Just Like Me, Only Better (4 page)

I swallowed hard and played the poor-divorced-mom card. “It looks bad if Ben gets marked tardy on his days with me. I don’t like to give Hank’s lawyers any ammunition.”

Hank’s lawyer (there was only one) didn’t need or want ammunition. Hank and I had shared an overmortgaged tract house, a couple of credit cards, two cars. In the divorce, we split everything fifty-fifty only to discover that half of nothing is nothing. He gave me modest child support. Our son we shared willingly.

But Deborah took the bait. She craned her head forward, giving me an unwanted glimpse of her sun-spotted cleavage heaving above a gap in her bathrobe. “Is he making things difficult?” she asked breathlessly, fully prepared to repeat my every word to the other moms at Las Palmas Elementary.

“Not at the moment. But I have to be careful.” I dropped my eyes to Deborah’s Pergo floor. “So maybe you could drive Shaun and Shavonne? Just for today?”

“Oh! No!” She looked shocked. “What I mean is—look at me!”

Deborah was wearing what she wore every morning: a chunky yellow bathrobe, baggy Tweety bird pajama pants, worn blue velour slippers. Her overtreated red hair stood up at odd angles.

“You could use the drop-off lane,” I said. “No one needs to know.”

“
I’d
know,” she said with the smugness of a person who possesses all the power in a relationship. Somewhere in the house, a toilet flushed. “There’s Shavonne. See? You won’t be late.”

 

 

We were late. The tiny faculty lot was full, so I parked on a side street.

“You could’ve left us off at the school before you parked,” eleven-year-old Shavonne snarled. Next year she’d be in junior high, which Deborah had already remarked was “not that far out of the way.”

Ben’s teacher didn’t make him get a tardy slip (she’d had both Mott kids in her class and knew what I was up against), but when I went to pick up my teaching materials from the front office, Margery, the school secretary, said, “Just so you know, substitutes are required to check in at least fifteen minutes before the final bell.”

“It won’t happen again!” I chirped—a ridiculous statement, considering how often I was late.

Unlike so much in my life, teaching had been in the plans from the beginning. When I met Hank, I was a senior at Cal State Fullerton, just finishing up my degree. My days were spent student teaching in a second-grade classroom, my nights with Hank. It felt like the perfect life. But after graduation, instead of getting a teaching job, I got Ben. For a while, that felt like the perfect life, too. Now, all these years later, I was trying to find my way back to the classroom. Permanent positions didn’t open up at Las Palmas Elementary very often; I hoped subbing would help me get a foot in the door.

When the fifth-graders went to recess, I hurried up to the teacher’s lounge. Someone had brought pastries. I snagged a cheese Danish that was so sweet it made my tongue hurt.

“Good morning, Veronica. Whose class do you have today?” Gayle Fisk, the school principal, hesitated over the pastries for just a minute before plucking a bear claw. “I really shouldn’t,” she muttered before biting in.

“Mr. Jeffrey’s,” I said.

She nodded, chewing. “Lot of boys,” she said after swallowing.

“They were ready for recess,” I said. “All that energy. They’re good kids, though.”

She nodded and took another bite. My pastry was growing slippery in my hand.

“So Dr. Fisk . . .”

“Call me Gayle.”

“Gayle. Any idea if . . . Any chance that . . . Do you know if there will be any positions opening up next year?”

She rubbed some sugar off her mouth and sighed. “I don’t know, Veronica. It’s not looking good. I’d love to offer you something permanent, but I don’t think you should count on it.”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

“There are plenty of other good schools in town,” she said. “I’d be happy to provide a recommendation.”

“I’ll think about it. Thanks.” I forced a smile.

Of course I’d thought about applying to other schools, but then I’d end up with a whole new set of problems. Who’d take Ben to school? Who’d watch him afterwards? If I got a job at Las Palmas, we’d be on the same schedule. We’d have the same vacation days. It would be perfect. Unfortunately, perfection rarely worked out for me.

 

 

Nina caught up with me after school, as Ben and I were crossing the front lawn, Shaun and Shavonne trailing behind us.

“Veronica, Veronica, Veronica! Oh my GOD, you must hate me!” She was back in her normal clothes: pink T-shirt, denim jacket, khaki capris, sneakers.

“Hey,” I said.

“Can Carson come over to play?” Ben asked Nina.

I said, “Not today, Ben. Shaun and Shavonne’s cousins are coming over.”

One afternoon shortly after we’d moved into the guest cottage, Ben and Carson were happily bounding around the bushes playing superheroes when Deborah Mott knocked on my door and said, “When we have guests over, we’d really appreciate it if you could give us privacy in the yard.”

Carson, who was a head taller and thirty pounds heavier than Ben, came running up the lawn. “
Aaarrr
, matey!” It was a pirate day.

Ben held out his arm. “Stay back! Or I will zap you with my light saber!” Or maybe it was a
Star Wars
day. So maybe I’d let Ben watch a few too many DVDs. At least they inspired some imaginative play.

“She is evil,” Nina said, referring to Deborah.

I widened my eyes to indicate that evil Deborah’s evil children were standing right behind me.

“I can’t believe I let you pay for your dinner Saturday,” Nina said. “You must HATE me.”

“Oh, no,” I said, a bit too casually.

“I was just, you know. Really wasted.”

I widened my eyes again: evil children alert!

She didn’t catch it. “I felt like death yesterday. I can’t even remember the last time I had a hangover.” She reached into her purse and pulled out some bills. “Here. Happy birthday.”

Shaun and Shavonne were right next to me now, staring at the money. I felt like a beggar. A charity case.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, waving away the cash.

“Take it! It’s yours! I was supposed to take you out to dinner.” She tried to shove the bills into my purse.

I brushed her away. “
No
,” I said. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

She checked my face and then put the bills into her pocket. “So,” she said. “That Jay guy really didn’t take your number?”

“No.”

“Too bad. He was cute.”

 

 

He answered on the first ring. “What?”

“Is this . . . I’m trying to reach Jay Sharpie.” According to his business card, that was his name. I’d resolved not to make any jokes about permanent markers.

“This is Jay.” He sounded tense.

“This is Veronica Czaplicki. We met Saturday night. At the Ivy.”

There was a long, static-filled pause, after which he burst out, “Veronica! Yes! I’m so glad you called!”

“You mentioned a job opportunity,” I said.

He lowered his voice. “I’d like to tell you more about it, but not on the phone. Let’s meet,” he said. “Someplace where neither of us will run into anyone we know.”

“I really need to know what this is about.”

“I’m sorry!” His words came in a rush. “I don’t mean to be so mysterious, it’s just—there are privacy issues. Haley’s privacy, I mean. I’ll explain everything, just—not on the phone. Let me take you out to lunch. I’ll meet you anywhere you like. Whatever’s most convenient for you.”

I was curious, I had to admit. Besides: what harm could come from meeting him in public?

“Okay,” I said, finally. “Let’s meet in Fullerton.”

Jay made some kind of sound—a sigh or a groan. “I just . . . I don’t do Orange County. How about Hermosa Beach? That’s near you, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“I know this great little Cajun place there.”

“I really need to know what kind of job we’re talking about before I—”

“You win! I’ll come to Orange County.” You’d think he’d just agreed to pluck out an eyeball.

“Okay, then,” I said. “And just so we’re clear. When you ask me to lunch—does that mean you’re paying?”

 

 

 

I
t wasn’t until I walked into the La Habra Red Robin that I realized my mistake. Jay wanted me to look like Haley Rush—and at the Ivy I had. Today, though, I was wearing one of my favorite work outfits: a knee-length khaki skirt, a navy short-sleeved sweater, ballet flats. My hair was back in its usual ponytail, my makeup limited to beige lipstick and a touch of mascara. I looked like a substitute teacher from Fullerton. There’s no way I’d get this job—whatever it was.

When he saw me, Jay slid out of the booth and stood up. He clearly hadn’t wasted any time getting dressed, in faded Levi’s, a plain white T-shirt, and red Converse high-tops. I’ve known second-graders who dressed better.

“Veronica! Great to see you again. Thanks so much for taking the time to meet with me.” He was looking at me a little too intently, probably second-guessing his plans, whatever they were.

“No problem.” I put my Nine West purse on the bench opposite him and slid next to it. My purse was three years old, but it looked like it had only been around for two and a half.

“And thanks for choosing such a charming spot for lunch,” he said. On the wall behind him, there was an enormous flag made out of red, white, and blue baseballs.

I said, “Yeah, it’s comfortable—I like the booths—plus the parking’s easy. I don’t get out to eat much, so when I do, I like to go someplace I know will be good.”

When I saw the way he raised his eyebrows, I realized his comment had been sarcastic. Oh.

He sat back down, put his elbow on the table, and leaned his chin on his hand. “You look different today.”

I shrugged. “This is the real me. Sorry.” Why was I apologizing? Did he even know that he needed a haircut?

A waitress in a red polo shirt came bounding over. “Welcome to Red Robin! I’m Allison!”

When I ordered my iced tea, she looked at me a little too long and finally said it: “Are you . . . ?”

“No,” I said. “Sorry.”

“You’re used to this,” Jay said once she left, his hand still supporting his chin. “People thinking you’re Haley.”

“Kind of.” I opened my laminated menu and tried to remember whether I liked the fajitas here.

“Even though you’re not dressed like her at all.”

“I don’t get asked as much since she changed her hair color.”

“I always thought she looked better as a brunette,” he said.

I shrugged. What was I supposed to say to that?

Maybe I’d have a burger. They were good here. Why else would they have a giant neon sign that read, “World’s Greatest Gourmet Burger Maker”?

“Tell me about yourself, Veronica.”

I put the menu down. “I’m a substitute teacher. I live in Fullerton. I look like Haley Rush.”

“I knew all that already.”

What in the world was this about? He already had the real Haley Rush—what use could he possibly have for me? If only my computer were working, I would have Googled Jay Sharpie. But it had frozen up three months earlier, and I couldn’t afford the Geek Squad. When I was married, Hank was in charge of everything technical.

Our waitress came back with my iced tea, which she placed on a paper coaster. I ordered a chicken Caesar wrap. Jay asked whether the fish in the fish ’n’ chips was fresh or frozen. The reply: “Neither. It’s cooked.”

Jay ordered a salad. (“Dressing on the side.”)

“Are you married?” he asked.

This clearly wasn’t a date, so why did he care? “Are you?”

“No.”

“I’m divorced,” I told him.

“For how long?”

“What is this about?”

Jay blinked rapidly. He reached into a bag on the floor, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across the table. “I need you to sign this.”

It was a legal document. Words like
liability
and
confidentiality
leaped out at me.

I slid it back. “I don’t sign anything unless my lawyers review it first.” Of course, like Hank, I only had one lawyer, and she specialized in divorce.

Nonplussed, he moved the paper to one side, next to a bottle of ketchup and a plastic shaker of Red Robin seasoning. “How long have you lived in . . . What was the name of your town again?” he asked.

“Fullerton. It’s the next town over from here, but this was closer to the highway. Why do you want to know?”

He smiled, and his brown eyes crinkled in a way that made him look much nicer than he probably was. “Would you rather ask the questions?”

“Sure. How long have you been Haley Rush’s manager?”

His eyes de-crinkled, and he muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “too long” before saying, “Four years.”

“So a manager . . . is that like an agent?”

He shook his head. “She has an agent, too—someone who negotiates the business deals. I’m more involved with the day-today aspects of her career: her public appearances and projects, her licensing arrangements, her long-term artistic goals. . . .”

“Her frozen yogurt.”

I expected him to smile. He didn’t.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“You first.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m thirty.”

“You look thirty.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?”

I shrugged. “I thought that in Hollywood if you looked thirty you were actually fifty-five.”

“I’m not fifty-five. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Twenty-nine,” I said.

“For real?”

“Yes. Though I may remain twenty-nine for the next few years.”

That was a joke (and not a terribly original one). In truth, I couldn’t wait to hit thirty so I wouldn’t have to listen to the other mothers saying, “I can’t believe you’re so
young
.”