Mystic Summer (10 page)

My good day only lasts so long. After the final bell, just as I'm putting on my coat to walk out the door, Mrs. Coates pokes her head in my room. “Do you have a moment? The dean needs you.”

I'm supposed to meet Evan for a key lime martini and shrimp tacos at one of our favorite bistros, a few blocks over. It's the one night this week that he has time off, and I will not miss it.

John meets me in the doorway of his office. I peer inside, where two people are already seated, backs to me. “I'm sorry to disturb you,” he whispers. “It's the Perrys.”

Inside Ainsley Perry fixes me with a flat look and extends a limp hand. I actually have to take another step forward to shake
it with my own, which at this point is sweating. Her husband barely glances up from his iPhone.

“Shall we get started?” John asks.

I glance desperately at the ancient air-conditioning unit in John's window, which is inexplicably turned off. Are these people cold-blooded? I mop my brow.

John addresses the Perrys. “As you know, we are here to discuss an incident that took place last week.”

Mrs. Perry ignores this. “This harmless incident is borne of Horatio's boredom in Miss Griffin's class. Horatio is a gifted child and Miss Griffin is not meeting his needs. I am here to advocate for my son's gift-ed-ness.” She clips each syllable sharply.

John politely starts waffling through the deep pile of papers in Horatio's student folder. Horatio does not demonstrate gift-ed-ness. Not nearly. Though I'd happily argue Horatio's other 'nesses—meanness, tardiness, sneakiness . . .

John folds his hands. “I wouldn't qualify this act as harmless, Mrs. Perry. As you can imagine, Miss Griffin was rather upset about this incident. Horatio not only frightened her with his use of fake blood . . .”

“Ketchup,” Mr. Perry interjects, not looking up from his iPhone.

John glances at him. “Horatio also made an accusation that Miss Griffin physically harmed him.” Now it's John's turn to clear his throat. “Which we do not take lightly. What Horatio did was disruptive. It interrupted the class, the office, and brought the school nurse to the classroom. Seeing what appears to be a bloody accident can be traumatic for other children.”

“Did you receive complaints from other parents?” Mrs. Perry asks, arching one overplucked eyebrow.

John pauses. “Not as of yet.” He looks to me.

I have to shake my head.

“So your claim about other children being traumatized is invalid.”

“Mrs. Perry—”

“And the fact that Miss Griffin is unable to keep my son engaged in meaningful activity so that he has to resort to such creative means of entertaining himself only proves my initial point.”

Creative means?

The Perrys have stolen the ball and are storming the end zone. John pauses a beat, but races to intercept. “I think that ‘disruptive' would be a more accurate description of Horatio's behavior on the day in question,” John says.

“A subjective term,” Mrs. Perry says dismissively.

“I see a pattern that I can no longer ignore,” John says firmly.

Here it is. I hold my breath.

“We are failing to hold Horatio accountable.”

Mrs. Perry gasps.

“Allowing Horatio to continually get away with this sort of behavior is only encouraging him to repeat it. And that is the only disservice I see here.”

Touchdown!

“I recommend that Horatio write a letter of apology to Miss Griffin and to the class, to be delivered tomorrow morning. Given his fondness of ketchup, he will also miss recess this week and will instead help the cafeteria staff wipe down the tables after lunch.”

“He will do no such thing,” Mrs. Perry declares. “It's the last week of school!”

Mr. Perry, whom I'd completely forgotten about until now, stands. “For the
record, I disagree with this decision. But I have a meeting to get to.”

“But Richard, are we going to stand for this?” Mrs. Perry glares at Mr. Perry, but he's already halfway through the door. Her eyes flash. “This conversation is not over.”

With that she snatches her purse and stalks after her husband. I watch from the office window as they veer down the sidewalk outside and wordlessly pivot in opposite directions, she to a silver Jag, he to a red Audi TT. Neither offers so much as a wave goodbye to the other. And there, I see, lies a big part of Horatio's problems.

“There's something else I want to talk to you about,” John says, returning to his seat. I glance at the wall clock. “You're aware of the board of directors' budget cuts for next year?”

I flash back to the yellow notice in my teacher mailbox. “Yes. I heard that they might be cutting some of the arts programs? I think it's terrible.”

John shakes his head. “We're hoping to avoid that. However, with the decline in enrollment, and the small class size of this year's third grade, I'm afraid the population doesn't justify our current staffing.”

This year's third graders are supposed to be my fourth graders next year. I stand up.

“As you know, if cuts have to be made, our policy is that we start with the most recently hired.”

My mind races. The most recent hire was our kindergarten teacher, Melinda, I remind myself. Which would mean she would be the first to be let go. Which also means I would have to step down to fill kindergarten. I sigh inwardly. There is nothing a teacher likes less than being forced to move to a different
grade level. I'll have to learn a whole new curriculum. The kids won't be able to tie their shoes, let alone read the novels I love to teach. But at least I'll still have a position. “So you'll be needing me to move to kindergarten?”

John sighs. “I'm sorry, Maggie. But it looks like the board is considering making two full-time cuts this year. Which means not only Melinda's position, but yours, too.”

I sit back down. John is saying something about hiring policy and student enrollment, but I cannot make sense of it. All I can think about is my desk, with the African violet and the hand-painted sign:
Welcome to Miss Griffin's class!

“Nothing has been decided yet,” John says, emphatically. “So let's sit tight for now. But I wanted you to be aware so that you're prepared for whatever the outcome may be.”

“There aren't any other places to make cuts? Field trips? Curriculum training?”

John shakes his head solemnly. “We've already pared it down in every place possible. I want to assure you of that.”

I stare past John to his bookshelves. There are several framed photos of his family. One in particular stands out: John, his two sons in matching khaki pants and pale-blue button-downs, and his wife in a seersucker dress, stand together in front of the ocean. The late day sun on their hair is as golden as the sand beneath their bare feet. Suddenly I want to go home. I want to go home to Mystic.

I stand up. “Thank you. Is there anything else?”

John looks confused. “No. That's all.” His expression softens in a paternal, off-the-record kind of way. “Maggie, if it comes to cutting positions, you know I'll write you a strong reference and make some calls—whatever you need.”

“Thank you.” I look at the clock. It's after five.

Outside, the rain has stopped and the air is balmy for a late-spring day. I will not miss my date with Evan. I text him that I'm running late and break into a jog through the Friday sidewalk traffic, dodging irritated clots of people. When I finally rush through the restaurant doors, the air-conditioning is a jolt against my sweaty skin. The bar is crowded with happy-hour patrons. But Evan is not one of them. Desperate, I scan the tables.

I pull out my phone. “Sorry I missed you, Mag. I got called back to set. Ask the bartender for your drink—it's waiting for you. Cheers.”

As promised, the bartender has my key lime martini. I slump onto the only free stool between two businessmen. Cheers, indeed.

The second I walk into our apartment, I know my bad day is not yet over.

Erika is sitting on the couch, surrounded by her pink wedding folders. Sobbing.

“What's wrong?” I ask, dumping my bag on the carpet.

“They canceled the wedding!”

“Who did? Trent?” My mind spins trying to make sense of what she's saying.

She picks up a brochure and thrusts it under my nose. “They've got black mold!”

The Century Club is an upscale venue in the heart of the city, where Erika and Trent are having their reception. She's only dragged me there about a dozen times to walk the ballroom and
hem and haw over color schemes. And table arrangements. And the location for the cake.

“When did this happen?”

She points at the answering machine across the room, as if identifying the perpetrator. “Just now!”

I push the pile of used tissues off the couch and sit beside her.

“Did they offer to make other arrangements? Or help you relocate to a new venue?”

She shakes her head angrily. “No. The contract says that in the event of any problem with the property, they'll give us a refund. But that's it.” Her voice breaks and she falls into another chorus of sobs.

“Oh, Erika.” Listening to her cry, I decide to keep my own bad news to myself for now.

“Everything's a mess. There's not a place in the city that can do it on this short notice.”

“And there's no help at all from the club?” Given all the boasting Trent's father seemed to do about their family lineage, you'd think he'd have more pull.

“The best they offered was a date change. For the fall.” She says the word like it's monsoon season.

I try to put a positive spin on this. “Actually, a lot of brides choose to get married in the fall. You've got the leaves changing color and the weather is still nice. Not nearly as hot as July. What does Trent say?”

At this, Erika hops off the couch, her eyes flashing. “Trent suggested we change the date. Can you believe it?”

I can, actually. And given the circumstances, I have to agree. “Maybe you should consider it. After all, the invitations haven't been sent out yet.”

“I have chosen a
summer
dress. I have chosen
summer
colors.” She smacks her forehead dramatically. “Even the menu is
summer
.”

“What did the planner say to do?” I try to remember the woman's name—but I can't recall anything beyond her sharp black bob and red lipstick. I thought it silly that Erika had to get on a waiting list just to retain her, but surely she was used to dealing with these sorts of crises.

Erika scoffs. “Maribelle quit.”

“What? Isn't she supposed to be one of the best planners in the metro area?”

“Well, I sort of let her go.”

“Erika, why? You need her now more than ever!”

Erika sniffs. “Because she also suggested a date change. Which I will not do.”

I flop on the couch. “Who are you going to hire?”

“No one. It's too late. Besides, we don't need anyone. We have impeccable taste. We can do this.”

“Wait.
We?
”

Her voice begins to waver. “If only we can find another place to do it.”

I hand her the tissue box. “Don't worry. There's got to be another venue.” My mind races, thinking of the reception sites we'd toured.

“The Lenox?”

“Booked.”

“Copley?”

“That was Peyton's.”

“Remember you guys loved the idea of the Boston Library?”

Erika shakes her head. “Trent's mom already called. She's
been on the phone all day. So has mine. They're both freaking out.”

There is a knock at the door, and no sooner have I unlocked it than Peyton bursts in with an oversize Tiffany-blue box. She rushes past me to Erika and the two embrace.

“You poor baby!” Peyton sets the box on the table and with one hand removes a carry-out carton of two coffees, and with the other, a bottle of wine.

“Caffeine or alcohol?”

Predictably, Erika points to the bottle. Well, I could've told her that. Peyton looks at me meaningfully.

“What?”

“Wineglasses.” She looks impatient.

“Oh, right.” I turn for the kitchen but Peyton brushes past me.

“I've got it. I need a bottle opener, too.” Her efficiency in my own place wears on me. She returns with two wineglasses and hands one to Erika. Am I invisible? Peyton pops the cork matter-of-factly and pours. She watches as Erika takes a big gulp, like a nurse administering cough syrup. “Better?”

Erika nods gratefully.

“I've brought the binder.”

“Oh, thank God.” Erika looks relieved.

“What binder?”

They both stare back at me. “Peyton's wedding binder,” Erika says. As if this is something everyone should already know.

“Oh.” I watch as Peyton reaches into the bottom of her magic blue box and plucks a large embossed book from its depths. “How much stuff did you bring?” I joke, peering over her shoulder. But no one laughs.