More Like Her

by Liza Palmer

  “So, we on for dinner this Sunday? Martin just got that new smoker monstrosity. He’s all keyed up to smoke something called a Boston butt. Don’t ask,” Jill says.

  “Sure, I’m excited . . . not specifically about Boston butt, but about eating something other than shredded wheat and peaches,” I say.

  “It’ll be a group of us—people from Martin’s office, neighbors. I’m going to feel Lisa out and see how things went with Grady. See if he’ll be there . . . ,” Jill says, her voice trailing.

  Jill is quiet. Too quiet.

  “Jill?”

  “Hm?”

  “I want it on the record that I am asking you—point-blank—not to invite any potential suitors.”

  “You can’t ask me to do that.” Jill’s voice is strained.

  “What? Why can’t I?”

  “I simply cannot be expected to do that!” Jill takes on the demeanor of a hostage, bound and tied to a wooden chair, as she’s asked where the weapons of mass destruction are hidden.

  “You . . . you’re honestly—”

  “Mrs. Fweming?” A little blond girl approaches Jill hesitantly.

  “Try it again, Kaylee. Fleming. Get that l,” Jill says, giving me a quick wink.

  “Fleming. Mrs. Fleming,” Kaylee says, victorious. Jill gives her a quick high five. She’s nothing if not good at her job. Whether it’s speech therapist or matchmaker.

  “This isn’t over,” I say as I head down the hall feeling like a freedom fighter defying an iron-fisted despot. Jill and Kaylee disappear innocently around a corner. Unbelievable. Maybe I’ll burn a copy of that classic rock mix after all. Just in case. I continue down the stairs toward Emma Dunham and her summons.

  “I’m here to see Headmistress Dunham,” I say to the receptionist, a tight, overdressed seventysomething woman called Dolores.

  “I’ll see if she’s ready for you,” Dolores says, looking down her nose at me. I smile brightly and find a seat in one of the leather club chairs in the luxurious anteroom. Gilt-framed oil paintings of past heads of school line the wood-paneled walls: all old, white men. While Emma’s the first female I remember being head of school, I hadn’t really put it together that Emma is the first female head of school ever. The lower master—an older white gentleman whose painting would have fit perfectly with the others in this anteroom—leaving his post in a huff now makes a lot more sense. I grab a New Yorker off one of the mahogany coffee tables and flip through as I wait. After several minutes, Dolores picks up her phone.

  “Yes, ma’am? Fine,” Dolores says into the phone. Then to me she says, “Headmistress Dunham will see you now.”

  “Thank you.” I open the door to Emma’s office with as much confidence as I can muster.

  Emma picks up the phone behind a massive wooden desk. “Headmistress Dunham, I know you’re on a call, but Ms. Reid is here.” Dolores is quiet as she awaits instruction. She gives me the signal to hold on and keep it quiet. I think I can manage that. I close the door behind me and proceed toward one of the two tufted leather wingback chairs. Harry Sprague is sitting—gangly legs dangling—in the chair farthest from the door. He is sporting a very sizable black eye. I lunge toward him.

  “You okay? What happened? Harry?” I whisper, swiping his bangs out of his eyes, taking in the black eye as close as I can.

  “I’m fine, Ms. Reid. I’m fine,” Harry says, his eyes darting from Emma to me and back to Emma.

  I try to hold my temper. Hold. I stand quickly and walk out of Emma’s office. She’s still on the phone; she holds her hand over the receiver as I walk out of the office.

  “Ms. Reid?” Emma whispers. I ignore her and continue to walk out of the office, past Dolores—whom I shall now refer to as Cerberus the Three-headed Hound of Hell. By the time I’m out in the hallway, I’m at a full-out run. I hop the steps two by two and continue down the hallway, through the double doors, out onto the breezeway and into the teachers’ lounge. I don’t acknowledge the huddling group of lower school English teachers as I whip open the freezer. Ice. I pull open one of the drawers, get a freezer bag and fill it with ice. Fasten it closed, slam both freezer and drawer—hard. I rip off a paper towel and wrap it around the bag as quickly as I can.

  “Everything okay?” one of the teachers asks. I disregard her and I’m back out onto the breezeway, through the double doors, down the stairs, through the anteroom, past Cerberus and back into Emma’s office. I kneel down in front of Harry, short of breath and red faced.

  “Here, sweetie. Put this—” Harry winces as the cold hits his swelling eye. I pull the leather wingback chair close to Harry, holding the bag on the ever-swelling eye myself. I settle in. Look at Emma. Still on the phone and pissed. Well, that makes two of us, lady.

  Harry’s blue blazer with Markham’s seal is buttoned and loose on his rail of a body. His white oxford-cloth shirt is ironed and his blue tie is tight and businesslike. Little crimson droplets of blood dot the perfectly ironed oxford-cloth shirt. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Sprague will think about this. She’s going to lose her mind. I look down to see Harry’s one act of rebellion: a pair of scuffed, unlaced skateboarding shoes. I give Harry a smile as we both try not to listen to Emma’s phone call.

  I scan Emma’s office while we wait, my hand numbing from the bag of ice, despite the paper towel, that rests on Harry’s eye. Three long, thin vases anchor her pristine desk, each holding a single orange gerbera daisy. The water is sparkling and the flowers laze to one side. The vases are exactly the same distance apart from one another. She has one expensive-looking artisanal basket on her desk filled with a few files.

  My eyes focus on the altar of photos arranged on the mahogany credenza on her far wall. Photos of Emma and Jamie in every imaginable part of the world. Great Wall of China. Houses of Parliament. Sydney Opera House.

  Harry is sitting stock-still, only his hands are a tangle of nerves. I give him an easy smile. He quickly looks away behind the freezer bag filled with ice. If I act like I’m bored, he’ll just think this is business as usual. I can’t let him see I’m nervous, too.

  Just as Emma is winding down her conversation, my eyes fall on her wedding photo. Jamie and Emma. Once again, I’m reminded of what a mismatched couple they are. I recognize the backdrop immediately as Mount Tamalpais in Mill Valley, a tiny suburb just outside of San Francisco, more commonly known as my hometown. Emma Dunham got married in my hometown? I thought she was from Michigan . . . wait, Jill did say she was in the Bay Area for a time. I store that piece of information in my memory bank for future conversation starters—conversations that will inexplicably wend their way right into the head of department position. A head of department position I am on the cusp of throwing away because of how angry I’m growing by the second. Emma signs off, hangs up the phone and jots down a couple of lines in an opened file.

  “Thank you for coming, Ms. Reid,” she says.

  “What can I do for you, headmistress?” I ask.

  “It seems Mr. Sprague got into a fight with Mr. Sean Stone,” Emma says.

  “The lacrosse player? He did this?” I ask. Sean Stone is at least six foot three with the IQ of someone just wealthy enough to buy his way into any school he wants.

  “Yes,” Emma answers.

  “Then I’m not following,” I say. Having Harry here makes it difficult to point out the obvious holes in Emma Dunham’s theory without hurting his feelings.

  “What’s there to follow?” Emma asks. I inch forward in my chair.

  “Harry has a black eye, headmistress. Clearly it wasn’t . . . where is Mr. Stone now?” I ask, deciding to start with the obvious.

  “In class,” Emma answers.

  “Why is he not present at this disciplinary meeting?” I ask.

  “He’s being dealt with another way.”

  “Another way?”

  “Yes, Ms. Reid. Another way.”

  “Harry, can you excuse us for a second?” I ask, turning to the terrified ten-year-old.

 
“Yes, Ms. Reid,” he mumbles, situating the ice bag on his eye as he shuffles out of the office. I wait. My face is unruffled as he looks back in fear. Emma smiles, too. The door closes.

  “Ms. Reid, I certainly do not appreciate you asking Mr. Sprague to leave after I’ve summoned him.”

  “Surely you couldn’t expect an honest conversation with him present.”

  “I expected you to help discipline him.”

  “Why would I discipline him when I don’t understand the situation completely?”

  “Mr. Sprague got into a fight with Mr. Stone. He attacked him in English class.”

  “Harry is one hundred pounds soaking wet and goes to panels on how to learn the Vulcan language. Sean is a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound brute who slams soda cans into his forehead for fun. I assure you, this ‘fight’ has way more to it than you’re acknowledging.”

  “No matter.”

  “You’re going to have to walk me through how Harry having a black eye is ‘no matter.’ ”

  “From what I’ve inferred Mr. Sprague provoked Mr. Stone, which then caused Mr. Sprague’s injuries,” Emma says, slipping on her glasses briefly to read the scribbled notes on an accident report.

  “Provoked?” I ask, inching ever closer to the edge of my seat. Emma refers once again to her notes.

  “When Mr. Stone threatened to throw Mr. Sprague’s backpack in the trash, Mr. Sprague ran to get Mr. Stone’s backpack from his workstation. Mr. Sprague then dropped Mr. Stone’s backpack out of the classroom window, saying, ‘How do you like that, you effing penis-faced ape?’ ” It takes everything I have to keep a straight face. I love that kid. Effing. Penis-faced. Ape. Emma takes her glasses off and looks up at me as if she’s just proven her case in court beyond a reasonable doubt. I breathe deep. Collect myself.

  “What you’re describing is someone finally standing up to a renowned bully and then getting penalized for doing so.” Penalized. I can’t help myself.

  “You’re arguing that his actions should be applauded?”

  “Of course not, I’m not condoning violence, but it’s confusing to me why the reasons for the fight haven’t been discussed or looked into by you.”

  “Mr. Sprague should not have provoked him.”

  “I hope you’re not insinuating that Harry, in any way, asked for this beating.”

  “In my opinion, and more importantly the opinion of the Markham School, Harry Sprague is to blame for this altercation.”

  “I disagree. It’s well known that Sean Stone hits people. He’s just too Machiavellian to ever get caught. So, by your logic, and more importantly the logic of the Markham School, the inexperienced kids who finally stand up to their tormenters are the ones who deserve discipline?”

  Emma is quiet. I’m beyond angry but more mystified. How could Emma’s take on this situation be so skewed? Bullying and pecking orders: middle school’s own lovely brand of Darwinism.

  “Mr. Sprague shall be given a warning,” Emma finally says.

  “Verbal only. This will not go into his record,” I say, scooting to the end of my chair.

  “Fine.”

  “And I’d like to request that we revisit Sean Stone’s ongoing behavioral issues at a later date,” I say.

  “I’ll get back to you on that, Ms. Reid.”

  “Thank you, headmistress.”

  “You’re welcome.” Ha! I didn’t really mean it.

  “Will there be anything else?”

  “No, Ms. Reid.”

  We are quiet.

  Emma continues. “The board looks forward to meeting you and Mrs. Fleming at tonight’s head of department mixer.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, my eyes to the floor. Great.

  “You don’t need to call me ma’am, Ms. Reid,” Emma says. She looks drained.

  “Thank you, headmistress. I’ll take Mr. Sprague with me when I go, if this meets with your approval?” I ask. Standing. Straightening my skirt. Holding my temper. I will not scratch your eyes out, Emma Dunham. I will not blast “We Are the Champions” as I proclaim, “No one is ever going to be free until nerd persecution ends!” No. I will hold it together. For Harry. For the bullied. For nerds everywhere.

  “Yes, that will be fine.” Emma lifts one of the files from her in-box and puts her glasses on once again. I look like a “before” picture in mine and she looks like one of the women in Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” video. Awesome.

  “Good day, headmistress.”

  “Please close the door behind you, Ms. Reid,” Emma says, not looking up. I walk the ever-elongating expanse to Emma’s door, becoming more and more upset. I can feel it building in my shoulders. My throat. I . . . I have to say something about this conversation to show that I am an effective leader in even the most pressing circumstances. To prove that I am the perfect person for the head of department job, not that I’m an insolent debater who overthinks everything. Before I go out the door, I whip around and find Emma, head in hands, hunched over at her desk. Her fingers are raking through her hair. Violent. Aggressive. Brutal.

  I catch my breath and reach back for the door, hoping she hasn’t noticed me.

  Emma lifts up her head. And I see a demon. A possessed woman. A deeply furrowed brow bordering on satanic, laser red-rimmed eyes and a mouth set in a hard line. Within a millisecond it flashes from recognition to pain to cool and collected. I give her a quick nod and let myself out, closing the door behind me.

  “Is . . . uh . . . is everything good?” Harry asks.

  “Absolutely,” I say, donning an easy smile and choosing not to correct his grammar.

  “Oh . . . uh . . . ,” Harry says, looking around the office.

  “Come on, sweetie,” I say, motioning for him to exit this hellish vortex of an office before Emma thinks better of it. Harry doesn’t question me as he quickly stands and shuffles out of the anteroom.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” I say to Dolores. Dolores doesn’t acknowledge or look up at me. The door shuts behind us as we walk down the hallway and toward the stairs. Harry trundles along, his hand holding the now dripping plastic bag of ice.

  “Sweetie, you’ve got to keep the ice on your eye. It’ll start to swell,” I say, stopping and reapplying the bag to his delicate face. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, nonchalant. Easy. No big deal. Sharing your feelings is, you know . . . whatever, dude.

  “Not really. Is that okay?” Harry asks, looking up at me through the overgrown brush of his blond bangs.

  “It’s more than okay,” I say, having a hard time not getting emotional.

  We are quiet.

  I continue. “So, Sean Stone, huh?” I say, walking down the hallway. A smile curls across Harry’s pale face.

  “Kling akhlami buhfik, Ms. Reid,” Harry says in perfect Vulcan.

  “No, you’re right, Harry. Nobody is perfect,” I say at the base of the stairs.

  “Frannie?” I look up. The sun streams in through the double glass doors at the end of the hall. The hard hat held loosely in one hand and the scrolls of blueprints in the other.

  Sam.

  “Hiya,” I say, my mouth going dry. Harry looks past his plastic bag filled with now melting ice from Sam to me. I see Sam inventory Harry’s eye. Sam offers a warm smile, tucks the blueprints tight under his arm and extends his hand to Harry. In the millisecond Sam’s eyes flick to me, I see the tiniest of imperceptible acknowledgments that Harry’s eye will be handled with diplomacy.

  “Sam Earley,” he says, shaking the boy’s noodle arm with vigor.

  “Harry Sprague,” he says behind his plastic bag.

  “Nice to meet you, Harry,” Sam says, letting go of the boy’s tiny hand.

  “Sam, this is my star pupil, Master Harry Sprague,” I say. Harry and I have been working on introductions and how to greet people for years.

  “Nice to meet you, Harry,” Sam says.

  “Where are you from?” Harry asks . . . blurts really.

  “Tennessee,” Sam says,
smiling.

  “You talk funny,” Harry says.

  “I know,” Sam says, looking from Harry to me. Smiling.

  “Harry,” I say gently.

  “Don’t you worry, Frannie,” Sam says with a quick wink to Harry.

  “The correct way to say it is ‘You speak funny,’ ” I say.

  “Ha!” Sam laughs.

  “I’m quite fond of Mr. Earley’s accent,” I say, flushing immediately.

  Sam looks at me. A smile. Flipping wildly through my slide show of Sam Earley smiles, I realize this is one I had yet to see.

  I say to Harry, “Come on, sweetie. We’ve got work to do. Say good-bye to Mr. Earley.”

  “Bye, Sam,” Harry says, resituating the plastic bag filled with ice. I lay my hand on Harry’s shoulder and guide him over to the stairs. Harry begins up the stairs.

  “You’ll tell me later about the eye?” Sam asks, his hand reaching out just a bit.

  “It’s a long story that ends in me tilting at windmills,” I say, trying to joke about a situation about which I’m still equal parts confused and enraged.

  “That’s my girl,” Sam says, scanning the hallway.

  Um, what?

  “Yeah, well,” I say, looking from Sam to a very curious Harry. I motion to Harry with an apologetic smile and a wave.

  Sam waves back. Standing where he was. Unmoving. I look back and give him a smile. A little wave.

  He raises his hand, the hard hat held aloft.

  Ouuuuuuuuch.

  Chapter 6

  I Was Pretty Good, Too

  That’s my girl’? What’s that supposed to mean?” Jill asks.

  “I have no idea,” I answer. Truthfully. So begins the exhausting analysis of the cavalcade of unknowable smiles and cryptic sentences uttered by someone you’re newly interested in. When everything boils down to a succession of enigmatic moments. Moments played and replayed from the perspective you attribute to your lover-to-be, but that are actually from the part of you that’s sure you’re far too flawed to be loved. Every action, every word, every inch of one’s body is judged. Life’s normal fluidity melts away and is obliterated by the roller-coaster-like ups and downs of a really bad electrocardiogram.