“Ooof!” I drop the world’s heaviest box next to my feet, which happens to be next to the world’s largest industrial shredder. Ok, not really. But holy crap that box is heavy.
I really should get rid of my paperwork more often, but sometimes I get so caught up in my work that I procrastinate until it overflows.
Fine, that’s a lie. I’m not getting caught up in my work. I’m getting caught up in the gossip at work. It can be juicy behind the scenes at an elementary school.
I’ve only worked here for a couple of months, but so far, I like it. I’m at the same school as my girls, so I get to have lunch with them sometimes. And I’m interacting with actual adults throughout the day. Not that Callie isn’t an adult, even if she acts like a twelve-year-old boy half the time. But I’m expanding my horizons. Or so I tell everyone.
Going back to work was a hard decision to make. It was another life change to push through, but a necessary one. When Greg moved away nine months ago—and yes, I'm still keeping track—we made it a point to text and call almost daily. Eventually, he got busy with his new job and, frankly, the distance got too hard on me emotionally. I wondered constantly when I would get the text that he’d moved on and was dating again. It threw my anxiety into overdrive.
A couple of months after he left, I realized I was back-peddling. So I cut it off completely. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But my insecurities and doubts about my own worth were rearing their ugly heads, and I couldn’t go back to where I had been. I just couldn’t. Greg said he understood and we had, yet another, emotional moment full of tears. But he stayed true to his word and let me go.
This, of course, led to a lot of soul searching. First thing on the agenda was licking my wounds. Once Callie and I realized licking the ice cream spoon that went along with those wounds was bad for the waistline, I pulled myself together and began looking for ways to improve me. Finding a job was priority. If I was going to move forward, I needed to stop isolating myself. And while it was nice staying home with the girls, realistically, the bank accounts would run dry at some point if I didn’t go back to work. And so would my sense of well-being.
Obviously, being a flight attendant again was off the table because… kids... but I’m still pretty good at customer service. So dozens of applications later, here I am, the front desk receptionist at Woodman Elementary School.
Mostly, my job entails answering phones, signing kids in and out, delivering gluten-free, GMO-free, flavor-free birthday cupcakes to various classrooms. But occasionally our principal, Betty Windham, gives me a project or two, and that’s when my shred pile stacks up.
That, and when this same principal begins bitching to me about interoffice politics.
“Why, why did they think this wouldn’t get out?” she huffs as she pours her third cup of coffee for the day.
Yes, my industrial-sized shredder, that is actually really fun to operate, is in the breakroom. It’s annoying for those on break. But for me, it comes in handy. When I have a huge pile to shred, I will see and hear way more than on an average day. Do I spread the gossip? Hell no. I don’t want to be in the drama. I just like knowing all about it. Sue me.
I hand Betty two creamers and a sugar. I was given a head’s up by the previous receptionist how Betty likes her java, and how much easier things would be if I made sure we always had supplies handy.
She was right. The one day the regular sugar ran out and we only had Splenda, I thought for sure Betty’s head was going to explode. She’s not a bad person to work for… just an addict. No judgement from me. That mint chocolate chip ice cream is sitting in my freezer for a reason.
“Thanks.” She snatches the packets out of my hand and begins doctoring her cup. “First of all, interoffice dating never works out. We all know this. We all should know this. But do my mid-life crisis teachers ever remember that? No. They begin humping like bunnies, and then I have to field phone calls from the scorned spouses.”
Jerry Camperly and Maggie Ray. It’s common knowledge they began a torrid affair last year after Jerry’s wife had her implants removed. Somehow that tidbit plays into the story, but I haven’t quite figured out how, and I’m not asking. Jerry’s a great fifth grade teacher. Very good with science and math. Not a great husband.
Maggie, on the other hand, is a total nitwit. Don’t get me wrong, she rocks the skinny jeans and three-inch heels she wears every day, never even so much as twisted an ankle while chasing those second graders—but she’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Thinking this affair would stay under wraps is proof of evidence number one. Especially when the principal sees and hears all, and is the biggest gossip of them all. Even if she doesn’t mean to be.
“Who called this time?”
“Maggie’s husband. Wants to have a meeting or something to hash it all out.” She waves her hand around as she gets riled up. “I told him, ‘I am not a marriage counselor. What happens off these school grounds is not my business, and you will not drag me into this.’”
“Good for you. How’d he take it?”
She sighs. “He cried.” She takes a long sip of her cup of joe and moans before getting back to it. “I’m sympathetic and all…”
No, she’s not.
“… But this isn’t my first go-round with Maggie. I’ve been at this school for fifteen years and this is the third affair of hers that I know of.”
“How is that even possible? We don’t have that many male teachers.”
She shrugs. “Who says it’s always a teacher?”
I grimace. Surely she’s not talking about old Mr. Northman, the janitor who’s been here since the dinosaur age. He’s nice and all, but with his bug eyes and bad teeth, I don’t even want to visualize someone kissing him. A shudder runs through me as I shake off the thoughts.
“At some point, Maggie’s husband needs to get a backbone.” Betty pivots and walks away, grumbling about missing her calling as an author because “you can’t make this shit up.”
Turning back to my shredder, I gather some files and let the paper massacre commence. There is something satisfying about shoving these papers through a row of razor blades, determined to chop it all up into unidentifiable pieces, never to be put together again.
It’s possible I may still be harboring some anger from the last couple of years’ events.
The door opens as I enjoy the tiny little screams of tree fibers and Tripp Mackey walks in.
Our school seems to be an anomaly when it comes to the number of male teachers we have. We have four. FOUR. Jerry the cheater, Coach Thompson who teaches P.E., Mr. Reed who runs the science lab for all of the grade levels and Tripp Mackey.
I barely have enough time to look away before I blush. Tripp Mackey is very, very pretty. And by that, I mean he is panty-dropping hot. Tall, dark, handsome. With the right amount of scruff and a smolder he must have perfected in college, he has been the star of many a teachers’ fantasies.
Setting his looks aside, the fact that he teaches third grade reading, writing, and social studies makes him truly swoon-worthy. It’s no wonder almost every woman in the building has a crush on him. Probably most of the men, too. He’s practically perfect.
He’s also very, very young. He graduated with his teaching degree only a couple of years ago.
That’s why most of us look but don’t touch. No one wants to be tagged as the dirty old woman of the school. Ok, maybe some of us wouldn’t mind it so much.
“Hey Elena.” Tripp flashes me a perfect smile full of perfect teeth and a perfectly wicked twinkle in his eye. I may be a tad dazzled by him. Just a tad. “I see the office gossip has you backed up on your shredding again.”
If I wasn’t blushing before, I am now. It’s no secret that I hear a lot on the job. I suspect we all do. And I suspect we all hear it from the same person, too.
“I wish that was true,” I lie because I will never confirm the things I’ve heard. “But this is my own procrastination. A little too much Candy Crush, I suppose.”
“Sure, sure. So I was thinking…” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. I try not to watch how the movement makes his biceps flex, because if I don’t pay attention to what I’m doing, I’m likely to cut off a finger. There’s nothing sexy about spewing blood all over the breakroom floor from an accident with the office supplies. “Would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?”
I freeze, still holding onto the paper that’s being gobbled up by the machine, until it makes a nasty groaning sound.
“Oh, shit!” I exclaim when I realize I almost forced the gears to go in reverse. That wouldn’t have been good. “Um… I… I’m sorry, did you just ask me out?”
I’m so flustered that I grab too much scrap paper, shoving it into the machine and immediately jam it. Shit.
Tripp chuckles and scoots me out of the way, popping open the top, and unclogging the jam. “Sorry. That was my fault. I should have had a better lead in.” A slam of the top once the paper is cleared and we’re back in business.
Turning to look at me, he is apparently going to give me a lead in this time.
“So I think you’re really nice. And you’re really funny. And I know I’m a bit on the young side, but I’m hoping my life experience makes up for my age.” Gotta love Tripp, he actually looks kind of shy and vulnerable in the moment, not his normal bravado. “And I’d really love to take you out on a date.”
I blink once. Twice. Three times, as my brain swirls with way too many thoughts to process at once.
Am I ready to date? That’s the big question. It’s been nine months since Greg left. I like my life. I like where I’m at. Am I ready to open up my heart again? And maybe even the bigger question is...
Do I want to open up my heart to a teeny bopper?
Physically, the answer is yes, of course. Good lord it’s been way too long since I’ve had Greg’s mouth on mine, his body on mine, his hands on me…
And right there is my answer. If the first thing that pops into my head while one man asks me out is thoughts of another man, clearly I’m not ready.
Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth to respond, but Tripp cuts me off with a hand to my forearm.
“Think about it. You don’t have to answer me today. Or even next week. Just think about it. I’m not going anywhere.” Then he turns and swaggers out the door. Literally swaggers. Puts his hands in his pockets to make sure the seat of his pants pulls tight as I watch him walk away.
Damn that kid. He just used his best asset to make sure I didn’t say no.
He’s good. He’s real good.