“Thank you for your time, Stephanie,” he throws back.
Once we’re outside, I wrench my hand from his, inexplicably outraged. “How the hell were you so good at that?”
He huffs a laugh. “I have two sisters. There was a lot of castle-related pretend play growing up.”
I start to spiral, thinking of how just an hour or so ago I had been apologizing and all but begging him to let me keep my job. I blow out a breath once we are a few blocks away. “That was…” I attempt to put words to what just happened. “You’re… we’re still good, right?”
He stops in his tracks. His face, warm a second ago, becomes a cold mask. A fortress. He clears his throat. It’s like I’m looking at a totally different man. This one is my boss. This one is a professional. This one just remembered that. He nods once, curt. “I live that way,” he says, pointing down a side street. “We’re good. I’ll see you this week.” And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away.
THIRTEEN
Oliver
On Wednesday,while waiting for the fundraising meeting to begin, I am reluctantly determined to turn over a new leaf, start fresh with Ms. Baker… with Georgia.
I’m reluctantly determined not to think about this weekend, or her mouth wrapping around that tomato. The way I so easily bailed on meeting my friends for lunch in the city without a second thought, so that I could hang out with one of myemployees. Who is a giant pain in my ass. Who I had just considered firing because she told me topull the stick out of my ass.
I can’t even think about how muchfunI had, like she clawed it out of my cold, dead corpse. Because when was the last time I did something spontaneous and unplanned and silly and a little bit weird? When was the last time I gotcarried away? Can’t think about these things, ever.
Most importantly, I cannot think about the feeling of her delicate throat in my hand. What it felt like when she swallowed. I cannot think about my new obsession with her mouth.
Icanthink about how inappropriate that all was. Imust, actually. And Iamready, to be more patient, to listen, to be empathet?—
“OMIGOD I AM SO SORRY I’M LATE,” she breathes as she bursts into the staff lounge, scaring the bejeezus out of the teachers quietly working, the papers they were grading scattering as if Georgia is an actual hurricane. My eye twitches as she looks around the room, apologizing to everyone for her disturbance, picking up fallen pieces of paper, and smiling when she locks eyes with me. “Hi, Mr. Flores! I’m here!”
I take a deep breath and nod at her. “Good afternoon, Ms.—I mean, Georgia.” Her smile grows wider, warmer when she hears her first name. I am perplexed about how radiant she looks, standing there in the middle of the dreary staff lounge. Perplexed at the way I seem to be melting, I clear my throat, gesturing for her to have a seat next to me.
Confused, she looks around at the teachers remaining in their bubbles, resuming their grading. “Is it just me for this meeting?”
I shrug apologetically. “It seems so. There was only one other teacher from the Kindergarten team. Lina has already taken her to her office to plan the ‘lower school’ piece of the fundraiser. It will be just you and me for the ‘upper school’ portion.”
“Oh, that’s disappointing,” she says.
“You obviously know this already,” I start, desperately attempting to keep the mansplain-y tone out of my voice, “but working in education can be thankless most of the time. Lots of unpaid overtime work, both physically and emotionally. I don’t blame teachers for not wanting to give even more than they already do.”
“Boundaries,” Georgia says, bracketing the word with air quotes, referring to what Emmanuel said the day before.
“Exactly,” I nod. “So?—”
“Oliver?” an old-head fourth grade teacher across the room asks.
“Hey, Sam, how’s it going? Want to join in the fun?” I ask her.
“As much fun as that sounds, absolutely not,” Sam answers. “I have a million papers to grade, and I’m struggling to do it with all your yapping over there. Do you mind moving your meeting elsewhere?” A few teachers around the staff room nod their head in agreement.
“No problem, everyone. Sorry about that,” I say, already standing up. “Let’s move to my office, Georgia.” I gesture ahead of me, trying and almost failing to not peek down the top of her dress.
We walk down the hallway. “May as well start now, Mr. Flores. Care to tell me about this fundraiser?”
“Georgia, please call me Oliver,” I say, regretting it as soon as it exits my mouth. The smile she gives me almost makes up for it.
“But what if I like calling you Mr. Flores, sir?” she jokes, eyeing me carefully, probably feeling real confident after I practically choked her in front of a stranger this weekend.
It takes all of my effort not to elicit any sort of response.
Georgia smirks. “Just kidding, Oliver. But I may keep the ‘sir’,” she adds on, turning back again to wink at me.
“Hm,” I manage. I cough. “So, this fundraiser. PS 2 typically does two fundraisers a year. One in the fall, and one in the spring. For the fall event, we typically organize a ‘Fall Festival.’ We get all sorts of vendors from the community to donate their goods and services to the event. We get bounce houses, carnival activities, a pumpkin patch, and then typically we play and project a movie onto the side of the building once it gets dark. We have lots of food and drink donated by community restaurants available for purchase. Then, we charge the community at least $10 aticket to enter the festival, but give the option to donate more if you can.”
