Wait…so now Principal O’Malley is trying to pimp me out? Where did this take a wrong turn?
There’s a low thunk behind us and we turn to see Liz, Principal O’Malley’s secretary, struggling to get an oversized plastic cheese ball barrel through the doorway.
“Turn it a little to the right, Liz. No, my right.”
She eventually squeezes her way inside and drops the barrel onto the corner of Principal O’Malley’s desk. The cheese balls have been replaced with wrinkled twenty-dollar bills, and on the side of the plastic, scribbled in Sharpie, are the names of all our colleagues divided into two columns, headed by either Love or Hate.
Without having to scoot closer, I can already tell one side is heavily favored. In fact, it looks like they ran out of room for bettors. Names gradually get smaller and smaller until they’re no longer legible under the Hate column.
“As you can see, you two were the subject of debate here before summer break let out. We all got to talking in the teachers’ lounge, wondering how the trip was going to go for you, and when you really get down to it, there were only two plausible outcomes: you two were either going to duel it out and come home in body bags, or you were going to…” He wags his finger between us. “Do this.”
“Date,” Noah reminds him.
He purses his lips. “Right.” Then he looks over at Liz. “What’d the pot get up to? $700?”
She consults her notes. “$820.”
I frown, but not because I’m disappointed in my colleagues for making me the subject of a bet (that’s hilarious). I’m just confused on why there were so few willing to put their twenty dollars down on the less likely outcome (Love) on the off chance it would pay big. Something isn’t adding up, and when I ask Principal O’Malley, he nods as if this isn’t the first time he’s thought of that.
“We made it a blind wager. Everyone had to pay up and cast their vote in secret. Liz here stuffed the pot. Afterward we tallied up the votes, and well…as you can see, Gil from environmental services is apparently the only one at Lindale Middle School who believes in love.”
Gil is the longest serving employee of Lindale Middle School. He’s been here since the Ford administration. On paper, he’s in his eighties, but he has the energy and the joints of a fifty-year-old. When we find him, he’s sweeping the main hall, listening to “It’s Gonna Be A Lovely Day” on a little speaker attached to his hip holster and swaying back and forth to the beat.
He’s happy to see us even before he notices the barrel full of money in Noah’s hands.
“You’re kiddin’ me!” he says with a howling laugh after we tell him he won the bet. “I can’t even carry that thing!”
Later, we’ll help him put the money in an envelope and get him safely to his car with it, but we thought it was only right to present his winnings in the barrel first, for comedic value.
“What made you cast your bet for us?” I ask, expecting him to shrug and say he’s just an optimist.
He winks. “Oh, I’m a watcher. In my line of work, I see what a lot of people don’t, and you two…” He shakes his head and smiles like he’s delighted. “It was only a matter of time.”
Epilogue
Tonight’s a big night. We’re hosting Kristen and Melissa at Noah’s house for dinner. We’ve been back from Rome for three months and I’ve seen them on my own plenty of times, but Noah hasn’t been invited. That’s mostly my doing. I wanted to make sure my friends had time to adjust to his new role in my life. No, no, he’s not horrible. He’s great. We like him now. See?
I’ve planned the day down to its most finite details. I have every beverage option imaginable: tea, wine, coffee, beer, Crystal Light. I have Noah grilling out back. He’s making chicken, steak, and shrimp. For sides, we have mashed potatoes, roasted corn on the cob, macaroni and cheese, and salad.
Noah’s house is sparkling clean. There’re fresh towels in the guest bathroom, flowers on the kitchen counter, and little candies in a dish on the coffee table—Melissa’s favorite.
The doorbell rings and I panic.
“Noah! They’re here!”
At the end of the night, I’ll look back on my behavior and laugh, but right now, I’m too entrenched in the moment to realize my enthusiasm is seeping out of my every pore. I open the front door with a flourish and welcome my friends into Noah’s house like I’m the concierge at the Ritz Carlton in charge of looking after a bona fide celebrity. Let me get your coat. Let me get you a drink. The bathroom is right here. Did you find the toilet paper to be soft enough? I can find you something better if you need it. A moist towelette?
Instead of letting them make introductions naturally, I shove Noah toward them like he’s a Ken doll I purchased at Target that day. Look at him! Tall and funny! And he cooks! Noah, tell them about the curry you made the other night. C’mon, don’t be shy. Tell them.
While they’re sitting in the living room sipping their wine, I hover over them with the open bottle, ready to top them off at a moment’s notice.
Noah comes over and tugs on my arm, asking if I wouldn’t mind helping him in the other room for a minute.
“Can it wait?”
I hate to leave my friends. They might take his short disappearance as a snub. They’ll assume the worst.
“It’ll only take a second,” he promises, then he half-drags me from the room.
We go to our bedroom and he shuts the door.
His hands grip my shoulders and then he bends low so we’re eye to eye. For the first time all evening, I register his warm brown eyes, his levelheaded stare, his easygoing smile.
“You have got to cool it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your friends like me. And if they don’t, that’s fine too, but—”
My eyes widen in horror. “No. Not possible. We’ll get them to try your steak. No one can resist your steak.”
I try to turn and open the door, but he holds my shoulders steady.
“Audrey, you’re freaking out.”
“I’m freaking out,” I repeat, finally realizing it.
“Why? It’s just dinner.”