Troublemaker

by Kayley Loring

  Let me know what you think!

  Sincerely,

  Miss Stiles

  Well, well, Miss Stiles. I’m glad to hear it seems appropriate to you. I will let you know what I think.

  And then I get a text from her.

  EMILIA: Hi. Sent you an email from the school email account, so please respond accordingly.

  EMILIA: That is, if you aren’t too busy making out with the amazing new fiancée your son and I helped you snag.

  EMILIA: Seriously though, I really need your put it in me on this play. Please input me.

  EMILIA: Um. I meant that I need your input on this play. Please help me. I was changing the words and then my phone decided to be an asshole. Feel free to put it in my phone because it’s an asshole.

  EMILIA: YES I’M DRINKING SHUT UP GOOD NIGHT!!!

  I hold up my hand for Ryder to high-five.

  “You know what? Cheyenne might be a genius. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”

  Chapter Twenty

  ALEX: You look hot in that pants thing, Miss Stiles.

  EMILIA: It’s called a jumpsuit, and OMG don’t text me like that when we’re on school property!

  ALEX: Text you like what, Miss Stiles? Your students are busy doing a super important bullshit theatre exercise, so they have no idea I’m texting you about your jumpsuit. Did you wear it specifically because you thought it would make it harder for me to access what’s underneath? Because you should know that a) I am actually capable of restraining myself in public and b) I have experience with getting women out of every imaginable type of clothing, so nice try.

  EMILIA: This was a terrible mistake.

  ALEX: The jumpsuit or having me here? Because asking Alex Vega to help with a theatre production is never a mistake. Jumpsuits are tricky but manageable.

  EMILIA: It is awfully cute how seriously they’re taking this exercise, though.

  ALEX: Well, now you’re going to have to go sit in the corner for calling my theatre exercises “cute.”

  EMILIA: Calm down - I said the kids are cute. Not your bullshit theatre exercise.

  ALEX: Well, it’s the only one I can remember that doesn’t involve talking. They’re actually only supposed to have a few minutes to silently draw five things they love about Christmas, but if I can keep them quiet for ten minutes while texting you, then fuck yeah theatre, am I right?

  EMILIA: Yes. But I’m putting my phone away now.

  ALEX: Bah. Humbug.

  21

  Emilia

  Eat my dust, Miss Farrell.

  Yeah, I watched the YouTube video she posted of the holiday show that she staged last year.

  It was good.

  Okay, it was very good.

  Like, really impressive.

  But also extremely annoying and sort of creepy because she made the kids act like little adults.

  And there were so many pop culture references that only grown-ups would get.

  So of course all the parents and staff are still talking about how great it was.

  But guess what I’ve got up my sleeve, Miss Farrell? And—let’s face it—up my skirt, probably. Eventually.

  That’s right.

  I’ve got Ryder’s dad.

  Also, I have enlisted Franklin to help us design the set, in exchange for my doing the dishes for the rest of the year.

  But more significantly, I’ve got Ryder’s dad.

  I haven’t been this aroused by seeing a man interact with kids since the last time I watched Full House. Which was three days ago. And before that, the last time was the observatory field trip.

  Director Alex Vega doesn’t talk down to my students. He’s making them collaborators on this live theatre project. Giving every single one of these kids a voice and the confidence to share their ideas for what we should do for our little production.

  He’s here with my class for the first time, during art period. We have him for another half hour today. Already we have decided to do our own version of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Or, as Ryder called it, “Like Muppet Christmas Carol but with people!”

  I am recording everything as a voice memo on my phone while frantically taking notes as the kids call out ideas.

  Alex writes the names of the characters that the kids remember and then tells everyone to write them down in their notebooks and, next to the characters, write out what their most important personality traits are. He tells them they have five minutes to do this. I’m guessing he’s about to pull out his phone to text me again.

  But guess who just tiptoed into my classroom and offered her help if we need it.

  Because obviously she doesn’t have to be in her own classroom right now.

  Miss Paige Farrell’s pointy face has probably been peeking through the window to my door, waiting for the right moment to come in.

  Well, there is no right moment to come in when Alex Vega is in my classroom, Miss Farrell.

  “Hey,” she says in a stage whisper as she approaches Alex. “What’s going on in here?” She’s asking Alex, not me.

  “Oh, hey,” he says, stepping away from her. “I’m helping Miss Stiles out with the holiday show.”

  “Oooooh. A professional director? Fancy! What a great idea, Em.”

  Em? Since when do you call me “Em?”

  “Wish I’d thought of that,” she says, winking at him. Like they have an inside joke or something.

  I cannot control the eye roll, but I have to work really hard to keep from wrapping my entire body around Alex and licking his face when he brings a chair over to sit next to me. He completely ignores her. It’s instantly one of the Top Ten best things he’s ever done for me.

  “You take some good notes?” he asks me, leaning in to check my notepad.

  “I will type them up and share them with you in a Google document later.”

  “Of course you will,” he says, laughing.

  Paige is still standing there, hands on her hips. “Well, let me know if you need any help, guys. I’m free most nights, if you need help with the set or want me to give notes when you get to rehearsals.”

  We both smile at her politely. Awkwardly. But Alex remains blissfully silent.

  “Great,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Cool. I should get back to my class.” She scratches the back of her head and sticks her boobs out just a little more before finally getting the hell out of my classroom.

  I slowly turn to look at Alex, who is staring at my notes. He reaches for the pen that I’m holding and makes a note on the notepad that’s on my lap. I can’t stop staring at the back of his neck and his perfect wavy dark hair and those sexy earlobes. Just like that, even in a room with fifteen children, I am overwhelmed by the effect this man has on me. If I’m on the verge of orgasm just from experiencing him with a barrier of paper and cardboard between his hand and my thigh…what’s going to happen to me when I have no stationery to protect me from this rampant yumminess?

  He punctuates a sentence with a question mark, carefully places the pen back between my fingers, and then goes over to the kids’ desks to check on their progress.

  I look down at his scribbled note, and my breath hitches as if he’d surprised me with a kiss.

  I only have eyes for you, Miss Stiles. The rest of me is yours for the taking. Just try to keep your hands off me when the kids are around, will you?

  I circle his note, draw a star next to it, and then turn the page. Because how could I possibly keep my hands off him with those words staring up at me? I might have to ask Franklin to put that on a T-shirt.

  But now it’s time for us all to move to the area rug and have a very important development meeting about our Dickens characters while sitting cross-legged on the floor. And I’m definitely not going to look at that area of Alex’s jeans that is harboring his Mr. Dickens. I lower myself to the rug, sitting off to the side of him, and I can’t help it if he gets a glimpse of cleavage and bra. It’s not my fault that the fabr
ic of this jumpsuit isn’t glued to my skin. I’m not the boss of gravity.

  He pauses his little speech about how we’re going to workshop this play, blinks, and then looks at me like he’s kind of mad at me. And I blink back at him, innocently starting a voice memo on my phone. He shakes his head and looks back at the kids.

  “So let’s hear what you guys wrote about the characters. Cheyenne?”

  Cheyenne, who is sitting next to Ryder, flips her long curly hair and smacks her lips before looking down at her notes. “Okay, well, Mr. Scrooge is the main guy, right? And he’s mean and he doesn’t like to spend money and he’s in a bad mood all the time. But it’s kind of funny and also sad.”

  “Right,” he says. “And why do you think it’s sad that he’s so mean?”

  “Well, because he’s just lonely. It’s a defriends macho-ism.”

  “Yes. It is a defense mechanism. Very good point. So first we want the audience to understand that he’s mean. And then we want them to understand that he doesn’t like to spend money and he’s in a bad mood all the time. Right? And then, eventually, we’ll help the audience to understand why he’s like this. And eventually, he changes, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he’s nice at the end.”

  “So who is he particularly mean to in the beginning?” He points at Tyler, whose hand shot up. “Tyler, right?”

  “Mr. Crotch-it.”

  There is tittering amongst the children. Alex smiles and acknowledges the joke without making Tyler feel bad about it. “Okay, so how about you get up and pretend to be Mr. Cratchit, and Cheyenne, you pretend to be Mr. Scrooge.”

  “But she’s a girl,” Tyler says, wrinkling his nose.

  “Girls can play boys in theatre. We’ll figure out who’s going to play who for the show later. This is just for fun. Come on, get up.”

  I make a note on my notepad… Okay, it’s not a note, it’s a heart. Because mine is bursting.

  “Hey, Mr. Scrooge!” Tyler waves at Cheyenne.

  “Harumph! Whaddya want?”

  “I…I wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas Eve, sir!”

  “Bah! Humbug!”

  “And, uh, a very early Happy New Year?”

  “Pfffth!”

  “And I wanted to ask you, sir, if it would be okay, seeing as tomorrow is Christmas Day and all…”

  “Go on… All you have to do is ask, Mr. Crotch-it.”

  This brings the house down, and Tyler has to wait for the other thirteen kids to quiet down before saying. “It’s Mr. Cratchit, sir.”

  Cheyenne flips her hair and says, “Whatever.”

  “Can I take tomorrow off, Mr. Scrooge? So I can spend it with my family?”

  “No, you may not! Get back to work!”

  “Why do you have to be such a b-face?”

  “Hey!” I call out.

  “And scene!” Alex points his finger at Tyler. “We don’t call girls b-faces.”

  I sit up on my knees. “Tyler, you know better than that. Apologize to Cheyenne, please.”

  “But we’re just playing.”

  Alex stands up and gets all Alpha Dad on Tyler, and I hold the notepad up to hide my nipples because they are standing at attention. “First of all, Tyler, you’re pretending to be Bob Cratchit and Cheyenne is pretending to be Mr. Scrooge. Bob Cratchit would never say that to his boss. Secondly, we never call girls b-faces. Apologize and then sit down, please.”

  Tyler apologizes to Cheyenne, lower lip quivering, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “Thank you, Cheyenne and Tyler,” Alex says in a commanding Daddy Director voice. He starts clapping. “That was a really great improv, up until the end there. We got a good sense of who these characters are, and it was fun to watch. We got a lot done today. Good work, everyone.”

  “Are you leaving?” Ryder asks, a little whiney.

  “Yeah, I gotta go, and you guys have to learn about fractions or something now.” He grins at me.

  “Reading, actually.” I stand up and start clapping again to keep my hands busy so I don’t use them to try to take Director Daddy’s shirt off in front of my students. “Let’s all thank Mr. Vega for helping us with our holiday show. He’ll be back again in two days so we can keep working on this wonderful play.”

  There’s some applause, but mostly the kids jump up to hug and high-five him.

  I finally realize that Ryder is watching me watch his dad.

  Two Vega boys are grinning at me at the same time.

  I can’t decide if I’m luckier or in more trouble than I ever have been, but both of my ovaries are melting.

  22

  Alex

  One day until the dress rehearsal.

  Two days until the holiday show and Winter Festival party.

  And then twenty-one glorious days of winter break.

  For the past seven years, I have dreaded the holidays because it meant weeks of shopping and wrapping and hiding presents and driving my kid to and from holiday parties and figuring out who would look after Ryder so Nova and I could go to the events that we had to go to, plus traveling across the country to spend time with both sets of Ryder’s grandparents, but this year… Fuck yeah, winter break. Nova’s in Asia, her parents can go fuck themselves, my parents will be looking after Ryder whenever possible, and I’m going to break the bed fucking Miss Stiles all the way into next year.

  It’s around eight thirty on a school night, and I’m finally alone with Emilia here in the Silver Lake Elementary School auditorium. Franklin just left after helping us bring the scenery he designed and painted from his garage. This guy could have a great career as a theatre set designer if he ever decides he wants to make less money. The canvas he painted of a snow-covered Victorian-era London street scene for a backdrop is stunning. Beautiful but simple enough to be appropriate for a kids’ show.

  This may be a step down from the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre on Broadway by other people’s standards, but I’m really fucking proud of this production and what these kids have accomplished in just over a month. And as much as I can’t wait for all of this to be over so I can get to the good stuff with Emilia, I can’t wait to see them perform it in front of an audience. We decided to let the students use English accents, because little American kids with fake English accents are almost as awesome as Muppets with fake English accents.

  For the past couple of weeks, Ryder has been strolling around the house in his Storyteller costume, saying things like, “Oi! So this ol’ chap Marley was already dead, right? Dead as a doornail, eh. Deader than a doornail, even. How dead is a doornail, you wanna know? Bloody dead. So what I’m sayin’ ’ere is—this Marley bloke was really, bloody dead. All right?”

  I need to start turning down the volume when I watch Peaky Blinders.

  He’s at my parents’ house, and I’ve called to say good night to him and told him I’ll pick him up later, when he’s asleep. Emilia is wearing her black-rimmed glasses, a Baby Yoda T-shirt, and baggy overalls. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and even though I’m quite certain that she’s trying to look as unsexy as possible, I know for a fact that it will only take me two seconds tops to unhook those overalls. And I plan to.

  We’ve arranged the desk and the dining table and the canopy bed on stage. Now, Emilia and I are alone together in the building and taking our sweet time hanging the painted canvas from the curtain rod above the back of the small stage. She’s holding the very steady A-frame step ladder steady for me and fretting about my safety. I have never fallen off a ladder in my life, and I don’t intend to start now. But she’s got that nervous energy. And I can’t tap into it in the way that I want to just yet. So I try to take her mind off the possibility that I might fall by asking her about something that I’ve been dying to ask for a while.

  “So what’s the deal with your dick of an ex?”

  She wrinkles her nose, still looking up at me. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m assuming he lives in Paso Robles? You still in touch with him?”

 
; “No. He sends me random texts every now and then. Occasionally I’ll send him a very brief, polite response. But mostly I try to ignore him.”

  “How long were you together for? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Um. Years. I met him in college. We broke up a few months before I moved here. I mean, we were off and on for a while before that.”

  “So it was serious?”

  “I mean. We lived together.”

  “Ah. So you were in love with him.”

  She looks down, pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and then immediately puts her hand back on the ladder frame. She is silent and reflective for a moment, and I like that. “I felt that I should be in love with him. I did love him. I was attracted to him. I know that’s true. But I think what I’ve learned from that whole experience is that at least half of what makes a relationship last is your decision to commit to it. And at least half of that decision to stay committed to it is a stubborn need to be right about your life choices. That was true for me with him, anyway.”

  I finish hanging the center of the canvas and climb down so I can move the ladder a few feet to the right.

  “I think you’re on to something,” I tell her and then climb up the ladder again. “How did it end?”