Perfect Happiness

by Kristyn Kusek Lewis

  Tucker finally puts the phone down and leans back, arms resting on the bleacher behind him, and Charlotte can’t take it anymore. She keeps imagining that Instagram video. She has to seize the chance to say something to him. She steps carefully down the four rows between them, and sits next to him.

  “Hi, Tucker,” she says, as casually as she can.

  “Oh!” he says, surprised. “Mrs. McGanley! Hi! I didn’t see you.” He immediately grabs his phone from the space between them and begins to tap at it, an unconscious habit, she’s sure, one she sees her students do all the time. It’s a tic, disappearing into the phone when you get uncomfortable, like raising an invisible privacy screen.

  “Tucker,” she says. “I need to ask you about something.”

  He puts down the phone, but his eyes stay on the court.

  “Look at me, please,” she says, in a tone that Birdie once dubbed her “mean teacher voice.”

  He does, and Charlotte notices the gold flecks in his eyes, the tiny crusting pimple beside his temple, the chapped corners of his lips. He feels like such a villain in her mind, but she sees now that he’s just a kid, not even old enough to drive a car.

  “You don’t have practice today?” she says.

  “It’s in twenty minutes.” He stutters a little, looking unsure.

  “Listen,” she says, smiling, aware that Birdie or the other parents might be watching them. “I know I don’t have to tell you that it’s not okay with me or Birdie’s dad for you to take her back to your house when there aren’t adults there.”

  “What are you talking about?” he says, though his cheeks immediately turn pink.

  “Tucker, we know she was over at your house. We know about her skipping practice.”

  He leans forward, elbows on his knees. Charlotte waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t. She wonders if he’s ever been reprimanded for anything before. She gets the feeling he hasn’t, that he’s actually the kind of kid she hates most when they come sauntering into her classroom, the ones whom she is sure could get out of anything in exchange for a big donation to the school from their parents.

  “Was it your idea to go back there?”

  He huffs and looks away, shaking his head like he’s disgusted, confirming her suspicions about him. She glances at the court. Birdie’s back is to them but it’s only a matter of time before she turns around.

  “Tucker, please answer my question,” she says, and he tilts his head toward her.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “You found out because you saw my Instagram story, right? Why are you so obsessed with my account, Mrs. McGanley? It’s kind of weird, isn’t it? For an adult to be following a kid’s account the way you do?”

  “Tucker!” she snaps, but then her mind goes blank, not finding the words. What is there to say? He’s got her. And from the look on his face, the self-satisfied, nothing-will-ever-stick-to-me smirk, he knows it. Every cell in her body pulses with anger. This kid. This fucking kid!

  “Tucker, I’m going to say this once,” she says, her voice low, aware of the parents around her. “You do anything like that again and I promise you, you’ll regret it.”

  He whips his head back around, surveying the people behind them on the bleachers. “Are you threatening me, Mrs. McGanley?” he says, loudly enough for everyone around them to hear.

  She shifts on the bench, not daring to look around. “Don’t be silly, Tucker.” She leans back like they’re having a casual conversation, crossing her legs and letting her shoe flip off her heel, bouncing it as she watches the kids on the court, now breaking apart for their next drill. Birdie looks over, sees them sitting together, and a nervous grin materializes on her face.

  Charlotte’s heart is beating triple time. She knows she has to tread carefully. Anything she says to him will circle back to Birdie, probably embellished.

  “Birdie likes you, Tucker,” she says, just under her breath as she waves casually at her daughter. “And she’s a good judge of character, so I know some part of you must be decent enough, because she’s a smart girl.” She puts her hand out and touches his arm, just for the briefest moment, to make her point. “But hear me on this, Tucker: You may care about my daughter. Or I’m going to assume for the sake of this conversation that you do, let’s put it that way, and she may have feelings for you, but it is nothing compared to the way that I feel about her. And the kind of love that I have for Birdie means I’ll do anything for her. Anything.”

  She waits for him to say something but he doesn’t. Birdie races across the court to return a volley and slams it over the net.

  “Do you understand?” she says.

  He picks up his phone. “Right,” he says, hopping up. He saunters to the tennis court, looking back for a moment at Charlotte as he does it, like he’s challenging her. He leans against the metal fencing and calls Birdie’s name. Her eyes widen, embarrassed by the attention, but the thrill on her face is undeniable. She checks to see what her coach is doing, and seeing that his head is dipped, discussing something with another player, she jogs over to Tucker. He puts his palm up to the fence and she matches hers to it, their fingers interlacing for the briefest moment. Seconds later, she’s jogging back to her teammates, and a couple of them make goofy faces at her, giggling. Tucker walks off, not looking back, seeming like he doesn’t have a care in the world, because—Charlotte’s sure of it—he doesn’t. And nothing worries her more.

  * * *

  “Nice for your mother to come to practice, huh, Bird?” Jason says, tipping his head sideways to take a big bite of his sandwich. Charlotte’s not sure what to make of it, but Birdie was mercifully, finally cordial to her after practice. Whether it was because of her showing up, Tucker showing up, or something else entirely, she’s relieved that something might be normalizing between them.

  They stopped at the Italian Store (Birdie’s choice) on the way home and picked up a sub for Jason, a couple of slices of pizza for Birdie, and pasta salad from the deli counter that Charlotte is pushing around her plate. She watches Jason across the table, and takes a sip of the deep, rich chianti she picked up in the wine section while Birdie was surveying the cannoli. A forty-five-dollar bottle, easily double what she normally spends, but as she was turning the bottle in her hands, examining the label, she heard Reese’s voice in her head, telling her she should celebrate her book offer, and so she grabbed it, deciding she could have herself a little party of one. It is a stupid amount of money that they’re offering her. A ridiculous amount. She looks at Jason across the table, strategizing how to tell him. The wine, for all that she spent, tastes terrible.

  His phone keeps vibrating on the counter across the room, which is not unusual in and of itself. Her father-in-law has a habit of texting his son every time a thought materializes in his head that he believes Jason might find interesting; about the new shortstop for the Nats, the weather conditions at the beach, or asking him to check on the bird feeders/water filter/thermostats at the house. Normally Charlotte can ignore it, but not tonight. Because what if it’s—

  “You feel ready for the match tomorrow?” Jason says, wiping a slick of vinaigrette from his chin.

  “Mm-hmm,” Birdie says through a mouthful of pepperoni.

  “She looked great out there this afternoon,” Charlotte says, attempting to act normal.

  “What were you and Tucker talking about?” Birdie asks, her mouth turning up, a shy smile.

  “Tucker was at practice?” Jason says, cocking his head at Charlotte. “You spoke to him?” Charlotte hears the phone buzzing again, the sound corkscrewing into her eardrum.

  “Just for a minute,” Birdie says. “Before his own practice. Mom, what did you say to him?”

  “You haven’t texted him forty times already since you got home?” Jason says, raising an eyebrow at her. Under normal circumstances, this could have been typical dad-joke teasing, Birdie laughing at him to stop, but instead, she looks down at her lap, seemingly still chastened by the trouble she’s gotte
n into.

  “Well,” Jason says. “I’m glad you had so many spectators. And I’m glad that you actually made it to practice so they could see you.”

  Birdie grimaces, and Charlotte tries another sip of her wine, remembering how Tucker looked back at her this afternoon. Can a fifteen-year-old really be that malicious? With his girlfriend’s mother?

  “Bird, it’s okay,” Jason finally says, glancing at Charlotte, as his voice softens. “I know it was a onetime offense.”

  She nods and takes a bite of her pizza, and Charlotte studies her, looking for some signal that she’s okay. “I tried to tell Tucker as many embarrassing stories as I could in the five minutes we talked,” she jokes.

  “Mom!” Birdie smiles, and Charlotte instantly feels it, the reward centers, as she might say in class, going off in her brain. The phone buzzes again and Charlotte sees Jason look briefly in its direction before turning back to his sub.

  “I told him about the time you took off your dirty diaper during Thanksgiving dinner and handed it to Grandma,” Charlotte says.

  “Mom!” Birdie screams, her ears turning deep red.

  The phone buzzes again and Charlotte can’t take it anymore. She dips her head back, looking up at the ceiling. “Could you please answer that, Jason?” she says.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says, hopping up like he’s just hearing it for the first time.

  “Oh, geez,” he says, leaning against the counter, crossing his feet casually at the ankles. She watches as he scrolls through the texts, a nervousness passing over her like the slightest breeze.

  “What is it?” Birdie says, twisting in her seat.

  He puts his hand to his mouth, continuing to read. “It looks like there’s something going on with the new orangutan baby.”

  “Oh, no!” Birdie says, looking over at Charlotte with alarm.

  “Yeah,” he says, scrolling faster now. “I’m going to have to go in.”

  Charlotte puts down her fork. Jason rarely needs to go into work off-hours. Maybe once every few years. “But you don’t even work in the ape house anymore,” she says, barely getting the words out. She knows, of course, who does.

  “I know.” He scratches his head. “But there’s something going on with his heart rate. And Lucy, the mom, is freaking out.”

  “Again,” Charlotte says. “What does that have to do with you?”

  He looks at her, clearly miffed by this comment. “Besides Jamie, I’m the only keeper Lucy’s most comfortable with. She’s going nuts,” he says, holding up the phone like it’s proof. “Jamie needs help. I’m sorry, I need to go.”

  “I guess if Jamie needs help . . .” Charlotte says. He looks at her in confusion but then he shoves his phone in his pocket and starts out of the room.

  “Dad, text me and let me know how the baby is when you get there, okay?” Birdie says, watching him go. “The poor thing!”

  Charlotte looks at her daughter, so innocent and oblivious, and jumps up from her seat. “I’ll be back in a sec,” she says, her heart racing. “Just need to go ask your dad one more thing.”

  She meets him in the hallway just as he’s heading out to the garage.

  “Are you seriously giving me a hard time for having to go into work?” he says before she can speak.

  She pauses, her arms dropping to her sides. “Jason,” she whispers. “I saw you today.”

  “What?” he says, shaking his head like he doesn’t understand.

  “I saw you,” she repeats, opening and closing her hands at her sides.

  “You saw me where?” he says, frustrated and impatient.

  “I saw you on Wisconsin with Jamie, in front of that Mexican place,” she says, her heart pounding in her chest.

  “Oh,” he says. “Yeah.” He looks away then, a move that seems suspicious to her somehow, and she wishes she could remember what she learned in undergrad about reading people’s expressions, something about how if they look down, they’re lying.

  “Since when do you leave the zoo for lunch?” she asks.

  “It’s Jamie’s birthday,” he says, reaching for the door.

  “So you went all the way to Georgetown? Just the two of you?” she says. “What happened to crappy grocery store cake in a conference room, just like at every other workplace in America?”

  He turns back, his face hard. “It’s not that far to Georgetown from the zoo,” he says. “Seriously, why do I feel like you’re accusing me of something?”

  “Should I be?” she says. Her heartbeat feels like it’s crawling up her throat.

  “We went to America Eats, that José Andrés place. A few of our coworkers met us. Our boss made the reservation.”

  She studies him. His explanation came out quickly, so maybe he is telling the truth. “It surprised me,” she says. “To see you.”

  He puts his palms up. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “You looked . . .”

  “What?” he says, sounding impatient. “What, Charlotte? We looked what?”

  “I said you,” she says. “Not we.”

  He closes his eyes and sighs.

  “Is there something going on with you two?” she asks.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says. “Me and Jamie?”

  “She kept touching you.”

  “How long were you watching us?”

  “That’s beside the point!” she says.

  “She’s like that with everyone, Charlotte. Not just me.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes!”

  “Why was it just the two of you? Where were the rest of your coworkers?”

  “At the restaurant! We rode over together because we’d been with the baby right before we had to leave.”

  “How cozy,” she says sarcastically.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say!” he says in a frustrated stage whisper, looking over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “But I can guarantee you that I am not having an affair with my coworker whose husband died barely a year ago! My God! If anything, I can’t believe you would think such a thing!”

  She closes her eyes. Okay, she thinks, calm down. “It surprised me,” she says, her voice trembling. “Okay? I’ve never once run into you during the workday, in a totally different neighborhood from the zoo. It was . . . jarring.”

  He nods, but he’s clearly pissed off. Maybe she is being irrational.

  “She just looked . . . The two of you looked . . . Anyone who saw you might have thought you were a couple.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” he says. “Besides that this is ridiculous.”

  “Okay,” she says, taking a deep breath. “Okay,” she repeats.

  “I have to go,” he says, looking at her pointedly. “To work.”

  She nods, biting her lip, feeling a little embarrassed.

  “Where were you anyway?” he says. “When you saw me?”

  “Oh,” she says, envisioning Wendy, the email printout from her publisher on the table between them. She can’t tell him now, not like this. “Just a lunch meeting. Nothing important.”

  * * *

  She hears the garage door closing behind him as she walks back into the kitchen and finds Birdie rinsing her plate. She searches her daughter’s face for any sign that she’d heard them but Birdie is humming along to something, singing to herself, as she wipes her hands on the kitchen towel hanging by the sink.

  “Sorry, Mom,” she says. “Don’t mean to leave you, too, but I have a crap ton of homework.”

  “Birdie—” she starts.

  “I mean ton!” Birdie laughs. “Ton, sorry.”

  “No, it’s—It’s not that. It’s fine.”

  “What is it, Mom? Is something wrong?”

  “No, of course not,” she says, fighting back tears. “Come here.”

  “What is it?”

  Charlotte wraps her arms around Birdie, embracing her in a tight hug. “A mom can’t hug her daughter?” she says. Over Birdie’s shoulder, she see
s the nearly full wineglass on the table. Maybe I’ll—No. She stops herself. No, not tonight. She holds Birdie tighter, one final squeeze.

  “Hey, Bird,” she says, when she finally releases her. “Do you mind if I go for a quick run?”

  “Of course not,” she says. “Go for it.”

  “I’ll be back in thirty minutes, tops,” Charlotte says. “Just want to clear my head.”

  Eleven

  The following afternoon, Jason leaves work early (a reward for being there half the night before, he tells himself), and is grabbing a quick coffee on the way to Birdie’s tennis match when his phone rings.

  “Dad!” Birdie yells.

  “What is it, hon?” he says. “I’m headed over right now.”

  “Shoot! You are?” she says, panic in her voice. “You’re already on your way to school?”

  “Yeah, what is it, Bird? Is everything okay?”

  “Uh-huh, it’s fine,” she says. “But I need you to do me a huge favor. I somehow forgot to pack my uniform shirt. I have everything else I need but it isn’t in my bag! Can you run home and see if it’s in my room? Coach will kill me if I don’t have it!”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he says, pulling his seat belt back around him, the latch clicking into place as he inserts the buckle and starts the car. “Where in your room?” he asks, picturing the piles that never leave her floor. Years ago, he and Charlotte stopped nagging her about it, deciding it was easier to just close the door.

  “It’s probably on the floor. Or in the hamper in my closet,” she says. “Hurry, Dad! We’re already warming up.”

  “On my way,” he says, a determination in his voice like he’s the action hero in a movie about to defuse a ticking time bomb. “I’ll find it. Don’t worry.”

  Minutes later, he bounds up the stairs in the house, leaving the front door wide open, and flips on the light in Birdie’s room, the purple butterfly switch plate scratched and grimy with age.

  There’s stuff everywhere. He scans the room and then dives in, rifling through the balled-up jeans, the flannel pajama pants and dirty socks, books and papers and scrunchies, stuffed animals she’s had since she was a toddler, but he comes up short. No uniform.