“Just remember,” Sydney says, “she doesn’t know you’re single. And neither does he.”
I nod again, thinking of how often I’m told that men can, in fact, sense when you’re desperate. But maybe that doesn’t apply to the married ones who have already dumped you. Besides, I’m no longer desperate, I remind myself. I have a game plan, finally, which I’ve already confided in Sydney, too.
“And remember—you only have to get through the next hour or so,” she says, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to get through the next nine months.”
Sydney’s eyes widen, her thick fake lashes at attention. “What? Wait! Are you already pregnant? Is that why you’re sick?”
“No, dummy. I meant I have to get through the school year,” I say.
“Oh. You will. No problem,” she says. “Just stand up straight and smile. And wipe the lipstick off your front tooth.”
I rub my teeth with my finger and thank her, wishing she were my sister. Hell, if that were the case, I’d actually be the responsible one in the family.
On her way to the door, she glances over her shoulder, gives me a thumbs-up, and says, “No matter what happens, that dress was a great fucking call.”
—
OVER THE NEXT ten minutes, my classroom quickly fills with parents, filing in two by two. Meanwhile, I focus on breathing and smiling, scanning name tags and shaking hands. Once I have that down, I graduate to autopilot small talk, working the room like it’s a cocktail party minus the flattering lighting, music, and cocktails. Hello! Welcome! It’s so nice to meet you! You’re Lucy’s mother? My goodness, I see the resemblance! The summer sure did fly by! I’m so excited for the school year!
As the last few stragglers enter, and the slightly slow wall clock over the dry-erase board clicks to six-forty-five, Will and Andrea have yet to arrive, and I start to become hopeful that they won’t be coming at all. It could happen. Maybe they had a previous engagement. Maybe one or both had a non-life-threatening but contagious and unsightly illness like, say, hand, foot, and mouth disease or pinkeye. Maybe, just maybe, they got into a huge fight over me. One could hope, I thought, as I tried to imagine the accusatory eruption on their way out the door. You still have feelings for her, don’t you?!…No, I swear I don’t!…Then why are you wearing cologne?
Whatever the explanation, though, it is time to get started. Tugging nervously at the hem of my dress, I clear my throat and say hello, my smile feeling frozen. The room instantly quiets, everyone on their best behavior, the Pavlovian response to being back in a classroom, no matter what your age.
“Welcome! Welcome, everyone!” My voice sounds unnaturally high, like that of a sorority rush chair who has just downed a Red Bull. I swallow, making a concerted effort to lower my voice an octave, along with my eyebrows, which feel maniacally raised.
“Thank you so much for being here tonight,” I continue, sounding a bit more normal. I glance at the door, praying that it doesn’t open, and move on with my script. It’s only been a couple of weeks, and already I can tell what a wonderful group this is. It’s been such a pleasure getting to know your children—and I’m thrilled to meet you all. This evening, I’m going to briefly go through the curriculum for the school year—some of the fun things we’re going to cover in reading and math, as well as our specials, which include science and social studies. Please take this opportunity to explore the classroom, visit your child’s cubby, perhaps leave him or her a little note for tomorrow. And of course, feel free to ask any questions you may have. Remember, as I tell your children, there are no stupid questions—and my door is always, always open!
Then, as my Charlie Brown teacher voice drones on, it happens. The door swings open, and in walk Andrea and Will. As everyone turns to look at the latecomers, I make the shocking observation that the perfect couple is not only late but also flustered and slightly out of breath. At least she is—I won’t let myself look directly at him. Andrea still qualifies as beautiful, but to my relief, she isn’t quite as perfect as I remember from my Whole Foods sighting. She has gained a few pounds and her hair is overdue for color, a dull brown stripe streaked with gray at the crown of her otherwise golden head. More satisfying are the sweat-soaked armholes of her marigold-yellow silk blouse. Rookie move wearing silk on a day as hot as this one, I think, as she makes furtive eye contact with me and whispers, “Sorry we’re late.”
I wave off her apology with the same magnanimous smile I’d give to a child who has just wet his pants (which still occasionally happens in the first grade). “You’re totally fine,” I say, my heart fluttering in my chest, my role as scorned ex-girlfriend suddenly supplanted by my position as poised, punctual, and most forgiving educator.