More Like Her Page 3

  “Yes, headmistress,” Jill says, her head bowed.

  “Ms. Reid? I believe someone wants to say hello,” Emma says, motioning to an approaching rail of a ten-year-old. I know we’re not supposed to have favorite students. I know this. But . . .

  “Harry!” I say. Harry Sprague trundles up to me as quickly as an awkward adolescent can while still achieving prime bored detachment. His blond hair intentionally hangs just low enough to cover his blue eyes completely.

  “Ms. Reid!” Harry says, patting my arm.

  “Hey, sweetie! So good to see you,” I say, making a point of swiping his bangs out of his eyes.

  “We’re thinking about forcing him to get a haircut,” Mr. Sprague says, mussing the boy’s hair. Harry is not amused. Harry probably believes this more fashionable hairstyle will finally allow him to make his escape from the ranks of fellow nerds and geeks. I wish I could tell him that no hairstyle in the world can do that. Believe me, I’ve tried. Or should I say Frances Peed tried. I’d like to say that my unshakable moniker was based on some misunderstanding. A wet bench. A light rain. But no. Combine a school field trip to Magic Mountain, a terrified twelve-year-old and a roller coaster she never should have been on in the first place and you’ve got yourself Frannie Peed.

  Mr. Sprague extends his hand and gives me a powerful shake. Rolled-up shirtsleeves reveal a Patek Philippe wristwatch. Worn in. Mr. Sprague’s everyday wristwatch. His everyday million-dollar wristwatch.

  “So good to see you, Mr. Sprague,” I say, smiling. I’ve known the Spragues for only a short time, but I feel as though I’ve known them my entire life.

  “We’ve so missed you,” Mrs. Sprague says, lunging into me for a refined hug. Her perfume wafts around me like an angelic aura.

  “So good to see you,” I say, breaking from our hug. Blond, headbanded hair; a butter-yellow cable-knit sweater; and a hedge fund in the billions define the family. But they love their son and will do anything for him. That trumps a popped collar every time.

  I wind through introductions, lobbing Professor Jamie Dunham only a slightly rolled eye at the forced title. Jill coquettishly introduces herself. Apparently we’re off the docks and back at a debutante ball. Emma and Jamie excuse themselves as Jill slinks back into our office, which is filling fast with prospective students.

  I fall into easy conversation with the Spragues. As usual, the subject is Harry. Apparently his summer was chockablock with Space Camp and Comic-Con, and the Spragues constantly assure me that he hasn’t forgotten everything I taught him last year.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” I say, smiling. Smiling. It’s hard to be sad when you’re talking about kids like Harry Sprague. I take one final glance at Emma as she and Jamie walk away. Emma clasps her hands behind her back, her fingers violently gripping each other, her shoulders high and tense. Jamie whispers in her ear. Emma’s head dips, chin to her chest, her pace slowing. She nods briskly. Again and again. Jamie’s hand tightens around her upper arm as she flinches slightly and hurries beside him. Jesus, it’s just the word hate-fuck, Jamie.

  Certainly Norman Mailer would have approved.

  Chapter 3

  All Balls

  Later that night, I take out my contact lenses, put my glasses on, grab my dental night guard and switch off the bathroom light. The first week after Ryan left, I blamed the dental night guard and the glasses for his cheating and our subsequent breakup. I think of Harry Sprague and his hopeful non-nerd hairstyle.

  We (your tired, your poor, your huddled misfits yearning to breathe free) all fervently hope that we’ll be loved and cherished someday. But that far-off dream hangs in the balance as we struggle to figure out what we can change about ourselves to make it happen. Different hairstyle? Contact lenses instead of glasses? Dental night guards tossed away? I’m sure my mom would—and has—sermonized that it’s not about me at all. Those people aren’t worth my time, anyway, she’d say, teacup in hand. If they can’t love me for who I am, then I don’t want them, she’d add as she offered a piece of pie and an unendingly available shoulder to cry on. Yet, I’m haunted by this ever-present feeling that it’s not about the hairstyle, glasses, body image, or overpriced makeup that promises to “look natural” at all. As I get older, I’m afraid it must be me, all of me, that is so chronically repellent.

  I tuck into my bed; the kitchen light streams down the hallway. It makes me feel like someone else is moving around this little apartment. Ryan’s not here in bed with me, but maybe he’s in the living room watching television. He’ll come to bed soon. I toss and turn, tucking the pillow into the crook of my arm. I’ve gone from loving bedtime to dreading it. It used to be a time when, no matter what went on during the day, Ryan and I could check in with each other. The world stopped. The grind faded away. It was just us, tucked tightly under blankets and duvets. We whispered, giggled and loved. Now I have Jeremy. A guy who wants me to make him a copy of a classic rock mix I bought at the grocery store for $3.99 as a joke. I hit the pillow again, tucking and tucking it. I can’t get comfortable. It’s ten P.M. and I’m in bed. Why does it surprise me that I’m not tired?

  As my mind races through that last run-in with Ryan and the nine-ounce box that took two people to carry, I understand—on some level—that I’m relying on selective memory when it comes to my relationship with him. The pictures on our walls, the screen savers on our computers, the stories we told were all from the first year we were together. It was as if the memory of those times kept us going. Then the ennui set in like a low fog.

  Then came the deals. When we get married, I won’t feel like this. When we get married, something magical will happen and we’ll fall in love all over again. If he would just propose, everything would be fine. We’d be back on track. A marriage proposal means Ryan chose me. Officially. I could write off Frannie Reid—or Frannie Peed—forever. I’d finally be someone else. Mr. and Mrs. Ryan Ferrell. I’d be Frannie Ferrell. And Frannie Ferrell was the girl who was chosen. Frannie Ferrell was loved. Frannie Ferrell is now just another alliterative pipe dream.

  It’s fine. I’m fine.

  As I feel myself drifting toward sleep, I’m proud of myself. Despite a few bumps in the road, I’m taking this whole thing remarkably well. It doesn’t bother me. It really doesn’t. Ryan did us a favor. Ryan did me a favor. And with Jill and her revolving door of available men, I’ll be dating in no time flat. Yeah. He did me a favor.

  The silence.

  The kitchen light streaming down the hallway.

  My breathing quickens. I can’t catch my breath.

  This pillow won’t behave.

  Yeah . . . really proud.

  I roll over onto my back and stare up into the darkness. Ghost dots flicker and fade in front of me. I’ve never been more wide-awake. Proud. Proud. Next, I’m going to be telling myself that these aren’t the droids I’m looking for. More darkness. More silence. You gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em. Great. Now I’ve got Kenny Rogers stuck in my head. Alone. Cold. Dumped. And humming Kenny Rogers.

  I whip my covers off and walk over to my computer. I scroll through old e-mails, finding the one from Jill that I’m looking for.

  Frannie: Okay, so just in case—here’s all of Jeremy Hannon’s information. I can see it now: an outdoor wedding with dragonflies and strings of lights. Maybe that one song can be the first song you dance to? The one he was talking about on that mix? Talk soon . . .

  Writing down Jeremy’s e-mail and cell number, I have to laugh. I seriously doubt my wedding song is going to be by Lynyrd Skynyrd, Jill.

  To e-mail or to call, that is the question. It’s a bit late to call. And an e-mail—I don’t know. It seems a bit formal. I’ll split the difference. I’ll text. It’s what all the crazy kids are doing these days, right? As I take my iPhone off the nightstand, unplugging it from its charger, I am fully aware that I am taking the chicken’s way out. Texting is for booty calls and . . . wait. Am I making a booty call right now? No. Seriously,
no. I’m making a late-night request for . . . I believe I’m making a booty call with no booty. I just want someone to talk to. Someone who’ll keep me from singing Kenny Rogers. Ugh, that’s even worse.

  I hold my iPhone in my hand and curl my legs underneath me. Summer is waning and a slight chill has found its way into my apartment.

  I type in Jeremy’s phone number and then begin the tedious process of crafting the perfect text. This could take days. It has to be one part breezy, one part sexy and once again, as far from the real me as is humanly possible. I finally come up with:

  Hey there! Frannie here from the BBQ at Jill and Martin’s . . . Jill had mentioned you wanted a copy of that mix I brought?

  Then what? Do I ask him what his mailing address is? It’s a wonder I’ve gotten one date ever. My fingers hover over the keypad. Minutes pass.

  Let me know!

  Before I can think better of it I hit send. And then I wait. I start to tidy up a bit. Clothes in the hamper. Do a couple of dishes, mostly bowls due to my obsession with shredded wheat. I walk through my apartment absently dusting shelves lined with framed family photos: cross-country road trips in wood-paneled station wagons, Christmas mornings with pink bicycles (I held on to a belief in Santa Claus way past what is customary). School plays where my role as “Chorus member” won parental rave reviews, splashing around in swimming pools with zinc oxide spread generously on my nose. I study the photos closely as I try to ignore the silence of my dormant iPhone. I see my childhood through my parents’ eyes. To them, I was a happy baby, a rambunctious child and a scholarly adolescent. My phases, not unlike the moon’s, melted and dissolved seamlessly into one another.

  The childhood I remember, strangely not depicted in these framed photographs, is a bit bumpier. As my coltish enthusiasm became an annoyance to teachers, my need for their approval reached epic proportions. I began swallowing that enthusiasm—now defined as “hyperactivity” or, in Ryan’s words, “intensity”—and replaced it with a zeal for schoolwork akin to an obsessive-compulsive’s need to open and shut a door three times before exiting. Not surprisingly, the other kids didn’t applaud my new role as teacher’s pet. The adolescent art of apathy eluded me. I was labeled an oddity and given a nickname that haunts me to this day: the Notorious Frannie Peed. I’ve done everything I can to leave Frannie Peed in the past, but she’s a worthy opponent. Shaking her is the gauntlet I have to run daily: instinctual nerdisms I don’t say and the second-by-second reminder to myself to “act cool.”

  I run the dust cloth over the empty place where a framed photo of Ryan and me in happier times used to be. It was the one of us with my mom and dad that time we all hiked into Muir Woods in Marin County, which was right by my parents’ house. He was laughing with my Dad, shoulder to shoulder. I was telling him to look at the camera while Mom motioned for the stranger taking the picture to wait. We needed to collect ourselves. It was my favorite picture ever . . . and the last one to be taken down after Ryan left. As I wipe down the rest of the kitchen counter, I hear the ting-ting of my iPhone in the other room. A text. I run down the hall. It’s from Jeremy.

  Hey, who is this?

  I calmly close out of the texting screen—the adorable green and white text bubbles making a mockery of me—and then violently hurl the phone across the room. It careens against the red wingback chair in the corner and bounces off onto the hardwood floor. I take a long deep breath and walk into the bathroom in search of the bottle of Excedrin P.M. I dump two little blue pills into my hand. My mind is on hold. Are we going to spiral into depression or anger? There’s a tiny possibility that I could just laugh it off and look forward to telling Jill that I was right. I walk to where I threw the iPhone and am relieved to find that it still works. It lives to send embarrassing texts another day. Huzzah. I plug it back into its charger, climb into bed and tuck in tight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

  DESPITE AN EXCEDRIN PM hangover, I arrive at the first day of school wide eyed and excited. Just like every other first day of school since I can remember. Kids getting dropped off, buses taking up way too much space in tiny parking lots, and teachers barking orders as they hold on to clipboards filled with lists and classroom numbers. I pick my way through the crush, coffee in hand, and make my way to our little mental health stalag. I’ve got a solid hour before I pull Harry Sprague out of his second-period English class for his first speech therapy session. I plan on filling up this coffee mug as many times as I can between then and now.

  No Jill in sight as I set my canvas bag down in our office. She’s probably foraging in the teachers’ lounge. It is the first day of school. The amount of delicious goodness that is teeming in that lounge right now is mind-boggling. Bagels? Danish? Bins filled with Red Vines? I could go on and on. My mouth waters as I walk down the hallway, out the double doors and toward the teachers’ lounge. It’s far enough away that teachers can let their hair down but close enough that a cup of coffee (or a handful of Red Vines) is mere steps away at any given time.

  I excitedly push open the door, already tasting that cream cheese, bagel and fresh cup of coffee.

  “Hey, Frannie.” Ryan. Ugh. Ryan. It’s as if someone has thrown a bucket of cold water on my face and I’m frozen in the doorway, mascara trailing down my cheeks. It takes milliseconds to gather myself, an undertaking that’s barely visible to the naked eye: masks are pulled, shoulders are cocked back, chins lifted.

  “Hey,” I say, my eyes scanning the room. Jill. On the balcony.

  “Hey . . . I wanted to—”

  I cut in. “Ah, there’s Jill! Have a great first day!” I escape from Ryan’s shrugging apologies and bob and weave past several sad looks, pitying smiles, and “you go, girl” raised eyebrows. I march past the obstacle course of feigned sympathy and walk out onto the balcony.

  “What the hell? You leave me in there with Ryan and the Coven of Front-Office Hags?” I say, trying to look as happy as possible.

  “Leave you? What are you talking about?” Jill asks, talking to another woman. Who I don’t know. Great. I extend my hand in greeting. She quickly takes it with a firm grip.

  “Frances Reid. I’m sorry, I don’t usually . . . he’s my ex and now he’s dating Jessica and I’m . . . I’m just . . . I have to act like it doesn’t bother me and it’s—”

  “Lisa Campanari,” she says, cigarette dangling out of her mouth. Her New Jersey accent is thick. I like her immediately.

  “She’s in the upper school science department,” Jill says with just the slightest hint of a Jersey accent by osmosis.

  “So, what room are you in?” I ask, knowing Lisa will be most affected by the construction of the new science building and tech center expansion.

  “Some makeshift annex. Whatever. The new building looks like it’s going to be worth waiting for,” Lisa says, putting out her cigarette. I’m not staring into the lounge. I swear I’m not. Ryan sips his coffee . . . not sweet enough. More sugar. I clear my throat and focus back on Jill and Lisa.

  “Best money can buy,” Jill says.

  “Oh yeah?” Lisa asks.

  “My husband works for the architectural firm that’s doing the expansion,” Jill says.

  “Nice gig if you can get it,” Lisa says.

  “He’s with an international architectural firm, so everything was aboveboard,” Jill says.

  “I doubt you working here as a speech therapist would have anything to do with whether or not an international architectural firm was hired,” Lisa says, popping a breath mint.

  “Well, it didn’t,” Jill says, almost to herself.

  “Jill?” Lisa asks, focusing.

  “Hm?” Jill answers, her voice hesitant.

  “Get over yourself,” Lisa says, smiling.

  “I like you,” Jill says, pointing directly at Lisa. Lisa laughs—open, assured and booming.

  “Hey, gals.” Debbie Manners peeks out the door to the balcony. A) Anyone who says “gals” should be drawn and quartered. B) It’s too early in the morn
ing—and the school year, for that matter—for Debbie to be saying anything to us.

  “What’s up, Debbie?” I ask, shark eyes in full effect.

  “Just wanted to have you guys sign the birthday card we’ve got going around for Headmistress Dunham,” Debbie says, passing me a file folder that apparently conceals the key to the lost-wax process if you judge by how carefully she’s handing it off to me.

  “It’s the first day of school, Manners. Come on,” Jill says.

  “It’ll just be a dash,” Debbie says, moving farther out onto the balcony.

  “We don’t have a pen,” I say, hands in the air.

  “Here you go,” Debbie says, fanning an entire pastel spectrum of Sharpies in front of me. I choose the least-offensive light blue. Debbie is disappointed and resolves, surely, to take that color out for future signees.

  As I sign the card Debbie continues. “We’re doing cake and ice cream in the teachers’ lounge next Wednesday after school. We’re asking everyone for a donation to help with the present.” I pass the card and the pen to Jill.

  “Debbie, right? That’s a full week and a half away and we just want to get through this first day,” Lisa says.

  “If you could just sign the card,” Debbie says, growing ever more panicked.

  We are quiet.

  Debbie continues. “We’re getting her a Waterford apple for her desk and any donation will do, but we’re hoping you’ll be generous.” Debbie snatches the blue pen away before Jill passes it to Lisa. She quickly replaces it with a bright pink one. Lisa looks none too pleased as she passes Debbie back the card along with the bright pink Sharpie.

  “So stop by the library anytime with the money,” Debbie says. She heads back into the teachers’ lounge, thrusting the card and request for a generous donation at another group of unsuspecting teachers. “We’d really appreciate it,” I hear from the balcony.

  “Great. We have Emma’s birthday thing on Wednesday and then that whole fund-raising fair that Friday? That’s a whole lot of extracurricular activities we’re sure not getting paid for,” Lisa says, putting this new information into her calendar.