Getting Warmer (20 page)

“Dave is an accountant,” Jill said. “From Portland.”

Dave smiled. His handlebar mustache framed a set of straight, bleached teeth. “Not what you’d expect, huh?” He inched closer to Jill. She inched away.

“Not really,” I said. “I would have guessed hair stylist.”

They looked at me uncertainly. I hoped I hadn’t pissed them off.

Lars swung his legs over the bench and settled himself next to Jill. He stretched his arm out and curled it around her shoulders. “Thanks for keeping my wife company,” he said.

Dave blinked, startled. “Wife?” He inched away from Jill. “I guess I thought—” He looked up at me, leaving the thought unfinished.

I sat down on the bench next to Lars. I reached up to tuck a blond lock behind his ear. “Theodora is Jed’s first wife. But I’m his favorite.”

Jill swung to face Lars. “Jedediah! You always said you loved me best!”

“Now, now,” Lars cooed, swinging his free arm around me. “You know I don’t play favorites.”

Rudy hooted. “So y’all are divorced, but you still—”

“Divorced!” Lars said.

“We don’t believe in divorce,” Jill said. “Divorce is a sin. Divorce leads to eternal damnation.”

“I’m divorced,” Dave said.

“But if y’all aren’t divorced—” Rudy said.

“There is room in a man’s heart for more than one love. Love makes the heart expand,” Lars said calmly.

Rudy’s eyes widened with fantasies of girl-on-girl action. I set him straight. “Theodora and I are sister-wives.”

“Two wives?” Rudy hooted.

“Shit,” Dave said. “I couldn’t handle one. But two—?”

“There are four of us,” Jill said.

“I’m the third,” I said. “Numbers two and four decided to go to a movie instead.”

I don’t know if they believed we were polygamists on vacation from Colorado City (we told them the La Quinta Inn chain always gave us a special rate). I don’t even know if their names were really Rudy and Dave and whether they really were an electrician and an accountant (though I’m inclined to believe it). All I knew was that it felt good to sit next to Lars, and not just because I needed his body heat on this chilly night. I liked being Bobbie Sue: it felt good to be someone else. It felt good to live in a world—even a make-believe one—without a broken heart. It felt good to smile, to laugh, to dance.

When the country band finally started playing, I was the one to suggest a dance. The three of us—Jedediah and his two wives—trouped out to the dance floor. Arms around waists, we two-stepped the night away.

It would be an exaggeration to say that I looked forward to Monday morning, but I didn’t greet my five forty-five alarm with as much despair as usual. I’d hit the outlets over the weekend (trying, not entirely successfully, to forget traveling the same stretch with Jonathan) and scored an assortment of black clothing: a gauzy blouse, a straight skirt with a big slit up the back and a pair of high-heeled mules. The color black is a godsend for those who lack an innate fashion sense. I’d also found a gray suit on sale (it came with a skirt
and
trousers!) and picked up an assortment of clips, as my hair was in that awkward in-between stage.

I’d almost finished my latte by the time Robert ambled in. “You’re late.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He dropped his books on the desk and collapsed into the chair, immediately assuming the classic bored-teenager slump.

I gave him The Look. Then I handed him his double espresso, which probably dulled my authority somewhat. Robert accepted the cup and opened the lid. He sipped carefully. I waited for him to produce a pastry, maybe another one of those chocolate croissants he’d brought in on Friday. Nothing.

“Okay,” I said, trying to ignore the gurgle from my stomach. Good thing I’d started stocking granola bars in my desk; I’d gobble one before first period. “Reading. How much did you do over the weekend?”

He shrugged. Mumbled something into his cup.

“I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

“I didn’t have time.”

“Mm.” I gave him The Look again. Since he kept his eyes on his desk, it didn’t do much good. “I’m not doing this for me, you know. I could have slept another forty-five minutes.” (
Look up, darn it.
) I took a deep breath. “I’m trying to help you.”

“I
know
,” he said, finally meeting my eyes. “And I appreciate it. The thing is, I don’t think it’s doing any good.”

“Of course it is! I can’t believe the progress you’ve made! If you keep it up, you’re going to graduate. That’s
huge
.”

“What difference does it make? I’m still going to be working at the hospital, same as if I didn’t graduate. And if that doesn’t work out, I’ll probably be flipping burgers or doing road work. It’s not like a high school diploma gets you anywhere.”

“If you try really hard, you can make it into college. Maybe you start off at a two-year, get your feet wet—”

He sat up straight. “I don’t
want
to go to college! Don’t you get it, Mrs. Q? I
hate
school. I’ve always hated school. There’s no way I’m going for another four years, even another two years. You’re a nice lady, and it’s nice that you’re trying to help, but I really just want to get out of this place. If it weren’t for my mom, I’d have left already.”

My hands shaking, I reached for my cardboard cup and lifted it to my lips, remembering too late that it was empty. I looked up at the clock; the first bell would ring in twenty-eight minutes. “Well, you’re here now. You want to work on reading strategies?”

He shrugged, slid back down in his chair. “Whatever.”

 

 

Mrs. Clausen pursed her lips when I told her about Robert. “Let me think on it,” she said. And then she gave my arm a little squeeze and said, “Think positive thoughts!”

I tried to think positive thoughts as I began my Freshman Honors class. I tried to smile at Jared (it made my face hurt) and see him as the lost, hurt little boy Jill said he was and not as the spawn of Satan.

We had just started reading
Lord of the Flies
, and I was feeling in control, not least because I had read the book. I asked the class for their initial impressions.

Sarah Levine started. “I was thinking—and maybe I’m just reading into it—but the island seems like a kind of microcosm. And that the anarchy . . . I don’t know . . . maybe it’s about more than just those kids. Maybe it’s what happens when there’s no structure, no law, and things start to go really bad.”

“Why aren’t there any girls in the book?” Claudia asked. “It seemed really antifeminist to me. And the thing is, if there were girls, I bet everything would have been different. They wouldn’t have been so mean, and maybe they would have thought of a way to get off the island.”

Jared raised his hand.

“Yes? You have something to add?”

“That fat kid is just a total loser,” he said.

Spawn of Satan.

 

 

Jill was sitting at our usual table when I entered the lunchroom. I was almost there, insulated lunch bag in hand, when Mrs. Clausen motioned me over. “Sit!” she commanded. “I’ve been thinking about Robert. Are you familiar with Neil Weinrich’s internship program?”

“Only in a general sense,” I said. I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Neil has spearheaded this marvelous program that matches students with local businesses. Please! Don’t let me keep you from eating!”

Lars had just walked in carrying an orange tray. He scanned the room and smiled when he saw me. I gave him a little wave and gestured with my head toward Jill’s table: I’d be there in a minute.

“It’s okay, I’m not really hungry.” I was starving. “Tell me more about the program.”

“You should really talk to Neil about it.” She twisted around until she located him. “Neil! You have a minute?”

Neil Weinrich looked up from his copy of
Scientific American
. He blinked at Mrs. Clausen for a moment before standing up ramrod straight, sticking his magazine under his arm, picking up his tray and marching over to us.

I looked forlornly over at Jill and Lars. They were laughing. I looked back at Mr. Weinrich and tried to smile.

Neil Weinrich is in his early fifties, with greasy dyed black hair (you can see gray at the roots) and a long, acne-scarred face. His breath smells of wintergreen mingled with decay. He is of average height but seems taller because he holds himself so stiff, his chin tilted upwards. Neil Weinrich is the kind of guy who was picked on in high school and has exacted his revenge by dedicating the rest of his natural life to belittling teenagers. If he were a student today, I wouldn’t even consider letting him into the building until he had passed through a metal detector. Naked.

“Mrs. Clausen was telling me about your internship program,” I said.

He inhaled. I held my breath in anticipation of his exhalation. “As educators, we cannot expect a one-size-fits-all approach to fit every student,” he intoned. “Different students have different needs. Different strengths. Different capabilities. Are you going to eat that roll, Margaret?”

Mrs. Clausen blinked. “Excuse me? Oh. Um, I was, actually. I like a roll after my salad. But if you’re hungry, I guess—”

“No! No! Only if you’re not going to eat it. But as I was saying, as educators we must be the pioneers who forge new paths for our youngsters, and we must provide them with as many paths as they need to succeed. The world is changing. Technology . . . I could go on.”

He did go on. I eventually broke down and ate my yogurt, glancing wistfully over at Jill and Lars.

The internship program did sound good, though (once Mr. Weinrich finally got around to talking about it). It allowed students to spend half of their time in the classroom, the other half in a work setting. Each student was paired with a work mentor, who was supposed to ensure that the student actually learned something on the job and wasn’t used as an unpaid drone.

The application deadline had passed. “And you missed the orientation meeting. It was a top-notch event, with former participants speaking, along with some of our business partners . . . you know, the program benefits them as much as it does our students, gives them a role in educating the future workforce. As educators, we can only provide our students with so many tools . . .”

Despite missing the deadline, my student was not out of luck, Mr. Weinrich told me. There were a few business partners available for the right applicant. Nicolette had the applications in her desk. “Mr. Weinrich creeps me out,” she whispered, handing me a yellow sheet. “I don’t like the way he looks at my boobs.”

Robert actually looked excited when I told him about the internship program. “I’d get to leave school for half the day?” he asked, looking over the application form and, I hoped, understanding some of it.

“Yes,” I said. “But not to go to the mall. To go to a job.”

“What if it’s a job at the mall?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. Maybe, just maybe, the old Robert was back.

After school, he showed up at the amphitheater and sat down next to me. It was our first dress rehearsal. Katerina was walking around in a negligee having just finished a scene in which Romeo sneaks into her bedroom.

“I filled out as much of the application as I could,” Robert said, trying not to disturb the actors. His eyes kept flicking forward, where Katerina commanded the stage.

I looked at the yellow sheet of paper. In careful, spiky writing, he had written his name, address and phone number. Under “career interests,” he had written, “hotel or restaurant or cruise.”

“Just so you know,” I said, “the chances of working on a cruise ship in Arizona? Not so good.” I was so proud of him for understanding what “career interests” meant.

He shrugged and grinned. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“You need to write an essay,” I whispered. The application asked, “What would you gain from an internship? What could you offer to employers?”

“I didn’t understand that part,” he mumbled.

I read the question to him. “Here’s what I want you to do tonight. Jot down ideas about two things. First, why do you want to do an internship? And don’t say because you’ll get out of school early. What will you learn and how will it help you get jobs in the future? Then tell us why you’d be a good intern. You can talk about your personal skills and your job experience.”

“That’s . . . I don’t think I can do that part.”

“Of course you can! I’m not asking you to write an essay. Just put down some ideas. In the morning, we’ll work together so you can hand it in.” He looked dubious. “Don’t worry about spelling. Or grammar. You don’t even have to use complete sentences. What you’ll be making is a kind of outline, just like we went over in class last week. But it doesn’t have to be a proper essay with the Roman numerals and the subcategories, and it doesn’t have to be consistent in form. Just think of it as a list of your ideas. Then we can work together to organize your thoughts, to give them a kind of structure—”

He was paying absolutely no attention to me.

Katerina walked over and stood in the aisle, a short way from Robert. “Hi,” he said, his eyes bugging out.

“Hi.” She giggled, blushed and looked down. The negligee was peach silk and hit her at mid-thigh, which still left a vast expanse of her long legs naked. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted fire-engine red. Her long, black hair was up in a messy hairdo, stray tendrils tumbling along her face and neck.

“You look really good up there,” Robert said. “I mean, you’re a really good actress.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling at the ground.

I stood up and climbed over Robert, mumbling something about checking on the props and grinning like a fool as I scurried down the steps.

The next morning Robert was waiting for me at the classroom door, holding a folder and a brown paper bag.