Page 6 of The PTA President
“Sorry, I’ve been told I can get a little aggressive. Something to do with my star sign intermingling with my Venus placement or some shit. That was such a dick move, though. I don’t even know her.”
“It’s best to just ignore her. Sorry you had to witness that.” She hesitates. “Hopefully the first day jitters will be out of everyone's system next Monday.”
“What areyousorry about? You literally did nothing wrong.” I frown. Not even half an hour ago, she was running the room like a corporate sellout. Now, she’s shaking in designer heels because some lunatic with a stick up her clenched butthole called her out for being single.
What's so great about being married anyway? Maybe it’s a good thing she’s single? She’s way less annoying than that mole person who just ran by me like she was late to meet the president.
“It was really nice to meet you. I look forward to working with you some more.” She offers a quick, shy smile. This blonde bombshell, straight from heaven, exits the building.
Thank God the school day is over, and I can bail on this hellhole. Don’t misunderstand the attitude and judge me before you get to know me.Yes, this is my first job straight from college.No, I didn’t understand how fancy and uptight it was until this morning when I parked my ten-year-old Gio in another teacher’s spot and was scolded for fifteen minutes as if I were intentionally ruining her life.
If I’m being honest, I forgot about the PTA part of the contract until this morning, and contemplated even showing up. If it weren’t for my ridiculous student loans, I would’ve given the middle finger to this place and gone to work at the public library. The Principal didn't say shit about my boots, or the raunchy shirt I found on sale at Spencer's. Betty the buzzkill was the only one with an issue, and I bet you twenty bucks that by tomorrow she’ll have made it everyone’s problem. Too bad for her, I’ve got a whole closet full of shirts that will cause her a trip to an early grave.
ChaptEr 4
Candace
Sadly, Greg was a man of his word and didn’t take the girls this weekend. Court saved the day and brought them home with her, where they can lounge by the pool and bother her grumpy doorman. I spent the weekend weeding my backyard garden and thinning the roses before they go dormant.
A book about life post-divorce encouraged me to find a hobby that would bring happiness back into my heart. I tried crocheting, and dabbled in knitting, but gardening stuck. It’s therapeutic, albeit a little dirty. Every morning I water my flowers and tend to the vegetables, feeling proud of what I accomplished on my own. I reserve Sundays for adding subtle touches that make a big difference in the aesthetic. That feeling doesn’t last once my dad calls to cancel Sunday night dinner, yet again.
“It’s just so disappointing raising a daughter like you, Candace. I can’t imagine how exhausting it is waking up everymorning, to stare at your reflection in the mirror knowing what a failure you truly are.”
“If that’s all for today, I think I’d better get going. As always, I appreciate the pep talk.” I keep my voice even until the call ends.
In his mind, divorce is the eighth deadly sin. He would’ve turned a blind eye to Greg’s infidelity if we stayed together. “Nothing worse than breaking up a family,” he told me. Even if there’s hardly a family left standing after an event like that. His first andonlyconcern after our announcement was what rumors would spread through the community now that a single middle-aged woman was living alone.
Sundays were once a loud, family-filled day. Greg’s siblings and their children played croquet in the backyard. My dad manned the grill and argued with whoever would listen about the proper way to cook a burger. Court and my in-laws would argue over healthcare, while my mom followed everyone like a vacuum, keeping crumbs from littering the floor.
Now the house is so silent you could hear an eyelash fall on the carpet. My girls will be home tonight, giving me one more full day to myself, but when I look back on my week, every day is a day to myself. There’s no cleaning to be done, unless I want to tackle the bathroom baseboards. Yesterday, I bought and put away groceries and hung up all the laundry.
I pace my house, looking for a project, and find myself wondering what someone like Natalie does on a Sunday morning. She’s at least sixteen years younger than me. Probably home sleeping off a hangover. Or getting a lower back tattoo. Our Sundays wouldn’t be the same, and I don’t know why she came to mind.
My brain couldn’t handle the quiet anymore, so I opted for a mid-length denim dress with white Keds, along with those cute frilly socks I can’t stay away from. The weather’s changing quickly as we get into fall, but thankfully, it’s still warm enoughto enjoy the farmers market without a jacket. My canvas tote is filled to the brim with fresh vegetables when I’m stopped dead in my tracks.
Natalie, the woman I was just thinking of, is standing right across from me, going through samples of local honey. Her hands are full with bouquets of colorful hydrangeas, barely able to grab the mason jar. They’re just flowers, nothing to write home about, but internally I’m jumping up and down. What are the odds she’s here doing the same thing I am, andholdingmy absolute favorite flower? My dream has always been to own a home in a small coastal town and fill the edges with bigleaf hydrangeas.
She’s ditched the leather skirt for torn-up skinny jeans, monstrous combat boots, and an oversized charcoal sweater that's falling off her shoulder, revealing a thin neon pink bra strap.
I’m already moving before I think, taking the flowers from her arms. “Here, let me help you. You’re going to drop these.”
“Thanks, I thought my arm was gonna fall off. I still need coffee and have no clue why I saved that for my last stop.” Pulling her wallet out, she pays and thanks the old woman managing the stand.
I’m busy admiring the flowers and inhaling their subtle sweet scent. She’s staring patiently at me, those bright blues sparkling in the sunlight rather than dimmed by the harsh light of a classroom.
“Let’s get some coffee. I’m in desperate need of caffeine, and my head is pounding. My roommate in college swore that mixing honey in your coffee cures a hangover. She was probably full of it, though. She didn’t even wear deodorant and was always going on about perfume killing your hormones. If I’m going to die anyway, might as well smell good, right?” She turns to me, waiting for an answer. Nothing comes out.Oh no, not again.
Her voice is deep, yet soothing and addictive. It’s like no matter what she’s babbling about, I’m eager to hear it. My hands shake while holding the bouquets as I piece together anything that resembles a sentence. “My roommate in college went to an orgy one weekend and came back with three different STDs and had to move back home.”
“Holy shit. Did she really?” She’s still laughing as we get to the coffee stand. Heat creeps up my neck as I stare at the menu.
“Can we get two honey-cinnamon vanilla lattes?” she asks the cute barista in a canary yellow apron. “Have you had these before? They’re like crack.” She reaches out and pays for our drinks, and leaves a tip.
My taste buds erupt with the sweet flavor. Never have I tasted something so magical.She’s right, this is crack.Not that I would know. “Wow, this is amazing. I’m going to be wired now, caffeine isn’t something I indulge in often.”
Maybe it’s the age gap, or the obvious style differences, but Natalie flusters me. It’s like we’re back in high school and she’s the cool girl, always hanging out with the bad boys in leather jackets. Meanwhile, I’m the nerd arriving an hour early to chess practice.
With both of our arms full, we walk over to a small bench with a red and white striped awning keeping the sun at bay. It’s breezy in the high sixties, with the crisp smell of changing leaves close by.
