,” Sydney says. “Look for a fat, bald version of him.”
“No. I’ve seen a recent photo in The Atlantan. He’s definitely not fat or bald.”
“Damn. Too bad.”
“God, Sydney. I really don’t know if I can do this,” I say, my voice as weak as my knees.
She looks at me with genuine worry, which only heightens my fear. “C’mon, honey,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Follow me and try not to make eye contact with anyone.”
I nod, letting her whisk me past the parents, then down a flight of stairs to the first-grade wing. When we reach the safety of my classroom, which is diagonally across the hall from hers, she closes the door, then bolts it shut for added protection. “Sit down,” she says, striding over to me. “Right there. On the floor.”
I follow her orders, plopping down onto the braided rug, then lowering my forehead to touch my knees.
“I see London, I see France,” she’s unable to resist.
I reply with a faint groan.
“What have you eaten today?” she asks, sitting beside me and reaching over to rub my back in small, soothing circles.
“Just kale juice and a little black coffee,” I confess.
“That’s it?” Sydney says, aghast. She pulls a PowerBar out of her bottomless bag. “Here. Eat this. At least take a few bites.”
“I can’t,” I say, refusing it. “I’d rather pass out than puke.”
“Good point. Puking would be mortifying.” She lets out a laugh. “Can you imagine?”
“Sydney! That’s not helping,” I say, feeling kale rise in my throat.
“Sorry, sorry. You’re right….” she says. “Just breathe, honey….In through your nose…Out through your mouth.”
She demonstrates, and I follow her lead, the oxygen expanding my lungs and lowering my heart rate. “What time is it?” I ask, after a few minutes of silence.
“Almost six-thirty. They’ll be coming down soon.” She’s referring to all the parents, but I only picture Will and Andrea—who right now might as well be the royal Will and Kate. “You gonna be okay?”
I peer up at her and nod. “I think so.”