“Jenny! I’m so happy you’re here! Are those mini quiches? Yum. What time is everyone coming? I’ve been ready for an hour.”
“They should be here any minute.” I put my trays on a table next to an impressive platter of sushi. “Wow, did you bring this?” I ask, a bit too loudly “No. Nadine Lewicki’s mom sent it. Wasn’t that sweet of her?”
“Very.” I’m actually impressed. I didn’t think Sasha read my emails, what with all the out-of-office replies. Not that I asked for sushi, but still.
“Max says Nadine has never been in class. Is she okay?”
Miss Ward seems taken aback by the question.
“Well, it’s not something I can really talk about. But her mom and I are in close contact.”
“It seems like her mom works a lot. Oh, by the way, Max wanted me to tell you hello. He says he loves—”
“Um … Jenny?” Miss Ward suddenly has the “I’m the teacher, take me seriously” look on her face. “Can you just respect that tonight is a getting-to-know-you party and not the time to get into personal issues about your child?”
I open my mouth and close it again. I am speechless, and believe me when I tell you that does not happen often. But it wasn’t until that moment that I noticed the crazy eyes. Miss Ward has crazy eyes. I recognize them from Ron’s ex-wife, Cindy. It doesn’t make her a bad person, but it’s definitely noteworthy.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll save my thoughts for conference day.”
At this point, other parents start to trickle in and I get busy playing hostess.
“Are you the class mom?” a breathy voice from behind me demands.
I turn, and a large woman with short red hair is standing there, huffing and puffing like she’s just run from the parking lot. She is wearing an orange ribbed sweater and a brown skirt. Pinned to her sweater is a big button that says, “It’s No Joke.”
“Yes, hi, I’m Jennifer Dixon, and you must be Shirleen Cobb.”
She looks shocked. “How did you know?”
“The pin. Allergies. ‘It’s no joke,’” I say solemnly.
“Well, exactly. That’s what I want to talk to you about. I think you need to—”
Thankfully, I am saved from finding out what I “need” to do by another parent, this one asking me where to put the brownies. I excuse myself from Shirleen and show a skinny blonde dressed all in black where to put her goodies.
And so it begins, my first evening with my fellow kindergarten parents. I am definitely the most, shall we say, marinated of the group. Most of the couples look to be in their early thirties.
As I scan the room, I notice a really tall couple over by the birthday calendar. I think it’s nice when tall people find each other. Short people, too, although I feel sorry for their kids because, let’s face it, they don’t have a shot. I see the blond woman with the brownies talking to another woman also dressed entirely in black, their heads bent together as they take in Miss Ward’s ensemble. The two men at their sides must be their husbands. One of them is very good looking. Hmm … I notice he’s checking out Miss Ward, too. The other husband seems to be picking wax out of his ear.
Across the room, a couple is looking at the turtle tank. They have their backs to me, and I can’t help but notice that the guy sure can fill out a pair of jeans nicely. As I’m admiring his butt, he turns around and I get a look at his face. Ho-ly shit! Goose bumps spread across my body as I recognize him. Don Burgess. He’s such a fox. The words come to my head before I can stop them, because back in high school you never heard one without the other. “Don Burgess he’s such a fox.” It’s like it was his full name. Today it would be a hashtag. #donbur gesshessuchafox.
Every high school has a Don Burgess—the one guy that every girl wants to be with and every guy wants to be. But Don took his coolness to another level. It was effortless. His jeans never looked new, but never looked old, either. He drove a lime green Dodge Charger and brushed his hair with his fingers. Best of all, he was sooo rock ’n’ roll. Not in a skeezy way, just a super-cool way. The permanent expression on his face let you know he was in on some cosmic joke that you would never be groovy enough to understand. If he smiled at you in the hallway, it was as though the angels had come down from heaven for that brief moment and filled you with light. If he talked to you, forget it. The first time for me was junior year, when he bumped into me in the cafeteria and said, “Whoops! Sorry, Jen.” I felt as though I’d been hit by a truck. He knew my name! You’d think he had asked me to prom by the way I reacted. I was high on life for a week.
“Don’t I know you?”
I look up and he is standing right in front of me—dirty blond hair, green eyes, and just the right amount of stubble. Holy crap. Why does age look so damn good on some men?
I let out a nervous giggle, like the total tool that I am.
“Hey, Don, it’s me, Jen Burgess. Uh. I mean, Jen Howard.” I can’t even imagine how many shades of purple I am right now.
“Jen! No freakin’ way!”
I giggle again and attempt to moderate my pulse.
“Wow. You grew up gorgeous!”
He leans in to give me a hug, and a whiff of Polo by Ralph Lauren immediately transports me back to the hallways of East High. That was his scent, and it always lingered for a good thirty seconds after he had passed by. Now it was on my clothes. The normal me would be thinking how weird/pathetic it is that he still wears his high school cologne, but clearly normal me is nowhere to be seen. I back away and take a stab at acting cool.
“Do you have a child in this class?” I find asking the obvious is always nice.
“Yep. Lulu. Who’s yours?”
“Max.” I start looking around to see if anyone is watching me talk to Don Burgess (he’s such a fox). Like anyone would care.
“So, are you married?”
“I am. My husband’s at home with Max. Our babysitter canceled on us so I had to come alone. But he totally would have been here.” Shut up, diarrhea mouth, I think to myself.
“Cool. Ali—that’s Ali over there.” He points to the woman still looking at the turtles. She waves.
“We’re not married, but we co-parent Lulu. It works, I guess.” He shrugs and gives me his trademark Don Burgess he’s such a fox smile.
I feel dizzy, like I’ve been out in the sun for too long. I realize I’d better keep moving; otherwise, I risk making a complete fool of myself.
“Well, I’m paid to mingle…” I say, and start to walk away.
“Hey remember the P.E. laundry room?”