Chapter 15
Andrew
When I was a sophomore in high school, I had this English teacher—a man, Mr. Jacobson. There weren’t many male teachers in my school (are there ever?), and the ones we did have taught math or science or business classes, often half time if they also coached.
But Mr. Jacobson taught English. It was a class where we talked about feelings, and I was sure feeling him. He was my first real crush.
As I recall, he was in his mid-thirties, married. He had a small cleft in his chin and a dimple when he smiled and these dark eyebrows. What I remember most is the way he’d run his fingers through his hair as he strolled around the classroom. As much as I could, I’d watch him, much like Robert watches me sometimes, and imagine that he was trying to find his way close to me. When he called on me, my insides would flip a little at the sudden attention.
I wanted him bad, and I’d spent endless hours sitting on Maya’s bed playing what if. What if he divorced his wife and suddenly realized he liked boys? What if I just told him what I felt about him one day, and he suddenly confessed that he’d always thought I was special?
That went on for the better part of the school year, and then one day after spring break, the varnish started to crack, just a little at first.
I noticed things I’d never noticed before. The way his shoes were always scuffed and the heels worn down on the outsides, like he didn’t much care about his appearance. The way the cleft in his chin formed a dark crease that looked like a pine seed might take root there like they did in our gutters when you didn’t clean them for a while. The way he always smelled of garlic. The way his eye teeth dropped down a little too far and the way one of his incisors was smaller than the other. And worst of all, the way his hair stood up when he ran his fingers through it, like it was dirty and thick with oil.
After a while, I began to wonder what I ever saw in him. I not only quit following him around the room with my eyes, I quit raising my hand. I even found it hard to look at him when he called on me.
I will never admit it to another living soul, but I’ve fallen for Robert. Hard. Maybe it’s because I’m finally facing my true feelings for him that I’m thinking about my old English teacher. Am I Robert’s Mr. Jacobson? Is that the way it will be with him? Crushing on me today, too aware of my flaws tomorrow?
I have considered that after his graduation, I might approach him, ask him out, like a real date. I’d wait a month or two just so there’s no question about our teacher/student relationship. I know that kind of stuff happens. After all, six years isn’t an unbridgeable chasm.
Would he say yes? Or would I have become by then just another what-did-I-ever-see-in-him crush?
He’d move on to college. Meet lots of great guys his own age.
I flop back against the throw pillows on the futon and study his photo. He was right; there are lots of photos on his fan page I could download, but this one is different. This one I captured myself.
Kiki curls up next to me. She’s warm and cuddly, and I’m pretty sure this is going to be a nap for two today. I kiss the top of her head and look at Robert’s photo again.
“What do you think, Kiki? You think your daddy’s silly for falling for one of his students?”
She reaches up and pats my face with sticky fingers. “Silly Daddy,” she says sleepily.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “That’s what I think, too, baby girl.”
Robert
Moo-llennium Crunch turns out to be this interesting blend of vanilla ice cream, chocolate and caramel chunks, and three kinds of nuts. My younger cousins don’t much like nuts, but they don’t read labels. All they see is ice cream.
Aunt Whitney fills their waiting cones with heaping scoops, then disappears into Dad’s room. In one minute flat, the ice cream is melting in the sink, the cones discarded the instant the offending chunks were discovered.
Mom’s putting away the rest of the groceries.
“Where’d you go this morning?” I ask, trying to decide if what I’m chewing is walnut or pistachio.
“Target. I had to get a new vacuum cleaner.”
“What happened to the old one?”
She huffs. “I moved it into your room this morning so I could vacuum up all the popcorn on the floor, and then Mark smashed his fingers in your closet door, and while I was running cold water over them in the kitchen sink, Brian found some matches. Apparently he struck a few and blew them out, then dropped them on your floor. Then afraid he’d get in trouble, he vacuumed them up and the entire bag caught fire. I guess at least one of the matches was still smoldering.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Mom laughs, a humorless sound. “I wish I were, Robert. I really wish I were.”
“Did you tell Aunt Whitney?” Brian is her kid, eight years old, and a little stinker.
“I did. She wanted to know what I was thinking leaving matches around where little kids could get to them.”
I scoff. “It’s my room. Did he burn my carpet?”
She looks at the fish sticks and rolls her eyes. “I don’t think so. It’s flame retardant. But the vacuum is trashed. I had to drag it out to the back porch to douse the flames.”
I hold the freezer door open so she can cram in the bags and boxes of pizzas. The shelves are already packed with corndogs, chicken tenders, and Kid Cuisines.
“Are they ever going to leave?”
She shuts the freezer door and leans back against it and folds her arms. She looks so tired. I think she’d cry if she had the energy. “Hang in there, okay?”
There is no place in our house that isn’t littered with little people or their little-people discards, except perhaps my dad’s room. But the litter in that room is like a whole different level of hell. I take my ice cream outside and lie across the trunk of my car.
The sun is bright, and I have to shield the screen of my phone with my hand to see his picture. His smile makes me smile. I think about texting, but something holds me back. The bottle of wine maybe.
The phone rings suddenly. Nic.
Don’t break up.
That’s what Andrew told me. I wondered then and I wonder now if that was some code for me-teacher, you-student, don’t get any ideas.
I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face for a moment as the phone rings for the second time, then the third. I won’t break up with Nic. I’ll give him that. But I won’t answer either. I wait until the call rolls to voice mail, then text Andrew.
Ask you a question?
ZZZzzzZZZzzz
Sorry.
Ha, ha. I’m up. Is it a trick question?
Why am I still dating Nic again?
Aaaah. My bad. We’ll talk on Monday. I’m bringing subs for 2. Bring your appetite . . . and your homework!
It’s a date.
I consider the text before I push Send, almost scratch that last line, then think, What the L-M-N-O-P, and send it anyway.