“It’s a fight,” I whisper back. “There’s nothing she likes better.”
Soon the paddles have dropped away, and two bidders remain. Ainsley Perry, and someone standing off to the side of the stage.
“Two thousand, eight hundred dollars!” the auctioneer announces.
“Your class did it! You beat kindergarten!” Sharon shrieks in my ear. But I’m too distracted watching the volley that continues.
Mrs. Perry raises her paddle again, smirking triumphantly. “Three thousand dollars!” she barks. The crowd exhales. Beside her, Mr. Perry shakes his head.
All heads turn to the remaining bidder in the corner. Sharon clears her throat. “I’m dying of thirst.”
There is a pause. “Last call. Three thousand dollars. Do we have three thousand one hundred? Anyone?”
Ainsley Perry smiles and lowers her paddle. The women next to her begin to offer congratulations.
“Four thousand dollars!” a voice cuts through the murmurs.
I gasp. I know that voice.
“You’re kidding me.” Sharon is tugging on my arm. “Is that??”
“Evan.”
The crowd shifts and there in the corner I make out his tall frame. Evan stands poised on the edge of the crowd, one hand casually in his pocket and the other holding up his paddle.
My thoughts skitter in my cocktail-altered state. It’s too much money! Evan doesn’t need a Harry Potter bookcase. Just how much is he getting paid for his new show? I have to stop him. We have to beat the Perrys!
As Ainsley Perry goes to raise her paddle, Mr. Perry puts his hand on her arm. Ainsley Perry flashes her paddle, but this time Mr. Perry plucks it from her hand before she can raise it overhead. She spins around to face him, a wild look in her eye. For a beat, I feel sorry for her.
The auctioneer points at Evan. “Going once, going twice . . .”
The crowd parts as Mrs. Perry stalks through it, leaving the stage area.
“Sold! For four thousand dollars.” The ballroom thunders in applause.
My bookshelf is the highest bid of the night. And for the first time in three years we have managed to unseat the kindergarten team. But even they are applauding like crazy!
Across the room, Evan turns my way. He shrugs, as if wondering what the big deal is. But I’m already closing the gap between us on my wobbly heels. “What were you thinking?” I cry, grabbing his hands in my own.
A crowd of my colleagues has gathered around us, including John Hartman, who claps him vigorously on the back. But Evan’s eyes are only for me. “Now all the kids can have the bookshelf. You can put it in your classroom.”
I shake my head in disbelief. The fact that every student gets to enjoy it is a gesture beyond the huge donation to my school.
“Do you know who you outbid?” I whisper, tucking my hand into his.
Evan cocks his head. “Oh, you mean the Perrys?” He winks, and lowers his voice. “Just so you know, I would’ve kept going.”
“You’re crazy!” I cry, throwing my arms around his neck.
He holds me tight. “Since the day I met you.”
Seven
Monday morning, I wake up to the patter of rain on the apartment windows. My alarm never went off, and I’m late for work. When I get outside, the light rainfall has changed over to sheets of driving rain that match the steel-gray sky. My umbrella is, of course, in the car, parked up at the far end of the street. I’m already running late as I race down the sidewalk, with my coat tugged up over my head. By the time I flop into the driver’s seat, my carefully blow-dried hair looks like I just stepped out of the shower.
When I finally arrive at school the first bell has already rung and the kids are lining up outside my locked classroom door. Despite the nasty morning outside, I can’t help but smile at their comments.
“The lights are out!”
“Miss Griffin’s not here.”
“Who will feed the crayfish?”
“Maybe she’s sick?”
“Maybe she’s dead,” Andrew Willets says.
“I’m not dead, Andrew,” I say, sailing up behind them, key in hand. Andrew ducks his chin, but I smile at him. “At least not yet. Good morning, boys and girls. Come in.”
Mrs. Coates is making the announcements over the PA “And, now, we’d like to announce the winner of this year’s writer’s workshop essay contest,” Mrs. Coates says over the loudspeaker. “Here is Dean Hartman with the results.”
I hurry the children to their seats and seek out Timmy Lafferty. His gaze remains fixed on his book, but his eyes are the size of small plates. My heartbeat upticks at least fifty percent.
“In third place,” John Hartman announces, “is a fifth-grader from Mrs. Brigg’s class. Jennifer Crier.” My students sigh audibly, but we clap.
“In second place, from one of our fourth-grade classes . . .”
The kids perk up. “Hey, Timmy! Maybe it’s you!” Johnny Goldman says. Tim flushes deeply.
“Shhh,” I remind them, secretly hoping that Johnny is right.
“From Mrs. Olson’s class . . .” This time I sigh, too.
“It’s okay, boys and girls, “I say. “We don’t enter to win. We enter for the experience and the accomplishment.”
Tory Whitcomb scowls. Deep down, I’m with her.
“Which brings me to our first place winner.” There is a loud crackle over the PA system.
Timmy’s hands are shaking as he grips his book. And that’s when it hits me. What if he doesn’t win? What if I picked this shy kid out of the class, convinced his mother to send him to the writer’s workshop, praised him doggedly—and he loses? Would he still be glad he wrote “Four Frogs and a Magician”? Or, ten years from now, would he find that story in a cardboard box in his mother’s attic and curse his fourth-grade teacher for post-contest stress disorder? My temples throb at the very thought.
“This year’s fiction workshop award goes to . . .” Dean Hartman pauses. For the only time all year I could actually hear a pin drop in my classroom.
“Another student from the fourth grade . . .”
I steal a glance at Timmy. He’s sheet-white.
“From Miss Griffin’s class . . .” The kids suck in one collective breath. “Timothy Lafferty!”
The class roars. I can’t hear anything else that Dean Hartman is saying. All I know is that Timmy Lafferty is being mobbed. The kids have leaped out of their seats and are pounding him on the back and giving high fives. I don’t stop them. Tim’s freckled face is flushed red. He’s smiling so wide I could count every tooth. That is, if I could see through my tears. I take advantage of the chaos to pull myself together before wading through the throng to Timmy’s desk. “Congratulations, Timmy.” He glances shyly up at me, grinning. “I’m really proud of you, kiddo.”
My good day only lasts so long. After the final bell, just as I’m putting on my coat to walk out the door, Mrs. Coates pokes her head in my room. “Do you have a moment? The dean needs you.”
I’m supposed to meet Evan for a key lime martini and shrimp tacos at one of our favorite bistros, a few blocks over. It’s the one night this week that he has time off, and I will not miss it.
John meets me in the doorway of his office. I peer inside, where two people are already seated, backs to me. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he whispers. “It’s the Perrys.”
Inside Ainsley Perry fixes me with a flat look and extends a limp hand. I actually have to take another step forward to shake it with my own, which at this point is sweating. Her husband barely glances up from his iPhone.
“Shall we get started?” John asks.
I glance desperately at the ancient air-conditioning unit in John’s window, which is inexplicably turned off. Are these people cold-blooded? I mop my brow.
John addresses the Perrys. “As you know, we are here to discuss an incident that took place last week.”
Mrs. Perry ignores this. “This harmless incident is borne of Horatio’s boredom in Mis
s Griffin’s class. Horatio is a gifted child and Miss Griffin is not meeting his needs. I am here to advocate for my son’s gift-ed-ness.” She clips each syllable sharply.
John politely starts waffling through the deep pile of papers in Horatio’s student folder. Horatio does not demonstrate gift-ed-ness. Not nearly. Though I’d happily argue Horatio’s other ’nesses—meanness, tardiness, sneakiness . . .
John folds his hands. “I wouldn’t qualify this act as harmless, Mrs. Perry. As you can imagine, Miss Griffin was rather upset about this incident. Horatio not only frightened her with his use of fake blood . . .”
“Ketchup,” Mr. Perry interjects, not looking up from his iPhone.
John glances at him. “Horatio also made an accusation that Miss Griffin physically harmed him.” Now it’s John’s turn to clear his throat. “Which we do not take lightly. What Horatio did was disruptive. It interrupted the class, the office, and brought the school nurse to the classroom. Seeing what appears to be a bloody accident can be traumatic for other children.”
“Did you receive complaints from other parents?” Mrs. Perry asks, arching one overplucked eyebrow.
John pauses. “Not as of yet.” He looks to me.
I have to shake my head.
“So your claim about other children being traumatized is invalid.”
“Mrs. Perry—”
“And the fact that Miss Griffin is unable to keep my son engaged in meaningful activity so that he has to resort to such creative means of entertaining himself only proves my initial point.”
Creative means?
The Perrys have stolen the ball and are storming the end zone. John pauses a beat, but races to intercept. “I think that ‘disruptive’ would be a more accurate description of Horatio’s behavior on the day in question,” John says.
“A subjective term,” Mrs. Perry says dismissively.
“I see a pattern that I can no longer ignore,” John says firmly.
Here it is. I hold my breath.
“We are failing to hold Horatio accountable.”
Mrs. Perry gasps.
“Allowing Horatio to continually get away with this sort of behavior is only encouraging him to repeat it. And that is the only disservice I see here.”
Touchdown!
“I recommend that Horatio write a letter of apology to Miss Griffin and to the class, to be delivered tomorrow morning. Given his fondness of ketchup, he will also miss recess this week and will instead help the cafeteria staff wipe down the tables after lunch.”
“He will do no such thing,” Mrs. Perry declares. “It’s the last week of school!”
Mr. Perry, whom I’d completely forgotten about until now, stands. “For the record, I disagree with this decision. But I have a meeting to get to.”
“But Richard, are we going to stand for this?” Mrs. Perry glares at Mr. Perry, but he’s already halfway through the door. Her eyes flash. “This conversation is not over.”
With that she snatches her purse and stalks after her husband. I watch from the office window as they veer down the sidewalk outside and wordlessly pivot in opposite directions, she to a silver Jag, he to a red Audi TT. Neither offers so much as a wave goodbye to the other. And there, I see, lies a big part of Horatio’s problems.
“There’s something else I want to talk to you about,” John says, returning to his seat. I glance at the wall clock. “You’re aware of the board of directors’ budget cuts for next year?”
I flash back to the yellow notice in my teacher mailbox. “Yes. I heard that they might be cutting some of the arts programs? I think it’s terrible.”
John shakes his head. “We’re hoping to avoid that. However, with the decline in enrollment, and the small class size of this year’s third grade, I’m afraid the population doesn’t justify our current staffing.”
This year’s third graders are supposed to be my fourth graders next year. I stand up.
“As you know, if cuts have to be made, our policy is that we start with the most recently hired.”
My mind races. The most recent hire was our kindergarten teacher, Melinda, I remind myself. Which would mean she would be the first to be let go. Which also means I would have to step down to fill kindergarten. I sigh inwardly. There is nothing a teacher likes less than being forced to move to a different grade level. I’ll have to learn a whole new curriculum. The kids won’t be able to tie their shoes, let alone read the novels I love to teach. But at least I’ll still have a position. “So you’ll be needing me to move to kindergarten?”
John sighs. “I’m sorry, Maggie. But it looks like the board is considering making two full-time cuts this year. Which means not only Melinda’s position, but yours, too.”
I sit back down. John is saying something about hiring policy and student enrollment, but I cannot make sense of it. All I can think about is my desk, with the African violet and the hand-painted sign: Welcome to Miss Griffin’s class!
“Nothing has been decided yet,” John says, emphatically. “So let’s sit tight for now. But I wanted you to be aware so that you’re prepared for whatever the outcome may be.”
“There aren’t any other places to make cuts? Field trips? Curriculum training?”
John shakes his head solemnly. “We’ve already pared it down in every place possible. I want to assure you of that.”
I stare past John to his bookshelves. There are several framed photos of his family. One in particular stands out: John, his two sons in matching khaki pants and pale-blue button-downs, and his wife in a seersucker dress, stand together in front of the ocean. The late day sun on their hair is as golden as the sand beneath their bare feet. Suddenly I want to go home. I want to go home to Mystic.
I stand up. “Thank you. Is there anything else?”
John looks confused. “No. That’s all.” His expression softens in a paternal, off-the-record kind of way. “Maggie, if it comes to cutting positions, you know I’ll write you a strong reference and make some calls—whatever you need.”
“Thank you.” I look at the clock. It’s after five.
Outside, the rain has stopped and the air is balmy for a late-spring day. I will not miss my date with Evan. I text him that I’m running late and break into a jog through the Friday sidewalk traffic, dodging irritated clots of people. When I finally rush through the restaurant doors, the air-conditioning is a jolt against my sweaty skin. The bar is crowded with happy-hour patrons. But Evan is not one of them. Desperate, I scan the tables.
I pull out my phone. “Sorry I missed you, Mag. I got called back to set. Ask the bartender for your drink—it’s waiting for you. Cheers.”
As promised, the bartender has my key lime martini. I slump onto the only free stool between two businessmen. Cheers, indeed.
The second I walk into our apartment, I know my bad day is not yet over.
Erika is sitting on the couch, surrounded by her pink wedding folders. Sobbing.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, dumping my bag on the carpet.
“They canceled the wedding!”
“Who did? Trent?” My mind spins trying to make sense of what she’s saying.
She picks up a brochure and thrusts it under my nose. “They’ve got black mold!”
The Century Club is an upscale venue in the heart of the city, where Erika and Trent are having their reception. She’s only dragged me there about a dozen times to walk the ballroom and hem and haw over color schemes. And table arrangements. And the location for the cake.
“When did this happen?”
She points at the answering machine across the room, as if identifying the perpetrator. “Just now!”
I push the pile of used tissues off the couch and sit beside her.
“Did they offer to make other arrangements? Or help you relocate to a new venue?”
She shakes her head angrily. “No. The contract says that in the event of any problem with the property, they’ll give us a refund. But that’s it.” Her voice breaks and she falls
into another chorus of sobs.
“Oh, Erika.” Listening to her cry, I decide to keep my own bad news to myself for now.
“Everything’s a mess. There’s not a place in the city that can do it on this short notice.”
“And there’s no help at all from the club?” Given all the boasting Trent’s father seemed to do about their family lineage, you’d think he’d have more pull.
“The best they offered was a date change. For the fall.” She says the word like it’s monsoon season.
I try to put a positive spin on this. “Actually, a lot of brides choose to get married in the fall. You’ve got the leaves changing color and the weather is still nice. Not nearly as hot as July. What does Trent say?”
At this, Erika hops off the couch, her eyes flashing. “Trent suggested we change the date. Can you believe it?”
I can, actually. And given the circumstances, I have to agree. “Maybe you should consider it. After all, the invitations haven’t been sent out yet.”
“I have chosen a summer dress. I have chosen summer colors.” She smacks her forehead dramatically. “Even the menu is summer.”
“What did the planner say to do?” I try to remember the woman’s name—but I can’t recall anything beyond her sharp black bob and red lipstick. I thought it silly that Erika had to get on a waiting list just to retain her, but surely she was used to dealing with these sorts of crises.
Erika scoffs. “Maribelle quit.”
“What? Isn’t she supposed to be one of the best planners in the metro area?”
“Well, I sort of let her go.”
“Erika, why? You need her now more than ever!”
Erika sniffs. “Because she also suggested a date change. Which I will not do.”
I flop on the couch. “Who are you going to hire?”
“No one. It’s too late. Besides, we don’t need anyone. We have impeccable taste. We can do this.”
“Wait. We?”
Her voice begins to waver. “If only we can find another place to do it.”
I hand her the tissue box. “Don’t worry. There’s got to be another venue.” My mind races, thinking of the reception sites we’d toured.
Mystic Summer Page 7
