“Whose fault is that?”
We were interrupted as Mr. Johnson, from the music department, slid into the room. Where Kenneth Harvey was greasy and awkward, Jason Johnson was smooth and slick. He wore a suit like a car salesman, laughed too much, and could talk himself out of just about anything. I took a step back from Miles.
Jason peered at us both, amused, as he slowly raised his arms in the air. “Whoa, where’s the fire? I thought the English department settled their differences over books and a cup of tea.”
There was a pause in the air as we each put down our weapons to face a common enemy.
“We’re fresh out of tea,” Miles countered, his eyes never leaving my face.
I smiled and added, “We’re just talking.” As much as it pained me, I kept my gaze focused on Johnson’s gray tie and his well-fitted, monochromatic suit, very aware of another pair of eyes watching me.
Jason noticed his dishes on the drying rack. “Oh, thanks, Olive. I’ve been meaning to come down and wash those, but I’ve just been so busy.” He strode toward the fridge and took out a couple more half-eaten plates covered in plastic wrap. Checking his watch with a flourish, he turned to me and motioned to the plates in his hand with a sheepish smile—one he probably thought was charming, but it gave me the distinct urge to punch his face. “I hate to ask, but I’ve got to run and pick up my wife—her car is in the shop—or else I’d wash these myself right now.”
I kept waiting for him to ask. But he didn’t ask me anything. He just held his containers with a helpless shrug and stared imploringly at me, waiting for me to offer. “I just don’t want to leave it for two weeks like this.”
“It will only take two minutes, Johnson. I’ll bet your wife would be excited to hear you were doing your dishes,” Miles said, his voice a quiet warning.
“She’s already waiting for me or else I would. Listen, if you can’t get to it, no worries. Hopefully, nothing too green will grow on them while we’re gone.”
I shot Miles a glance. As much as I didn’t want to play Jason’s maid, I certainly didn’t need Miles thinking he was coming to my rescue. My smile wavered only slightly, knowing Miles was watching incredulously as my hands moved to accept Jason’s dirty plates and Tupperware.
“Sure. I can do that,” I found myself saying.
“You’re a gem, Olive.” Jason moved toward the doorway, pausing to face us again. “And hey, congratulations on your award. I keep meaning to have you edit a few things for me. I’ve been dabbling in writing, too.” He sent a meaningful glance over at Miles, who gave him nothing in return but a passive stare.
“Welp, have a good Christmas! Thanks again, Olive.” He strode out of the room, leaving a tension-filled tsunami in his wake.
“Such a team player,” Miles murmured, his disappointed eyes roaming over my face. I burned hot with indignation. I wasn’t sure why it rankled more that he was disappointed in me than actually doing Johnson’s stupid dishes.
“I’m happy to help him.” I lifted my chin and placed his dishes on the counter.
“This isn’t the first time he’s done this to you, is it?”
I said nothing as I opened the Tupperware and immediately gagged as the smell of musty split-pea soup filled the air.
Miles’s warm body brushed up against mine as he plucked the container out of my hands, closed the lid, and stuffed all of Johnson’s food back into the fridge.
The smell had taken my nose hostage, and for several long seconds, I stood over the sink, willing myself not to throw up.
“Why do you say yes to everything?”
“Why do you feel like you have the right to ask me personal questions?” I asked, standing up from my crouched position over the sink and striding toward the front door—away from Miles.
“I don’t know. I figured us working together in the same department the past nine months might have warranted a personal question or two.”
“Nope.” Almost to the door.
“Storming out after an argument? You’re such a cliché, Celery Stick.”
“I’m not storming out,” I clipped back as I walked with light and not-at-all-angry steps down the hallway. “Have a good Christmas!” I yelled as my parting shot.
I ground my teeth as I marched down the hallway, pausing only to give Mr. Young, the social studies teacher, a friendly hello and ask about his children’s excitement for Christmas. When I reached the door to my room, it was all I could do not to slam it behind me. I took a deep breath and leaned against the closed door, trying to calm my nerves.
He’s not worth the drama.
He wasn’t. Miles was a shiny new object. That was it. Was this how Mr. Grady felt when I showed up here two years ago?
No.
Grady was beloved. He had old-man wisdom and wit and decades of experience under his belt. I’d never been any sort of a threat to him. He was practically an institution at Stanton and might very well have stuck around until the day he died if he hadn’t been diagnosed with cancer last fall. He’d gotten sick around November and by February had to drop out of the rest of the school year for chemo treatments, leaving a large void in his place—unfillable, in my opinion. Thankfully, unlike my dad, his treatments were successful and his cancer was officially in remission, but instead of coming back to work, he retired early and was currently on a Caribbean cruise with his wife.
When the school board finally found someone to take Mr. Grady’s place in March, I’d been conflicted in my feelings but was determined to be welcoming. Since Miles had arrived in the middle of the semester, I graciously offered advice and lesson plans to help get him caught up. He politely listened, took my plans, but then proceeded to do nothing with them. Instead of reading Jane Eyre, he chose Oliver Twist and then bought his students’ interest with cheap gimmicks like movie clips and donuts. Which was fine. Really. It suited him better. To each his own. I couldn’t tell you exactly why it nettled so badly. Maybe it was the constant jabs he threw at me about Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice, (my other beloved piece of literature). But still, throughout all this, I attempted to keep my face passive and cheerful. Helpful. Except, he clearly didn’t need my help.
FINE.
I could be the classic to his modern era. We could make it work. But I was finding that I couldn’t compete with his modern pop culture. Mr. Grady and I had a similar understanding with teaching English. We wanted to make the classics relatable. There was so much to learn from history, even historical fiction, and we wanted to teach it. But Jane Eyre was having a hard time competing with wizards to a modern audience.
When I first met Miles Taylor, I thought he was cute. There. I said it. At that first hello, our relationship had all the beginnings of a perfect romantic-comedy plot. We were both under thirty, we both loved English, and we taught at the same school. Seriously, I was waiting for Hallmark to call me for some insider info.