Surprise
The one silver lining of being forced to miss work in order to attend a mandatory meeting, for which I gave up most of my Saturday and possibly ruined my relationship with Michael, is that I don’t have to be at the district office until nine-thirty. I sleep in luxuriously late. I’m so happy that I take Preston for a long walk, make waffles for breakfast, and get a latte on the way to the meeting. Sure I’m five minutes late, but this treat is probably going to be the highlight of my day.
Stepping inside the foyer of the district office, which has all the warmth of a block of ice, is always a terror inducing experience. Clutching the hot cup with both hands I follow the signs to the lifeless, gray conference room. Thankfully there’s a seat in the back row, and I slide in unnoticed. I’ve never understood the logic behind taking me out of the classroom to do a training session, rather than scheduling it for after school and spreading it out over a few days. At least I had time to grab a hot drink.
“Good morning, teachers. We have a wonderful and informative day planned, but first, let’s get to know each other a little better. Turn to the person on your left and introduce yourself.”
Let the torture begin. Reluctantly, I turn.
“Hi, I’m Sarah. This is my first year teaching. I’m super excited to be here,” says the fresh faced woman to my left.
“Yes, you are. I’m Poppy. I teach fourth grade, and I’m not excited to be here,” I say.
“Why not? It seems super fun. We get to learn something new and meet other teachers. What’s not to love?”
“I think a training session about the new attendance system that isn’t even going to be in place until next year is unnecessary. And I’d rather be with my class.”
“Oh, me too, but I as long as we’re here we might as well make some lemonade,” she says.
“I’d rather make lemon drop martinis,” I reply, glancing around the room for another seat. I don’t want to be stuck doing team building exercises with Miss Sunshine all day. The auditorium’s full, unless I want to sit up front. I don’t.
At noon we’re finally dismissed for lunch. I forgot how brutal it is to sit still for hours learning about something totally irrelevant and boring. I’ll give my students a break the next time they’re restless; I know I had a difficult time paying attention the entire morning. We’re herded into the lounge where a sandwich buffet, that actually looks edible, has been setup.
“I thought that would never end. Why do we need to devote an entire day to learning about a simple program? It’s not like this is the Stone Age and none of us have used a computer before,” I say to the teacher behind me in line. She glares at me. “At least they’re feeding us, right? They’re probably trying to lull us into a food coma for the boring sections,” I say, trying to find the lemonade in this situation.
“I found it informative. We need a new attendance system, and some of us are not as skilled at computing as others,” she replies, stiffly turning away.
Did she just say computing? Wow.
There are times in my life where I feel like I truly don’t belong, at the gym, or last Friday at the lingerie shop. I can deal with that, but it’s always an unnerving and uncomfortable experience when I feel like I don’t belong at a work function. Why are they all so excited about this seminar, and more importantly, why am I so resistant? I wonder if I can slip out early.
****
After my beautifully late start yesterday, the alarm sounds like a siren this morning. It’s not like I haven’t been doing this for four years. It shouldn’t be this hard to get going in the morning, I think, schlepping off to the shower. The steaming hot water wakes me up enough to be coherent, but not efficient; it takes me twice as long to get ready. I jump the curb into the parking lot just as the first bell is ringing. Mrs. Vickerson isn’t there to mark it against me.
I scramble up the walkway before the tardy bell. “Phew that was close,” I say, opening the classroom door. The students scamper in and start their morning routine.
“Dylan. I am not going to play Free Bird today, please finish up the morning work on the board,” I say, failing to mention that with these new nails anything beyond simple strumming is still out of the question.
****
The day flies by and I find myself wishing each day were this easy. I hope it’s a good omen for baking class.
“The bell is going to ring in two minutes. If you are all packed up and standing by your chair I’ll let you go one minute early.”
They franticly scramble about the room, stuffing their backpacks and desks with papers, books, and tonight's homework.
Looking around the room, I briefly check under all the desks, and release them. I start my after-school routine in hyper drive, determined to arrive at baking class a few minutes early. The spelling pretests I can grade later… we’ll go over this homework in class, I think, sorting all the piles on my desk. Perfect, I’m done with time to spare before baking class.
“Mrs. Vickerson,” I say, looking up from the desk, “and Mrs. Clarke. Welcome.” This cannot be good.
“Ms. Rodriguez, I assume you were not leaving? As per your contract, you are required to be here one half hour before school begins, and one half hour after school ends. Minimum. We’ve had this discussion before, have we not?”
“I wasn’t going anywhere,” I say, dropping my purse behind my desk.
“Wonderful, Mrs. Clarke and I would like to review your lesson plans for the science project. She expressed some concerns over your preparation. You do have this information available.” Silence. Two pairs of beady eyes stare at me accusingly.
“Yes, of course. Let me find the brochure.” I start rummaging around my desk and gigantic bag, but it’s nowhere.
“This?” Mrs. Clarke says holding up the planetarium brochure.
“Yes, that’s it.”
“This is not a lesson plan,” she replies.
I can feel the sweat seeping through the armpit of my shirt. “I am aware of that, but since I’ve shut down my computer I don’t have anything else to give you at the moment.”
“We’ll wait for you to turn on your computer and print out your lesson plan.”
“Why wait for my ancient computer to start up when I can have it in your box before school tomorrow morning?” I say.
“If you must,” Mrs. Vickerson says, with a sigh.
A look of disappointment registers across Mrs. Clarke’s face as they turn to leave.
“Thank you for taking such an active interest in our project, Mrs. Vickerson,” I say, as they walk out, huddled together, deep in conspiratorial conversation.
After waiting ten minutes, I gather my purse, peek out the door, and make a dash for the parking lot. It’s five after. I’m late for baking class. I’ve been looking forward to this day since last Tuesday and I will not let two dried up old witches ruin it for me, I think, clutching the rose I bought for Michael, as a thank you for fixing the copy beast.
“There’s a surprise for you back there,” Dominique says, as I reach the swinging door to the kitchen, which is usually propped open with a sack of flour.
“Seriously? Thanks, Dominique,” I say, eagerly pushing the door open. I freeze mid-step. The door swings back and slams into my face. “Ow!”
The entire class turns around, and stares at me.
Michael is at the small front table, as usual, only he isn’t alone. There’s a slender, exotic looking woman, with long black hair, green eyes, and caramel skin next to him — in my spot. He looks at me and gauges my reaction, waiting for me to make a scene.
“Uh,” I blurt out, doubling over to tie my shoes, feeling like I was punched in the gut.
There’s a seven year old girl with long, wavy, black hair, and brilliant blue eyes, skipping between the two rows of tables. She is the perfect combination of Michael and the exotic woman.
Before I know it the woman is by my side. “Are you all right? Do you need to sit down? Can I get you some water?” she says. “Is that for us?” she asks, reaching for Michael’s rose.
“No,” I reply quickly, pulling the rose in close to my chest. “I didn’t want it to wilt in the car. It’s… from my student. Sorry for being late. I had a run-in with my principal.”
“We totally understand. It’s not a problem at all. I’m Angelica Borchard, and you must be Poppy. Michael’s told me so much about you.”
“Seriously?” I say, stunned. I look at Michael, but he is conveniently ignoring us. “I mean that’s sweet.” I feel like the biggest idiot right now.
“We have a place all set up for you right here,” she says, guiding me to the end of the long stainless steel table where Michael and I had our icing fight. My new partner, a petite third grader named Clarissa, is staring ominously into the mixing bowl.
“Having some trouble?” Angelica asks. “Let’s just dump this out and start over.” She cheerily whisks away the bowl.
“I don’t get it,” Clarissa says looking up at me.
“I don’t either,” I say, looking straight ahead at Michael.
Clarissa gives an exasperated sigh that communicates her frustration with getting me, the only inept adult in the room, for a partner.
“I’ll help you catch up,” Angelica says, setting down a clean mixing bowl and fresh ingredients.
Michael is showing his daughter how to crack an egg one-handed. They look so adorable together. I think I might vomit right in the mixing bowl.
“Poppy, did you hear me?” Angelica asks, tapping me on the shoulder.
I snap my attention back to the mixing bowl.
“We’re making angel food cake, with homemade whipped cream. Yummy right? Michael made it for our first date,” she says.
I just stare at her blankly.
“You know angel food cake, angel-ica,” she says, pausing between the second and third syllable, like I’m some kind of imbecile.
I wonder what he’d bring on our first date, opium?
“I’ve been dying for him to teach our daughter, Skylar, how to make it. Being a teacher I’m sure you can appreciate how important it is to pass down family traditions,” she says, expertly measuring out the ingredients, pausing every so often to smile at Michael and Skylar. “When I found out what today’s lesson was we just had to come and be a part of it. Poppy, would you mind separating the eggs?” she asks, pushing a large bowl filled with gleaming white eggs in my direction.
I smile halfheartedly and pick up the smooth egg, crack it against the table, dump the slimy contents out into my left hand and allow the clear goo to slide between my fingers.
Angelica furrows her slender, high arched brows and wrinkles her nose. “Once you finish separating the eggs you’ll be all caught up,” she says, walking away to join her husband and daughter. They look like the perfect family.
“Fold the flour slowly into your mixture, just a little at a time. We want this to remain fluffy,” Michael says.
I let Clarissa sprinkle small amounts of flour into the mixture as I gently fold it in with the spatula. Then it’s time for the electric mixer. I lower the beaters. Clarissa presses high before I notice because I’m too preoccupied watching Michael. We’re instantly splattered with batter. I fumble for the off switch and laugh.
“Good job. Here,” I say, handing Clarissa a towel for her splattered face.
“When the batter is completely blended divide the batter between the two pans, and bring them to me at the ovens,” Michael says.
I pour out our batter into the respective pans and wait my turn in the oven line. Michael is beside me setting two cakes into the bottom rack. Angelica is perilously close behind him.
“I can explain,” he whispers.
Holding up my hand I walk away, though it kills me to do it.
Angelica has taken over giving whipped cream instructions, as Michael helps customers in the front of the store so Dominique can leave early, again. Evil, evil, girl, I think, as she breezes past me to hang up her apron and get her purse, stopping briefly to hug Skylar and say goodbye to Angelica. I detect the hint of a satisfied smirk, but it could be my imagination.
“Bye,” she calls from the doorway, with a deliberate glance in my direction.
She did do it on purpose! I bet she called Angelica and told her today was Angel Food Cake day. “What a conniving brat,” I say under my breath; luckily all the mixers are on so no one can hear me. Seriously why would anyone do this by hand when you can just buy a can of whipped cream? I think, annoyed.
Once we’ve poured the whipped cream into our take-home containers, I volunteer to help clean up. It’s better than having to make small talk with Angelica, or listening to Michael’s lame explanation. Thirty-five agonizing minutes later the timer dings and I rush to the oven to retrieve my cake.
“Thank you,” I say, when the wood skewer comes out clean. Immediately I flip over the pan, trying to pop it out of the mold.
“Hey, hold up there, let it cool,” Michael says, dangerously close to the curve of my neck. “Come and meet my daughter,” he says, reaching for my hand.
I pull my hand away, but follow him out front where the kids are excitedly debating whose cake is going to be the best.
“Skylar, come here a minute,” Michael calls.
She runs over, wraps her arms around his legs, and stares up at him adoringly. “Poppy, I’d like you to meet my daughter. Say hi, Skylar,” he says.
“Hi,” I say, squatting down to her eye level. “How old are you?” I ask.
She shyly presses her face into Michael’s thigh.
“She’s seven.”
“I love your dress,” I say, “is green your favorite color? It’s mine.”
“I like yellow,” she says softly, her face still turned away.
“You must be in second grade,” I say. “Do you like your teacher?”
She looks up at Michael, giggling. “Yes,” she says.
“We home school her, but we were thinking of sending her to your school in the fall.”
“Oh? You’d love our school. We do all sorts of fun things. This spring we’re having an indoor planetarium. Maybe your Daddy can bring you for it?” I ask, standing up, posing the question to Michael.
“Can we?” she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.
“Sure, now go back and play so we can get the angel food cakes ready to go home.”
Angelica has already put together the take-home boxes and is deep in conversation with the other mothers.
Carefully, I touch the side of my cake pan, it’s still warm. I flip it over and slap it on the bottom, impatiently. The cake slips free from the form and plops onto the counter. It is golden brown perfection. I couldn’t care less. Hastily, I grab it and toss it into my bakery box, which Angelica has labeled with my name and today’s date. Closing the lid I turn to leave.
“Wait, help me box the rest of these, please,” Michael asks.
“Why don’t you get your wife to help you?” I reply.
“I deserve that, I do, but if I could just explain.”
“No. Michael, you cannot explain away your wife and daughter.”
“Believe me, I did not expect them here today. She just showed up ten minutes before class. What was I supposed to do, send them away? Besides I’m kind of glad they were here… I wanted you to meet my daughter,” he says, reaching for my hand.
“And did you also feel the need to get back at me for rebuffing you Saturday?” I say, grabbing the container of fresh whipped cream and the pink bakery box. “Forget it. I’m not doing this with you now.” I storm out of the kitchen only to be blocked by Angelica at the front door.
“Bye, Poppy. It was lovely meeting you,” she says, giving me a hug.
I stand stiffly until she releases me.
“Now I have a face to put with the name when Michael talks about you. He holds you in high regard,” Angelica says, without a hint of irony or sarcasm. It’s going to be impossible to hate her.
“Thanks, nice meeting you too. Michael needs help boxing up the cakes,” I say, abruptly turning.
“See you later,” she calls after me.
At home, it’s all I can do to make it inside in one piece before collapsing in an angry, guilt-ridden, sobbing heap. I drop my purse, gigantic bag, keys, and cake. They scatter around me like offerings to the goddess of heartbreak, me.
After about thirty minutes of my hysterical, self indulgent crying, Preston feels safe enough to venture out of his hiding place to check on me. I’m still curled up on the floor, puddles of tears surrounding me. He licks my face until he gets a whiff of the angel food cake, which has rolled out of the box and is sitting in two pieces on the carpet. Preston wanders over, sniffs it, and takes a bite.
“No! Don’t eat that. Bad!” I yell, pounding the cake into the floor, relishing the spongy texture as it mashes deeper into the fibers of the carpet. “First date cake, huh?” I say, squishing the pulverized mash between my hands. “How adorable. Angel food cake for Angelica.” I leave the destroyed cake, a sacrifice to my mental health and ludicrous relationship with Michael, laying in my wake.