26
It’s the Thought That Counts, Right?
Walking into my still-empty classroom, I’m trying hard to force my brain from replaying and overanalyzing my most recent run-in with Coy. The last thing I need is to let him make me distracted. Not only because it’s the first day of school, but also because if I’m like this now, how will I be for the other 190 days I’ll have to deal with him?
Damn, did he look all kinds of handsome and yummy this morning, though, and it wasn’t just his clothing that did it for me. Rather, it was him; his eyes, the way they lit up when they first landed on me, and his smile, the one that never fails to spread heat through my body as if it’s bringing me fully to life. Sure, the short-sleeved charcoal button-up helped. It fit well. More than well, really, amping up the drool factor when my eyes travelled down to his muscular forearms, arms I’ve felt around me in my dreams. It was also the way he bit his bottom lip, like he does when he’s nervous, and how my stomach did a backflip at how protective he became when he heard that Neil Foley had called for me not once, but twice. McCoy Graves is seriously the “bees knees” as my grandmother Mildred would undoubtedly say, and I’d agree wholeheartedly. And, after all this time, I still just want to feel his sting, over and over again.
So, why don’t I march my ass down there and tell him how I feel? Why don’t I confront him and take a chance that he’s feeling it, too? Is he so afraid that Keaton would care? Because Keaton might, but I sure as hell don’t. So much to think about—I clearly need some of Kami’s Fishbowl-fuelled advice, and stat. I can’t keep going on like this. It’s time we either move forward, together, or I give my heart what it may need to finally move ahead—closure.
Dumping the half dozen or so bags I’ve been carrying—filled with the last minute crap I need to set up around the room—I smile, taking in my homeroom. I’d come in two days last week, trying my hardest to turn this once-drab space into a bright and colourful room that the kids will hopefully find cool and comfortable. I’d made yellow- and lime-coloured bulletin boards, and there was now a large section of wall painted with chalkboard paint for a graffiti/doodle wall. A green screen wall nestled in my little technology corner, and I’d arranged a small carpeted area with giant pillows for reading, collaboration, and relaxing. A perfect set up for my Grade Eights.
I’ve just finished putting a pencil accompanied by a snack-sized pouch of Skittles on each desk, along with one of the icebreaker activity sheets I made for our “get to know each other” activity (one they must complete before I’ll allow them to eat their candy, of course) when a familiar voice brings a smile to my face.
“Ah, the classic ‘bribe them with candy’ activity, I see. I like it.” It’s Mr. Whittaker, our sweet caretaker.
“Yes, I figured I might trick them into being respectful to one another and talking about themselves with candy. Food in the mouth makes it hard for them to talk out of turn, chewing candy even more,” I quip, rounding the last desk.
“I hope it works for ya, love. Although I think one of your cakes would work better,” he says, walking in with a cheeky grin, a steel ladder and florescent light bulbs tucked under his arm.
“You and those cakes,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m sure Rose won’t be too happy with me if I feed you too much cake again this year,” I say, reaching into another one of the bags I’d brought in with me. “Funny thing? I happen to have cake here today. Not enough for the kids, sadly, just enough for one person,” I singsong, teasing him a little. “It was left over from yesterday’s party, and wouldn’t you know it? It has your name on it.” Now that he’s set up his ladder, I walk a few steps to hand him the paper plate wrapped in aluminum foil. I cover my mouth with my index finger. “Now, shhh. This never happened. You tell Rose, and I’ll deny, deny, deny.” I laugh, shaking my head.
“Bless your heart, you sweet girl, for thinking of an old man like me. Thank you. I won’t be in your hair long, just two lights to change out.”
I nod, stepping out of the way so he can manoeuvre around me.
“How old are you, anyway, Hank?” I ask, knowing full-well he won’t tell me. Kami, Marcy, Bev, and I have been asking him almost daily for years and his answer is always the same.
“Old enough to know better, young enough to keep trying,” he says, letting out a loud belly laugh as he climbs the rungs.
“You’ll tell me one day, old man. I’ll pry it out of you with my incredible frosting. I’ll feed into your addiction until you’re craving it so bad you’ll do anything for it,” I kid, walking over to pull down my projection screen, readying it for our first activity.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Hank chuckles, and I turn back toward him. “Bev’s sent me up with a note for ya. I was in the office when a man came in, looking to speak to you.” He pulls what looks like a sealed envelope from his breast pocket.
“Do you know who it was?” I ask, making my way to him.
“No, he just asked if he could speak to you, said he had it all written, but would prefer to see you in person. Said he was a parent of one of your students. Mike’s dad, maybe? Bev was about to buzz you, but then Mr. Graves stepped out of his office and took over the conversation.”
Of course he did.
“Was it Mitch’s dad? Mitch Foley?” I ask, already knowing it was.
“Yes.” Mr. Whittaker snaps his fingers. “It was Mitch, not Mike, that’s right. Anyway, he was told he needed to make an appointment if he wanted to see you, and that you’d been given his other two messages already, and was also told you would call him back when you had the time during the day. He seemed pretty irritated, if you ask me.” He hands me the note.
“Who? Mr. Foley?” I ask, taking it, feeling guilty that I didn’t call him back once I got into my room.
“Naw, he seemed more disappointed about not getting to see you. It was Mr. Graves. He didn’t look or sound happy with this guy at all,” he shares, and I let out a smile, the one that’s been so desperately trying to break free in order to make a satisfied appearance all morning, heady with the notion that Coy was bothered once again at Neil’s persistence.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the letter a bit reluctantly. I mean, he’s already called twice, and now he’s dropped off a note? What could be so pressing? I guess I’m about to find out. It’s a little creepy, if you ask me.
“Anyway, my work is done here,” he says, folding up the ladder and tucking the two burnt-out lights under his arm. “Me and this here cake…” he grins, picking the plate back up, “…have a little date with a cuppa.” Hank makes his way to the door, looking down at the envelope.
I have a sudden twinge in my gut. I’m hoping whatever the reason was for Neil Foley’s persistence this morning is school-related and nothing more. And if it is anything but, I may need to get some advice on how to handle him professionally going forward.
Shaking those thoughts from my mind, I take the opportunity to tease Hank one more time. “Enjoy it, and remember: do not rat me out to Rose if your sugar is high later on, or you’ll get no more cake from me,” I call to his retreating back.
“Mum’s the word, kiddo,” he replies, with a wave of his hand.
Peeling open the envelope and opening the note, I sigh, feeling my shoulders instantly relax.
Sept 5, 2017
Miss Hatfield,
Mitch is heading back to his mom’s tonight, so she’ll be picking him up after school and he will not be taking the bus. Also, I wanted to let you know that over the summer we’ve discovered that Mitch has an anaphylactic allergy to yellow jackets. He’ll need to carry his EpiPen with him until the bees die off for the season. Mitch will be giving you one for the office, and he will carry the other in his pocket when going outside for recess, or any other times. He’s been good so far at remembering, but might need a reminder or two when at school. Also, please send any medical forms I might need to fill out about his allergy.
Thanks, and don’t hesitate to call if you’ve got any questions.
Neil
Here’s my cell # 905-765-2120
I feel like a heel.
No wonder he called twice and stopped by to try to talk to me. Jesus, I need to give the man a break and not toss the stalker label on him—not just yet, anyway. Poor Mitch. Anaphylactic allergies can be scary for a kid to have to adjust to. I make a mental note to talk to Bev and decide I better send an email out to all staff, updating them so we are all aware of his allergy. Thankfully, with the passing of Sabrina’s Law (the result of an incident where an allergic thirteen-year old girl died due to food cross-contamination after eating French fries from her high school’s cafeteria) anaphylaxis management plans are now required in all Ontario schools. Teachers have been trained to use EpiPens and to do what may need to be done in response to an anaphylactic allergy.
Walking over to my desk, I pull out my wooden chair to send the email. My eyes land on a large oval basket, strategically tucked under my desk so it wouldn’t be seen at first glance. It’s beautifully wrapped in bluish-tinted cellophane, making it hard to make out what’s inside.
Kami. I smile. She’s always so thoughtful. I reach for the scissors, cutting around the white ribbon at the top, and feel a jolt of excitement when the cellophane falls open, revealing the goodies nestled inside. But, when my eyes land on the first few items, I realize it can’t be from Kami. This has McCoy Graves written all over it.
A day planner. “Asshole.” I smile, despite myself. A roll of quarters, which I don’t get at first, until I find a box of dryer sheets near the bottom of the basket, along with a business card for “The Golden Coin”, which causes me to giggle. “Idiot.” Spying a card, I put it beside the basket, deciding I’ll save it for last; I’m too excited to see what else he’s put in here. Ah…a jar of cake sprinkles. I roll my eyes, rustling the tissue paper to get to the bottom. A pack of gum, a pack of Kleenex, a plastic watch (again, eye roll), chocolate (finally, something good!) and—no way!—a bag of plain potato chips! I can’t keep a “Holy shit!” from falling out of my mouth. “No way,” I mutter out loud, picking up the small bag of Lay’s, ignoring the slight trembling of my hands as my brain starts to think of the unspoken implications. Oh, and perhaps the irony of Coy giving them to me after what I did last night while dreaming of this exact same bag. Moving on, I toss the bag onto my desk and pick up the last gift; it’s a long, cylindrical object that’s wrapped up in…
“You’ve got to be kidding me—the Shit Emoji? Really, Coy?” I shake my head, clueless as to why on earth he’d wrap something in this pattern of wrapping paper. It isn’t until I make quick work of peeling the paper off that the reason comes blasting at me like a foghorn at a football game. “Son of a bitch. That jerk.”
Under the paper is a can of Glade air freshener in Jubilant Rose scent—a scent I am all too familiar with. Reaching for the card, I tear the envelope open, needing to see what in the hell this man is thinking giving me all of these things, especially the damn Glade spray. Whiplash. McCoy Graves is utter whiplash. One day I think we’re making progress, the next he pulls this crap (no pun intended, with the Glade spray and all). McCoy Graves has obviously gone back to Jerkville. I sigh, and start to read what is sure to piss me off.
Welcome back, Sprinkles!
I wanted to give you a few back-to-school survival items I thought might come in handy. And I know what you’re thinking: “What a sweetheart.” Don’t worry about thanking me, the pleasure was all mine. In your kit, you’ll find the following, for the reasons I’ve listed below.
Enjoy!
Coy
“I’m going to kill this man,” I mutter, taking a deep breath and gearing up to read the rest of this cocky jerk’s note…
The journal and watch are pretty self-explanatory…don’t be late for me.
Shithead, I think.
Gum, for after lunch, should you need it.
Might be useful, I admit.
Chocolate, to make you happy. I know you love it.
I smile.
Kleenex, for if your nose runs.
Thoughtful, I concede.
Sprinkles. In case you want to bake me a cake, Sprinkles?
Dream on, I chide internally.
A bag of chips. Well…you can’t survive for too long without “chips”.
I feel my face catch fire. “Jesus. Cue the whiplash.”
A roll of quarters, dryer sheets, and card. In case you need to visit the laundromat again, you’ll be prepared if I’m not there.
Is he hinting? Please be hinting, I hope.
And, finally, the Glade spray in your favourite scent because better a Turdblossom than not.
Oh my God, he didn’t. He did!
Folding the note and tucking it away into my purse, I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry, to kiss him, kick him, or fuck him. Never ever has a man been able to piss me off and make me as hot as Coy has with his little gag gifts.
“God. ‘Turdblossom’.” I sit at my desk and facepalm my head. I haven’t thought of that name in so, so long. It was one of those days that if I could erase it from my memory, I would. Because from that day forth, every time they’d see me go into the bathroom, Coy and Keaton would both make a point of telling me how lucky I was that I “shit roses.”
Memories like these are why I need to remember that I hate boys!
November 22, 2006
Dear May,
I hate Kentucky Fried Chicken and McCoy Graves! You know how—now that I’m fifteen—Mom and Dad are finally letting me stay home alone overnight sometimes? Well, for my first time, it was awful! I wanted my mommy! I think the chicken Mom picked up for me gave me food poisoning! I’ve been so sick. The worst part? No, it wasn’t the shitting or the vomiting. It was the fact that I’ll NEVER be able to look at Coy AGAIN!!!!! I might have to talk to Mom and Dad about sending me to live with Grandma Mildred! Or, at least, seeing a therapist. That’s how serious this is.
Since my stomach wasn’t feeling good at all, I decided it would be better to go lay down in bed. Maybe read a book, watch some TV in my own space, be closer to the washroom. I’d had stomach cramps, and had a horrible feeling I was going to shit my pants. So, I came up here, put on my PJ’s, and hoped my mom would call soon to check in so I could tell her I wasn’t feeling well. Within ten minutes, I was in the washroom—I had the runs, and bad. It was horrific, and I felt so sick. Luckily, I was the only one home right? WRONG, so very dead WRONG!!! Just as I’d finished, there was a knock at the bathroom door, and then I heard Coy’s voice asking if I was okay. God, how I had wished he hadn’t been standing there very long, but things just don’t work out like that for me. It turned out he had been there for a while, through each and every wet, explosive fart. McCoy and Keaton had come home early, deciding to rent a stupid video game instead of staying at the party they’d gone to. Apparently, the party had been lame. And so, there I was, having shit myself empty with Coy standing on the opposite side of the door, refusing to leave until he made sure I was okay with his own eyes.
Well, I panicked! The bathroom stunk like I had literally died!! No matter what I said, he demanded he see me, so I did what I had to. I reached for the Glade Jubilant Rose scented spray under the sink, told him to give me a minute, turned on the faucet to mask the sound of the spray, and let her rip—the spray, the spray, I mean!! I blasted the small space with a never-ending stream of scented mist, hoping with all my might the fact that I was obviously rotting from the inside out wouldn’t be as noticeable when I opened the door.
Once I was as satisfied as I could get (the can was not bottomless, after all), I sheepishly opened the door and Coy was standing right there. The look of sudden horror appearing on his face told me all I needed to know: he could definitely smell it.
“Christ, East. You okay?” he coughed, at least trying to sound concerned.
“Yeah, I feel a little better. Rotten chicken, I think,” I told him, stepping forward and trying to slam the door behind me, trying to pass quickly so I could retreat to the safe and less-humiliating haven of my room.
“I was worried,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to conceal a gag, although I appreciated him making the effort. His not making a big deal about what I’d obviously been doing in there helped make me feel a bit better, too—at first, anyway. Then he had to go and be the asshead he is.
I had just made it back into my room and closed the door behind me when he called out: “Damn, girl! It smells like shit and roses up in here. ’Night, Turdblossom.”