More Like Her (3 page)

“Yes, I am aware of your theory. All of your theories, really,” I say, looking out into the quickly filling hallways of the Markham School. Families milling around, zigzagging into classroom after classroom. Polo shirts with collars turned up. Strands of real pearls. Sweaters folded just so and tied loosely over shoulders. The Markham School caters to Pasadena’s elite. Our offices are located in the wing where the school psychologists, speech therapists, and counselors are housed: your one-stop mental health emporium. Parents are reluctant to look our way—like we’re the red-light district of the Markham School. They peek and glance furtively at our open office doors. They’re curious, but none of them can let on that they’re interested in what we’re selling. They think we’re offering something only parents of a failed child need. And they certainly wouldn’t be interested in anything like that. (Of course, that’s not what it is.) That’s what the handouts and cookies are for:
to lure them in.

“Two years—”

“Jill, seriously. Not now.”

“Two years is too long to date someone. After one year, you have the marriage conversation and if he balks, dumped.”

“Which is exactly what happened,” I say.

“No, I mean—”

I cut in. “I got dumped—wait, I got cheated on
then
dumped. And it’s not because we dated for two years or didn’t have the marriage conversation after the proper amount of time. I got dumped because he didn’t love me. Simple, really,” I say, sitting down behind my desk. I can feel my face reddening. I can feel my anger growing. I won’t start crying. I won’t scream “
Why didn’t he love me?!
” at the top of my lungs. I won’t. I can’t. Because even though Jill knows me better than anyone, I still can’t show her the ugly truth of how not fine I am with this whole situation. I’m not bravely moving on. I’m not indifferent to Jeremy Hannon, the Labor Day Cousin-Loving Suitor, and/or the battalions of uninterested douchebags who preceded him. I’m miserable and secretly naming the legion of cats I’ll most certainly own by the end of the year.

“Did you copy that mix Jeremy was asking about?”

I can’t help but laugh.

“I think I’ve made enough mixes for three lifetimes,” I say, standing up and pacing around the office. I can’t sit still. I want to look professional. I want not to think about Ryan, Jessica and the apartment key that now sits on my kitchen counter like a time bomb. I look out into the hallway just in time to see Emma Dunham coming our way. Wow, that’s exactly what I didn’t want. I plaster a smile across my face as she approaches with a guy I peg as some moneyed donor I’ll soon have to prostrate myself in front of for the good of the Markham School.

“Ms. Reid, this is my husband, Jamie. Jamie, this is Frances Reid, one of Markham’s two speech therapists,” Emma says. Husband? I shake hands with Jamie. His long, achingly thin fingers curl around my extended hand with an icy detachment. Jamie’s beakish nose and delicate features might be considered beautiful in a sickly, Victorian poet way, but since he’s not spouting esoteric verses right now it just doesn’t pack the same punch.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

“And you,” he says.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. Again.

Jamie looks pointedly at Emma, as one does when someone—a jilted speech therapist perchance—has just farted in public and a quick getaway is now past due.

“So, what is it that you do, Jamie?” I ask.

“I’m a professor at UCLA,” Jamie says.

“Go Bruins!” I say, my hand raised in a victorious fist.

Silence.

I continue. “What is it that you teach?”

“Creative writing. The Art of the Short Story,” Jamie says.

“That sounds great,” I say, my voice overly perky.

“He’s also working on a novel,” Emma adds, lacing her arm through his.

“That sounds like quite a schedule,” I say.

“I teach in UCLA’s extension program,” Jamie says.

“Oh, okay,” I say.

“Online,” Jamie adds.

“Cool,” I say. What . . . what exactly is happening here?

Silence.

“It’s so difficult to break into teaching at UCLA. Everyone’s amazed Jamie was able to secure a position in the extension program. But it’s a foot in a very prestigious door,” Emma says. His entire being has shifted from languid to tight throughout Emma’s pitch.

Silence.

“UCLA has a great campus,” I say.

Jamie sighs.

“Oh, right. You’re online. Great website then. User-friendly,” I say, my eyes darting, my fingers making some weird mouse-clicking motion.

I clear my throat. Has time stopped? Is it . . . is it cold in here?

Quiet. For a while. A looooong while. People mill in the hallways. Parents who haven’t seen each other all summer greet each other loudly. Teachers welcome students into their classrooms. All while our little trio drowns in discomfort.

“Jamie is as brilliant as they come. He’s going to be the next Norman Mailer!” Emma says. If there were a conversational penalty-flag system similar to that of the National Football League, Emma would certainly have earned one for that. Emma Dunhamdunhamdunham, the ref’s voice echoes. Personal foul for a late hit proclaiming Jamie Dunham the next Norman Mailermailermailer. Automatic first down!

Silence.

“Have you given the head of department position any thought, Ms. Reid?” Emma asks.

I start to say, “Absolutely, it would be such a—” Jamie elaborately clears his throat.

“Oh, right.
Right
,” Emma says, nervously looking from Jamie to me. He sighs. She continues. “We’ll talk about it later, Ms. Reid.”

“There’s a water fountain,” I say, pointing just behind Jamie. “You know . . . for your throat?”

“What was your name again?” Jamie asks.

“Frances Reid.”

“Well, Frances Reid—”

Emma interrupts. “We’re having a mixer . . .” Jamie’s eyes are fixed on me. Emma is caressing Jamie’s back. “It’s for department heads and in your case prospective department heads. We’d love it if you and Mrs. Fleming would attend. Since both of you are up for the position, it might be nice for the board of directors to meet their candidates in a more relaxed setting. All of the details are in your box.” The word
relaxed
echoes through the hallways. Jamie tightens his jaw as his gaze slinks over to Emma. Narrowed. Targeted.

“Sure . . . sure,” I say, noting that Jamie looked away first. I have won our unofficial staring contest.

Jill ambles out of our office. She’s already in midsentence as she approaches. “What you need to do is just hate-fuck that Jeremy Hannon guy and th—”

Aaaaand I believe introductions are in order: Online Extension Professor Jamie—or as Emma likes to call him, the next Norman Mailer—Emma, children and parents of the Markham School, meet the word
hate-fuck
. Hate-fuck? This is everybody.

“Jill Fleming, this is Jamie Dunham. Headmistress Dunham’s husband,” I say.

They shake hands.

“Pleasure,” Jill says. Jamie nods. Emma’s face is compressed tight. She looks around at the milling parents.

“Great turnout,” I add, following her sight line.

“Yes, it is,” Emma says.

Jill says, “Mrs. Dunham, I’m—”

“I’m sure we can talk about policies and appropriate behavior at a more fitting time, Mrs. Fleming,” Emma says, her smile tight.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Jill says.

“Ms. Reid will give you specifics regarding the head of department mixer, where my hope is that you will behave in a far more professional manner,” Emma says, looking from Jill to me.

“Yes, headmistress,” Jill says, her head bowed.

“Ms. Reid? I believe someone wants to say hello,” Emma says, motioning to an approaching rail of a ten-year-old. I know we’re not supposed to have favorite students. I know this. But . . .

“Harry!” I say. Harry Sprague trundles up to me as quickly as an awkward adolescent can while still achieving prime bored detachment. His blond hair intentionally hangs just low enough to cover his blue eyes completely.

“Ms. Reid!” Harry says, patting my arm.

“Hey, sweetie! So good to see you,” I say, making a point of swiping his bangs out of his eyes.

“We’re thinking about forcing him to get a haircut,” Mr. Sprague says, mussing the boy’s hair. Harry is not amused. Harry probably believes this more fashionable hairstyle will finally allow him to make his escape from the ranks of fellow nerds and geeks. I wish I could tell him that no hairstyle in the world can do that. Believe me, I’ve tried. Or should I say Frances
Peed
tried. I’d like to say that my unshakable moniker was based on some misunderstanding. A wet bench. A light rain. But no. Combine a school field trip to Magic Mountain, a terrified twelve-year-old and a roller coaster she never should have been on in the first place and you’ve got yourself Frannie Peed.

Mr. Sprague extends his hand and gives me a powerful shake. Rolled-up shirtsleeves reveal a Patek Philippe wristwatch. Worn in. Mr. Sprague’s everyday wristwatch. His everyday million-dollar wristwatch.

“So good to see you, Mr. Sprague,” I say, smiling. I’ve known the Spragues for only a short time, but I feel as though I’ve known them my entire life.

“We’ve so missed you,” Mrs. Sprague says, lunging into me for a refined hug. Her perfume wafts around me like an angelic aura.

“So good to see you,” I say, breaking from our hug. Blond, headbanded hair; a butter-yellow cable-knit sweater; and a hedge fund in the billions define the family. But they love their son and will do anything for him. That trumps a popped collar every time.

I wind through introductions, lobbing Professor Jamie Dunham only a slightly rolled eye at the forced title. Jill coquettishly introduces herself. Apparently we’re off the docks and back at a debutante ball. Emma and Jamie excuse themselves as Jill slinks back into our office, which is filling fast with prospective students.

I fall into easy conversation with the Spragues. As usual, the subject is Harry. Apparently his summer was chockablock with Space Camp and Comic-Con, and the Spragues constantly assure me that he hasn’t forgotten everything I taught him last year.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I say, smiling. Smiling. It’s hard to be sad when you’re talking about kids like Harry Sprague. I take one final glance at Emma as she and Jamie walk away. Emma clasps her hands behind her back, her fingers violently gripping each other, her shoulders high and tense. Jamie whispers in her ear. Emma’s head dips, chin to her chest, her pace slowing. She nods briskly. Again and again. Jamie’s hand tightens around her upper arm as she flinches slightly and hurries beside him. Jesus, it’s just the word
hate-fuck
, Jamie.

Certainly Norman Mailer would have approved.

Chapter 3
All Balls

L
ater that night, I take out my contact lenses, put my glasses on, grab my dental night guard and switch off the bathroom light. The first week after Ryan left, I blamed the dental night guard and the glasses for his cheating and our subsequent breakup. I think of Harry Sprague and his hopeful non-nerd hairstyle.

We (your tired, your poor, your huddled misfits yearning to breathe free) all fervently hope that we’ll be loved and cherished someday. But that far-off dream hangs in the balance as we struggle to figure out what we can change about ourselves to make it happen. Different hairstyle? Contact lenses instead of glasses? Dental night guards tossed away? I’m sure my mom would—and has—sermonized that it’s not about me at all.
Those
people aren’t worth my time, anyway, she’d say, teacup in hand. If
they
can’t love me for who I am, then I don’t want
them
, she’d add as she offered a piece of pie and an unendingly available shoulder to cry on. Yet, I’m haunted by this ever-present feeling that it’s not about the hairstyle, glasses, body image, or overpriced makeup that promises to “look natural” at all. As I get older, I’m afraid it must be me,
all of me
, that is so chronically repellent.

I tuck into my bed; the kitchen light streams down the hallway. It makes me feel like someone else is moving around this little apartment. Ryan’s not here in bed with me, but maybe he’s in the living room watching television. He’ll come to bed soon. I toss and turn, tucking the pillow into the crook of my arm. I’ve gone from loving bedtime to dreading it. It used to be a time when, no matter what went on during the day, Ryan and I could check in with each other. The world stopped. The grind faded away. It was just us, tucked tightly under blankets and duvets. We whispered, giggled and loved. Now I have Jeremy. A guy who wants me to make him a copy of a classic rock mix I bought at the grocery store for $3.99 as a joke. I hit the pillow again, tucking and tucking it. I can’t get comfortable. It’s ten
P.M.
and I’m in bed. Why does it surprise me that I’m not tired?

As my mind races through that last run-in with Ryan and the nine-ounce box that took two people to carry, I understand—on some level—that I’m relying on selective memory when it comes to my relationship with him. The pictures on our walls, the screen savers on our computers, the stories we told were all from the first year we were together. It was as if the memory of those times kept us going. Then the ennui set in like a low fog.

Then came the deals. When we get married, I won’t feel like this. When we get married, something magical will happen and we’ll fall in love all over again. If he would just propose, everything would be fine. We’d be back on track. A marriage proposal means Ryan chose me. Officially. I could write off Frannie Reid—or Frannie
Peed
—forever. I’d finally be someone else. Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Ferrell. I’d be Frannie Ferrell. And Frannie Ferrell was the girl who was chosen. Frannie Ferrell was loved. Frannie Ferrell is now just another alliterative pipe dream.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

As I feel myself drifting toward sleep, I’m proud of myself. Despite a few bumps in the road, I’m taking this whole thing remarkably well. It doesn’t bother me. It really doesn’t. Ryan did us a favor. Ryan did me a favor. And with Jill and her revolving door of available men, I’ll be dating in no time flat. Yeah. He did me a favor.

The silence.

The kitchen light streaming down the hallway.

My breathing quickens. I can’t catch my breath.

This pillow won’t behave.

Yeah . . .
really
proud.

I roll over onto my back and stare up into the darkness. Ghost dots flicker and fade in front of me. I’ve never been more wide-awake. Proud.
Proud
. Next, I’m going to be telling myself that these aren’t the droids I’m looking for. More darkness. More silence.
You gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em
. Great. Now I’ve got Kenny Rogers stuck in my head. Alone. Cold. Dumped. And humming Kenny Rogers.

I whip my covers off and walk over to my computer. I scroll through old e-mails, finding the one from Jill that I’m looking for.

Frannie: Okay, so just in case—here’s all of Jeremy Hannon’s information. I can see it now: an outdoor wedding with dragonflies and strings of lights. Maybe that one song can be the first song you dance to? The one he was talking about on that mix? Talk soon . . .

Writing down Jeremy’s e-mail and cell number, I have to laugh. I seriously doubt my wedding song is going to be by Lynyrd Skynyrd, Jill.

To e-mail or to call, that is the question. It’s a bit late to call. And an e-mail—I don’t know. It seems a bit formal. I’ll split the difference. I’ll text. It’s what all the crazy kids are doing these days, right? As I take my iPhone off the nightstand, unplugging it from its charger, I am fully aware that I am taking the chicken’s way out. Texting is for booty calls and . . .
wait
. Am I making a booty call right now? No. Seriously, no. I’m making a late-night request for . . . I believe I’m making a booty call with no booty. I just want someone to talk to. Someone who’ll keep me from singing Kenny Rogers. Ugh, that’s even worse.

I hold my iPhone in my hand and curl my legs underneath me. Summer is waning and a slight chill has found its way into my apartment.

I type in Jeremy’s phone number and then begin the tedious process of crafting the perfect text. This could take days. It has to be one part breezy, one part sexy and once again, as far from the real me as is humanly possible. I finally come up with:

Hey there! Frannie here from the BBQ at Jill and Martin’s . . . Jill had mentioned you wanted a copy of that mix I brought?

Then what? Do I ask him what his mailing address is? It’s a wonder I’ve gotten one date
ever
. My fingers hover over the keypad. Minutes pass.

Let me know!

Before I can think better of it I hit send. And then I wait. I start to tidy up a bit. Clothes in the hamper. Do a couple of dishes, mostly bowls due to my obsession with shredded wheat. I walk through my apartment absently dusting shelves lined with framed family photos: cross-country road trips in wood-paneled station wagons, Christmas mornings with pink bicycles (I held on to a belief in Santa Claus way past what is customary). School plays where my role as “Chorus member” won parental rave reviews, splashing around in swimming pools with zinc oxide spread generously on my nose. I study the photos closely as I try to ignore the silence of my dormant iPhone. I see my childhood through my parents’ eyes. To them, I was a happy baby, a rambunctious child and a scholarly adolescent. My phases, not unlike the moon’s, melted and dissolved seamlessly into one another.

The childhood I remember, strangely not depicted in these framed photographs, is a bit bumpier. As my coltish enthusiasm became an annoyance to teachers, my need for their approval reached epic proportions. I began swallowing that enthusiasm—now defined as “hyperactivity” or, in Ryan’s words, “intensity”—and replaced it with a zeal for schoolwork akin to an obsessive-compulsive’s need to open and shut a door three times before exiting. Not surprisingly, the other kids didn’t applaud my new role as teacher’s pet. The adolescent art of apathy eluded me. I was labeled an oddity and given a nickname that haunts me to this day: the Notorious Frannie Peed. I’ve done everything I can to leave Frannie Peed in the past, but she’s a worthy opponent. Shaking her is the gauntlet I have to run daily: instinctual nerdisms I don’t say and the second-by-second reminder to myself to “act cool.”

I run the dust cloth over the empty place where a framed photo of Ryan and me in happier times used to be. It was the one of us with my mom and dad that time we all hiked into Muir Woods in Marin County, which was right by my parents’ house. He was laughing with my Dad, shoulder to shoulder. I was telling him to look at the camera while Mom motioned for the stranger taking the picture to wait. We needed to collect ourselves. It was my favorite picture ever . . . and the last one to be taken down after Ryan left. As I wipe down the rest of the kitchen counter, I hear the ting-ting of my iPhone in the other room. A text. I run down the hall. It’s from Jeremy.

Hey, who is this?

I calmly close out of the texting screen—the adorable green and white text bubbles making a mockery of me—and then violently hurl the phone across the room. It careens against the red wingback chair in the corner and bounces off onto the hardwood floor. I take a long deep breath and walk into the bathroom in search of the bottle of Excedrin
P.M.
I dump two little blue pills into my hand. My mind is on hold. Are we going to spiral into depression or anger? There’s a tiny possibility that I could just laugh it off and look forward to telling Jill that I was right. I walk to where I threw the iPhone and am relieved to find that it still works. It lives to send embarrassing texts another day. Huzzah. I plug it back into its charger, climb into bed and tuck in tight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

DESPITE AN EXCEDRIN PM
hangover, I arrive at the first day of school wide eyed and excited. Just like every other first day of school since I can remember. Kids getting dropped off, buses taking up way too much space in tiny parking lots, and teachers barking orders as they hold on to clipboards filled with lists and classroom numbers. I pick my way through the crush, coffee in hand, and make my way to our little mental health stalag. I’ve got a solid hour before I pull Harry Sprague out of his second-period English class for his first speech therapy session. I plan on filling up this coffee mug as many times as I can between then and now.

No Jill in sight as I set my canvas bag down in our office. She’s probably foraging in the teachers’ lounge. It
is
the first day of school. The amount of delicious goodness that is teeming in that lounge right now is mind-boggling. Bagels? Danish? Bins filled with Red Vines? I could go on and on. My mouth waters as I walk down the hallway, out the double doors and toward the teachers’ lounge. It’s far enough away that teachers can let their hair down but close enough that a cup of coffee (or a handful of Red Vines) is mere steps away at any given time.

I excitedly push open the door, already tasting that cream cheese, bagel and fresh cup of coffee.

“Hey, Frannie.” Ryan.
Ugh
. Ryan. It’s as if someone has thrown a bucket of cold water on my face and I’m frozen in the doorway, mascara trailing down my cheeks. It takes milliseconds to gather myself, an undertaking that’s barely visible to the naked eye: masks are pulled, shoulders are cocked back, chins lifted.

“Hey,” I say, my eyes scanning the room. Jill. On the balcony.

“Hey . . . I wanted to—”

I cut in. “Ah, there’s Jill! Have a great first day!” I escape from Ryan’s shrugging apologies and bob and weave past several sad looks, pitying smiles, and “you go, girl” raised eyebrows. I march past the obstacle course of feigned sympathy and walk out onto the balcony.

“What the hell? You leave me in there with Ryan and the Coven of Front-Office Hags?” I say, trying to look as happy as possible.

“Leave you? What are you talking about?” Jill asks, talking to another woman. Who I don’t know.
Great
. I extend my hand in greeting. She quickly takes it with a firm grip.

“Frances Reid. I’m sorry, I don’t usually . . . he’s my ex and now he’s dating Jessica and I’m . . . I’m just . . . I have to act like it doesn’t bother me and it’s—”

“Lisa Campanari,” she says, cigarette dangling out of her mouth. Her New Jersey accent is thick. I like her immediately.

“She’s in the upper school science department,” Jill says with just the slightest hint of a Jersey accent by osmosis.

“So, what room are you in?” I ask, knowing Lisa will be most affected by the construction of the new science building and tech center expansion.

“Some makeshift annex. Whatever. The new building looks like it’s going to be worth waiting for,” Lisa says, putting out her cigarette. I’m not staring into the lounge. I swear I’m not. Ryan sips his coffee . . . not sweet enough. More sugar. I clear my throat and focus back on Jill and Lisa.

“Best money can buy,” Jill says.

“Oh yeah?” Lisa asks.

“My husband works for the architectural firm that’s doing the expansion,” Jill says.

“Nice gig if you can get it,” Lisa says.

“He’s with an international architectural firm, so everything was aboveboard,” Jill says.

“I doubt you working here as a speech therapist would have anything to do with whether or not an international architectural firm was hired,” Lisa says, popping a breath mint.

“Well, it didn’t,” Jill says, almost to herself.

“Jill?” Lisa asks, focusing.

“Hm?” Jill answers, her voice hesitant.

“Get over yourself,” Lisa says, smiling.

“I like you,” Jill says, pointing directly at Lisa. Lisa laughs—open, assured and booming.

“Hey, gals.” Debbie Manners peeks out the door to the balcony. A) Anyone who says “gals” should be drawn and quartered. B) It’s too early in the morning—and the school year, for that matter—for Debbie to be saying anything to us.

“What’s up, Debbie?” I ask, shark eyes in full effect.

“Just wanted to have you guys sign the birthday card we’ve got going around for Headmistress Dunham,” Debbie says, passing me a file folder that apparently conceals the key to the lost-wax process if you judge by how carefully she’s handing it off to me.

“It’s the first day of school, Manners. Come on,” Jill says.

“It’ll just be a dash,” Debbie says, moving farther out onto the balcony.

“We don’t have a pen,” I say, hands in the air.

“Here you go,” Debbie says, fanning an entire pastel spectrum of Sharpies in front of me. I choose the least-offensive light blue. Debbie is disappointed and resolves, surely, to take that color out for future signees.

As I sign the card Debbie continues. “We’re doing cake and ice cream in the teachers’ lounge next Wednesday after school. We’re asking everyone for a donation to help with the present.” I pass the card and the pen to Jill.