Loyalty
I’m up a half hour earlier than my alarm, but I’m actually motivated to get out of bed because my hot rollers are calling to me from their dusty corner under the sink. Perhaps I have the urge to curl because there’s a nice dark ring circling both my eyes, as Michael predicted. Maybe pretty hair will draw attention away from my face. At least I hope it will. Since I have a double black eye it kind of looks like I’m just sleep deprived and not a prize fighter.
After twenty minutes of heating, rolling, cursing and burning my fingers, my hair is rolled in spiky rollers that promise lots of luscious curls. I apply my makeup, which almost covers my black eyes, pick out a cute teacher-friendly outfit and unroll my hair. Springy curls bounce around my face, providing a nice distraction. It’s a miracle, but I’m out the door on time.
“Beautiful day isn’t it, Mary?” I ask, strolling into the office. She gives me a shrug and turns back to her computer. Not only is it Friday, but I look great, and I’m getting my best friend back. By five o’clock tonight Anne Marie and I will be laughing over martinis.
“Was that Mrs. Vickerson’s car I spotted in the parking lot?” I ask, retrieving flyers from my box. It’s filled, as usual, with fundraiser information and school announcements that need to be sent home. Millions of trees are dying just so parents know that next Thursday is PJ day; it’s like e-mail doesn’t even exist.
“Yes, she’s back early,” Mary whispers, leaning over her desk. “There was an incident yesterday, involving a sub. What happened to you?” she asks, looking up for the first time.
I guess I didn’t do such a good job covering my shiner. “I ran into a door,” I reply. “Was the incident that serious?”
“Yes! Apparently the sub was completely incompetent and incredibly rude.”
The way she says sub, with such disgust, makes me wish I had believed Anne Marie the second she confided in me.
“I can vouch for the fact that Anne Marie Kai is anything but incompetent, and as for rude, I didn’t realize that being a doormat was a job requirement,” I say, storming into Mrs. Vickerson’s office. It's empty. Racing to the teachers’ lounge, I find it empty as well. Guess I’ll just have to catch her at lunch, I think. Defeated, I shuffle to my class and catch the two scheming snakes themselves, escorting some ancient-looking woman into Mrs. Clarke’s class.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say under my breath.
Mrs. Karol turns around and gives me a smug, satisfied smile.
She is evil, I think, rounding the corner. My class is waiting, rather impatiently.
“Ms. Rodriguez, your hair looks cool,” Sydney says, “but what happened to your face?”
“Oh thanks,” I reply, absentmindedly twisting a curl around my finger.
I call Anne Marie at recess, but the call goes straight to voice mail, and I don't leave a message. Letting class out early for recess or lunch is one of Mrs. Vickerson’s pet peeves, so I let them go two minutes ahead of schedule, and calmly walk to the office.
The Viper and Python are huddling over their “healthy” salads, hissing away. I slip to the side of the fridge, and silently take out my lunch, straining to hear their conversation.
“You put her in her place. What I don’t understand is her attitude. I mean, she’s a sub. Shouldn’t she be grateful to be here at all?” Mrs. Vickerson says.
“They’re just getting too proud. I remember when I could ask them to do anything and they’d hop to, like soldiers.”
“I remember those days, but you know these people, they’re just so entitled,” Mrs. Vickerson says.
“What do you mean by ‘these people’?” I ask, stepping out from behind the fridge door, clutching my lunch in my fist.
“Poppy, I love your hair like that,” says Mrs. Karol, the Python, her face impassive.
“Don’t try to pacify me. What did you mean by that comment?” I ask.
“You know subs,” she says, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “They’re just so impossible, especially that one we had yesterday. You’ll never believe what happened,” she says, tossing her head back in delight as she tells me about Anne Marie’s audacious behavior.
“You did the right thing by taking her off the assignment. I think we should have pressed to get her fired from the district. At least she’ll never be back,” Mrs. Vickerson says, buoyed by Louise’s noble deed.
The room is spinning. I set my lunch down on their table and steady myself on a chair, trying to harness my good sense. I cannot believe their arrogance.
“Basically you fired her because she didn’t bow down to your T.I.C. authority and that bruised your ego. Isn’t that what you’re trying to say? By the way, did you even introduce yourself to her when you walked into the room?”
“Of course not,” she replies.
“You walked into the classroom, gave orders, and then got offended because she didn’t kiss your butt? How would you have reacted, Mrs. Karol, if someone walked into your class and told you to straighten up the libraries?” I say.
“That’s different,” Louise says.
“Why?” I reply.
“Because she’s a sub!”
“Interesting, because, unless I’m mistaken, we teach the students at Sunny Vale to treat guest teachers the exact same way they treat their regular teacher. It’s funny that the staff feel they are exempt from this rule,” I say. They’re staring at me, openmouthed and wide-eyed. “Without substitutes you’d have to be here for each of the one hundred eighty school days, no matter what, but you don’t look at it that way, do you?”
I storm past a crowd of teachers and staff who stumbled into The Pit during my diatribe. Halfway to class I realize that I left my lunch at the Viper’s table. After that dramatic exit I can’t go back and get it. There are twenty-two minutes left of lunch. Time to forage something. Good thing I have a backup.
Dominique raises one eyebrow as I step inside the bakery. “Michael isn’t here,” she says cooly.
“He and I appear quite scandalous to you, don't we? Very black and white. There are shades of gray in every situation, especially this one. Michael and I are friends. I know that probably seems like an impossibility in your world, but it’s the truth.”
She rolls her eyes and turns her back to me.
I kind of want to roll my eyes too. Shades of gray? What was I thinking? “Can I just get a turkey sandwich, please?” I ask.
She gets the most squished, dry sandwich and slaps it on the counter.
“Thanks,” I say handing her a crumpled five dollar bill. She doesn’t move to make me any change. I take the croissant and cross to the exit, but turn back before reaching the door. Dominique’s watching me, mustering all the hate she possibly can and throwing it my direction.
“You know something? You’re contributing a lot of energy to something that isn’t any of your business. One day you’ll realize it was such a waste of your time,” I say, taking a big bite of sandwich, quite pleased with myself.
On my way back to school I make plans to meet Anne Marie after work tonight. I hate fighting, and never feel better until I can see the person and give them a make-up hug.
****
The dusty dive-bar is almost deserted, but I don’t have the strength for a rollicking joint tonight. Besides, I like revisiting the place where Michael and I first made our connection. Even now, from my perch against the sticky laminate bar, I can feel the delicate silk threads that coiled around us in the dark that night.
“To a friendship that will last longer than…?” I say, pausing; even without a sip I’m already fuzzy.
“Than the cellulite I'll get from eating all that candy you left at my house,” Anne Marie says.
Lifting our martinis high, we clink glasses dramatically and take a sip.
“You said that to your principal, in front of all your colleagues?” she asks.
“Of course. I couldn’t stand the way they were congratulating themselves on being such evil witches. They had to be stopped,” I say.
“You’re an amazing friend. I’m sorry I launched chocolate eggs at your head. I didn’t hit you did I?”
“Only a few times to the body,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at her.
“More Michael news?” she asks.
“What makes you think there’s anything to tell?” I say.
“Just tell me,” she says, taking a gulp of martini.
“After you pelted me with candy, I went to the bakery and almost gave myself a concussion,” I reply.
“Oh? Doing what?”
“Grow up Anne. I ran into a door and knocked myself out. Be quiet,” I say, shielding myself with a menu. “People are starting to stare at us. Shut up.” She’s too far gone and just snort-laughs. I roll my eyes, put down the menu, and enjoy my drink. “Are you calm yet?” I ask. “It wasn’t that funny. After I came to, Michael and I walked up to school, swung on the swings and watched the stars.”
“Oh, that’s it? Glad I could help push you farther into your clandestine affair,” she says.
“Uh oh, you’re bringing out the SAT words. You must be close to drunk,” I say.
“Not drunk in the slightest, my taciturn friend,” she says, hiccuping. “Now you’ll finally have something in common with your stepmom. Bartender, a round of shots for my surreptitious friend and myself.”
“It’s not like that, Anne. We have these moments of connection. It’s like a magnet is pulling us together. Maybe we’re meant to be together,” I say, my mind clouding with memory.
I was ten when I found out my father cheated on my mother and left her for his current wife, my stepmother, Dian. My father reasoned that he and Dian were meant to be together, and deserved the chance to be happy. I thought that was the most pitiful, lame excuse of all time.
"You and Dian aren't that different after all," she says, as the shots arrive. “Here’s to Michael and Poppy, may it all come out all right in the end.” Holding her long hair back with one hand, she bends low over the shot glass and tosses it back, sans hands.
“Real mature, Anne,” I say.
At this moment every man at the bar, including the ridiculously attractive bartender, is fixated on Anne Marie. Oh well, so much for being mature, I think, following her example.
She has one sexy drip at the corner of her mouth, and I have half the shot down the front of my blouse. Fortunately, the alcohol's doing its job and I am significantly less mortified than normal.
After that shot I put a firm stop to the drinking, and we wobble into the main dining room. Over our second order of guacamole and chips I notice Anne Marie looking in her lap an awful lot.
“Are you gonna puke?” I ask, knowing Anne Marie to be both a cheap and a messy drunk.
“Huh?” she says, looking up, flushed.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just texting Daniel,” she says, blushing a deep shade of magenta, which is unusual.
“Oh, my. You’re sexting him, aren’t you. Were you even listening to me?”
She looks up shyly, nodding. “Yes, of course. He wanted to know if I was free, so I told him we were doing shots at Panchito’s and it just kind of took off from there. C’mon, don’t give me that look, you know what it’s like at the beginning of a relationship,” she says, dropping the phone into her purse.
“Yes, I do know,” I say, wistfully thinking of last night.
“What’s that look for?” she asks.
“Nothing, I was just wishing I could text naughty messages to Michael.”
She gives me a sad smile before diving into her enchiladas with gusto. I never understood her insatiable appetite when she drinks.
I just feel super bloated and disgusting, even more so once the ropa vieja arrives. I push the plate aside in favor of a handful of plain chips.
“When I’m away from him I can see the logical, moral thing to do, but when I’m with him none of that seems to matter. I just want to be with him, even though I shouldn’t,” I say.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Poppy. No one is forcing you into this. At any one moment you could decide to never see him again, or run off with him, despite the consequences. But you’re sticking around in limbo, feeling sorry for yourself. Either this is going to be worth it in the end, or it isn’t, but stop being a victim. If you want to send him a dirty text just do it.”
Maybe it’s the booze talking, but suddenly I feel angry. “You’re a walking contradiction. What happened to your holier-than-thou attitude at the mall last week?”
“Don’t get mad. I’m just saying don’t fall into the victim hole and blame this on everybody else. You have control, maybe not over your emotions, but definitely over your actions,” she says without the slightest hint of reproach or anger, as she scrapes the last bit of cheese from her plate.
I sit back, letting her words sink in.
“I hate to admit it. Balancing this victim and fear energy against the joy and hope I have with Michael has been keeping me paralyzed. You’re right. I do have to take responsibility for my actions and myself, no matter what.”
“Good girl. Do you mind if I cut out?” she asks, buoyant with hope and lust.
“Another promising text I suspect?”
“You got it,” she replies, checking her makeup in the back of a spoon.
“I’ll just go home, take responsibility for my actions, and eat a pint of ice cream,” I say, laughing.
“Thanks,” she says, dropping a twenty on the table. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier, about you and your stepmother. You’re nothing alike.”
“I suspected it was the booze talking, but it would make a good mantra,” I say.
“Sounds like a plan,” she says, blowing me a kiss before tripping out the door.
I stare down at my picked over dinner and decide not to take it home.
“What happened to your friend?” the waitress asks, refilling my water glass.
“Booty text,” I reply. “Can I get a quesadilla to go and the check, please?”
“Sure thing. Who ever said there was loyalty among women,” she says, shaking her head as she buses the empty dishes.
I smile sadly. At least I get a quesadilla to soften the blow of not being able to call Michael and being deserted by my best friend.
“Here’s the bill. Your to go order will be out any second,” she says. “Just like a guy to ruin a perfectly decadent girls night, isn’t it?”
My cell is at the bottom of my purse. It takes a few minutes of digging before I find it. Of course when I do all I can bring myself to do is stare at Michael’s number.
“Here ya go,” the waitress says, placing the take out box on the table. “I went through this a few years ago. Once your friend gets involved with the guy, that could potentially be the one, you’ll get used to being dumped for him,” she says.
“You’re too good to be true, but I guess you’re right… there’s loyalty until a point and then you get replaced,” I say.
“Yeah it sucks, especially when you’re still single. But if you think this is hard, just wait till they start having kids,” she says. “Enjoy your night.”
“Yeah, I’ll try,” I say sliding out of the booth, taking my quesadilla.
Safely sealed in my car, I take out my cell phone again, my thumb hovering over the send button. “Just do it, Poppy,” I hear Anne Marie say, and I press send. Suddenly my heart is racing, and my limbs are numb, but it feels exhilarating. One, two, three, I count the rings, gauging if he’s likely going to pick up or let it roll into voice mail. Five, six…
“Hello,” a woman answers.
I am momentarily dumbstruck, but obviously I can’t hang up since my number is now plastered across the screen, probably with my name. I didn’t expect Angelica to pick up his cell. Is she screening his calls?
“Uh, yeah, can I talk to Michael?” I say.
“Sure, one moment,” she says.
The cell slips against my moist palm.
“Hello,” he answers indifferently, like he’s expecting a telemarketer to be on the other end.
“It’s Poppy.”
“Hi,” he says, voice softening.
It sends a shiver of pure pleasure up my spine.
“Is anything the matter?” he asks.
I can hear kids laughing and screeching in the background. I realize what a huge mistake this was.
“No, nothing’s wrong. I was having dinner and drinks with Anne Marie and I just called… I don’t know why I called,” I say.
“You guys made up? That’s great. Now is not a good time to talk. Can I call you later tonight?” he asks.
“Sure, whatever, but don’t feel like you have to.”
“I want to… more than you know,” he says softly.
“Looking forward to it,” I say, hanging up.
I am not my stepmother. I am not, I chant while pulling out of the parking lot.
The anticipation of waiting for Michael to call is unbearable. During the entire drive home I kept the phone in my lap and glance it every few seconds. After taking Preston out for a pee, I grab a pint of mint chocolate chip, put my cell phone on the coffee table and stare at it, like it’s going to sprout arms and juggle the remote controls. Poppy, you’re being ridiculous, I think, flipping the TV on for distraction.
After eating the entire pint — I ate the quesadilla on the ride home — I check my phone for the one-hundredth time; full bars, no missed calls. It’s eleven o’clock. My eyes are drooping. The only way I’m going stay awake is to blare music or take a bath. I like my neighbors, so I opt for the bath. If I can’t stay awake in the tub then I’ll drown and be done with this misery, I think, darkly.
I run the bath, adding way too many bubbles, and grab the wine cooler that was hiding out in the rear of my fridge. Cranking the jets to high, I climb into the warm, soapy water and sink back into the bubbles letting the jasmine fragrance ease away my guilt, tension, and anticipation. After thirty minutes of pruning and drinking I'm thinking he forgot about me. I’m just about to get out when my ring tone echoes through the bathroom.
“I almost gave up on you,” I say when I answer.
“Don’t ever do that.”
“I wasn’t waiting for you to call, Will.”
“I know. Married baker man not playing patty cake tonight? What are you doing at midnight on a Friday?” he asks suggestively.
“I’m in the tub, actually,” I reply, against my better judgement, but I’ve always wanted to say that to a man and not be lying.
“Intriguing. Do you have candles all around you and soft music playing?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, looking around my dirty bathroom, fluorescent lights bouncing off the stark white tile. It is hardly seductive.
“What else?” he asks.
“The bubbles are slowly disappearing, leaving little cotton fluffs scattered around me.”
“Are they strategically placed?”
“Decidedly not. They’re all hanging out on the edge of the tub,” I reply.
“Yes, I have a clear mental picture.”
“Why are you alone on a Friday night?” I ask.
“I’m not alone. I’m talking to you,” Will replies.
“Your conquest go home already?”
“I’m not as lascivious as you seem to think.”
“Doubt it.”
“I’m less oily car salesman, more George Clooney.”
“If you insist,” I say, laughing,
“Enough about me, we were discussing your tubbing situation,” he says, voice husky.
“What are you doing next Tuesday?”
“Are you asking me on a second date?”
“My dad and his wife’s anniversary party. I’d appreciate it if you’d go with me.”
“Why, Poppy, are you using my heightened state of arousal to your advantage?”
“I’d be a fool not to.”
Being a novice at bathtub foreplay, I assume I got it right since he agrees to accompany me.
“Sweet dreams,” I say.
“Sweet isn’t the kind I was hoping for,” he says, hanging up.
Stepping out of the tub, I wrap a towel around myself and I unplug the drain. “I was a complete idiot tonight, Preston,” I say, letting him into the bathroom so he won’t destroy the door, again. “You know what, I just don't care anymore.”
Crawling into bed I remember the man who didn’t have the time to call tonight, and the brief lightness Will brought into my evening vanishes. The cold wave of fear that swept over me when Angelica answered Michael’s phone returns like the evening tide.