I knew all about Guy before I met him in person.
I checked out his Facebook profile and studied his photos closely enough to figure that his condo was in a newly built tower attached to one of the converted warehouse buildings in the Mill District overlooking the river, where penthouse apartments sold for a million or more. Luxury pads that boasted “intelligent and intuitively designed condos with timeless finishes, sweeping views of the river and 24-hour concierge in a boutique style lobby.”
At that time, I was living paycheck to paycheck teaching English Lit at an alternative high school. Driving home every day from work, I crossed through the Mill District to get to my tiny upper floor, one bed, one bath on the other side of the river. The wrong side, next to the freight yards and abandoned cold storage plant. From my bedroom window I could see those golden towers in the distance, and I’d imagine exactly where Guy was. I’d picture him silhouetted against a wall of windows, the honeyed expanse of an oak-timbered, brick-walled room spread out behind him.
The heady promise of that vision kept me going, even though I was broke and barely able to scrape together next month’s rent money. My only worldly possessions included a television on a ten-dollar Ikea stand, a bed, a second-hand patio table with two mismatched metal chairs, a floor cushion for a sofa, and a closet full of cheap, untouched clothes, their tags dangling in a neat row.
It was lunchtime when Guy and I met in person for the first time. The end of my grueling morning. My mouth watered at the thought of a peanut butter and banana sandwich waiting in the staffroom fridge. Then the intercom crackled into action and the principal announced there’d be an extended lunch period because of a high priority professional development presentation. Attendance non-negotiable.
I slammed down the pile of student writing journals, scattering them across the desk. I’d rather spend my lunch hour having my wisdom teeth pulled than listen to some earnest academic blather on about the educational process. Often the speakers were remote, ivory-tower types – usually failed classroom teachers, totally unsuited to front line work – who’d retreated to the quiet sanctuary of a university education department to avoid a nervous breakdown. Once they’d escaped the real, gritty world of teaching, these academics thrived in peaceful isolation, cranking out research papers on student engagement, teacher charisma, self-determination, scaffolding, collaborating, integration or any other buzz worthy topic of the day. The result? All of us miserable frontline teachers lived in a constant state of flux, at the mercy of the latest research findings. Struggling to reinvent our teaching strategies like hamsters on a wheel forever trying to catch up to the latest fad.
But then I remembered. This presentation was different. Guy was today’s speaker. Today I’d see him in the flesh instead of scouring all those Facebook posts.
Heart thumping, I gathered up the journals into a pile and grabbed a couple to take with me. If all else failed, they’d distract me from the hungry rumbling in my gut.
Robin, our principal, was British. An import from Cambridge. A dusty relic from the sixties hanging grimly onto the barest semblance of youth, with his diamond stud earrings, wispy strands of reddish-gray hair and musty checkered shirts that smelled of old laundry. He walked around the school wearing granny glasses and bedroom slippers and sported a shark’s tooth necklace he claimed was from his surfing days at Zuma Beach. Unable to afford the California lifestyle and keen to dodge the draft, he’d drifted up to the Midwest in the late seventies and found his niche in teaching. He eventually moved up the system to head the team at our alternative school, which he ran according to liberal sixties educational strategies.
I’d been at the school for six years and loved it. It was a super-relaxed place. Teachers and students on a first-name basis, and courses that snailed on forever at the students’ own pace. No deadlines, no lectures, plenty of interactive group projects as well as a big emphasis on music and the arts, and a whole lot of feel-good, self-esteem building sessions.
We took in the outsiders, the bullied, the disillusioned, and the disenfranchised. Kids would come into the classroom bruised, battered and alienated by the regular school system. Nervous aggression coiled like a tight spring in their gut. But once they realized there were no tight-assed discipline freaks around and they could work at a speed that suited their own individual needs, they usually settled into the calm daily routine without too much protest.
The door of the multi-purpose room swung open and Robin stepped out. He stopped dead in his tracks and held the door for me, grasping the metal bar. Dry, ropey veins stood out on the back of his hands. He glanced at the bare skin above my breasts. Everyone knew Robin was a bit of a lech but he was harmless. His heart was in the right place, especially when it came to the kids.
He leaned close. “Not coming in, Anna?” His breath smelled of liver masked by a thin veneer of mint.
I shrank back feeling like a mouse facing the exterminator. “I was gonna grab my lunch.”
“No need, luv. Guy and Brian are bringing munchies.”
“In that case I’ll stay.” Cringing inwardly, I ducked under his armpit, heading for the safety of the back row.
“Front row’s all free,” he called, encouraging me forward. “Let’s make them feel welcome.”
He scurried off as I slouched into the front row.
Since I was living from hand to mouth, I had no Kindle or iPad to hold discreetly on my lap while the expert burbled on about the latest evidence set to revolutionize classroom practices. My phone was a vintage flip phone with no internet capability so scrolling through Facebook was out. Instead, I flipped through the first journal.
Journal writing was part of my daily routine. Students would take ten or fifteen minutes to free-write in their notebook. Even if they spent the time doodling, the one requirement was that they keep their hand moving until they’d covered at least a page. And with every new intake of students, I’d stand at the front of the class, put hand to heart and make a solemn vow that I wouldn’t report or censor anything written between the covers of those precious books. Once a week I did a page count and assessed accordingly. But I always lingered far longer than necessary. The stories were just too damned compelling. Their painful, comical, sometimes deeply romantic details formed a vivid mosaic of the angst-ridden teenage mind. Not to mention, there was a whole lot in those journals that reminded me of my own sorry past.
I studied the first page. Written in pink Sharpie, the most recent entry described a hot tub party with Snoop Dogg and Einstein as guests of honor. When I burst out laughing at the image of a fuzzy-haired Einstein reclining in a smoke-wreathed hot tub, chugging a bottle of champagne, while scantily dressed dancers gyrated around him, an unfamiliar voice cut into my daydream.
“Haven’t even used my best icebreaker and she’s already laughing.”
I looked up to see Guy – the first time I’d seen him close up.
In person.
Tall and lean with a head of cropped brown curls, his shrewd, caramel eyes glinted behind gold-rimmed glasses. His face was pleasing. A smattering of light freckles dotted the bridge of a slim nose with gently flared nostrils. Well-shaped lips with defined edges seemed etched into the angular face with its slightly pointed chin. And his clothes were immaculate. Black denim designer jeans and a gray tailored shirt with an expensive sheen to it. The edge of a chunky silver watch peeked out from under a starched cuff.
“Guy Franzen,” he said, holding out his hand.
I shook it hoping my palm wasn’t clammy.
“Anna Holt,” I managed to croak. A tic or maybe a tiny smile played at the corner of his lips. He pumped my trembling hand up and down, seeming reluctant to let go. My throat felt suddenly dry.
A stockier guy appeared behind him. Thick black hair sprouted from his receding hairline, and he sported a full gray-flecked beard and striped acrylic sweater over saggy-assed chinos.
I looked down at the journals, now tucked under my left arm and in danger of slipping out onto the floor. “Creative writing. Kids have such great imaginations.”
“And that’s the kind of thing that really interests us,” Guy said, fixing me in a confident stare. Close up, his eyes appeared paler. Amber in color. “Isn’t that so, Brian?” His gaze was so unwavering I had to make a show of looking down and shuffling the journals into a neat pile.
His colleague hopped to attention, peering around Guy’s back like a comic sidekick. “Absolutely. Untapped imagination and all that. That’s the key.”
The key to what? I thought but didn’t ask. Instead I acted like a prom girl without an escort. Cheeks flushed, mumbling banalities, eyes avoiding Guy’s cool, unswerving gaze.
The other teachers began to trickle in, defusing the electricity of the moment. Guy dropped my hand. “Oh, sorry – this is Brian – I mean Dr. Brian Metcalf,” he said, remembering his associate.
I nodded at Brian, aware of Guy’s constant gaze, just as Sabrina Melo, the Phys. Ed teacher, plunked herself down right next to me. Recently divorced, Sabrina spent her evenings and weekends alternating between the gym and the tanning salon. Her skin had the withered, orange look of dried clay, a sharp and jarring contrast to the blinding white of her bleached teeth. Norm Chandler, the Biology teacher sat in the row behind. It was no secret that he, a fortyish bachelor, was holding out for just one sign of encouragement from Sabrina. I could almost hear him panting, though she appeared oblivious to his noisy breathing.
“He’s hot,” she whispered, glancing at Guy. “I mean the tall one, not the hairy gnome guy. I’m gonna focus on his crotch. See if I can throw him off his script.”
“Doubt it,” I whispered back.
“Five bucks.”
“Ten.”
Half an hour later, Sabrina grudgingly handed me a crumpled ten-dollar bill.
“That guy was actually enjoying the attention,” she said, throwing back bleached blonde curls. “He’s a real horn dog.”
I stuffed the money into my jeans pocket. I had money for supper now.
Sabrina grasped my arm, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t play the innocent, Anna. You were eyeing him up like you’d mentally undressed him. Never seen you so turned on.”
“You kidding? You’re imagining it.”
“Wonder if he’s single.”
I tucked the journals under my arm. “I thought you always checked that out in the first few minutes.”
She shook her head. “In the summer you can check for tan lines, but in winter you just gotta do it the old-fashioned way. Watch and learn.”
Lunch was pizzas in open boxes, strewn across the counter. A couple of Hawaiian, a bacon and mushroom and a double pepperoni were the extent of the choices. Nothing green in sight, not even a limp piece of onion or a sliver of green pepper. I wondered what the die-hard vegetarians would eat.
I picked away pieces of ham from the Hawaiian and watched Sabrina in action. In a high-pitched jabber she gushed about the amazing presentation and how careful adherence to student-generated goals already guided her teaching methodology, or some other generic theoretical garbage. Sabrina didn’t just breach your personal space, she invaded it with her sharp, minty breath. But even as she moved closer to Guy, he held me with that wry smile of his.
After Robin had rescued Guy from Sabrina’s clutches, she lunged at me.
“He’s single and he’s got money,” she hissed in my ear.
“How do you know?”
She shrugged. “Well-honed instincts and a nose for expensive cologne.”
But she didn’t need to tell me. His Facebook status had been set at single for the last three months.
As soon as Robin was in a heavy discussion with Brian, I made my move. As Guy stuffed some papers into his briefcase, I moved forwards and touched his shoulder.
“I’m interested in learning more about your homeless outreach program,” I purred into his ear. “Like to go for a drink?”
He knew I’d ask.
I knew that from the way his eyes had zoned in on me the moment he entered the room. And I’d made sure to stand out with my jet-black hair, milky skin and gray eyes. A back-alley Snow White, someone had called me in my dim, distant past. Besides, I was an ace at non-verbal cues, and I liked to act on them. That skill had helped me survive a nightmarish childhood.
I also favored the direct approach. Truth was – I was incapable of making small talk.
“Love to,” he said, those amber eyes staring as if he couldn’t quite believe I was giving him my number.
I felt strangely lightheaded and my hand seemed disembodied – guided by unseen spirit forces while my head reeled with the tangy citrus scent of his cologne. Tongue-tied, I thrust my business card at him just before Robin swept him away to his fusty office. I stood, slightly stunned as if blindsided by a fresh gust of wind from a lemon orchard.