Only Twenty-Five

by Jennifer McCoy Blaske

  Wow. My life in Madison really was isolated . . . just like Katie said. And it was a real problem. “Okay fine,” I snapped irritably at myself. “I’ll go make some friends tomorrow. I’ll buy gifts for all my co-workers, give them hugs, whatever. But what do I do now?”

  Walking home wasn’t really an option. I wasn’t about to walk down four-lane highways with no sidewalks in the dark by myself. And never mind that it would take at least an hour. If I called a cab and got my landlord to let me in the apartment I’d have to take another cab back here in the morning. That sounded complicated, definitely time-consuming, and expensive.

  I at least had to try to get back in the building. The school had four wings that jutted off a center hub in different directions, sort of like daisy petals. That meant there were a few more external doors I could try. Maybe one of them didn’t get locked properly . . . or maybe someone was still around somewhere. I couldn’t be the only teacher who stayed late to grade papers tonight, right?

  I began walking around the building, looking for any tell-tale sign of a human being who could rescue me. There was a bit of a glow coming from a science room. I rapped lightly on the window and pressed my face as close to the glass as I could without tasting it. I knew I looked ridiculous peeping through the window and I hoped no one was passing by. I wouldn’t blame them for thinking I was trying to commit a felony. Anyway, there was definitely nobody in the room.

  I continued around the building, peeking through windows and tugging and banging on locked doors. With each failed entry attempt I became more anxious and panicked. And it wasn’t lost on me that a young woman on her own darting around the sides and back of a deserted building after dark was probably not the most brilliant scenario in the world. As I rounded the last wing I was beginning to feel a sting in my eyes . . . and a sense of hopelessness. Unless I discovered someone within the next ninety seconds I’d be pretty much out of options.

  As if by magic, I saw a light—a lot of light—shining out a window. Please, oh please, let someone actually be there. I scurried closer, tapped my fingernails against the glass, and frantically peered into the room. I thought I saw a hint of movement in the far right corner. It looked like the back of someone facing the wall or something. I tilted and twisted my head to get a better glimpse. It was a filing cabinet. Ugh!

  No . . . wait! It was a person! Another teacher was working late, just as I had been. Hurray! In my excitement I started to lightly pound the window with my fist. The person turned abruptly in my direction and started walking quickly over to the window. It was a male teacher. He had dark hair and . . .

  Oh my goodness. It was Josh—the guy from the faculty meeting who was the same guy from the mall who said I have pretty eyes. One part of me was thrilled to see him. The other part was absolutely mortified to be locked outside in the dark like some sort of idiot desperate for help.

  Josh opened the window. Once he recognized me his face changed from confused curiosity to amusement. He grinned.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re closed for the night. You’ll have to try the Burger King down the street.”

  “Very funny. I, um . . . locked myself out of the building by mistake. Could you please let me in?”

  “Sure.” He pushed the window up. “Come on in.”

  “What?” I’d presumed that he’d go down the hall and open a door for me. “You want me to . . . to climb in the window?”

  “Yeah. Why not? Hop on up here.”

  Beggars can’t be choosers. Under the circumstances, climbing in a window was a small price to pay to get me back to my classroom, my keys, my home, and my cats.

  “Well . . . um . . . okay,” I said as I hopped gingerly onto the window sill, ducking my head so there was no chance of my wig brushing against anything and getting knocked off. Fortunately, I was wearing a long skirt.

  Josh took my hand and helped steady me as I swung my legs around and hopped down from the window. It felt like his hand lingered in mine for just a moment longer than it needed to. But I’m sure I was just imagining things.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling foolish. I waited for him to make some sort of smart-aleck crack.

  “You’re quite welcome. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

  “Yes. At a faculty meeting. I’m Meg.”

  “Hi again Meg. I’m Josh.”

  His room was one of the most playful-looking middle-school classrooms I’d ever seen. There were only about ten student desks and they were all facing the center of the room. It looked and felt more like a venue for a discussion group than a typical classroom. A quarter of the room was set up like a mini library. It had two wooden bookshelves and five beanbag chairs in various colors all arranged on a fluffy green carpet. It was so inviting that I was about to instinctively head over and look around . . . until I realized how ridiculous that would be. Josh obviously needed to get back to work and I needed to head for home now that I’d been officially rescued.

  “I’ll let you get back to work,” I said awkwardly. “Thanks again. I would’ve been in big trouble if you hadn’t been here.”

  “My pleasure.” Josh cocked his head to one side. “Are you in a hurry?”

  I thought about it. “No, not really.”

  “I’m just wrapping things up here. If you can stand waiting around for a few minutes, we can walk out together.”

  “Oh, sure! That’d be great. Thank you.” What was that, the third time I’d said thank you in the last minute?

  He went over to his filing cabinet and I took in more of the decor. I was always interested to see how other teachers set up their classrooms. And I have to say, his was one of the most entertaining and creative ones I’d ever seen—at least in a middle school. There was a Shakespeare Hashtag of the Day bulletin board with a drawing of William Shakespeare in sunglasses and a cartoon bubble coming out of his mouth that read: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. #TwelvethNight. A soccer ball sat on a little table with a big yellow sign that read: Socratic soccer ball. I picked up the ball. Things were written in black marker on the different . . . what were they, hexagons? Things like: How would this story be different if ___? and Explain one conflict. I gave the ball a little spin before putting it back down on the table. There was a sign on a wall that read: Literary Yoga. It had pictures of several different poses and explanations of how they each represented a different element of a story. It crossed my mind that a few of the yoga poses could probably come in handy for my chorus classes.

  “So, you’re an English teacher?” I asked Josh. Then I felt stupid again. Gee Meg, this doesn’t look like a chem lab, does it? Duh!

  “Yup.” Josh glanced over his shoulder at me. “Gifted and Talented Language Arts, to be exact. Sixth, seventh, and eighth grades.”

  “Oh, that sounds fun,” I said, wishing I had something more clever and interesting to say. “I really like your room.”

  He looked up and smiled. “Thanks. I like it too.”

  I walked over to the bookshelves. I crouched down and leaned sideways so I could read some of the titles. Let’s see, The Cay, The Giver . . . Yup, my students were always carrying those around.

  “Ooh! Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier! That was one of my favorites when I was in eighth grade. . . . Oh, and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. I’m a huge Agatha Christie fan. Is Calvin and Hobbes: Yukon Ho! part of the gifted and talented curriculum?” I laughed as I stood up.

  “Well, if it’s not, it certainly should be.” Josh shut the filing cabinet and sat down at his computer. “Hang on. I’ll just be another couple minutes.”

  “Oh, sure,” I said, feeling embarrassed.

  Maybe that was his way of politely telling me to quit babbling and let him concentrate. I pressed my lips together and silently vowed to shut up until he was finished. I casually walked over to his desk, careful not to get too close so it didn’t look like I was spying over his shoulder. A red and blue paperback on the corner of his des
k caught me eye. I was so genuinely surprised to see it that I snatched it up without thinking about how rude that might seem.

  “Your students are reading Salinger’s Nine Stories?” I asked, forgetting the vow of silence I’d just made.

  Josh spun around in his chair and looked at me.

  “Oh . . . I’m so sorry.” I set the book back where I’d found it and cleared my throat. “It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have grabbed it like that.”

  He shook his head slowly and held up his hand. “No, no, it’s absolutely fine. You can read it if you want. I just, uh . . . I’m just surprised you recognize it is all.”

  “I’ve read everything by Salinger.” I flipped gently through the pages. “I don’t remember this one as much as Franny and Zooey though. That’s my favorite.” I frowned. “Isn’t this a little advanced for middle school though? Or maybe I just don’t remember. It’s been a few years since I read it.”

  Josh just stared at me. I couldn’t make out what his expression meant. Was he annoyed? Confused? Did he think I was insulting his teaching decisions? Should I have just kept my big fat mouth shut?

  “You’ve read everything by Salinger?” he asked, eying me carefully.

  Uh-oh, this was not good. What did I do wrong?

  “Um . . . I think so.” I wasn’t sure what answer he was expecting. “But I . . . I guess it’s possible that I missed something.”

  “And you liked them?”

  I felt like I was on trial. Why was he interrogating me? Did he have something against Salinger?

  “Well, mostly. There was one I didn’t like very much. It was kind of . . . boring.”

  “You mean Seymour: An Introduction?” Josh rolled his chair toward me.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  After what seemed like an eternity Josh’s peculiar expression slowly morphed into a smile. Whatever the test was, I guess I passed.

  “Should we go get some dinner?” he asked.

  “And discuss Salinger?” I was still a little confused.

  “And discuss . . . anything.”

  I smiled. “Yes. I’d like that.”

  “Great. You like Chinese?”

  “Yeah, I do.” It had been a really long time since I actually went out for Chinese—instead of just picking up the phone and ordering for delivery.

  “Well, I know this little place. It’s called Chinatown Gourmet and it’s less than two miles from here. We could go there?”

  “Sounds perfect.” I smiled.

  FOURTEEN

  Meg

  I pulled into the Chinatown Gourmet parking lot. I took a moment to put on some lipstick and check my wig. I inspected myself from all angles in the rearview mirror. I made sure that the ear tabs lined up, that it felt nice and secure, and that no wisps of my own hair were making an unwelcome appearance that could give me away. Everything looked good.

  Josh was waiting outside the restaurant. He opened the door for me as I walked up. There was a huge aquarium near the entrance. I couldn’t help wondering what Scooter and Pudding would’ve thought of it. I could just picture Pudding staring at it for hours while Scooter would’ve tried his darndest to jump right in.

  “This is a real treat,” I said as we walked past the tank and sat in a booth next to the wall. “Maybe I should lock myself out of school more often. I didn’t know it would result in getting a Chinese dinner.”

  “It only works the first time,” said Josh. “After that, you’ll be mercilessly mocked and shamed by the entire faculty for each additional offense.”

  “Oh, okay.” I laughed. “Thanks for the warning.”

  The waitress arrived to take our order. I asked for Mandarin beef and Josh ordered cashew chicken. “With chopsticks, please,” he added.

  “Ooh, I’m impressed,” I said. “I think if I were forced to use chopsticks I’d be hungry for a very long time.” I reached up with my left hand and ran my fingers through my hair.

  “I’ll show you how to use them when our food comes. It’s really not that hard. . . .”

  Katie once told me that human females have a biological instinct to touch their hair when they’re attracted to a guy. Apparently it’s so strong and so subtle that we aren’t even aware that we’re doing it. And I never would’ve been aware that I’d done it either . . . except for the fact that my bracelet got stuck in my wig! What do I do? I couldn’t tug at it. My wig could go flying off or get pulled and ended up visibly crooked. I was stuck. I tried gently moving my wrist around a little, hoping to work the bracelet free. Nope. That didn’t do it. I stopped because rubbing my wrist against my head for more than about three seconds would look a little . . . um . . . strange.

  ”. . . and then hold the second chopstick with your thumb,” said Josh.

  “I see.” I nodded. “It doesn’t look too hard.”

  “It’s not . . .” Josh went on.

  I leaned to my left until my elbow was on the table and my head was resting on my left palm. I know it’s not good manners to put your elbows on the dinner table. But what, exactly, would Miss Manners say about removing one’s hair at the table? This position was a good temporary save, but I was definitely going to have to do something else . . . and fast. I was starting to get a crimp in my neck for one thing. And continuing to sit like this after the food arrived was certainly out of the question. Trying to eat at this angle would be strange-looking at best, and messy—or even impossible—at worst. I casually brought my right hand over to join my left, hoping to make it look like this was a perfectly natural sitting position. I tried to fiddle with the bracelet inconspicuously. Nope. Not happening. My only hope of getting the bracelet unstuck was to take the wig off. There was no way around it. The last thing I wanted to do was wander around the restaurant with one hand plastered to my head as I looked for the restrooms. I needed to locate them before I got up. I began darting my eyes around the dining room.

  “Is something wrong?” Josh asked.

  “No. Nothing’s wrong,” I said, my head still leaning to the left. “I mean . . . yes. Yes, I just . . . Something’s wrong with my, um . . . contact lenses. Yes! Oh, it’s awful!” I started blinking my left eye and contorting my face as if I were in pain. “Oh dear, I hate when this happens. I’ll be right back.” I jumped up and fluffed the back of my hair with my right hand as I rushed away.

  I stepped inside a stall and shut and locked the door with my right hand. I was about to whip the wig off my head when I thankfully realized that the toilet had no lid. Visions of my wig floating in the chemically treated water flooded my mind. That would be bad . . . really bad. Hmm, I wouldn’t be thrilled if it fell on the floor either. I reluctantly sat down on the toilet seat and carefully pulled the wig off my head. I put it in my lap and fiddled with the bracelet with my free hand. Once I managed to untangle everything I slid the bracelet into the pocket of my skirt and made a mental note not to be wearing it again any time soon. I carefully put the wig back on my head, emerged from the stall, and checked myself in the mirror. I ran through the usual checklist. Ear tabs lined up, check. No hair sticking out, check. Adjustment hooks in the back secure, check. Once my wig passed all the stress tests I took a deep breath and returned to the dining room.

  “That’s better,” I said as I slid into the booth.

  “They brought chopsticks while you were gone.”

  “Oh good.” I was relieved. Josh didn’t seem to be disturbed by my weird behavior.

  “Now the lesson officially begins . . .” he said, picking up the fancy black lacquer chopsticks.

  We laughed as I tried to use them. My Mandarin beef wasn’t exactly piping hot by the time I got that first piece into my mouth using only chopsticks. But I’m proud of myself for getting the hang of it . . . eventually.

  Josh and I discussed books. Turns out we shared the same disdain for Dan Brown. We also talked about our jobs. We both enjoyed teaching and we began sharing funny stories about our students.

  As I was telling Josh
that I showed my eighth grade chorus a clip from The Simpsons when we were learning a medley from HMS Pinafore his expression completely changed. He looked almost shocked. I was afraid that my teaching methods had offended him, although I couldn’t imagine why. He burst out laughing and said he knew exactly which episode I was talking about. Then we both started singing We Sail the Ocean Blue.

  The waitress cleared our plates and brought the bill to the table. There were fortune cookies on the tray and Josh picked one up.

  “So whose job do you think it is to write these?” he asked. “Do you think there’s an international writing staff that sits around in a dingy basement somewhere coming up with new fortunes? And if so, how does someone get a job like that?”

  “Maybe they’re all former English teachers,” I teased.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want that job. It would be so hard to type the fortunes on those little slips of paper.”

  “Hey, you stole that joke from Jerry Seinfeld!”

  Josh just grinned as he cracked his cookie open. “You will be seeing a lovely co-worker more and more often.”

  I blushed. “It does not say that.”

  “Of course it does.” He folded the fortune and put it in his pocket. “Would I dare lie about something as serious as a fortune cookie?” He popped a piece of the cookie into his mouth. “Now how about yours? What’s your fortune?”

  I opened my cookie. “Enjoy the good luck a companion brings you.” I held it out to prove that that was what it really said. “Look.”

  “Wow.” Josh looked impressed. “So I’m a good luck charm.”

  I gave him a coy smile. “Why do you think it refers to you?”

  “A man can live in hope.” He smiled.

  I giggled and snatched the bill, certain that I was bright red. Josh offered to pay but I insisted on paying to thank him for rescuing me. It took a minute to convince him, but he finally agreed . . . and then thanked me profusely.