by Hazel James
It was no secret that I had a professional crush on Channel 3’s best reporter. I’ve dreamed of working with him since I joined the video yearbook staff in ninth grade. As the lowest in the pecking order, my first job was to archive stories from the previous school year. That’s how I stumbled on a few hundred hours’ worth of Blaine’s footage.
He’d just started his freshman year of college at the University of Texas in Austin. His charisma and talent were obvious, even then. He’d gotten an offer for a top-eighty market after he graduated—a next-to-impossible feat—but took a job in Boise because he wanted to give back to the area where he grew up.
A man with values like that could never find out about my Blunder of the Year. I took a cleansing breath and tucked this morning’s experience in my Things-To-Never-Discuss box as I pulled into the parking lot of Newcastle Public Library.
“Excuse me, could you tell me where the sign language class is?” I asked once I was inside.
A woman in her sixties behind the main desk pointed to a door beside the reference section, scrunching her face. “It’s in the conference room, but it’s not until tomorrow.”
“What? Tomorrow?” I grabbed my phone and brought up the social media page I used to find local events. Crap.
“You can always come back then.”
“I appreciate that, but I can’t. I have to work.” Which also meant I had to come up with something else for next week’s blog. Double crap.
The woman glanced around the countertop, then tilted her head toward an office on her left. “Jack, could you bring me more activity calendars?”
A few seconds later, a man in a business suit came out with a stack of paper. The same man I’d seen at the gym this morning. Who co-starred with the Golden Buzzer in my X-rated daydream. If it was possible to die of humiliation, it was about to happen to me.
Triple crap.
Jack
The woman from the gym stood on the other side of the counter, pale faced and eyes wide. When her color returned, it all rushed to her cheeks. She looked like she’d seen a ghost and had gotten embarrassed because of it.
Before I could speak, Cara took a calendar from the top of the pile and slid it across the wood veneer. “It’s every Tuesday from six to seven p.m.”
The woman took the paper, gave a quick nod, and sped toward the exit.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“Scheduling mix-up. She thought the sign language class was today.”
My first class last Tuesday had gone better than I expected. Eleven people showed up and I only wanted to hurl twice. Mom called when I got home that night to say how proud she was, but her opinion didn’t count. I could have given her a Play-Doh sculpture of a potato and she would’ve said the same thing.
“Uh oh.” Cara handed me a cell phone in a pink case and waved a finger at the front entrance. “You’re a lot faster than me.”
I almost ran into the woman on the other side of the door.
“Sorry, I forgot my—”
I held out her phone.
“Right. Thanks.” She blushed again as she dropped it in her purse.
Unless I was reading the moment wrong, she was borderline coquettish this morning. I wasn’t sure why she was flustered now. That was usually my role, especially when a beautiful woman was involved.
Nevertheless, the part of my brain that dealt with flirting brushed off its cobwebs and took a deep breath. “Now that you know where I live and work, I should introduce myself. I’m Jack Price.” I extended my hand, enjoying her smile as she slipped her palm against mine.
“Tuesday Collins. Aaand now I feel like a stalker.”
I’d never met anyone named after a day of the week. Rather than asking if there was a story behind it—which she probably got all the time—I tipped my chin toward the parking lot. “It’s only stalking if you know what car I drive.”
“Hmm.” She turned and tapped a finger against her chin. “I’m guessing… the black SUV in the far row.”
“Nope.” I playfully wiped my brow, glad to see she was more at ease and that so far, I hadn’t screwed up the conversation. “Are you coming to my sign language class tomorrow?”
Her brows inched up. “Your class? As in, you’re the instructor?”
I nodded, hoping that alone would get her to say yes. It would boost my ego and lessen the horror of public speaking because I’d focus on her and forget everyone else in the room.
Unfortunately, that wish died when disappointment washed over her face. “I have to work tomorrow night, which sucks because I wanted to feature the class on my video blog next week.”
Wait. Video blog? The alarm in my head sounded exactly like a needle screeching across a record. Talking in front of a group was one thing—but being recorded? “What do you mean by ‘feature on your blog?’”
“It’s called Try It Tuesday, and every week I talk about something I’ve never done before. Tomorrow’s post is on acrylic paint pouring.”
“What’s that?”
“Basically, you put a bunch of different colors in a cup, then dump it on a canvas.”
“That sounds messy.”
Her lips curved into a smirk. “Oh, it was.”
The combination of her brown knee-high boots, tight jeans, and pink sweater made her look innocent. The expression on her face said otherwise. I shoved my hands into my pockets and made a mental note to bookmark her blog when I got home. “So if you don’t come to the class, what will you do for next week’s blog?”
“I’ll figure something out,” she said with a half shrug. “Maybe I’ll test out a new recipe.”
Her lack of enthusiasm and my desire to see her smile again brought me back to my baseball years. When it came to stealing bases, Coach always said, “Winners don’t hesitate. If you see an opportunity, take it.” So I did.
“How about I give you a private lesson tonight?”
A few seconds later, I realized that somewhere between my brain and my mouth, my sincere offer turned into a smarmy pick-up line. That was the thing about me speaking—even when the words came out correctly, I was still great at screwing it up. “Sorry,” I said, gripping the back of my neck. “I didn’t mean for that to sound so creepy.”
My reprieve came in the form of a soft giggle that slipped past her glossy lips. “It’s only creepy if you lure me with candy.”
“No candy, I promise. It’ll be nothing but Brussels sprouts from here on out.”
Tuesday threw her head back and filled the portico with laughter, a welcome reward after nearly killing our conversation. “Does this mean I get to interview you for my blog?” she asked when she finally caught her breath.
I had every intention of saying no, or at least making her promise to stick to audio only. Instead, I fell victim to her Kryptonite-green eyes and felt my head nodding of its own accord.
I was so screwed.
Thirty minutes later, I found Tuesday scanning the shelves in the fiction section. I told her I needed to finish up an application for a grant, which was true. I didn’t mention also needing time to chug some Pepto Bismol to settle my stomach and make sure everyone had left the library for the evening.
Even with Cara’s reassurance on her way out, I still believed the fewer the witnesses, the better. That included not telling my mom about my interview. The last thing I wanted was her emailing the blog link to every living relative we had.
I’m not exaggerating, either. When I was a teenager, my speech therapist told her to take videos to track my progress. She saw that as an open invitation and glued the video camera to her hand. It got even worse when smartphones came along. It was like being on a never-ending season of Real World.
Dammit, why did I agree to this? Oh yeah. Apparently, I had a weakness for the gorgeous blonde watching me as I approached. I knew I should have gone home early.
“You look nervous,” she said.
I nodded because there was no use denying it. I’d rather have a root
canal. At least I could blame everything on the anesthesia.
Tuesday patted my shoulder and grinned. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”
I wouldn’t mind if she did, though I kept that comment to myself as she led us to the reading area. It was one of the first sections of the library I remodeled when I became the librarian this past spring. Diego’s wife, Erin, was a huge help.
You know those people who can fix up the stuff they find at estate sales and sell it for a huge profit? That was Erin’s specialty. She had a garage full of re-upholstered chairs and ottomans that she said was taking up too much space. I tried to pay her, but the only thing she’d accept was a donation slip for next year’s taxes. Mom added some area rugs and vintage lamps to round out the ambiance.
The goal was simple: To get new blood in the library. Having access to information 24/7 meant a growing population of residents—the younger generation, specifically—didn’t know we existed. To stay relevant, we needed to give them a reason to show up.
I started by extending the library’s hours two weeks before Newcastle High School had its final exams. To everyone’s surprise, a total of a hundred and eighty-two students came to study. Sure, some of them only came for the free snacks but I was okay with that.
“I hope you don’t mind that I shifted things a bit. I’ll put it all back when we’re done.” Tuesday had created a cozy setting with a fuzzy rug and two chairs angled toward each other. The small table behind them held a colorful stack of books and a wooden sculpture of a wolf. The only thing missing was a fireplace.
I liked it and saw no reason we couldn’t keep it this way. Tuesday smiled when I told her as much. She’d done that a dozen times this evening—smiled when I said something. She probably did that with everyone though.
“Why don’t we sit down and do a dry run to make you feel more comfortable.”
“Sounds good.” I sat in the chair closest to me and ran my palms down my slacks. No amount of dry runs would ease the pit in my stomach, but I played along.
“Let’s start with an easy question. How did you learn sign language?”
I left out Ricky’s name, but I told her a little bit about being bullied in school and how Diego taught me ASL. Usually, people gave me the “you poor thing” look as they listened, even if they didn’t realize it. Not Tuesday. She flashed a wicked grin and asked how many times we talked about those kids right in front of their faces without them knowing.
Her brazen response had me laughing as I settled into my seat. “More than I could count.”
“So what made you want to offer classes at the library?”
I planned on telling her the same answer I’d given everyone else—that it was a great skill and knowing the basics went a long way in breaking down communication barriers. To my embarrassment, the truth slipped out instead. Thank God it was only a practice interview.
“I’m giving a speech at a national conference on January twenty-seventh. Public speaking terrifies me, so I hoped that starting small and working my way up would help.”
She was silent for a moment, tilting her head to study me as my confession hung in the air. Having a phobia was bad enough, but having one that other people didn’t understand was worse. Everyone always said, “Just picture the audience naked.” How come nobody ever tells someone with a fear of snakes to picture it wearing a top hat and tie?
But once again, Tuesday proved she wasn’t like the others when she admitted to having megalophobia and thalassophobia.
“The first one—is that a fear of large things?”
“Yep. I’m fine with stuff like airplanes and skyscrapers because I see them all the time. But put me near a cruise ship or a wind turbine and I’ll crawl into the fetal position.”
“What’s the other one?”
“A fear of the sea and things related to it. I don’t mind large bodies of water if they’re clear or if it’s during the day, but I can’t handle deep, dark water. I also have a fear of icebergs, which probably ties in with my megalophobia. One of my college professors had an inspirational poster of an iceberg in the room. I had to sit with my back to it just to make it through the class.”
“I take it you weren’t a fan of Titanic.”
She shuddered before giving in to a wry smile. “Why don’t you tell me more about your classes while I picture kittens and rainbows?”
We spent the next hour going over the basics. ASL had its own grammar rules and there were multiple ways to structure sentences and questions. For example, instead of saying, “Tomorrow I’m going to the library,” you’d sign, “Tomorrow library I go.” And then there were the nonmanual markers that didn’t involve the hands at all—you could change the entire meaning of a sentence based on the position of your eyebrows.
That led to Tuesday cracking a joke about Mona Lisa and how she’d sound like the monotone teacher from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. From there, we segued into the merits of Groucho Marx as an interpreter. That’s when my phone vibrated with a text from Cara asking how the interview went.
“Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s almost nine and we haven’t started yet.”
“Umm…” Tuesday wrinkled her nose and pointed to an adjacent bookshelf. “That’s not entirely true.”
Sure enough, her phone was mounted on a tiny tripod. “But you were sitting here the entire time. How did you…”
She held up a small remote, aimed it at her phone, and clicked a button. “I hope you’re not mad. Cara mentioned that you were a bit camera shy. I thought you’d be more comfortable if you didn’t know I was recording.”
Well that explained the smiley face in Cara’s text. She had a heart of gold, and I wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear she cahooted with Tuesday on my behalf. “I’m not mad. I just hope you got what you needed. I feel like I did nothing but ramble.”
“You did great,” she said with a reassuring smile as she packed up her gear.
“I could… uhh… give you my number in case you think of anything I missed. You know, that way you wouldn’t have to find me at the gym or drive all the way here.”
Sure, it was backward—usually the girl gave her number to the guy—but this wasn’t a ploy for a date. It was merely a rational, logical suggestion if she had any follow-up questions.
In related news, I was totally, completely full of shit.
Tuesday
“You look like you’re about to fall asleep standing up.”
I sipped the venti caffè mocha I ordered on the way to Cleopatra’s, the lingerie store I worked at. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes.” I hoped anyway. Otherwise, this was going to be a long shift.
My co-worker, Nina, leaned forward and waggled her eyebrows. “And is there any particular reason you’re so tired?”
“Not really.” I managed to keep a neutral expression for a whopping three seconds before surrendering to a grin.
“I knew it! What’s his name?”
“Who says it’s a he? I could have been up late playing with Taylor.”
She leveled a gaze at me. “I know darn well your cat didn’t put that smile on your face.”
“I’m telling her you said that. She’ll probably take you off her Christmas card list.” It was an empty threat and we both knew it. Taylor’s list was longer than mine by several hundred. And yes, I named her after Taylor Swift. She was a tortoiseshell cat that my parents gave to me on my thirteenth birthday, and given my obsession with the country-turned-pop singer, I’d never considered calling her anything else.
The Christmas card thing started by accident a few years ago. I made a joke on a blog post about having Taylor send a card to the real Taylor’s cats. Ninety-five percent of the comments were some variation of “You totally should,” so I did.
I never expected Real Taylor to actually open it. Or post a picture of it. Or send one back. I framed it, naturally. If my apartment ever goes up in flames, I’m grabbing my cat, the frame, and my purse, in tha
t order.
But I digress.
“Okay, fine. I’m smiling because of a guy, but it’s not like you think. We were just texting.”
“And it kept you up all night, by the looks of it.”
I sipped my coffee instead of answering her. I sent the first text at a red light on the way home from the library—one, so he’d have my number and two, because I really did feel like a stalker since I was driving behind him.
Jack’s reply was a smiley face along with “It’s not stalking if I know about it.” Cute, right?
When I got back to my apartment, I downloaded the video file onto my computer. That’s when I got the perfect idea for the intro to the ASL blog post. Instead of speaking, I’d sign everything and add closed captioning during the editing process. I fired off a quick text asking if he had free time on Thursday evening to teach me how to sign the words.
He responded while I was in the shower.
I’m glad to help. Just tell me when and where.
At the risk of pushing my luck, I suggested he come to my studio, also known as my spare bedroom. I’d already have everything set up, so I’d only need to focus on signing while he supervised me.
He didn’t make me wait long for an answer.
Hmm. That’s a hefty commute but I suppose I can manage.
He punctuated his message with a winky face. I stared at my phone and dissected its meaning for a solid five minutes. Did he hit the wrong one by accident? Or was this actual flirting?
I texted Selena to get her thoughts.
Me: If a guy sends a winky face in a text, does that mean he’s into you?
Selena: I don’t know. Maybe?
Me: What do you mean you don’t know? You’ve been married to my brother for seven years.
Selena: Exactly. He retired the winky face. Now it’s just the smirking face and an eggplant.
She added three eye-roll emojis at the end.
I replied with the upchuck emoji. Tag was the best brother anyone could ask for, but I had zero interest in hearing about his sex life, indirectly or not.
