by Camy Tang
Trish’s jaw fell and her chin bonked the cat on the head. After a moment, she realized how idiotic she must look — mouth open, squirming cat in her arms, a bulky T-shirt bandaged around its waving front leg. “Uh . . . okay.”
Marnie seized the cat, flounced into her bedroom, and banged the door shut.
Trish dropped onto the couch. Marnie’s pronouncement had startled her, but relief flooded through her like water softening a stiff loo-fah. Her hands dangled from the arms of the couch, and she stretched her legs out, feeling her bunched muscles uncoil. Thank you, God, everything worked out fine. Except . . . what was that brown, slimy, hairy stain under the coffee table?
Oh, great.
The cat had hacked up a furball.
SIXTEEN
Trish got a bad feeling about teaching when Mrs. Choi, the Sunday school coordinator, met her at the door and suctioned herself onto her arm, reminding her of the time when she had licked a frozen lamppost at the tender age of seven.
“I’m so glad you volunteered to help us, dear.” Violet-and-fuscia colored eyelids blinked rapidly as Mrs. Choi led Trish into the foyer of the church. Another huge basket of flowers on the center table made Trish sneeze violently.
Mrs. Choi kept smiling and tried to surreptitiously wipe the spray from her pink jacket collar. Trish’s Danger, Will Robinson! alarm triggered.
However, Mrs. Choi had a strong grip, so she couldn’t pull away and run screaming from the building even if there was a seventy-five-percent-off sale at Bebe.
“Um . . . what age?” Trish dragged her feet even as Mrs. Choi yanked her down a hallway leading from the foyer.
“The best ages for new teachers, fours and fives.” Mrs. Choi’s mocha-plum lips stretched wide to reveal coffee-stained teeth flecked with lipstick. She opened a bright yellow door to a cacophony of childish voices, undercut by an older woman’s aggrieved staccato.
“Here’s our other teacher, Griselle Oh.”
“Oh?” It couldn’t be.
It was. A younger version of Mrs. Oh stood in front of her, with a strange blue hat — no, that was a splotch of blue paint on her head. She turned to Trish with the sweetest smile this side of the Yangtze River, waving a blue-dyed hand.
The bottom dropped out of Trish’s stomach.
Run away! Run away!
Mrs. Choi threw her to the wolves. “There you go, dear. Griselle will tell you what to do. Ta-ta!” She slammed the door shut as a few munchkins tried to make a run for freedom.
“Miss Oh, Susie spilled the glue.” A miniature Poison Ivy from Batman and Robin tugged at Griselle’s creased and stained slacks.
Griselle gave her a smile as if she were Miss Toddler America rather than the tattletale she was. “Now, what did we say about talking about things rather than helping with them?” Her dulcet tones belonged to Glinda the Good Witch, not a human being. “Why don’t you help her clean it up?”
Trish blinked. She definitely wasn’t up on Nurturing 101 like this chick. Griselle needed help? To do what, polish her halo?
Surrounded by children and standing next to Griselle, Trish had never felt so stained, and not by anything colorful like the hopefully water-based blue paint on the younger woman’s hands and head.
Griselle turned to her, all sweetness and light, making her want to sink through the floor. “Welcome! I’m so glad you’re here. I could really use the help and you’re perfect.” Her smile would have convinced Tony Soprano to give up the family business.
“I’ve never — ”
“That’s okay, that’s fine.” She straightened her tucked-in long-sleeved shirt — buttoned up to her chin, naturally — leaving a faint blue streak on the chambray. Her dark eyes widened in concern. “Oh no, Matthew is eating crayons again. Why don’t you help Susie clean up the glue?” She shooed Trish toward the back of the large rainbow-colored room to a low, small-person table where a dark-haired girl smeared glue all over the surface in a massive white finger-painting project. Some of it had already begun to dry, and rivulets stood out against the cheap Formica.
“Susie, glue is for . . . uh . . . gluing.” Trish nabbed the plastic tub before the girl could dip in for another reload.
She stared at Trish with wide brown eyes framed with thick, curling lashes. Then her eyes scrunched as she beamed at Trish, poofing out her dewy cheeks, made even more irresistible by the glue dabbing her nose. Trish could almost kiss her, except, well, the glue would probably stick her mouth permanently to Susie’s face.
Susie went back to layering glue on the table. “Mommy says I can have a new pet.”
“Um . . . that’s nice. Let’s play bulldozer, okay?” Trish brandished the glue container. “You’re the bulldozer. You have to push all the glue into the container — ”
“I think I want a kitty.” Susie slapped her hand against the table. It splattered, and she laughed.
“A kitty’s a good pet. Let’s play bulldozer.” Trish made bulldozer noises — which sounded more like a Porsche engine — and scooped the glue towards the edge and into the container.
“Or maybe a ee-gwana.” Susie mimicked her scooping actions but shoved her glue over the edge and onto the floor.
Lovely.
Then she noticed a little boy on the other side of the table from her and Susie. A cute Asian kid with a crew cut. He’d dipped his hands into the glue and gotten it all over him. No, wait, was he — ?
“Ewwww! No, don’t eat that!”
He licked his fingers.
Trish reached across the table to grab his hand so he couldn’t get more into his mouth. Or on his face, or in his hair, for that matter.
Griselle came up and heaved a sigh that somehow managed to have a smile in it. “Matthew, you shouldn’t eat glue. Remember what I told you last time?”
He laughed up at her with the cheerful disposition of the ignorant.
“Last time?” Trish had a hard time keeping hold of his squirming hands, slimy with glue.
“He’s going through a phase.” Griselle rescued one of his hands as it sprang free from Trish’s. “He’s been putting everything in his mouth.”
Yucko. His poor parents.
“Here, I’ll take Matthew and Susie to clean them up. You take the kids out to the playground for playtime.” She motioned to the door at the back of the room. A fenced-in blacktop playground was visible through the large picture windows.
Playtime. She could do that.
Opening the back door was like the trigger for Pavlov’s dog. Children popped up from their seats and scrambled for the doorway, pushing and shoving to get out first. Oops, was she supposed to make them line up first or something like that? Well, too late now.
Two little girls set at each other as soon as they hit the plastic go-cars.
“Mine!”
“Mine!”
“Neither!” Trish picked them both up by the waist and a little boy nabbed the go-cart.
Both girls erupted into howls worthy of a catfight on Jerry Springer. One went limp and sobbed into her pink lacy dress. The other kicked and wound her arms, making her red shirt ride up past her belly button.
Trish got down to eye level and kept a hand latched onto each girl. Neither one met her eye — actually, Miss Red Shirt tried to bop her in the eye, but Trish chose to ignore that. “You two need to learn to share. Do you know what it means to share?”
All she got in response was despondent wailing from Pink Dress and enraged screeching from Red Shirt.
“Jesus shared everything, including His food.”
“Iiiiiii shaaaaarre myyyyyy fooooood!” Pink Dress sniffled loudly.
“Well, you need to share the go-cart, too, sweetie.”
“I got there first!”
“No, I got there first!”
The two started slapping at each other, so Trish scissored her arms apart to get as much distance between them without letting go of their chubby arms. “You need to share. Put others first.”
“Then I’ll never get
on the car!” Red Shirt stopped kicking and started crying as well.
“Oh, you poor dears.” Griselle magically appeared and picked up Red Shirt. “It’ll be all right.”
Trish followed suit with Pink Dress. “They were fighting — ”
“Over the cars? Nothing new.” Griselle kissed Red Shirt’s tearstained face. “There, there. Do you remember what we said about sharing?”
Red Shirt stopped crying and nodded.
“What did we talk about?”
“To let others go first.”
“Did you do that?”
“N-no.” The little girl sniffled and buried her face in Griselle’s shoulder. What happened to the screaming, kicking little monster?
“So what do you say?”
Red Shirt looked over at Pink Dress, still sniveling in Trish’s arms. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry.” Pink Dress erupted into a radiant smile.
“There you go.” Griselle set Red Shirt on her feet.
Trish did the same with Pink Dress. They skipped off together, hand in hand.
Trish stared after them. How had Griselle done that? Trish’s shoulders sagged, and not from the strain of carrying the pink taffeta doll.
Griselle had cleaned the blue paint from her hair, and it gleamed in the fitful February sunlight like an ebony waterfall. Trish couldn’t get her hair to look that fabulous — and straight, not a single wave! — no matter how much she spent on hair products.
“I set out the food for snack time, so it’ll be ready when they come in.” Griselle tucked a strand behind her shell-like ear, which had a single pearl stud that melted into the creamy whiteness of her skin.
Trish wanted to shoot herself. She sighed.
Griselle gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. It gets easier the more you do it.”
“Do we do Sunday school every week?” She had forgotten to ask about that.
“We go one month on, one month off, with another team of teachers. That way, we have a chance to enjoy the sermon and the worship.”
Hmm. Trish would need to find something else to do, then, so she could stay busy and keep serving. Didn’t she read somewhere, sometime (long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away) that the devil used idle hands or something like that? Plus, she needed more references for her MDiv application.
“Okay, everybody, snack time!” Griselle clapped her hands and everyone started running for the classroom doorway. Trish couldn’t tell if it was the food or the fact Griselle was practically perfect that made the kids behave.
“Will I see you with the Singles Group for lunch after ser vice?” Trish called over her shoulder at Griselle as she wrestled a ball from a screaming boy in green pants.
“No. Thank you, Natalie.” Griselle took a Wiffle bat from a little girl and patted her on the head. “I don’t really know any of the other singles because I go to visit my grandmother every Sunday after service, and on the Singles Group meeting night, I have another Bible study with women from my apartment complex. Not all of them are Christians, but a few are very close to coming to a decision for Christ.” She dimpled at Trish.
Dimples, too! The woman didn’t even have uneven teeth to mar her smile.
They corralled the final kids into the room, where the rest of them apparently already knew the drill and sat at their own places, not touching the cookies and milk in front of them. Waiting for Griselle to say grace.
Trish expected a heavenly choir to sing when she prayed. Then she mentally smacked herself for being so uncharitable. So the woman was a walking saint and Trish was not. No reason to get snippy.
Griselle’s delicately arched brows wrinkled. “Where’s Sara?”
“Who?”
Griselle pointed to an empty spot on the far table. “Where is she?” For the first time, panic tinged her calm tones.
They got on hands and knees to look under the tables. Griselle peeked in the cabinets in case Sara managed to get inside.
“Can she get outside the classroom?” Trish tried the room door but it stuck in her hand. “Hey, we’re locked in — ”
“No, there’s a childproof latch.” Griselle pointed to a metal switch higher up. “Twist that and turn the knob.”
“Oh.” Well, there was no way Sara could have gotten out of the classroom. She headed outside to the playground, Griselle trailing. They left the classroom door open in case chaos erupted while they were out of the room.
She looked behind the large storehouse while Griselle slid back the metal doors to look inside.
“Oh, there you are — urghk!” Griselle sounded a bit like she’d swallowed a live eel. Or a spider. Or something else equally nasty.
Stop it, be nice you meanie. “Are you okay?” She turned the corner of the storage shed to find Griselle a full ten feet away, her hand to her nose and a very unhealthy color to her face.
Trish peeked in through the open doorway at the teary-eyed little girl who squatted on the floor in the midst of broken toys and flat playground balls. “There you are, Sara — ”
The smell assailed her like a dodgeball thrown smack in her face. “Hoo-boy! What died?”
Sara burst into a fresh round of tears.
Griselle’s knees visibly shook, and she dropped into a chair by the playground fence. Her shoulders heaved as she tried to bring in more air.
“Careful, you’ll hyperventilate.” Trish eyed the rather scary color of her cheeks.
Griselle made an effort to slow her breathing.
Whew, the smell was strong enough to kill someone, but as a biologist, Trish had smelled far worse in the labs. She eased closer to the crying girl. “What happened, sweetie?”
“I couldn’t make it to the bathroom.” Actually, it was more like, “I coodt mek — ” Sniff, snort, “ — batchroom” but Trish got the gist of it.
“Oh, that’s okay, honey.” Well, not really, but what else was she going to say? Oh, going to the bathroom in your underwear is completely acceptable adult behavior. Poor kid.
“I’m too embarrssd.” Sara’s sobs were quieting.
“So you hid in the storage shed?” She kept her talking, waiting for the smell to air out.
“I’m all diiiiirty!” Sara erupted into new tears from her bottomless fountain.
“I’ll . . .” Griselle audibly swallowed. “I’ll take her in a minute.” Her oval face reminded Trish of those powdery white mochi at New Year’s. No, actually, she looked more like those green mochis with the bean paste filling —
No, don’t think about food. She opened her mouth wider so she wouldn’t accidentally breathe through her nose.
Griselle took several deep breaths — also through her mouth — while gripping the sides of the chair, then suddenly jammed her head between her knees.
This was not good. Should Trish — ?
Ewwwww.
But poor Griselle. She really didn’t look so good.
Something inside Trish uncoiled, like a rope knot loosening. She stared at the top of Griselle’s head, still huddled between her knees.
“I’ll take her.”
Strange, that sounded like Trish’s voice.
Griselle moaned but didn’t move her head. “Thanks, Trish.”
What? Oh. That had been her voice volunteering to take this smelly girl to the bathroom and clean up her . . . er . . . accident.
Oh God, help me.
And she realized that was one of the first times she’d remembered to pray to God for help. Hey, maybe she really was becoming more devoted to Him.
She took Sara’s hand. It trembled in hers, so she gave it a comforting squeeze.
She was about to take her back in the classroom when she changed her mind and headed out the gate in the playground fence. Poor kid didn’t need the others teasing her.
They circled the building and entered the church through a side door. In the women’s restroom, she had to swallow the bile in her throat as she took off Sara’s panties. She used up an entire t
oilet paper roll to scrub at it, then flushed the mess down.
Now what? The thought of putting the pair back on Sara was just wrong.
“Wait here.” Trish darted out, reasonably sure Sara wouldn’t wander around the church without her underwear.
She dove under the sink in the kitchen and came up with a jug of bleach. The biologist’s best friend. Enemy of germs everywhere.
On the way to the restroom, Olivia entered the foyer. “Trish, there’s someone who came looking for you.”
A wriggling snake thrashed around in her gut, then was still. No, he wouldn’t, would he? “I’m in an emergency right now — I’ll talk to her later.” Hopeful thinking, that it was Lex or Venus or Jenn. Even Grandma.
She soaked Sara’s panties in the bathroom sink with a few splashes of bleach.
Sara rose on tiptoe to peer into the sink. “My panties will be wet.”
“But they won’t have any E. coli.” Trish wrung the bleach out.
“Eee wha?”
“Bacteria. You know, germs.” Trish squeezed the water out, then rolled the panties tight in a stack of paper towels. They came out only slightly damp. “There you go.”
Sara, the ungrateful child, grimaced as she put them back on.
The smell of bleach, soaked into her hands, wafted around her as she followed Sara back to the classroom. Mission accomplished. Disaster averted.
She opened the door of the classroom to wailing and screaming.
Griselle’s hair floated around her head in a tangled mass like that voodoo witch from Pirates of the Caribbean. Her color had gotten a little better, but she still looked like a mochi.
The kids, sensing weakness like sharks smelling blood in water, had decided to test their teacher’s resolve with widespread chaos. Griselle took apart two boys with windmilling fists. In the corner, Susie had gotten hold of the glue tub again and was making table art. Matthew had half a toy car in his mouth.
Trish put her fingers in her mouth and loosed an ear-splitting whistle.
Silence, blessed silence.
Then one child started crying. A second joined her. Suddenly they all started wailing. Well, at least they weren’t being disobedient anymore. But how to make them be quiet? The sight of Susie lavishing glue on the table made a light go off in her head.
