Starting Over

by Barbie Bohrman

  Mr. Thomas is drop-dead gorgeous. And I’m so going to get an A in this class.

  Wait! What the hell am I thinking?

  I’m not getting an A in anything. I’m just going to chalk up this little drool fest to the fact that I’m not usually attracted to men I meet. I do have very singular tastes and apparently this man fits into my tastes quite well. Perfectly, actually. Like a glove.

  Jeez! There I go again.

  Okay, Vanessa, I think to myself as calmly as possible, stop thinking about Mr. Thomas like he’s grade-A meat and listen to what he has to say.

  “I’ve left the class syllabus on the desks for you to take home and review, and if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to send me an e-mail,” he says with quiet authority. “Also, today your children should have brought home a consent form for you to sign and turn in by the end of next week before we begin working on our first lab assignment.”

  Consent form? Josie didn’t mention anything like that when I dropped her off at my brother’s house so her aunt Julia could babysit while I was here tonight.

  A hand shoots up on the far side of the classroom. Mr. Thomas nods subtly in the person’s direction. God, he’s smooth.

  “What is the consent form for?” the parent asks.

  “It’s simply to allow your child to use a Bunsen burner during my class. If you choose to say no, that’s fine too. We can work around it if need be.”

  Mr. Thomas shoves his hands in his pants pockets, which doesn’t help me in the slightest while I try to keep my composure. Because it only accentuates his athletic frame and showcases how well he wears his suit even more.

  I scan the room to see if I’m the only person entranced by this man, and lo and behold, I’m not. There is another woman leaning forward in her child-sized seat, who looks as if she is in rapt attention. If there was a nuclear bomb going off outside, nothing would disturb her from the more than obvious leering she’s giving this guy. She’s wearing head to toe coordinated shades of brown, even going so far as to top it all off with a fake flower pinned in her hair in a dark chocolate color.

  Then I realize I must look like that to anyone who happens to spare me a fleeting glance. So I quickly turn my head back to Mr. Thomas just when he’s looking right at me.

  The corners of his mouth tilt up in a friendly smile that sends a tingle up my spine and makes me smile right back at him, which is so unlike me, but I can’t seem to help myself. In fact, I’m so enraptured by him that it’s as if there is no one else in the room. For one fleeting moment, the world seems to fall away, and it’s just the two of us in this classroom with only the sea of desks between us. He’s about to say something to me, and I’m waiting with bated breath until a woman’s shrill voice breaks the spell.

  “Oh, Mr. Thomas,” the woman says. I turn my head even though I already know it’s the other woman in the class who is entranced by him. “I was wondering if you were looking for any parents to volunteer to be class parent? I would be so happy to lend a helping hand.”

  A couple of parents sitting near me chuckle and joke to each other in hushed voices about how they bet she wants to lend a helping hand. It’s at this point that I start to gather my things and decide to be the very first person out of this classroom as soon as he dismisses us. Because the last thing I would want is to be the butt of any joke if they saw me looking at him like I’ve been. Or if they even catch a glimpse of my face, which must reflect what I’m sure is a tell-all look of complete adoration.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he responds to the woman diplomatically. “But thank you for volunteering.”

  Mr. Thomas then turns his attention to all the parents and says, “Thank you so much for coming out tonight, and I very much look forward to teaching your children this year. Good night.”

  Like I have ants in my pants, I make my way to the door and out of the classroom as fast as I can, trying not to sneak one last glance at Mr. Thomas and failing miserably. But he’s surrounded by a sea of people, so I don’t have to acknowledge him. What would I say anyway? I’m horrible at that kind of stuff, and my game is not the kind that people equate to swagger. It’s more . . . Monopoly. Lest I forget, he’s my daughter’s teacher. So there is no scenario in the world where it would be okay for me to even toy with the idea of a relationship with him. It’s unethical and just plain wrong.

  Plus, Josie would kill me! Oh my God, would she ever.

  I laugh to myself as I make my way out of the school and into the parking lot, which is already overflowing with parents rushing to get home to their families or trying to get home in time to watch American Idol, which starts in about fifteen minutes, according to a few parents I overheard. I roll my eyes, since I gave up on that show years ago when they were obviously choosing the wrong people to go to the next round. I would be so incensed while watching it that I could barely function, much less sleep after an episode. So to ease my escalating blood pressure and to ensure that my neighbors wouldn’t call the police due to high-pitched screaming and yelling and carrying on, I did everyone a favor by quitting while I was ahead. My blood pressure thanks me every day.

  I pull up to my brother’s house a short while later, and when I approach the front door, I can hear my beautifully adorable, deliciously sweet, and cherubic two-and-a-half-year-old niece, Violet, giggling clear as a bell, followed by Julia’s loud, booming voice shouting, “Violet! You need to put your pajamas on over your pull-up, not the other way around! Alex, help! I’m tagging out! It’s your turn!” These days, I revel a little in seeing Alex and Julia go through the same exact struggles I did years ago with Josie. Only Violet doesn’t belong to me, so I can laugh about it. Heartily, I might add.

  My brother, Alex, shouts back, “You can’t just tag out! This isn’t WrestleMania!”

  I’m practically doubled over laughing as I slip the key they gave me—in case of emergencies only, but these types of situations qualify—into the lock and slowly open the door. Immediately I spot Violet sitting crisscross-applesauce on the foyer floor. She’s attempting to comb her freshly washed long, naturally curly, Beach Blonde hair with not much success, as both her parents are now calling out her name. She’s wearing Princess Elsa pajamas, but her pull-up is over them instead of the other way around.

  “Hey there, Violet.” I crouch down to her level. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Auntie Nessa,” she says with a big smile that makes my heart melt before she hands me the comb with a defeated look on her face. “I was trying to be a big girl. Can you help?”

  “Of course, sweetie.” I take the comb from her and open my arms so she can climb on, and I walk her over to the couch. When I sit down, I stand her up in front of me. Her big blue eyes, which are as a bright as a cloudless sky, look back at me in amusement as I take in her outfit. “Now, Miss Violet, I know you know you’re wearing that thing wrong. So why don’t we fix it first?”

  She nods her head in agreement and starts to giggle. “Close your eyes, Auntie Nessa.”

  I shut my eyes for what feels like a whole five minutes as I hear my niece struggle to put her pajamas and pull-up on correctly. “Ta-da,” she says loudly. “You can open them.”

  “Very good, Violet.” She still has her pants off and her shirt is hiked up now, halfway up her belly. “Can I help now?”

  Violet turns around so that I can begin combing her hair. I hear the sound of footsteps approaching from down the hallway.

  “There you are,” Julia says. “Didn’t you hear your father and me calling for you?”

  “I want Auntie Nessa to help,” Violet says. Julia smiles and I swear it’s uncanny how much it’s just like her daughter’s.

  “Do you mind?” she asks me while I’m still combing Violet’s hair.

  “Not at all. I miss these days.”

  Julia takes a seat on the other end of the sofa in exhaustion after picking up her daughter’s pajama pants off of the floor. “She is giving us a run for our money. Do they ev
er stop? I mean, I love her to pieces and everything, but please, tell me the truth . . . does it get any easier?”

  “Nope.”

  “Gee, thanks, Vanessa,” she says. “You couldn’t even lie a little bit to your own sister-in-law?”

  “Enjoy it while it lasts, Julia. Pretty soon she’ll be going out with her friends and then off to college and then getting married and—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she says with her hands up. “Slow down there, Debbie Downer. Nobody’s talking about college and marriage. I meant just this phase where it seems like up is down and it’s the funniest thing in the world to her to drive her parents crazy.”

  Smiling, I glance over to Julia, who looks like she’s been in a battle with a water hose. Undoubtedly, this was due to Violet splashing in the bathtub. “Maybe a little easier.”

  “Can we trade?” she asks me with a devious grin. “I’ll take Josie and you take Violet.”

  Violet snaps out of whatever spell she was under and jumps onto her mother’s lap. “No! I want to stay with you and Daddy forever!”

  “Trust me, baby,” she says to her daughter. “Daddy isn’t going to let you out of his sight. Like, ever. You got nothing to worry about.”

  “Promise?” Violet asks, worrying her lip.

  “Promise, baby,” Julia says solemnly and places a kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “Now, do your mommy a big favor and put your pants on so you can get ready for bed.”

  Violet practically bounces off her mother and comes back toward me with her pants in hand. “Auntie Nessa, can you help?”

  “Of course, but first . . .”

  I lunge for Violet and catch her unprepared with an assault of raspberries on her exposed stomach. She laughs and laughs and struggles to get me to stop, and when I do it’s only because she’s at the point where her laughter is almost silent and her face turns a slight shade of rosy red.

  Pulling away but keeping her in my arms, I say, “You’re turning violet, Violet!”

  “Yeah, like that’s not getting old after the first million times you’ve said it to her,” Alex says, appearing in the living room at the tail end of my tickling attack.

  “Daddy!” Violet yells and raises her arms for him. “Help me, Daddy!”

  Alex scoops her up easily in his arms and hugs her to him as if she were the most precious thing in the world. And when I look over at Julia, who is watching this whole exchange, her face is practically glowing in adoration of her husband’s love of their daughter. For a second I feel a hint of jealousy, because Josie has never experienced this. Granted, Alex has been her father figure since the day she was born and is the closest thing to a dad she will ever know in her life. To Alex’s credit, he has gone above and beyond anything I could have ever wanted for Josie. But at the end of the day, it’s not the same thing. And that makes me sad for her . . . for us.

  “Will you put her to bed?” Julia asks Alex.

  He nods, then bends down so Julia can give Violet a kiss good night. He does the same for me before setting off down the hall with her tangled up in his arms like a little monkey hugging a tree. Julia and I watch them walk away and hear Violet ask him, “Daddy, tell me the story about Max and the wild stuff?”

  We don’t get to hear Alex’s answer, but if I had to guess, if she had asked him to jump off a bridge, he would ask which one and how high; that’s how smitten he is with her and how much Violet has him wrapped around her finger.

  “I think my ovaries just exploded,” Julia says.

  “Ew, gross,” I say. “That’s my brother still.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Where is Josie?” I ask.

  Julia leans back and props her feet up on the coffee table, looking as if she could fall asleep at any moment. “Last time I checked, before I tried to do a battle royal in the bathtub with Violet, Josie had her earbuds in and was watching something on TV in the other room. If you give me just one full minute to sit here with my feet up, I swear I’ll go get her for you.”

  Laughing, I indulge my sister-in-law in the brief moment of silence that to her must seem like a luxury nowadays. I mean, I could very well just get Josie and be on my merry way, but I kind of like just sitting here, closing my eyes, and letting my mind go blank and not thinking about one single solitary thing.

  But the funniest thing happens. Instead of going blank, a thought pops into my mind. Actually, it’s not a thought, it’s a person . . . one very specific, handsome person: Mr. Thomas, science teacher.

  The next thing to come out of my mouth is even more unexpected. “Julia?”

  “Hmm?” she answers.

  “Do you think Indiana Jones is hot?”

  Without missing a beat, Julia answers with a question. “Are we talking before or after Ally McBeal cut off his balls and slapped an earring on his ass?”

  My eyes fly open and I look at her. She’s still in complete and utter repose and doesn’t seem at all caught off guard by my question.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “You’re asking me if Harrison Ford is hot, yes?” I mumble a yes, and then she opens her eyes and calmly says, “Well, if we’re talking about before Ally got her hands on him, yes, he was so utterly hot it was almost disgusting. But if we’re talking about after she got her grubby little paws on him and ruined it for the rest of all womankind, then no, he’s as far away from hot as you could possibly get.”

  I rack my brain for a second before saying, “Before. Yes, definitely before the whole Ally thing happened to him.”

  “Well, then, you know my answer. Hot, superhot.” She closes her eyes again before quickly opening one of them to look at me. “Why are you asking me this anyway?”

  “No reason.”

  Ugh, I answered way too fast. And by the severely wicked smile that is now growing on Julia’s face, I know she knows that I know something that she doesn’t and won’t let up until she does.

  “You dirty little liar,” she says and pulls her legs off of the coffee table. “Tell me everything.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” I pretend to look at the watch that doesn’t exist on my wrist. “Oh, would you look at that, time to get Josie and go home.”

  I stand up and call out to Josie, then remember that she has her earbuds in, so I walk toward the television room. But that’s enough time for Julia to start following me and peppering me with a series of questions. “Who is this Indiana Jones look-alike? Where did you meet him? Are you going out on a date with him?”

  Ignoring her is not an option, so I stop abruptly, which makes Julia run right into my back. As casually as I can muster, I say, “It’s nothing and no, I am not going out with anyone. So there really isn’t anything to tell, I promise.”

  By the look of confusion on her face, I can tell my explanation wasn’t enough, so I add, “But as soon as there is something to tell, I swear you’ll be the first person I call.”

  Her face beams with a ridiculous goofy smile, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that there will never be a thing to share. If just the promise of nothing is enough to put her off, then so be it.

  Josie sees us coming her way and pops out her earbuds. “Hey, Mom, how was it?”

  “Good, sweetie,” I say. “We’ve got to get going home though. Can you start packing up your things?”

  Josie answers by getting all of her stuff ready, and in another minute we’re saying our good-byes to Julia, with both of us telling her to pass on our good-byes to Alex and Violet.

  But before we make our escape, Julia grabs my elbow with superhuman strength as Josie is making her way to my car.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but something is going on,” she whispers, yet manages to make it sound like a threat.

  “Julia—”

  She lets go of my arm and puts her hands up to stop me. “I’m not saying I need to know everything. What I’m trying to say is—and obviously doing the worst job possible—is that if you need me for anythi
ng, I’m here for you.”

  And in that instant, and as crazy as it seems, I feel a closeness to my sister-in-law that I’ve never experienced before. I know it doesn’t make sense, because it’s just this one little thing about a guy who she has no clue about and probably never will, but it’s true. I don’t have a sister and neither does Julia. And through marriage, she has become the sister I had always wished for and probably vice versa for her. I can only imagine that this is what sisters are supposed to be like: sharing and caring for each other, yet remaining close friends through thick and thin and being there for the other whenever the time calls for it.

  “You’ll be the first person I call if Indiana Jones shows up on my doorstep.”

  She claps her hands together and says one last good night to me before closing the door. After we arrive home safe and sound, Josie goes to bed in her room and me in mine, and I’m still smiling at the exchange between Julia and me, because if anything, I think being friends, like real friends with someone, is the beginning of opening myself up for other things in my life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed that one day I’d be sitting on the banks of the Seine in Paris with my sketchbook in hand, living as an artist. From as far back as I can remember, I’ve had an ability to flesh out my thoughts on paper, either in charcoal or watercolors. It’s just always come easily to me. I used to sit for hours, drawing the flowers outside my mother’s kitchen windowsill. Taking great care to get the colors and shading right and the way the petals bent just so whenever the wind would pick up. Sometimes something as random as pieces of broken glass on the concrete would get my attention, and I’d take a mental snapshot and then start drawing it in variations when I got home, until my wrists were sore and my hands were nearly black with charcoal. My mom likes to take credit for this. And she probably should. She always nurtured my love of painting and drawing, fostering it with art classes, taking my brother and me to exhibits from a very early age, and encouraging me to push myself past my limits to see the fruits of my labor.