by Olivia Dade
All that week, she kept declaring, “There was a puppet show. A puppet show.”
All that week, he had to duck into his classroom to stifle his hilarity, even as he sympathized with her frustration.
“If accurate identification of Victor Frankenstein is your primary goal, then maybe you should rename the initiative.” He scratched his jaw again, dimly aware that he should either shave off his facial hair or care for it a little better. “I suggest something along the lines of: Victor Frankenstein May Be a Monster, But He’s Not the Monster.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” Her baleful glare eased. “I’ve been considering whether I should clarify a few more matters about the creature next time. The misconceptions about him are maddening.”
To her, he imagined they were. Candy did not suffer wrongness gladly. Or at all.
It was a wonder she could manage to spend any time on the internet, considering. If she ever came across the comments section beneath a YouTube video, she might literally explode on the spot. Another victim of Acute Factual Outrage Syndrome, the doctor would announce, shaking their head. Such a shame.
“You want everyone to know he’s yellow in the book, rather than green?” An obvious guess, but the best one he had.
“Yes!” She gave a near-violent wave of her good arm. “Thank you. And he didn’t have bolts in his neck either!”
Her awful sadness had disappeared, washed away by the intensity of her passion. Good.
“Well, you have plenty of time to rethink your initiative before it comes around again. By then, maybe Mildred will have retired.”
Candy’s lip curled. “Only the good retire young.”
“I’m not sure anyone could describe Mildred as young anymore,” he noted.
“Methuselah would.” The corners of her eyes crinkled. “But only if he were lying.”
He leaned into the wall, ready for further entertainment. “As long as we’re discussing important literary and linguistic matters, I hear you tell your students not to split infinitives or leave dangling prepositions.”
She sucked in a breath through her teeth, immediately on the defensive. “As it happens, I do tell them that. Your point, Mr. Conover?”
“People have been breaking those rules since English came into existence as a language.”
She tilted her head so she could look down her nose at him. “People have done a lot of incorrect things since that time. I repeat: Your point, Mr. Conover?”
“Those rules made sense for the Romans, since sentences in Latin don’t end with prepositions, and infinitives are one word. You literally can’t split them.” When her mouth opened, he raised his hand. “As I’m certain you’re already aware. However, you may not realize how those strictures transferred to English.”
Another glimpse of that faint, smug smile. “Because snobbish neoclassicists thought English should follow the same grammatical rules as Latin.”
Triumph and aggravation suited her equally, he’d found. Both allowed her to draw straight and comfortably inhabit every inch of her tall, round body, rather than curling in on herself as she’d been doing since the summer.
In her own way, she was lovely. Striking and utterly unique.
Her brown hair shone as it swung to her jaw, and those glasses emphasized the intelligence in her gaze. Her rosy cheeks curved sweetly, and so did her br—
No. He wouldn’t venture there, despite his recent, unwelcome discovery that physical need, the simple desire to touch and be touched intimately, hadn’t died with his wife.
Walt Whitman’s words unspooled in his mind. The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account.
When Candy stepped closer, his breath stalled in his lungs.
“You thought I didn’t know about the origins of those grammatical rules? I do, of course. I also realize their inherent foolishness. That said”—leaning in until her bodily warmth became an inadvertent taunt, Candy tapped his chest with one short fingernail—“let me ask you a question, Griff. Do you think each and every AP grader in Salt Lake City considers those rules foolish? What about the people reading and rating college admission essays? What about old-school university professors grading student papers?”
Ah. Even in his muddled mind, that made a surprising amount of sense.
“So you may not personally care about split infinitives and dangling prepositions, but you’re preparing your students for people who might.” That single spot on his chest was aflame, but he tried to act normally. Like a colleague, not a man at war with himself. “I apologize for underestimating your knowledge and thoughtful consideration of these matters.”
To his surprise, she laughed.
The room rang with it, the noise exuberant and irresistible. He found himself laughing too, and he had no idea why. Maybe because this was the first time he’d elicited that particular sound. Maybe because he was so tired of being sad all the damn time. Maybe because her body literally shook with the force of her mirth, and the sight was more charming than it should be.
It was fitting, too. Candy Albright didn’t traffic in half-measures. Not in outrage, not in joy, not in anything.
Her laughter faded to a smile that pierced him with its clear affection. “I’m just delighted to find someone who wants to talk about these issues with me. And as you’ve clearly realized, I relish a good argument. There’s absolutely no need to apologize.”
Before her, he would have said he avoided arguments whenever possible. That he found them stressful. But maybe…that wasn’t entirely true.
Marianne, the gentlest of souls, a product of her parents’ bitter divorce, had trembled when they argued. Cringed. Although she could handle moody teenagers in her guidance counselor’s office, she didn’t enjoy that kind of strife in her personal life.
Because he loved her, he’d done his best to shield her from any and all conflict—even verbal skirmishes conducted on an intellectual battlefield with no real rancor involved. She and Griff weren’t one of those couples who bickered, either in fun or bitter enmity.
For the first time, though, he could picture how a relationship could work differently. How he could work differently in a relationship. How those differences might not constitute a hardship.
Which was rampant disloyalty, ugly and heartless. Wasn’t it?
“That said, I’m afraid our continuing friendship may depend on one crucial question,” he dimly heard Candy say, even though he hadn’t realized they were friends. Not until just now, anyway. “How do you feel about the Oxford comma?”
“Indispensable,” he muttered through numb lips.
Somehow she performed that trick again, gathering all the light in the room to herself. This time, she released all that brightness, all the energy, in her beaming smile. “Good. That’s the correct answer, and I accept no other.”
When a knock came from the doorway, only a foot or two away, he turned his head dazedly. Only to find their principal, Tess Dunn, standing there, lounging comfortably against the doorframe. She looked as though she’d been lingering for quite some time, and they simply hadn’t noticed her. A ridiculous thought, because of course they’d have seen her. With her standing that close, they couldn’t possibly have missed her.
But her first words dispelled that notion. “I’m heartened you two came to an agreement on the important matters. Frankenstein, split infinitives, even comma usage. If only all conflicts were so easily resolved.”
Her sharp gaze traveled to Candy. Lingered on that faded t-shirt, the jaw-length bob, the still-puffy eyes. Then she turned her attention to him, studying his shaggy hair and beard, the undeniable bags beneath his own eyes. Self-consciously, he scratched at his jaw again.
“You know…” The principal paused for several moments, brow crinkled, before encompassing both of them in a determined smile. “I’m so glad I caught the two of you together. I wanted to speak to you both about an upcoming project.”
Candy’s shoulders squared, a
nd she straightened to her full height, a soldier standing at attention before her respected commander. “I enjoy projects, and I’m delighted to assist with whatever you need.”
“I know you enjoy projects, Candy.” The gentle, teasing affection in Tess’s voice endeared her further to Griff—and he’d already formed a very high opinion of his head administrator. “Thank you for agreeing to one more, sight unseen. I appreciate your willingness to help.”
At that point, he didn’t really have much of a choice, did he?
“I’d be happy to help too.” He raised his brows in inquiry. “What does the project entail?”
“Good question, Griff. Good…question.” Tess bit her lip and glanced around Candy’s room. “It’s a very important task, involving—”
She frowned, seemingly distracted and bothered by her surroundings, and he had no idea why. Working together, he and Candy had finished her bulletin board, hung posters, and given each wall of her room a different focus: short fiction, poetry, novels, and drama. Everything was neat, colorful, and intelligently organized. No principal could ask for more, in his opinion.
Tess’s face suddenly brightened. “I want you two to be in charge of the school’s new, uh… Falling for Poetry Initiative.” She gave a pleased little nod. “Since you’re both here early, and your rooms are already in order, I’m hoping you’ll have sufficient time to start planning together before the school year even begins. The initiative would take place in October, if that’s acceptable to you both?”
“Falling for Poetry is a pun, I take it? Because of autumn?” Candy tapped her chin. “It’s relatively short notice, but I think I could pull something together.”
“With Griff’s help, don’t forget. I don’t want you working too hard or putting any stress on that arm, so his assistance will prove invaluable.” Tess pinned him with her stare. “That is, if he’s willing to participate. Are you, Griff?”
Again, there was only one right answer. It was also the answer he wanted to give, even though it scared him.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Tess’s grin was triumphant in a way he didn’t fully understand, but he supposed that was why he was a lifelong teacher, rather than an administrator. How did he know what made principals gleeful and smug?
“What would be our budgetary—” he began.
Tess interrupted hastily. “Let’s save all the details for an official meeting next week. Check your calendars and get back to me with times you’re both available. In the meantime, I want you to consider—”
Still talking, she turned her back, walked over to Candy’s desk, and scrawled something on a pad of sticky notes. Even pointing his good ear in her direction couldn’t save him, not when her normal speaking voice was so much softer than Candy’s.
When Tess swiveled to face them once more, sticky note in hand, he could hear her again. “—share your notes. Any questions?”
He shook his head and watched as she left.
Well, he supposed this moment was inevitable, if he and Candy were truly becoming friends and not simply friendly colleagues.
His hearing loss in his right ear wasn’t exactly a secret, and it didn’t shame him in any way. That said, he didn’t share the information freely either. As long as it didn’t impact his ability to teach effectively, it was no one’s business but his.
Unless he chose otherwise.
He supposed he was doing that now. Choosing.
When he closed the classroom door behind Tess, the action drew Candy’s immediate attention.
She looked up from where she’d been scribbling on a notepad, her brows raised above the rims of her glasses. “We need privacy for this discussion? How ominous.” The bright determination in her face dimmed. “Listen, Griff. If you’d rather not do the project, I can handle it on my own. It’s fine.”
Ironic, that wording.
“I’m happy to do the project with you.” He offered her a wry smile. “It’s the whole listen, Griff part that’s the problem.”
Her brow beetled as she waited for him to clarify.
“I’ve had hearing loss in my right ear since I was a child,” he told her. “Normally, if people speak loudly enough or I can do a bit of lip reading, I’m fine. When Tess turned her back, though, I missed some of what she was saying.”
After a moment, Candy nodded. “She was mumbling.”
He leaned against the whiteboard, struck by Candy’s reaction to his revelation. Or rather, her lack thereof.
She readjusted her wide headband, mouth pursed in thought. “You didn’t miss much. She was rambling, as well as mumbling.” Leaning closer, as if sharing a confidence, she added, “Honestly, she seemed a bit distracted and disorganized today. I’m not certain she’s fully thought through this project of hers.”
He’d thought the same. “I’m sure the start of the school year pulls her in a lot of different directions.”
“I suppose so.” Candy lifted a round shoulder. “Anyway, she said to confer with one another about possible initiative activities, price out those ideas, and then share our notes at our meeting with her.”
A quick glance at his watch told him they didn’t have time for a real discussion now. His afternoon meeting with the other ninth-grade English teachers started soon. Too soon, dammit. “Fair enough. I have a meeting for the rest of today, but I should be available whenever you’re free later this week. Including tomorrow.”
She smiled at him, her cheeks pink as the peonies in his backyard. “Tomorrow works for me.”
When he started to open her door, she lifted a hand to stop him.
“Wait, Griff.” There was a fierceness in her stare he recognized. The protectiveness of a powerful creature defending its own. “Tell me how to make our conversations easier for you.”
He didn’t want to contemplate the warmth suffusing his chest at that look.
You already make things easier, just by being yourself, he wanted to say.
Instead, he listed the basics. “It’s only a problem if I can’t see your mouth, or if you speak softly in my right ear. If that happens, I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring you.”
“I’ll make certain you can hear me.” Her eyes locked to his, she slowly bobbed her head, and it wasn’t a mere nod. It was an avowal. An oath contained in a simple gesture. “Always.”
He had no doubt. “Thank you.”
He couldn’t look away. Not until his phone chirped from her desk, a reminder of both his upcoming meeting and where he’d distractedly laid the device earlier.
Tearing his gaze from hers, he strode across the room. With a tap, the chirp fell silent. “I need to get going. I’m sorry.”
As he reclaimed his cell and slid it into his pocket, a framed photo by her laptop caught his attention. It must have been a new addition from that morning, because he hadn’t seen it before. He’d have noticed, the same way he noticed almost everything about her.
Suddenly, his concerns about lateness, about the turmoil in his head and heart, all vanished. His insatiable curiosity about Candy had reared its rampant head, and he couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t deny himself.
“Is this your sister?”
In the photo, the resemblance between the two was unmistakable. Both built like Valkyries, they stood bumping shoulders with one another, grinning as the sun reflected off their glasses. The other woman in the picture was blonder than Candy, a bit shorter, her glasses rounder, but otherwise could have been his colleague’s twin.
After a pause, Candy cleared her throat once, then a second time. “Yes. Dee. Denise.”
“You two look happy.” He finally glanced up from the photo, only to find that Candy had turned her back. She was fiddling with the Shakespeare poster, tugging its already-straight edges. “I don’t think I’ve heard you mention her before. Does she live close?”
Slowly, Candy swiveled toward him, and he knew.
He knew she was making eye contact only because she’d promised to face him
during conversation, and she was a woman who kept her promises, weeping be damned.
He knew why she’d returned to school a woman diminished and gray with pain, even if he didn’t understand all the intricacies of her grief yet.
He knew her sister was gone. Recently.
“She lived in Oregon.” Candy pronounced the verb carefully, even as her voice shook, and he knew something else. She still stumbled over the tense, just as he’d done for the first few months. “She died this summer.”
No euphemisms. Candy was direct about everything but her emotions.
Like him, come to think of it.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, trying to infuse all the sincerity he felt into the simple phrase, and she made a small sound in response. A noise, more than a word. A whimper, wrenched from her resisting throat as she tried so damn hard not to sob out loud.
Shit, he couldn’t just stand there and watch her crumple. Fuck his doubts and fears. Fuck his own grief. Fuck everything but what she needed from him—from someone—right this second.
“Oh, Candy.” He reached for her with both hands, the desire to give comfort instinctive and urgent. “I—”
When she backed away from his touch, it hurt. More than it should have. He, of all people, understood how kindness could wreck someone in mourning, more thoroughly than the most vicious insult.
“It’s fine,” she told him, dashing away tears with her knuckles. “I’m fine.”
He tore his hand through his hair, helpless and frustrated. Unwilling to leave her in this state, but aware that he had no choice, not if she didn’t want him to stay.
“Don’t you have a meeting?” Her brown eyes, lashes now spiked with moisture, were pleading with him to go, to allow her some dignity. “You’ll be late.”
After one last, long look, he surrendered to the inevitable. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She dipped her trembling chin in acknowledgment, and then he left.
The door closed behind him, and he was entirely certain she was about to retreat to her desk, out of sight to passersby who might peer through the window in her door. She would cry alone, where no one could see, no one could hear. No one could offer her support or affection or anything else she needed, other than her pride and her privacy.
