Page 6 of The Write Place

“Good morning,” she trills cheerfully, and she indeed looks as fresh as she did when we left last night.

“Hi,” I smirk. “Have a nice evening?”

She just flashes an indifferent smile. “Nice enough,” she offers, putting her chin in her palm and batting her eyelashes at me intently. “But I’m much more interested in hearing about your evening.”

I smile secretly, taking a huge bite of my omelet. I take my time chewing, then swallow. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I finally say, and giggle a little as she playfully smacks my arm.

“What happened with the guy you were talking to?”

“Oh, Evan?”

“Yes, Evan. You went outside with him, and then what?”

“You mean before or after you and that guy busted into the alley to make out?”

Jenny rolls her eyes dramatically. “After, obviously.”

“Well, as soon as I got over my mortification at seeing you both with your hands all over each other, we… kissed.” Jenny practically squeals, but I speak over her. “Don’t get too excited. He’s not from around here, and he’s only in town for a few weeks.”

Jenny scowls at me as if this is an inconsequential detail. “Tell. Me. Everything.”

So I do. At every turn, she presses me for more details, and as I recount the way we laughed, how his soft hands felt on my waist, and how his eyes gleamed in the streetlights, I surprise even myself. By the time I’m done telling the story, we’ve almost finished our omelets, and Jenny’s expression is downright dreamy. I feel a pang of regret deep in my belly that I didn’t agree to see him again.

“I’m so proud of you, Mac.” I laugh humorlessly, but she carries on. “No, I’m serious. You took a chance, and that’s huge for you. You should have got his number.”

“What part of ‘only here for a few weeks’ was unclear?” I ask, but she shrugs.

“I think it’s okay to play things out a little. See where it goes.”

I shake my head and poke at what’s left of my omelet in silence for a minute. I can feel Jenny studying me from her perch on the stool, and I absently start to play with my ring in the quiet. She catches the movement, and I don’t have to look at her to feel the shift in the room. I quickly move my hand to my lap, but it’s too late. She’s seen it, and she’s known me long enough to know where my head has gone.

“Your sister would be proud of you for kissing that dreamboat, too, you know,” she says gently, though I can tell she’s trying to keep it light. I consider a small laugh for her sake, but I can’t bring myself to get there. “It’s something she probably would have done,” she tries again, and then I huff because she’s right. Eleanor Milcrest was a hopeless romantic up until the day she died. Talking to Jenny just now feels a lot like talking to Ellie about my swoon-worthy moments in college, and the ache of her absence is only slightly dulled by the passing of time.

“I’m not interested in trying to date during the school year, anyway. These guys just get annoyed when I stay late or have to grade on the weekends. I’m sick of being judged for wanting to be good at my job.” I try to change the subject. “And besides, I will probably never see him again. What’s done is done.” I shrug, but his dimpled smile flashes in my mind, and I feel that sting of regret again.

“You just haven’t found someone who is worth the time. But I get it,” she rushes before I can object. “Why start something you can’t finish and all that. Even if he was easy to look at,” she finishes wistfully. I take our plates and put them in the sink, hoping that, outwardly, I seem neutral.

Jenny leaves soon after we finish breakfast, but not before running out to her car and coming back with a book for me to read. When she hands it to me, she says, “You’ll need this now that you’re single!” The cover is a black-and-white picture of a man’s six-pack abs, his head and legs out of frame. The title is written in red script. It is exactly the kind of book Jenny would read and then recommend to me, even though I’m more of a fan of rom-coms and not… whatever this is. I take it from her anyway, knowing she’ll just leave it out in the open on my desk at school if I don’t.

I spend the rest of the weekend taking care of mundane weekend crap—laundry, grocery shopping, grading papers. Monday comes and goes with equal normalcy until I’m standing in the hallway, greeting my last period class as they are shuffling in, when my department chair makes his way down the hall toward me. Ken Hastings could play Santa Claus in a Christmas movie with his pink cheeks and stark white beard. He has been working as English department chair for the past six years, so I have been working under him for almost my entire career, and I truly enjoy it. He is a second-career administrator, coming into education from the publishing world, and is one of those people who do the job because he absolutely loves working with teachers and curriculum, not because he is working his way up the academic ladder in order to grasp at higher paychecks. He exudes warmth and comfort, and talking to him always makes me feel like I’ve curled up with a warm blanket and a good book.

“Mackenzie,” he smiles warmly. He always uses my full name, no matter how many times I tell him to call me Mac. “I trust the school year is starting well for you.”

“It is, but this group of seniors is giving me a run for my money.” I indicate the students making their way past me into the room. “They want to argue with me every time I pose an interpretation about what we are reading.” I put my hands on my hips in mock outrage.

He plays along, hands flying to his heart as he gasps, “The audacity!”

“Indeed!” I laugh. He laughs, too—a jolly sound that only ever further cements his status as the school’s resident Santa. When the laughter subsides, I ask, “What can I do for you, Ken?”

“I do have a favor to ask of you, Mackenzie, and I know it’s early in the year to be asking for anything, but would you be able to stop by my office before you head out for the day? I was hoping to catch you earlier, but I was sidetracked.” My eyebrows raise in silent question, but he waits expectantly for my answer. Not something to talk about in the hallway in front of everyone, then. I tell him that won’t be a problem. He beams at me and claps his hands. “Excellent. See you in a bit.” He goes back to his office, and I chew at my bottom lip, frowning.

I lead my class in a follow up of Friday’s discussion, but for the most part, I’m distracted by Ken’s request. I provide some more evidence for my theory about the story we are discussing, then walk them through developing an interpretation of a text and supporting it with evidence. By the time the bell rings, I’ve taught something decent, but my head wasn’t in it. I hate it when administrators call meetings with no indication of what they’re about. Even though I know I haven’t done anything wrong, I’m still running through everything that’s happened in the past few weeks since school started as I head down the long hallway of classrooms.

When I turn the corner to the wing of the building that houses all the offices, I hear Ken’s voice rumbling. “She should be here any minute, Mr. Evans. I think you’re going to love her. She is one of the best teachers we have here, and I’m sure she’ll be more than willing to accommodate your request.”

I straighten and take in a deep breath. This sounds like a parent meeting. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised; all over the country, parents have been up in arms all summer about the books high schools expect their children to read, taking exception to even the smallest issues. I let my breath out slowly and stride down the hallway toward Ken’s half-open door. I knock lightly and peek inside. As usual, Ken’s office is littered with various back copies of literary and education magazines. I swear, the man has every copy of The New Yorker and Education Weekly from 1977 to the present somewhere in this office. I offered to organize them for him once, but he had refused, saying he had his own organizational system. When I asked him if his “organizational system” was actually chaos, he just laughed his jolly laugh and told me I must have better things to do.

From behind, the man facing Ken appears to be about my age—too young to be a parent of a high school student. He has thick, slightly wavy brown hair, and I can’t see much, but he is dressed in an expertly tailored navy suit jacket. I clear my throat to announce my presence, coming fully into the room, and Ken looks up from where he is seated behind his desk.