He mussed the back of his hair with his free hand as Mrs. Mason introduced him to the class as Terrence C. Wilmington the third, which prompted him to immediately correct her with, “Everyone calls me Trip.”
The smooth tenor of his voice caught me by surprise. Mrs. Mason must have been a little affected too, because she didn’t bristle at being disputed, and merely smiled back at Trip’s direct gaze and charming grin.
He turned back to our class and started in with the ease of someone who’d had to endure this barbaric ritual many times before. “My name’s Trip,” he said again. “My family just moved here from Indianapolis.”
I don’t know why, but the phrase cornfed Indiana farmboy came into my head at that moment. Indianapolis is hardly farm country, but I didn’t count anyplace as a city except New York. Everything west of here was amber waves of grain as far as I was concerned. But even though he had the look of someone who’d have been perfectly cast in the role of sexy stableboy, he was way too polished to have been mistaken for a mere farmhand. Regardless of a rural upbringing.
“Before Indy, we lived in Seattle, Phoenix, L.A. and Chicago, where I was born.”
Ah, okay. More “cities”.
Mrs. Mason interrupted his schpiel then. “Is your father in the military, Trip?”
“Uh, no. He’s in hotels. But I guess I could see why you’d get the impression that I’m an army brat. According to my sister, the brat part sums me up pretty good, though.”
A few girls started giggling at the little joke which probably would have gone over like a lead balloon if it were told by anyone less gorgeous. I snickered at that thought and hoped it wasn’t loud enough to hear.
Trip continued with, “My father likes to oversee construction when any one of his new hotels is being built. We normally spend a few years in each city until the grand opening and then we move on to the next one.”
I felt my heart sink inexplicably, thinking that Trip’s days here were already numbered. I didn’t even know the guy, but I’d been excited by the promise of someone new in this town, someone who hadn’t lived here since birth like the rest of us. Someone who wasn’t in every class picture of mine since kindergarten. Someone, let’s face it, who was pretty easy on the eyes.
Mrs. Mason asked, “You named a bunch of big cities, there. How is it that you wound up in Norman, New Jersey? We’re hardly a mecca for tourism.”
That brought a few chuckles from the class as Trip flashed another amazing grin and answered, “Actually, the hotel’s being built in New York. My father says this is his last hotel and he wanted to save it for when he was ready to retire, so I guess we’re here for the long haul. The city’s close enough to Norman and my dad spent his teen years here. I guess he wants that for me, too.”
My stomach did a quick flip of rejoice. At the time, I was trying to convince myself that all I cared about was an improvement to the scenery of boring old Norman. Trip was like a one man beautification committee just by existing.
“Well, Trip, welcome to our town. I hope you’ll like it here.”
I guess Trip took that as his cue to escape, because he started walking toward me, back to his newly assigned desk, but not without saying, “Thanks. I have a feeling I will.” Then he gave my desk a quick tap with his fingertips-which knocked me out-before sliding into the seat behind me.
I hoped I didn’t have some noticeably embarrassing shocked look on my face, but my mouth had certainly gone dry and I swallowed hard. This, with my life, led to a very noticeable coughing fit which just got worse the more I tried to stop it. I raised my hand to be excused and Mrs. Mason just wagged her head in the direction of the door. I made a break for it, almost tripping on Mary Ellen Simpky’s oversized Gucci purse on my way out of the room. I high-tailed it down the hall to the water fountain outside the girls’ room and slugged down about a gallon of Norman’s finest before the sputtering fit subsided. Without the luxury of long sleeves to swipe my face (Oh, please. Like everyone doesn’t do it), I cruised into the bathroom in search of a paper towel.
Penelope Redy and Margie Caputo were standing together in the same open stall amidst a swirl of smoke. They both jumped when I walked in before realizing it was only me and not some teacher coming in to bust them for cutting class and sneaking a cigarette. Damn. I was so distracted that I forgot the cardinal rule of the Girls’ Room, and didn’t say “It’s okay” upon entering.
We exchanged quick hellos before I turned toward the towel dispenser and they turned back to their conversation.
“I heard he’s from Indiana,” Penelope said through an exhale.
Margie spat back, “They don’t make them like that in Indiana. Mount Olympus, maybe. But not Indiana.”
Clearly, the hot topic of gossip for the next millennium at St. Norman’s High School was going to be about the new kid.