November Surprise (24 page)

So even though his classroom is way far away from my first
hour, I stop in every morning to say hello. Outcasts have to stick together,
after all. When I walk into his room I see him sitting at his desk, his blond
head leaning over a book, his fingers messing with the collar of his shirt. Mr.
L wears a tie to school every day. I'm not sure why because he's always
tugging, trying to loosen it. But his ties are his trademark, and I think it's
nice he makes an effort. So many people are slobs nowadays, but not Mr. L.
Today his tie is dark blue with green polka dots, and it brings out the color
of his eyes beautifully.

"Good morning Mr. L."

He looks up, and half a smile teases the corners of his
mouth. He can't act too pleased to see me, it wouldn't be professional.

"Miss Madsen, how are you this morning?" Every morning
he asks me this, and every morning my answer is a lie.

"I'm great, how are you?"

"I'm fantastic," he beams, "as usual."

This is what we do; it's our code. But I know the truth. He's
hurting on the inside from being ostracized just as much as I am.

"I looked for you yesterday after school, but you weren't
in your room."

"Yeah, I was actually able to get out of here early for
a change. Did you need something?"

My right index finger is twisting itself into the metal wire
that loops through my notebook and binds it together. The top part had become
unwound from its pages, and now my finger's circulation is cut off. "Well,
I was wondering if you could use an aide next trimester."

He frowns and digs his heels into the floor, pushing himself
backwards with the wheels of his office chair. His chest raises and lowers with
a careful sigh before he answers me.

"Melody, do you really think that's a good idea?"

This is the first time he has ever called me by my first
name! Mr. L always, always calls students by our last names. Finally, the
moment I have waited for has arrived! Now I know without a doubt that I mean
something to him, that I am more than just a student. In my shock and joy I
forget to answer his question though, so he continues on.

"I just think we need to be careful. People in this
school love to talk, and if I took you on as my aide things could get worse
before they get better."

My joy increases—he just referred to us as a "we."
We need to be careful
—it sounds
so scandalous! "But I'm fine," I say, wiggling my finger free and
holding my notebook tightly to my chest. "And I don't care what people
say. Besides, I could do a great job for you." I walk over to his file
cabinet and open the top drawer. With a grin I turn to him. "Really Mr. L!
This drawer is a mess! I could organize this; I could organize all of these!"
I sweep my arm up and down, gesturing toward his cabinets. Then I walk over to
his bookshelf. "And these shelves!" I look back over at him,
expecting to see him smile, but I'm met with a scowl instead. "I'm sorry,"
I continue. "I don't mean to insult you. I know you're creative and smart
and all, and you don't have time to think about details. That's why you need to
let me do it for you."

"Miss Madsen…" he tries to cut me off, but I step
in before he can.

"Mr. L, please! Let me do this. Give me the chance to
thank you for… you know." I look down, and will my cheeks to flush. I can
feel the warmth creeping across my face, and I mentally pat myself on the back
for spending hours alone in my room, mastering this skill. After all, older
guys like girls who embarrass easily, so that they can feel worldly and
experienced.

He hangs his head down momentarily, like he's memorizing the
scuffed linoleum floor. "You don't need to thank me any more than you
already have. You never needed to thank me. I just did what anyone would do."

"That's where you're wrong," I say. And I mean it.
Mr. L doesn't realize how special he is. That's why he needs me. He needs me so
much that I'm willing to do anything in order to be in his life. "What you
did, it's the nicest, most decent thing anyone has ever done. Please, Mr. L,
let me be your aide. I'll work really hard."

His hand creeps up to massage his neck. "I have no
doubt you would, but I still think it's a bad idea."

I look down, away, and wipe a phantom tear that, if it were
real, would be blocked from his view.

"I see," I say, and start out the door. His voice
stops me, just like I knew it would.

"Miss Madsen…" but he doesn't finish. So I take my
last, best shot. It's a gamble to play this card so soon, but I'm confident it
will work. Besides, it's the truth.

With my back turned, still half way out the door, I say, "It's
just, your room is the only place in the whole school where I feel…safe."

He sighs again, this time with resignation. "My prep
hour is fifth."

I turn around. "That's perfect! All I have fifth hour
is study hall!"

His same half-smile threatens to escape again. "I'll
let the office know."

4. Samantha

The phone wakes me up. I pick up on the second ring. "Hello
Dad," I say, before he has a chance to greet me.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"I've told you before; you're the only one who calls me
this early."

He raises his voice, and I hold the receiver away from my
ear. "It's 10:00 a.m.! I've been up for hours!"

"Yeah, but you go to bed at 9:00. I work till midnight."

His voice lowers back to a normal level. "Well, I'm
sorry honey. I guess I forget your schedule. You know me. I was raised with the
farmer mentality. Early to bed, early to rise, and too much sleep is a sin."

"I think we can agree that sleeping till 10:00 is the
least of my sins."

He chuckles like what I just said was a joke, even though we
both know it isn't. Then his voice turns serious. "Samantha, it's never
too late to change."

I count to three and remind myself how much I love my
father. "Did you need something?"

"I just wanted to know if it's okay for me to sell your
old bedroom set. I found a second hand store willing to buy it."

"Dad, I've told you twice that I don't care. It's fine
if you want to get rid of it."

"I just thought you might want it someday, in case you
ever have kids. Now that you and Nathan are together…"

His voice trails off and there's a pause. Sometimes I worry.
He's been living alone in Chicago, in the home I grew up in, for most of the
last seventeen years. But I left that home more than half my lifetime ago, and
he still has trouble accepting that except for visits, I'm not coming back.

"Dad, do what you think is best. If you want the space
it's okay to sell it. If Nathan and I decide to have kids there are plenty of
cheap bedroom sets around."

"But this is a nice set, been in the family for years.
Not like the cheap stuff from that Swedish place you like…"

"Ikea?"

"Yeah. That stuff is made of cardboard. I wouldn't want
my grandchild sleeping in a cardboard bed."

"Then maybe you should hold onto my bedroom set. Just
in case."

"Fine. I just needed to know, one way or the other. So
I won't sell it then."

"Sounds good, Dad."

"Okay, I'll talk to you later."

"Bye."

He hangs up first, then I set down the phone, wondering how
many similar conversations we'll have this week. Dad never calls just to chat,
there's always a question he needs an answer to. Once he gets the answer it
takes him less than thirty seconds to get off the phone, but he'll keep calling
back with the same question until he gets the answer he was looking for.

I get out of bed and walk towards the mirror, examining my
morning face and hair. Not bad for a thirty-five year old with no makeup or
comb. Time has been good to me, better than I deserve. The lines in my face are
little ones, around my mouth and eyes, appearing mostly when I'm stressed or
tired. My brown hair is still untouched by gray, and it's as thick and shiny as
it was in my teens. That's the good news. I look down, away from my reflection,
to examine my belly and thighs. Time hasn't been quite as good to me in this
area, although still I can't complain. So what if I'm never a size eight again?
There are worse things than being a size ten (or a size twelve on my bad days),
and at least I have the big boobs to compliment my expanding hips and buttocks.

Truthfully, I've never been more insecure about my
appearance than I am now. This is what marrying a man ten years my junior has
done. Plus, Nathan isn't just any man; he's one who spends his days with
size-two girls who dream up romantic scenarios with him as the hero. Early in
our relationship Nathan confessed that quite a few of his students harbor
crushes on him, but that's just par for the course, he said. It's what young
teachers have to deal with.

I know he'd never take advantage of that; Nathan would
sooner die than do something that unethical. But still, most of these girls are
closer to his age than he is to mine. That's food for thought, if nothing else.

My reverie is broken by my phone ringing again.

I pick up. "Hi again, Dad."

"It's me, Sam." Through static and background
noise, I hear Jane's voice.

"Where are you calling from?"

"I'm in my car. I'm sorry to call so early, it's just
sort of an emergency…oh, crap!" A car horn blares. "Watch where you're
going, asswipe!" Jane yells. "Sorry, Sam. Are you still there?"

"Still here."

"That jerk just totally cut me off."

I try to make my tone light. "Maybe you shouldn't be
driving and talking on your cell phone at the same time?"

But my effort to speak diplomatically is wasted because she
snaps at me anyway. "Please don't give me that lecture again, okay? I
wouldn't have called if it wasn't an emergency. I… oh crap, hold on a second."

There's hushed swearing while I wait for the return of Jane's
phone voice. "Sam?" she says, after a moment.

"Yeah," I say. "Still here."

"Anyway, you'll never believe what happened. This
morning this woman from Milwaukee called. She saw our name on one of those
adoption lists, and she's having her baby in, like, two weeks. She wants to
interview Jake and me, because she's looking for a couple to give her baby to."

"That's great, Jane!"

"Yeah. But she wanted to meet today. No notice—I
guess giving up the baby is a split second decision, so I don't know how much
she can be trusted. But I'm driving to pick Jake up at work, and we're heading
out. Can you cover my class at the college for me?"

"Um, I guess. Am I qualified to do that?"

"You'll be fine. Just show them how to use the video-editing
equipment. You could do it in your sleep."

"Okay," I say, with more confidence than I feel.

"The class starts at three. You don't have to work
today?"

"Nope," I lie. "It's not a problem. Don't
worry about a thing, Jane. I've got everything covered."

"Thanks so much!"

I hear a knock at my door. Since when did I become in such
high demand? "Jane, I've got to go. Good luck, and drive carefully!"

She thanks me and hangs up. I go to look through the
peephole, and am horrified to see an unbearably familiar face, one that I know
better than my own.

Without opening the door, I shout, "Collin, what do you
want?"

He yells back, "I just need to check your stove, that's
all."

"Why do you need to check my stove? It's fine."

"Sam, I have a key. Either open the door or I'll let
myself in."

"Hold on." I run and throw on a pair of jeans and
sweatshirt over my nightshirt, not taking the time to put a bra on as well. I
cross my arms over my chest and hope nothing is too noticeable. I open the door
and there he is, looking how he always looks, sort of like an older,
bigger-nosed version of Orlando Bloom, but not like the strong, sexy guy in
Pirates of the Caribbean
. No, he's
rather like the defeated yet unfortunately cute loser of
Elizabethtown
. Collin is the manager of our apartment building, and
he's also the reason why I wound up in Shannon, Wisconsin, a small city perched
on Lake Michigan, a few hours away from my hometown of Chicago.

"Why do you need to check my oven? It's fine."

"Because 2G had a leak. If she hadn't noticed it in
time, the whole building could have blown up."

"So just because her oven was leaking gas you think all
of them are?"

"They're all old ovens, Sam. I don't think it's a good
idea to take chances." He grins. "Don't worry. I'm not making up
excuses to see you. Believe me, I've moved on."

"So have I," I remind him.

"Thank God for small miracles" he says, as he
moves past me into the kitchen. I follow him, and watch as he pulls out the
stove, then bends down to examine the pipes behind it. Without turning to look
at me he asks, "How's married life?"

"Great" I say. "Sorry you weren't invited to
the wedding. It was really small and quick."

"Hopefully you can't say the same about your husband."
He laughs at his own joke, while he raises himself up and pushes the oven back
against the wall. Then he starts to fiddle with the stove dials. "Anyway,
don't sweat it. I'm the last person you should have invited to your wedding.
Although… it would have been nice if you told me yourself, rather than just adding
his name to your lease."

I shift uncomfortably. "Sorry," I say. "I
guess I thought, after everything that's happened between us, you wouldn't
care."

He turns back around and his gray eyes squarely meet mine. "It's
because of everything that's happened between us that I will always care."

I look down, switch my weight and hug my arms closer to my
chest. "Is the stove okay?"

"Perfect," he says. Then without another word, he
strides out of my apartment, so quickly it makes me wonder if his entire visit
was a figment of my imagination, sort of like the questions you're left with at
the end of that terrible Tom Cruise movie. What was it? Oh yeah—
Vanilla Sky
. I hate it when movies leave
you wondering like that. If the entire story was supposed to be an invention of
the main character's thoughts or dreams, fine. But at least be clear about it
so the audience won't feel like they just wasted $10 and two hours of their
life.