BY THE TIME I swing through the teacher’s lounge to grab my lunch, I’ve nearly forgotten that Samantha Vine interrupted my class this morning. I definitely am not trying to identify the unique blend of aromatics she uses in her cosmetics and I am absolutely not picturing her each time I bring up gonads with my students.
I will admit to being even more of a growling beast than usual when I see Doug leaning against the refrigerator, smirking at me.
“Had a visitor this morning?” He slurps his PM coffee like a man who doesn’t care if it keeps him up past midnight.
“You brought her up to my classroom? In the middle of first period?”
“I did, yes.” Slurp.
“Come on, Doug. There are protocols for these things. Does she even have clearances? Did you at least take her by the office?”
Slurp.
“Why are you like this?”
He sets the coffee mug on the counter and steps away from the fridge door so I can lean in and snatch my lunch. I yank the bag free and slam myself down into the rickety chair next to the photocopier. Doug slowly crunches a carrot, the sound of his chewing seeming to echo off the floor. Finally, he squints at me. “AJ. Are you suggesting I should have left the CEO of a wealthy tech company—who has tried to offer some financial support to our public school students—on a hard, uncomfortable chair in the office?”
“Yes!” I fling my hands out to the side, but bang my elbow against the copier in the process. I should have just kept my stuff under my desk and eaten my warm lunch alone in my classroom, where I could scroll through online cat videos in peace.
Doug shakes his head. “She said she is the CEO of Vinea, and I know for a fact you were there the other day to ask them to sponsor a field trip. And, as a member of the English department, I would have enjoyed a silent day here at the school, alone with my thoughts, if our students got to embark upon a scientific adventure.”
I make a sound at him, one my colleagues have often described as a growl. “I’ll find you a famous author your students can visit instead,” I tell him, taking a huge bite of my sandwich. Cold meatloaf on white bread. Bubbie’s finest. Delicious.
Doug snorts out a laugh. “Yes, because you run in the same social circles with famous authors.” When I flip him the bird, Doug points a finger at me. “You know my wife’s sister Alice married a Stag. And you also know Emma and Thatcher Stag do a writing and glass-blowing workshop with the kids every winter. We’ve got the arts all settled.”
I actually forgot Doug’s wife had that link with local celebrities. I could continue arguing with him just to prove a point, but I don’t want to be petty. “Look, Doug, she implied our students aren’t qualified to visit her precious space with her fancy coffee and there’s no way I’m ever setting these kids up to feel less-than.”
He arches a brow at me. “What did she say?”
I try to recall her exact words, and when I can’t, Doug jumps in again. “She came here in person to apologize. The CEO of a company in the middle of some very public business dealings. That means something, AJ.” He shrugs and rinses his coffee mug before tucking it under his arm along with the remains of the bag of carrots. “Return her call. Let her woo the kids.”
He walks out of the room just as two fellow science teachers bustle in. I nod my head at my colleagues as I continue eating my sandwich. Leo slaps a worksheet on the copier and then turns to look at me, smirking even more annoyingly than Doug. “Heard you had a visitor.” He waggles his eyebrows.
“This is exactly like middle school,” I mutter around a mouthful of sandwich.
Heather laughs as she waits her turn for the copier. “Duh, AJ. But seriously, who the hell scares off a community partner looking to sponsor a field trip? I heard her say she’d even pay for bussing.”
I roll my eyes. “There’s no way you heard her say that in the middle of a class change.”
“Oh I heard it.” She points one tawny finger at me. “You know damn well this school has to scrimp to provide soap in the washrooms. Why would you deny these kids a flipping field trip with career exploration opportunities? Go back to your hidey hole right now and call her back before the bell.”
I sigh and set down my sandwich. “What exactly am I supposed to say to her?” I truly am hoping Leo and Heather have suggestions because when I think of talking to Samantha Vine, nothing remotely P-G comes to mind. And I can’t set myself up for that sort of thing. Not anymore.
Heather rolls her eyes and holds up her hand, pretending it’s a phone. In a mock deep voice, she says, “Hello? Ms. Vine? Yes, I can’t stop thinking about your offer and I’d be delighted to take you up on it. If you could just put me in touch with your admin team, we can coordinate the details post haste.” She mimes hanging up an old-school phone.
“Post haste?”
Leo taps his photocopies on the counter to straighten them and then hits me over the head with the stack as Heather steps up to the copier. “Come on, dude. Grow up. She apologized. She offered the kids a treat.” He leans back and studies me. “Is that a new sweater vest?”
I nod and tug at my collar.
Leo nods his approval and Heather starts chanting, “Call her now. Call her now.”
Eventually, I hurry out of the room just to get away from their meddling. They’re right, of course. Everything about the Vinea building suggested that Samantha is a person who considers the needs of others. Whatever she said yesterday that set me off was likely more about me being sensitive than her being malicious.
And I am sensitive. Maybe I’ve always been, but definitely since my last breakup. I believe the phrase Leo uses is “frayed nerve.” He keeps suggesting I see someone professionally. He’s probably right.
I lock the door to my classroom and pull out my phone, scrolling through to my missed calls. I clear my throat and tug at my collar again as I hit the green phone icon. She picks up after 2 rings. Shit.
“Excuse me?”
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Is this AJ? Mr. T?”
I clear my throat. “Yes. Hi. Hello. I’m sorry I swore at you. I thought it would go to voicemail.”
She laughs and I hate how much I enjoy the sound of it. “Well now we don’t have to play phone tag. What’s up?” It’s like her voice strikes some sort of perfect frequency that lines up the cells in my body. Nope. This will not do.
“I, uh, well, thank you for your offer to treat the students to an in-depth tour of your facilities. And to provide transportation.”
“Oooh, are you saying yes? This is terrific.” I hear a clicking sound and imaging her typing a rapid email off to an underling while we speak. Must be nice to have underlings…although there are enough people in my life reminding me I could have underlings, too, if I hadn’t chosen a life of “servitude.” “What sort of time frame were you thinking?”
“I, uh, wasn’t quite expecting us to work through the logistics right this minute.” My collar seems to be shrinking in the afternoon heat. I keep pulling it away from my wind pipe.
“Hmm, well I’d like to settle as many details as possible right now to avoid unnecessary back and forth. Much more efficient if we just hash it out, right?” She doesn’t give me time to respond. “You’ll need time for permission slips and such, right? So let’s look two weeks out. That’s mid-September. How’s the 17th?”
I shake my head. “No school that day. For Rosh Hashanah.”
“Oh, really? It’s late this year.”
“You’re familiar with Rosh Hashanah timing?” I’m not accustomed to people like Samantha knowing about Jewish traditions. I expected her to respond with some inane question about matzah. If I’m honest, I was hoping I’d get to tell her she had her holidays mixed up. It’s much easier for me if the women I’m attracted to show me their flaws right up front, so I know not to get attached.
She continues talking. “Mm hm. Lots of my employees use their flex holidays in September for the Days of Awe. Okay, well, how about Wednesday of that week?”
Days of Awe. This woman knows the lingo of my people. I gulp. “I guess that’s fine.”
“Wonderful! And how many students do you have?”
By the time Samantha Vine is done, I’ve agreed to let her team “craft” the permission form to include questions about dietary restrictions and access needs, and she vows to send a courier with printed forms by the end of the school day so we can distribute them at dismissal. She practically sings me off the phone and hangs up, leaving me staring at the phone in my hand as my fifth period students start jiggling the knob of my classroom door.