Read Between the Lines (28 page)

Ms. Lindsay had closed her eyes and pressed her temples with the same three fingers. Her head had started to throb.

“If only they’d listen to me,” Ms. Lindsay confided to Betsy. “But it’s all I can do to keep them quiet, much less absorb anything I have to say.”

“Tell them to shut the fuck up,” Betsy said, sending another speck of green jetting across their tall bar table. Why were tables at bars always so uncomfortable? They were sitting on tall stools, and Ms. Lindsay felt that one more glass of wine and she’d be at a very high risk of toppling to the floor.

“That’s what we should all do,” Betsy continued. “You need to tell them who’s boss, Lynnette.”

Ms. Lindsay cringed. She hated the sound of her full name. No one called her that. They called her Lynne. Lynne Lindsay. It was a ridiculous name, but Lynnette was even worse. Unfortunately, Betsy thought her name was amusing and old-fashioned and couldn’t seem to stop saying it. Now it was her little joke, which Ms. Lindsay never thought was funny.

“I swear one day I will,” Betsy said. “I don’t care if I get fired.”

“Yes, you do,” Ms. Lindsay said, bored of hearing it all again. “We all do. That’s why nothing changes.”

“You’re such a downer,” Betsy said. She pushed the rest of her salad to the middle of her plate with her fork and scooped up the last heaving mouthful.

Ms. Lindsay sipped her expensive glass of wine. It was a label the waiter had suggested. Kim Crawford. He had winked at her when she took her first sip. Ms. Lindsay wondered blankly who Kim Crawford was. She imagined Ms. Crawford’s life was far more interesting than her own.

As soon as he left the table, Betsy said their waiter was gay. Why, Ms. Lindsay wondered, were so many people obsessed with people’s sexuality?

“By the way,” Betsy said, leaning closer, “you haven’t told me how your date with the janitor was last night.” She made a disapproving face.

When Ms. Lindsay had told her that he’d asked her out, Betsy had roared with laughter. This response alone made Ms. Lindsay tell him yes.

That was a mistake.

Ms. Lindsay shrugged. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said. She really did not want to relive that night.

“Oh, come on,” Betsy had pressed. “Did you hook up?”

“No! God, no.”

“Where did you eat?”

“A little Italian place in the city.”

“Well,
that
sounds romantic.”

Ms. Lindsay had thought so, too. When he told her where to meet, she’d immediately looked up the restaurant’s website and scoured the menu.

They’d sat at a tiny table with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Ms. Lindsay thought it mostly
was
romantic, at least at first. She kept thinking about the scene from a Disney movie she’d loved as a child. What was it? There were dogs, she remembered. And they were eating pasta at a little table, just like this. It had a checkered tablecloth too. But they were eating from the same bowl. Spaghetti. And at one point they were eating from different ends of the same piece, and as they kept slurping the string, their snouts got closer and closer to each other and then they kissed. Or touched noses. Dogs don’t really kiss.
Lady and the Tramp.
That’s what it was called.

Thinking of the dogs, Ms. Lindsay had looked up at Jared French’s nose and wondered what it would be like to kiss him. His nose wasn’t too bad. Not too big. It probably wouldn’t get in the way. She wasn’t sure about the beard though. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it, even though it was thin and seemed carefully trimmed. It was almost
too
trimmed. And it was . . . well, it was weird. He had what was sort of a goatee, but he also had a little square patch of hair under his bottom lip. It bothered her.

She recalled the term
soul patch
and wondered if that’s what it was. She studied him, wondering about his soul. But she was having trouble getting past the beard. She’d never kissed someone with a beard. Actually, she hadn’t had much practice in the kissing department at all lately.

Ms. Lindsay was shy. She was also picky. She hadn’t had many dating opportunities since she started teaching full-time, and she’d been beginning to feel lonely. Even so, her first reaction to Jared’s invitation was
no.
She’d said she would get back to him so she could think about it. Then she’d gone to get Betsy’s advice and was so bothered by her reaction, she’d decided to say yes.

“He doesn’t drink,” Ms. Lindsay confided in Betsy, who was sipping her third Cadillac margarita. This concoction, Betsy explained, was a margarita with an extra shot of Grand Marnier. Like two drinks in one. Ms. Lindsay had done the math and was surprised Betsy was still able to balance on the bar stool.

Betsy choked on her Cadillac. “Why not?”

“He’s a recovering alcoholic.”

“You don’t say.”

“We spent most of the night talking about it,” Ms. Lindsay explained. “He’s had a pretty tough life. I asked him what made him get sober, and do you know what he said?”

Betsy waited.

“He hit a deer with his car. He was driving drunk and hit it. And then he left the scene without seeing if it was dead or alive.”

“
That’s
what sobered him up?” Betsy asked incredulously. “Either that guy is the most sensitive bastard on earth or he’s lying.”

Ms. Lindsay nodded. As she recalled the conversation, she remembered thinking something similar. In fact, as she listened to him go on and on as if she were his AA sponsor, she almost had the sense that Jared hadn’t been talking about hitting a deer at all. He talked about it as if he’d done something far worse and uncommon. “I’ve never told anyone this before,” he said quietly. “I don’t know why I’m telling you. I probably shouldn’t.” It had made her feel uncomfortable. Scared, even.

“She left behind a child,” he told her. Ms. Lindsay asked if he meant a fawn, and he looked confused. “Yes. A fawn. You . . . you remind me of her.” Ms. Lindsay looked confused again. She reminded him of a fawn? Well, she did have big eyes. She smiled awkwardly at the strange compliment. But Jared only seemed to be getting more agitated. At this point Ms. Lindsay wondered if Jared French was on medication. He was so upset. So confused. “Why am I telling you this?” he kept asking. He had stopped being able to look at her. And that was when Ms. Lindsay suggested they call it a night.

“Did you pay or go dutch?” Betsy asked, not nearly as disturbed by the story as Ms. Lindsay had been.

“Dutch.”

“Figures.”

“Well, I probably make more than him, so it’s only fair. Plus, I had a glass of wine.”

“How insensitive!” Betsy had covered her mouth in mock disapproval.

“I ordered it before I knew he didn’t drink!” Ms. Lindsay protested. “I ended up having one sip. It was so awkward. We paid and went our separate ways.”

“What will you do on Monday?”

“Try to avoid him.”

Betsy shook her head. “I told you not to go.”

Ms. Lindsay did not argue. She also didn’t mention the awkward good-bye she’d had with him when they went outside. They’d stood under the streetlight, both probably wondering how to end it. In the light, she’d noticed a crumb of Italian bread in his beard patch. She hoped it would fall out before he discovered it himself, when he went to brush his teeth and get ready for bed that evening. She wondered what his reaction would be at the discovery. Would he laugh? Blush? Be horrified? She wasn’t sure.

She said good night and thank you. And he apologized for going on and on about his own problems and not asking her much about herself, though he still couldn’t seem to look at her.

“Oh, me, I’m boring,” she’d said.

She reached out to shake his hand, which felt like a stupid thing to do, but she didn’t want to kiss him, that was certain. But instead of taking her hand, he moved out of the way and said good night, rushing down the sidewalk.

It was such a strange moment, Ms. Lindsay didn’t even know how to retell it. And besides, she didn’t want to share the “boring” comment with Betsy, who would surely agree.

“What exciting lives we lead,” Betsy said, signaling for the check.

The waiter, who was decidedly not gay, divided their bill. Ms. Lindsay did not tell Betsy he’d written his phone number on her customer copy. And while she wondered, just briefly, if he’d done the same on Betsy’s bill, she quickly dismissed the thought. She was sure Betsy would have pointed it out.

“See you on Monday with the beasts,” Betsy had said when they parted ways outside.

“Don’t remind me,” Ms. Lindsay replied.

“Little fuckers,” she heard Betsy mutter as she walked away.

On the way home, Ms. Lindsay stopped at the liquor outlet and bought a bottle of pinot noir from the sale display. She put on her pajamas, opened her laptop, and watched a movie in bed.

It was not the best girls’ night out.

It never was.

And then on Monday there she was, barely making it through the day, and certainly not the start of sixth period. Ms. Lindsay had sighed and looked at the clock. She had two more minutes before the students would come pushing through the door. She wasn’t sure why she’d been thinking about her dinner with Betsy Yung. It wasn’t particularly eye-opening and certainly wasn’t inspiring. But maybe that was just it. When she got home that night, she had promised herself she would not turn into Betsy. She would not. She would not be bitter. She had also decided to be on the lookout for Jared French today and try to be friendly. But so far, he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was the one avoiding her. Either way. She was going to be kind. Positive.

That was her plan. This morning, she had tried to feel hopeful. She got up early so she could take an extra-long shower. She carefully lathered her hair with her awapuhi shampoo that smelled like Hawaii, which was the only tropical place she’d ever visited. She had been eleven and still young enough for her wealthy grandmother to think she was cute and a nice thing to take along with her on vacations to impress her other elderly friends. Tiny Lynnette (she allowed her grandmother to call her this because she loved her) had spent most of the week by herself, wandering around the hotel pool while her grandmother played cards with two old men she’d met. “This is Lynn-ette,” her grandmother told them.

“Ligh-net?” one man had asked in a horrible southern drawl.

“Goodness, no.
Lynn
-ette.
LYNN!
Just for that horrible pronunciation, you will buy me a drink.”

Lynn
-ette never forgot the smell in the air as she walked past the plants and shrubs lining the pathways at the hotel. That sweet, pungent smell of flowers and nectar. And the beautiful poolside bartender who smiled at her in a sexy way and made her feel attractive for the first time in her life. Even if she had only been eleven. She wondered how old he was. Maybe in his early twenties? It wasn’t so wrong of him, was it? It was the best vacation of her life. As soon as she was hired for this full-time job, she’d started saving to return, though her grandmother had died years ago. She didn’t mind planning a trip alone. Maybe that bartender would still be there. She could dream. What else was there?

She looked at the clock again. Twenty seconds. She thought of the bartender’s hungry smile, but to her dismay his face quickly morphed into Jared’s, with the bread crumb in his beard. She wasn’t going to allow herself to think about their date, and here she was, already remembering again.
Jared.
She shuddered. What was she thinking?

She took another calming breath, but it didn’t help. She felt the fear building so strongly, her heart began to race. It pounded and hurt with each beat.

It was time.

The students filed in, pushing each other from one seat to another. Joking. Laughing. Checking out what she was wearing without even trying not to be obvious. Ms. Lindsay cowered behind her desk, ashamed.

As usual, she lost her positive outlook three minutes into class.

The chaos only built.

Tanner G. leaned forward and flicked Tanner F.’s ear with his finger, turning it purple-red. Tanner F. tried not to cry. Ms. Lindsay cleared her throat and was ignored. She took more slow deep breaths and thought of Betsy’s words. For the first time she looked out at her students and thought the vile phrase.
Little fuckers.

She didn’t want to feel that way about them. She wanted to love them. But as Alicia Crowley pushed her chest out at Max Findlay, who reached forward and pretended he was going to pinch her nipples, Ms. Lindsay decided enough was enough.

“Quiet!” she yelled. Her heart was really racing now, and she wondered what it would take to have a heart attack. She could feel it out-beating the second hand on the big wall clock by four to one. Her students looked at her and waited. She breathed and felt her chest rise up and down, then caught Cal Hogan staring at her breasts, which, she realized, could easily be thought of as “heaving.”

“We’re going to try something different today,” she said, trying to sound stern. Serious. Her eyes moved from face to face. She thought she saw Sapphie Lewis roll her eyes, but it was hard to get a good look at her face — hidden, as always, under the hood of her sweatshirt. Keith Sears studied her thoughtfully, as if he sincerely cared what this something different would be. At least one of them cared, she thought.