Getting Warmer (7 page)

I rested my cup on the shelf and picked up the photo. I swallowed hard, more disappointed than angry. If only Nicolette hadn’t taken off. If only I were in my own room now, flipping through a magazine or watching TV or even reading
The Odyssey
.

“Who’s this?” I asked, as levelly as I could.

“Let me see.” He walked casually across the room and leaned over my shoulder. He smelled good, like leather mixed with citrus. I tapped my finger against the glass.

“Oh, that,” he said. “That is Mrs. Jonathan Pomeroy, Sr. My stepmother.”

Jill couldn’t understand why I was so upset.

“I like him,” I told her on the phone the next day.

“He drives a pickup truck.”

“It’s for work.”

“Yeah, sure, nice excuse. He could get a minivan.”

“He’s a single guy. Single guys don’t drive minivans. God. You make it sound like he drives a Hummer.”

“You know what we always say about guys who drive big cars,” Jill said.

“Jonathan’s different.”

“C’mon. Say it with me.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“C’mon. You know I’ll just keep bugging you until you say it.” She would, too. “On the count of three: one, two, three—”

“Big car, small penis,” we chanted, though my heart wasn’t in it. “He needs it for work,” I said again.

“Did you see the size of his television? And that espresso machine? That guy’s definitely compensating for something.”

Jill was my best friend in Arizona; well, she was my only friend in Arizona. Still, there were times when I didn’t like her very much.

I stared glumly out the window. The sky was a blinding blue. The pool shimmered. In the giant saguaro, a woodpecker tapped rhythmically. The thermometer read one hundred and eight degrees. “Do you think Jonathan would understand if I told him the truth? Do you think we could start over?”

She paused to consider. “He’d think you were deranged.”

 

 

To make matters worse, Nicolette was in love. I stopped by the front office first thing Monday morning to make sure she hadn’t been raped and mutilated, her body dumped way out in the desert to be devoured by coyotes and vultures. She was still alive, which was good because it meant I could hate her.

“It’s like me and Rodney were made for each other,” she proclaimed. “We spent the whole weekend together, and I never got sick of him.”

“Rodney and I,” I said reflexively. Teaching has turned me into a total dork. “Wait. Did you have
sex
with him?”

“Well, yeah.” She pulled lazily at a lock of her long, blond hair. “I thought that was the whole point of going out and picking up guys.”

“That is
not
the point.”

She scrunched up her little nose. “Then what is the point?”

I blinked at her. “What’s Rodney going to think when you tell him your real name? And that you made up that alien story just to trick him?”

“Oh, that.” She made a little wave. “I told him my real name when we were in the gondola. And he never believed I was an alien, anyway. We laughed about it the whole weekend. It’s, like, our first inside joke. Did you guys go on the gondola? It was totally awesome.”

As I walked out of the office, I almost tripped over Cody Gold. Cody had a talent for showing up wherever I happened to be.

“Good Morning, Miss Quackenbush,” he squeaked. Cody never called me Mrs. Quackenbush. Cody was the only student who cared whether or not I was married. “I finished
The Odyssey
over the weekend.”

“You did? Well, good for you! Don’t give the ending away to the others, though!”

Shoot. Cody had finished
The Odyssey
. I hadn’t finished
The Odyssey
. I hadn’t even finished the
CliffsNotes.
“Well, you’d better hurry to class. See you sixth period!”

“Third period,” he said.

“Really?” I hated the rotating schedule even more than I hate Homer. “I mean—right! Well, then, I’ll see you when I see you!”

First period turned out to be my Adventures class (I’d thought it would be, but I wasn’t entirely sure). I had a big surprise for my students.

“For homework tonight”—I pressed my hands together and paused for dramatic effect—“I’m going to ask you all to watch television!”

Nothing. Not a, “Way to go, Ms. Q!” Not, “Hey! Are you serious?” Or, “How cool is that?”

Nothing.

A girl named Marisol sneezed. Someone mumbled, “God bless you.”

“Now, don’t get too excited,” I said, hoping for a laugh but not getting one. When I was in high school, no teacher ever assigned television watching. No teacher was ever that cool. Maybe I should be assigning Nintendo playing or iPod downloading. Or shopping or drinking beer. Maybe that’s what they were waiting for.

“Today we are starting a unit on marketing and advertising. And you all know what advertising is, right?” Nothing. “It’s time or space that a company pays to expose its product. For homework, I want you to focus on television advertising, also known as . . . ?” Nothing. This was supposed to be the easy part. “Commercials. Right? Television advertising is usually done in the form of commercials.” I wasn’t even going to bother with a discussion of product placement.

For homework, I told them to each watch a half hour show. On a piece of paper, they were supposed to write down the name of the show. Then they had to write down every commercial that came on and who that commercial was aimed at. I moved on to the hard part.

“Who knows what marketing is?”

Nothing.

“Marisol?” She shrugged, sniffled and looked at the floor.

“Steven?” Steven straightened his gangly body in his chair. He was easily the slowest student in the class—no mean feat. But I didn’t care. Steven was pure goodness: sweet and eager. He made me remember why I had gone into teaching in the first place, even as I proved utterly incapable of teaching him a single thing.

“Is marketing, like, when you go to the grocery store?” His eyes were wide, hopeful.

“You know, that’s a good answer, Steven! Because a grocery store is often called . . . what?” Nothing. “A supermarket? Right?” I searched their faces for a hint of a nod or even a glimpse of understanding. “And what is the purpose of a supermarket? Robert?”

“They, um”—he looked around—“it’s where your mother goes when she has to get stuff for dinner.”

“Right. So what does a supermarket do? Mandy?”

“They have, like, fruit and stuff. Bread and peanut butter and stuff.”

“Yes. Good. So if customers are
buying
the food, what is the supermarket doing?”

“They have birthday cakes,” Steven offered. “My mother always gets my birthday cake at Safeway.”

“They have cakes. Yes. But do they just
give
the cakes away?”

Marisol raised her hand. Victory! “Marisol?”

“Last year, my mom got my birthday cake at Food 4 Less.”

“I think Safeway’s cakes are better,” someone said.

Another voice piped in. “Last year? For my dad’s birthday? I made a cake from scratch. I used one of those mixes.”

And another voice. “Betty Crocker mixes are really good.”

And another. “My mom says Duncan Hines are the best.”

“Okay!” I clapped my hands. “So let’s move on.” The class gave me a look as if to say, “Do you mind? We’re having an interesting discussion, for once.”

“A supermarket doesn’t just
give
the food away. Right?” I chirped. “It
sells
the cakes and the cake mixes and the peanut butter. In a similar way, marketing is how companies present their products in a way that makes us want to buy them.”

Dead silence. And then, from Robert: “You mean, like when they say, if you buy the right can of soda, you might win a million dollars or something?”

“Yes!” I wanted to hug him. “And Cherie said something about Betty Crocker cake mixes. Why do you buy Betty Crocker and not, say, Pillsbury?”

“I like Duncan Hines. It was Raquel who liked Betty Crocker.”

“Oh, right. And what is it about Duncan Hines that makes it so special?”

“Um, I don’t know.”

“Is it the packaging, maybe?”

She shrugged and stared at her desk.

“Okay. How about you, Raquel? Why do you like Betty Crocker instead of Duncan Hines?”

“Because I like chocolate.”

I sighed. Looked at the clock. Only thirty-five more minutes to go.

 

 

“What
is
that?” I asked as Lars sank his teeth into a doughy hamburger bun dripping with orange goo.

He chewed carefully, swallowed and wiped his mouth daintily with a paper napkin. “Sloppy Joe. It’s not bad, actually.” Lars was perfectly groomed as always, his blond hair moussed just so, his white shirt tucked into his linen pants. I can’t wear linen for five minutes without looking like I have slept in my clothes, but Lars pulled off the Ralph Lauren elegantly rumpled look with panache.

“Don’t you ever worry about mad cow disease?” Jill asked.

“There’s no mad cow in the United States,” Lars countered, taking another bite.

Jill speared a chunk of chicken salad with grapes and tarragon. “I’m thinking maybe they imported some special for today’s lunch.”

I was eating—well, drinking—a yogurt smoothie that looked far more satisfying on television than it did in my insulated lunch bag. When I was done, I’d eat a not-quite-ripe banana. And then I’d be hungry for the rest of the day. I’d considered keeping cashews in my desk to stave off hunger pangs, but one of my students was dangerously allergic to nuts, and I feared leaving cashew residue on her corrected homework and sending her into anaphylactic shock.

There are some overweight teachers at school, but I don’t know how they do it. At times I look at them with something approaching envy. Someone must be getting up early to pack them mayonnaise-laden sandwiches and homemade brownies—the same someone who cooks fried chicken or cheesy pasta for dinner while the teacher-spouse grades the never-ending pile of papers.

“I began my advertising and marketing unit today,” I announced. Advertising and marketing was a required part of the senior curriculum, intended to stop teenagers from wasting their parents’ hard-earned money on name-brand sneakers and flashy jeans. I described my television homework to Lars and Jill, feeling borderline clever, even if I hadn’t gotten the initial response I’d hoped for.

“I’m having my kids create and market their own products,” Lars said between sips of milk from his mini carton. “They’ll design a marketing campaign and shoot thirty-second commercials. It got a terrific response last year—really made the kids look at the media world in a new way. I’ve got the whole thing spelled out on my Web site if you want to take a look at it.” All of the teachers at Agave had Web sites. A handful even knew how to use them.

I tried to imagine my Adventures class creating marketing campaigns. I considered it a triumph if they handed in their homework on time. Or anytime.

“That reminds me,” Lars said. “I’ve chosen the play for the autumn theater workshop. It’s called
Romeo and Jules
—basically a contemporary version of
Romeo and Juliet
. A kid in my summer playwriting workshop wrote it, and I’m totally into the idea of producing an original work. At any rate, I could really use an assistant director, and you’d mentioned that you were interested in theater.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

My interest in theater had fallen closely on the heels of my interest in Lars. I blinked at him, unsure of what I was agreeing to but nodding nevertheless.

I don’t know what shocked me more: the sight of my mother standing in the kitchen or the envelope she held in her hand. “A young man stuck this in the front door, but he just kind of scurried away and waved when I called out to him.” The envelope had my name scrawled on it. In the top left corner it said, “Pomeroy Restaurant Supply.”

“What are you doing here?” I asked my mother. We hugged. “Where’s Daddy?”

“I sent him to AJ’s to pick up some food. Really, honey, you should keep the fridge better stocked.” She put her hands on her hips. “You could look happier to see me.”

“I am happy.” I tried to look happy. “Just surprised.”

“Didn’t you get my messages?” I looked at the answering machine on the counter; the light was blinking. While I occasionally used my parents’ phone for outgoing calls, my friends, colleagues, acquaintances and phantom dates all called me on my cell phone.

“Whoops,” I said.

My mother rolled her eyes. “Well, anyway. Now you know. What do you think of my hair?” It was blondish when I’d last seen her. Now it was reddish.

“Nice.”

“It looked fabulous in Rhode Island; I went to your sister’s hairdresser. I thought it was the cut, but the minute I walked off the plane in Phoenix—” She shook her head. “This dry air is impossible.”

In the past three years, my mother had abandoned the New England matron look in favor of Arizona glitz. She’d pierced her ears and started wearing eye shadow. Talbots was out; overpriced boutiques were in. She had a closet filled with drapey pastel pantsuits, espadrilles and southwestern print blazers. She wore visors and pink-tinted sunglasses.

“How is Shelly?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes. “That boyfriend.”

“Still no ring?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head. “It’s killing your father.” My older sister started dating Frederick six years ago, when she was twenty-eight and he was twenty-five. Frederick was a big advocate of “taking it slow” and “making sure we’re making the right decision.” Now that they’d been living together for four years, my parents thought it was time to make a decision one way or another or, as my mother so eloquently put it, to “shit or get off the pot.”

“Maybe for Christmas,” I said lamely.