Getting Warmer (11 page)
By the time Jill called us to dinner, I was on my third margarita (the glasses were very, very small) and making statements like, “Shakespeare’s work stands alone for its timeless understanding of the human condition.”
Jill had set the table on the covered patio outside the kitchen. Above the stucco walls that rimmed the yard, the sky was turning all the colors of a Southwest sunset: powder blue and grayish purple and baby girl pink. It was hot outside, but not a midday, unbearable heat.
“How do you turn on the misters?” Jill asked.
“You don’t. They’re clogged.”
“You can get a water softener to help with that,” Lars added helpfully.
After some debate, we decided to eat outside despite the heat. We’d polished off the margarita bottle (not so terrible when you considered it was premixed and therefore largely juice). Lars took the opportunity to show off his skills with a martini shaker. My parents’ liquor fridge was well-stocked (not to mention maintained at an ideal temperature of sixty-five degrees). I took careful notes as Lars poured Grey Goose vodka, vowing to replace whatever we took and wishing my parents stocked cheaper booze.
“You could just fill the bottles up with water,” Jill suggested. “It’s what the kids at school do.”
“Do their parents notice?”
“Why do you think those kids end up in my office?”
Dinner was far better than anything I could make or that my parents could buy at the takeout counter: seared, blackened ahi tuna, sushi rice, grilled vegetables. The only harsh note was the martini, which burned my throat. I considered raiding my parents’ wine fridge (which sat next to the liquor fridge, with matching see-through doors), but they mostly bought the good stuff, and I didn’t want to shell out the money to replace it. I found myself annoyed at Lars. He was supposed to supply the booze, after all. I got myself a glass of water. Lars and Jill stuck to their martinis.
By the time we hit the brownies, I was starting to get that dull, thirsty, cranky feeling you get when you stop drinking too soon (or too late, depending on one’s perspective). Lars and Jill had moved on to Irish coffees (note to self: restock the Irish whiskey). I stuck to water. Sweat dripped down my back; the thought of a hot drink was utterly unappealing.
The heat, the coffee and, of course, the liquor all conspired to turn Lars’s face bright red and shiny. It made his Nordic hair look oddly yellow in contrast. Even his usually flippy hairdo had grown limp. “Shoulda passed on the coffee,” he murmured. “Man! I’m hot! I think I’m gonna have to jump in that pool.”
“Did you bring a bathing suit?” I asked.
“Bathing suit?”
“Yes. A bathing suit. It’s what we call the garment you wear for swimming.”
Jill raised her eyebrows. I wasn’t normally snide to Lars. I wasn’t normally snide to anyone. But I was tired and cranky and I just wanted them to leave.
“Do pool regulations require proper bathing attire?” Lars asked in an almost Shakespearean diction.
“What. Ever.” I rolled my eyes, channeling my inner adolescent. I certainly had enough role models. “You can borrow one of my Dad’s, I guess.” Lying to Jonathan was one thing. Letting another man swim naked in my parents’ pool was a far greater sin.
“Underwear’s pretty much the same thing as a bathing suit,” Jill announced. “Don’t be so inhibited.” And with that, she stood up and yanked off her tank top, revealing a big strapless black bra with substantial underwires. She pulled at the sides of her pouffy skirt and let it fall to the ground. Her underpants were a faded blue. The elastic on one side was coming unraveled. Her thighs were strong and shapely, but her belly was mushy. As if recognizing her imperfections, she scurried over to the edge of the pool with uncharacteristically tiny steps and jumped in, creating a huge splash. She came up screaming.
“Holy crap, it’s cold!” She treaded water, gulping down air. “C’mon, Lars! You’re the one who started this. Get in!”
Lars fumbled with the buttons on his tropical print shirt. “You want a hanger for that?” I asked, smirking.
He missed the sarcasm. “If you have one, that’d be great.” He beamed his Mr. Handsome smile.
Inside, I did a quick change into my most flattering bathing suit (boy shorts and a bikini top) and returned with a wooden hanger for Lars. His shirt lay crumpled on his chair, label exposed: it was a Tommy Bahama, after all. I picked it up and slid it onto the hanger, then hung the whole thing from the back of the wrought iron chair.
Jill and Lars were in the spa, bubbles brewing. “Is the water warm?” I asked. I hadn’t turned it on, and the air temperature was falling by the minute.
“No, but it’s better than the pool,” Lars said, teeth chattering dramatically.
“Lars is a pussy,” Jill said. “You pussy!” She splashed him. He laughed and splashed back.
I went over to the pool equipment and hit a switch. “It’ll warm up in a minute.” I padded over to the spa. The Arizona flagstones were warm under my feet, still clinging to the heat of the day.
“Join us!” Lars said before submerging briefly. When he reemerged, his hair was slicked off his face. He had a very high forehead. He rubbed the water out of his eyes. “It feels good once you get used to it.”
“Bullshit!” Jill said. “It’s fucking freezing!” It was odd to hear Jill swearing—like she was the Chess Club president trying to sound cool.
“I’ll wait till it warms up.” I sat on the edge of the spa and stuck my feet into the frothy water, right at the spot where the warm water gushed out. The bubbles obscured the bodies underneath. “You are wearing underwear, aren’t you, Lars?”
“Yes, ma’am!” He popped up. “Calvin Klein’s finest.” They were black and form fitting and revealed the smallest beginnings of an erection. I looked away.
“They’re boxer briefs,” Jill said. “Or brief boxers. I told Lars they demonstrated a fear of commitment. You know the old question—boxers or briefs? Well, for Lars, it’s neither!”
“Or both!” he piped in, lowering himself back into the froth. “It’s getting warmer.”
“I feel like we’re on
Elimidate,
” I said. They both cackled furiously. I am very funny when other people are drunk.
Elimidate,
” I said. They both cackled furiously. I am very funny when other people are drunk.
I heard a faint whirring from inside the house. “The phone,” I announced, pulling my legs out of the water.
The answering machine had picked up by the time I reached the kitchen.
“We’re in Flagstaff,” my mother’s voice informed me, in case I’d forgotten. In the background, a woman’s voice chirped, “Hello from me!”
“Mrs. Gillespie says to tell you hi,” my mother continued. “Anyway, we’re just checking to make sure everything is okay and that you haven’t seen any more scorpions.” More murmuring in the background. “And Mrs. Gillespie says to tell you that her daughter Celia is engaged. You remember Celia.” More murmuring. “And she says to remind you to shake out your shoes before you put them on in the morning.”
I just stood there looking at the machine until my mother said her good-byes. (“Anyway, hope you’re out doing something fun. Maybe on a date.”) What was I supposed to say? That I’d chosen the first possible moment after my parents’ departure to fill their hot tub with half-naked educators?
My cell phone lay on the counter next to the kitchen phone. I checked my messages; Jonathan had called. I looked out the window. Lars lounged in the spa, his arms stretched around the edges like a bird’s wings. Jill sat half in, half out of the water, exposing her black bra (which, I was happy to see, appeared to be holding up).
I dialed Jonathan.
He answered on the second ring. “Hey.” There were voices in the background. Laughter.
“Hey, yourself. Did you go out to dinner without me?” Oops: too possessive?
“Nope. I’m at my father’s. They’re having a dinner party.” His voice was low. The background noises faded as he spoke, then disappeared entirely. I heard a click. “Okay. I’m inside. I would have invited you, but, well, I like you.”
I laughed. “I liked your father. Krista, too.”
“Yeah, I know. Everybody does. I’m just not sure you’ll like me when I’m around them. What are you up to?”
I looked out the window. Jill was back up to her neck in bubbles, while Lars’s hairless chest shone in the moonlight. Did he wax his chest, or was it naturally that smooth? “Just hanging out at the house with a couple of friends from work.”
There was a brief pause. “Guards?”
“No, um, I don’t really, we don’t really mix. There’s my friend you met, the, uh, warden. Plus another teacher.”
“And your mother, she’s not upset?”
My mother. Oh, crap. “She’s not here, actually. My dad took her up to Flagstaff for a little while. The heat was bothering her.”
“Can he handle her on his own?” Oh, right. That’s why I lived with my parents: to help with my mother.
“Her doctor put her on some new medication. Something experimental. We’re not sure what it is, but so far, it’s working wonders.” I suddenly wished I hadn’t called Jonathan. Every time we spoke, I dug farther into the mess I had created. Mercifully, he changed the subject.
“So, are we still on for Saturday night?”
“Definitely,” I said. And I’d come clean to him, I suddenly vowed. It was time to make things right.
ten
Saturday morning I graded papers, making a point to write at least one line on each to prove I had read it. “Excellent insights!” “Watch comma usage!” “Use exclamation points more sparingly!”
When I’d exhausted my pile, I moved on to my jam-packed e-mail in-box. Every teacher at Agave had an e-mail address; mine, regrettably, was
[email protected]
. The school e-mail system was intended to make teachers more accessible and more efficient. It certainly made us more accessible. A sampling:
[email protected]
. The school e-mail system was intended to make teachers more accessible and more efficient. It certainly made us more accessible. A sampling:
Dear Mrs. Quackenbush:
Thank you for your reply to my recent e-mail regarding grading on a curve as it relates to recent events in my daughter, Claudia’s, class, freshman honors English. Your points regarding punctuation mastery are well-taken, and I can appreciate why you believe it was fair to award Claudia, who has always been a straight-A student, a B on the recent apostrophe test, corresponding, as you said, to her 86% mark. I hope you understand, however, why we would have expected her to receive an A given that over four-fifths of her honors classmates scored lower than 80% on the same exercise. It is my sincerest hope that in the future you will resist punishing Claudia and her classmates by assigning low grades for material that, evidently, they were not given an adequate opportunity to master. Sincerely,
Lynette Pimpernel (Claudia’s mom)
Dear Mrs. Pimpernel:
It is always encouraging to have a parent take an interest in her child’s education. Claudia is an excellent student, and I have no doubt that she will go far in life. She cannot run before she can walk, however, and she cannot write a groundbreaking dissertation, novel or Supreme Court decision until she has mastered the difference between “its” and “it’s.” I will be retesting the students on Tuesday. Perhaps Claudia can use the weekend to review chapter 5 in her vocabulary book.
Regards,
Natalie Quackenbush
Dear Miss Quackenbush,
I just wanted to say thanks for working so hard to teach us The Odyssey. (See? I even remembered to underline the title, just like you taught us!) I hope you have a really excellent weekend. I am going to use my free time to read some books I just got out from the library and to listen to some new music. Well, that is all for now. Have a nice day.
Your friend,
Cody Gold
Dear Cody,
It is good to hear that you are spending your free time reading! If you liked The Odyssey, you may want to try The Iliad, which, regrettably, I will not have time to teach this year.
See you on Monday.
Ms. Quackenbush
Jonathan took me to dinner at a restaurant perched on top of a craggy mountain, suspended above a million city lights. We sat out on the deck for cocktails, scoring a table next to a stainless steel propane heater. Jonathan ordered a bottle of pinot noir. As we clinked glasses, I vowed to come clean to him before the bottle was finished.
“Fodor’s named this place the most romantic in Phoenix,” I told him.
He smiled. “You’re going to start thinking I like you or something.”
“Have you ever been here before?” I asked, turning around to look at the restaurant and imagining Jonathan sharing a dinner with Jack and Krista.
He didn’t answer right away. “Not recently,” he said finally.
“Oh,” I chirped, forcing a smile. “You take your dates to nice places.” I drank my wine and waited for him to disagree, to say he hardly ever dated. He didn’t say anything. “Do you come here often?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Ah.” And then, before I had a chance to think about it, I asked, “Who was on your answering machine?”
“What?” He looked genuinely confused.
“The night I was at your house. With . . . my friend. Your answering machine was blinking.”
“Ah.”
I took a deep breath and tried to sound convincing: “I mean, if you’re dating other people, that’s okay. I mean, not entirely okay, but certainly allowed. It’s not like we’re, you know. Intimate.” I gulped. What a ridiculous word. “I mean, I’m not dating anyone else. But if you are, it doesn’t need to be some big secret.” I drank my wine to keep myself from saying anything more.
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