Dunkin and Donuts (8 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

I’m not a wealthy woman by any means, but I typically keep a couple thousand dollars in my bank account for a rainy day. So, when I call the bank for my balance, I am perplexed to find that my account is overdrawn by $87. It’s a mistake. Of course, it’s a mistake. I hit 0 for the operator, listen to the elevator music in the background, and hum along while on hold. I’m not worried. Why would I be worried? I must’ve punched in the wrong account info by mistake.

“Good afternoon. My name is Jackie Gabriel. How can I help you with your banking needs?” a chipper voice asks.

“Hi Jackie. My name is Shayla Ross.” I give her my account number, verify that I am indeed who I claim to be by providing personal informational tidbits such as my date of birth, mother’s maiden name, and home address.

“How may I help you today, Ms. Ross?” Jackie asks.

“Well, I called to find out my banking balance and I wonder if I accidentally put in the wrong account number or something because the system said I’m overdrawn by $87.”

“Yes. That appears to be the case. Can you tell me what your last transaction may have been?”

I am baffled. “I got a cup of Starbuck’s coffee and a bagel this morning. I dunno. I spent maybe five bucks or something close to it.”

“Huh. Well, I see a $1,347.95 purchase made this afternoon at Macy’s and a $423.62 purchase at Walmart.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Oh, well, let’s see. I will dispute these transactions immediately.”

Jackie runs me through the past several days of charges and the only unauthorized ones seem to be at Macy’s and Walmart.”

I wonder how the thief, or thieves, got access to my debit card information, but Jackie informs me that fraud happens and that the bank’s dispute department will rectify the situation.

“Not to worry, Ms. Ross. In 7-10 business days, the money will be refunded to your account and in 3-5 days you should receive your new debit card in the mail. We apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for banking with us.”

I hang up, mildly annoyed, but grateful that I’m not on the hook for the stolen merchandise, grateful for debit card protection, and late for work. Shit. I grab my purse, take an apple from the fridge and a granola bar out of the pantry and head out the door to school.

Luckily, I manage to avoid the traffic and get to school ten minutes before I’m supposed to be there. Thank God for small favors.

As I sprint toward the building, Principal Hane sees me and says “Good morning, Ms. Ross.”

“Good morning, Principal Hane,” I say.

“Walk with me,” she says. The kindness in her voice masks the fact that the words are not an invitation but an order.

“Sure,” I say. “Want to walk me to my classroom or should I come to your office?”

“It won’t be but a minute. I’ll accompany you to your classroom.”

We walk slowly, students darting in and out of rooms and down corridors around us.

“Ms. Ross, about the other day… Next time you are at a carwash, I highly suggest you wear more appropriate bathing suit attire. Exposing your breasts, accidentally or not, is a no-no here at Saint Sebastian.”

“Yes, yes, ma’am,” I stammer. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t. And, while your private life is none of our business, we take morality extremely seriously here at our school. So please see to it that you refrain from giving any more peep shows in elevators. These things have a way of coming out and you are a kindergarten teacher for crying out loud, responsible for molding young minds, not perverting them.”

We’ve arrived at my classroom door. I’m at a loss for words.

“Why, yes. Of course. I’m sorry.” Damn that Pamela Drew and her big mouth. “I assure you that both incidents were entirely accidental and that—”

“Accidents happen. But, these are patterns Ms. Ross. Consider this a friendly warning.” With that, she turns on her heels and walks away, leaving me to face my kindergarteners with my now extremely red face.

“Good morning, class,” I say as I enter the room. Only, it isn’t.

Chapter Twenty-Three

As if today couldn’t get any worse, it does. After lunch, I get my period—three days ahead of schedule, and I’m wearing khaki pants. Thankfully, Ronnie, and not one of the students, notices the spot of blood on my backside and I am able to tie a sweater around my waist and bum a tampon off of my aide. Just what I need.

I want to burst into tears, but I have the feeling that crying might be frowned upon at Saint Sebastian too—along with elevator undressing and carwash flashing. At least, after school, I can go to CVS, buy pads, tampons, and chocolate and go home and spend the night moping around the house in my ratty pajamas.

Dunkin’s parents are coming in today from London for a visit so I’m not seeing him tonight and, as much as I love spending time with him, I’m looking forward to some quality self-pity in my jammies time. I texted him earlier to tell him about my reprimand and how mortified I was.

I’m sorry, baby. I love you and I wish I could wrap my arms around you and make it all okay
was his reply.

I’d give anything for a Dunkin-hug
, I texted back.

After work, I drive straight to CVS for emergency feminine hygiene products, take my purchases to the counter, and hand over my debit card to the cashier.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but your card is declined,” he says.

“What?”

“Your card isn’t working. It’s been cancelled.”

“But, I use that card all the time,” I say.

Then, realization dawns. Of course, my debit card won’t work! Someone stole my card number and I reported the fraudulent transactions this morning. Shit! I rifle through my purse and realize that I have exactly $3.97 in my wallet and, as the result of an earlier organizational spree, I’ve emptied my purse of all its usual loose change.

“Do you take checks?” I ask.

He looks at me as if I have three heads. “Checks?”

“Yeah.”

“Um…No. I don’t think so.”

I take a deep breath. I don’t know what to do.

“Ma’am, you’re holding up the line.” The clerk gestures at the people standing behind me.

Demoralized, I turn to go and run smack-dab into Tommy, one of my students, and his father, Mr. Thurman.

“Oh, hi Tommy, hi Mr. Thurman,” I say stupidly.

“What did you do, forget your wallet?” the dad asks me. “Need some cash?”

“I can’t accept your money.” I am mortified. I’m carrying two boxes of pads, a box of tampons, and a box of Russell Stover’s chocolates thereby telegraphing the message here I am, bleeding and binging.

Mr. Thurman looks down at me and smiles. “My wife likes chocolate at ‘that time of the month’ too. Here, my treat.” He hands me a $20 bill. “Don’t even bother to pay it back.”

“Thank you
so
much,” I say. “I will pay it back though. I’ll give your wife $20 tomorrow when she drops Tommy off at school.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Right, right.” I am completely flustered. “Monday, then.”

“Sure. Happy to help.”

As I walk out carrying my purchases, feeling awkward and ashamed, I hear little Tommy asking his father “What time of the month do they eat chocolate? If it’s that time, can I have chocolate too?”

Home is my refuge. I scrub out my pants and underwear in the sink, shower, then crawl straight into my ratty sweatpants and nightshirt ensemble complete with the garish slippers. Even though it is only 4:00 in the afternoon, I am in for the night. I dig out my emergency $100 from my hiding spot in the back of my closet and order greasy General Tsao’s chicken, egg drop soup, pork fried rice and an eggroll from the Chinese food place down the street which will provide both today’s dinner and tomorrow’s lunch. Hormones make me hungry and there is no better period food combination than Chinese food and chocolate.

After I receive the delivery, I decide to try the facial mud mask my mom got me a few months back. I slather the brown stuff over my face in a thin sheen of clay, rubbing it all over as the package instructs me to do. Feeling somewhat mollified after a long, hard day, I sit down to watch
Ellen
for twenty minutes so the mask can work its magic before I eat my sweet and greasy dinner and sinful dessert.

I’m surprised when the doorbell rings a few minutes later. Must be the UPS guy. I’m a little embarrassed to be opening the front door looking like a crazy person, but I figure he’s seen worse. In fact, last year, when I had the flu, I came to the door looking virtually dead and accepted delivery on several packages. A woman in her own home has the right to look like shit. As I swing open my front door, I am surprised to see not the UPS guy, but my boyfriend and his parents and sister all standing on my front stoop.

“Surprise!” Dunkin shouts before he has a chance to register the horror that I am.

Marlene erupts into laughter. “Girlfriend, you look like shit,” she declares.

I stand, mud-faced and open mouthed, swimming in my mismatched, oversized pajamas, my slippers offensively bright in the harsh light of day.

“Perhaps,” says Mrs. Wilks, “we should have called after all. Evidently, your
friend
is in no condition to receive visitors.”

I wonder when she demoted me to friendship status. Maybe, it was after my naked Skype cameo or, maybe, it’s the fact that I look like an escaped mental patient.

“I guess clothes aren’t much of an improvement,” Dunkin’s mother says under her breath, but loudly enough that everyone can hear her.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Dunkin says. “I wanted to surprise you with a hug and ask you if you’d like to come get dinner with the family. I knew you’d had a hard day and…”

“That was very sweet of you,” I say. “But, I’m not decent at the moment and I’ve already ordered dinner.”

“I see that.” He gives me a quick hello (and goodbye) hug and I do my best to graciously greet his parents and the still-laughing Marlene.

Two minutes later, they are on their way to dinner and I am on the way to the bathroom to wash the egg (I mean mud) off my face.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“You look nice tonight, dear,” Dunkin’s mother surprises me by saying. Maybe, the woman has decided to turn over a new leaf. “I guess that mud pays off. And the fact that you are properly attired is a pleasant surprise.” Okay, now that’s the Mrs. Wilks I’ve come to know and love (not!).

Mr. Wilks greets me with a handshake. “I brought my camera this evening just in case you feel compelled to jump out of any more cakes.”

His reference to my earlier naked cake experience is enough to make me want to run screaming from the restaurant. But, Dunkin has been making an effort with my parents so, under the relationship-reciprocity code, I am duty-bound to reciprocate. He’s apologized for surprising me though and has agreed, repeatedly, that if his parents are involved he’ll
always
give me notice. From here on out, there will be no more unannounced visits. I’ve been dreading this dinner all day long.

At least Marlene is joining us.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Dunkin whispers.

“You think I’d subject her to this? To them?” she hisses back. “No way. I
like
my girlfriend.” She winks at me and I laugh.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilks pretend not to have heard or, at the very least, not to understand their children’s jabs.

As the hostess shows us to our table, Mrs. Wilks asks, “Dunkin, dear, have you spoken to Bethany lately? She really is quite a dear. I can’t believe no one has snagged her.” She looks pointedly at me then back at her son, addressing him while simultaneously insulting me. “Oh, well I guess she’s choosier than you are Dunkin dear.”

“Quite the reverse,” Dunkin calmly disagrees. “I’m extremely choosy which is why I’m with Shayla instead of her. Now, let’s talk about something else. If we’re going to have a pleasant evening, I’ll need you to refrain from criticizing my girlfriend. Have you seen any good plays lately?”

It seems as if his mother is contemplating a retort then thinks better of it. She looks to her husband who seems oblivious to the exchange. Astonishingly, the pair allow the conversation to drift to the innocuous topic of theatre. Mr. and Mrs. Wilks then launch into a fifteen minute reenactment of “Les Miserables” which they’ve just seen at the Queen’s Theatre in London. I can’t help but think that I am pretty miserables. Could this night be any more boring? Dunkin nudges me under the table and I smile at him.

“Oh, it was so well done,” Mrs. Wilks beams, still intent on recounting her theatrical review even as my eyes are glazing over.

“Jolly good show,” her American-born-and-raised husband agrees.

His descent into English colloquial speech reminds me of Dunkin and my recent experience pretending to be swingers and I start laughing.

Dunkin looks at me, instantaneously knows what I am thinking, and joins me in my giggling.

“What’s so funny?” his father demands.

“Nothing, Dad. It’s. An. In-side. Joke,” Dunkin gasps out each word between chuckles.

“Well, it’s quite rude,” his mother chides. “Mind your manners. Lord, Dunkin, you’re off your trolley tonight.”

That makes us laugh even louder.

“So,” Marlene says. “Mom, Dad, I’m dating someone.”

“You’re always dating someone dear,” her mother says. “Frankly, I think this lesbian malarkey has gone on long enough. It’s time for you to settle down. Get married. Like your brother.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, Mom, my brother is currently just as unmarried as I am.”

Mrs. Wilks frowns at this and chews thoughtfully on a breadstick. The waiter rescues her from having to reply.

We order and, when the waiter departs, Marlene says, “Her name is Desiree.”

“Whose name is Desiree?” her father asks.

“My girlfriend. The woman I’m seeing.”

“Very nice, dear,” he says patronizingly. “Clearly, he’s not interested. Dunkin, my boy, how’s business?”

“I’d love to hear more about your girlfriend, Marlene,” I interject trying to be helpful. “Tell us about her.”

“Her name is Desiree. She’s beautiful. She’s originally from France. We met playing paintball and she makes me happier than any woman I’ve ever met.”

“That’s great, honey. Is it serious?” Her mother seems genuinely interested.

“Yes. It’s new, but we’re in love and we’re exclusive.”

“How new?” Mrs. Wilks raises an eyebrow.

“A few weeks.”

“Oh, that’s not serious,” her mother says dismissively. “A few weeks.” She laughs derisively. “Dunkin, dear, I believe your father asked you a question about work.”

I take Marlene’s hand under the table and give it a conciliatory squeeze. I, of all people, understand the plight of the daughter with a disapproving mother. Mine can be intolerant, insane and insensitive. But she’s never indifferent. A squeeze seems insufficient in the face of Mrs. Wilks’ cruelty. Then, again, just as I’m used to my own mother’s tactlessness, Marlene is similarly desensitized to her own mother’s severity.

Dunkin talks a bit about work while Marlene’s eyes glaze over and I munch on my own breadstick. When the waiter arrives with our meals, I dig into my veal chop then stop, my mouth full of meat, and notice that no one else has started eating.

“Mom’s a prayer,” Marlene explains (she pronounces the word pray-er, as in one who prays). “She likes to say grace before each meal.”

“Oh.” I gulp down my bite and bow my head along with the rest of them.

In my family, no one ever prayed for anything except maybe once when my mom hoped to God I’d meet and marry a rich, handsome, successful man. I’m not married—yet. But, I have met Dunkin and he’s got all these qualities and more. Come to think of it, there may be something to this prayer thing after all.

After rolling her eyes at me, Mrs. Wilks turns her gaze upward and addresses God:

“Lord, we thank you for this meal and for this time together with family and… friend. May you continue to bless us with prosperity and love and may you teach us to be patient with those who frustrate us. Thank you God for our health and our happiness. Please bless Dunkin with a long and happy life, help Marlene to find herself and help Shayla to stop doing such foolish things. Amen.”

Now, I suppose, it is permissible to eat. What foolish things? I’d ask, but I don’t think I have a leg to stand on. Besides, I already ruined the woman’s prayer by eating prematurely. Dunkin puts a reassuring hand on my knee as if to remind me that the night is almost over. I take a deep breath.

“You know,” Mr. Wilks says. “Before Eleanor and I go back to England, we really ought to get together with you and your parents Shayla. If you two crazy kids are as in love as you say you are, we should probably meet them.”

Our parents? Our parents in a room together? My mother and Dunkin’s parents relentlessly criticizing yours truly while Dunkin and Dad try unsuccessfully to rescue me from their hostility? The thought is enough to make me gasp, which is unfortunate because I have a broccoli floret in my mouth and it goes down the wrong pipe. I start choking and hacking weirdly.

Oh, God, no
, I think.
Please don’t let this be happening. Don’t let me choke to death in front of these people
. I have the insane thought that I’ll never live down the humiliation, then realize the irony of that notion.

I choke and sputter and cough some more as Dunkin pats my back and reminds me to breathe. Phew! I can breathe. I’m not going to die from choking. Mortification, maybe, but not asphyxiation.

I reach for my water glass just as Dunkin says, “Sure, Dad, that’s a great idea. You two should absolutely meet the Rosses.”

As I continue to hack up a lung, I can’t help but reflect on the fact that, evidently, neither his mother’s nor my prayers are going to come true. Once again, I’ve done something foolish and sadly this parental introduction is going to happen. Suddenly, death by broccoli doesn’t seem that bad after all.