Coming Together Page 10

  “What was good about it?”

  My smile evaporates a little as Amelia gushes, “We got a new drama teacher named Chelle. She’s the best. She let us dance!” Her entire face lights up, and she tugs on my sleeve. “I want to be an actor! They’re going to have tryouts for the play, so I have to be in it. I have to.” Amelia bunches herself up into a little ball, then flings her arms out wide. Well, I can see her being bitten by the acting bug.

  “You know, about dancing. I had a talk with Ms. Chelle and the assistant principal.” I stop there, because the annoyance I felt at finger-painting Willow is resurfacing. What’s so wrong with a kid dancing, for god’s sake?

  And Chelle agreed with me. She was standing up for Amelia, if doing it in the most combative way possible. To me.

  She was doing her best for my kid. Standing up for her.

  I can’t think about my two fortuitous run-ins with that woman, though. I need to keep my mind and eyes on the road.

  “What about dancing?” Amelia asks, giving me the perfect angel look that means I become putty in her hands. Hell, she doesn’t need to know about what an idiot the assistant principal is.

  “Never mind. Ice cream?” I watch Amelia’s excitement level go from normal to stratospheric.

  “Mom never lets me have ice cream anymore!” That’s true. It’s all probiotic yogurt squeezes and low-protein goat milk over at the yurt. I’ll admit that when I found out Suzonne had sold our house to live with our daughter in a very nice tent in the canyon, I lost my temper a little bit. But the lawyers tell me it’s very safe, absolutely no bears and minimum sightings of wild cats. I’m not pleased, but until we get this custody issue sorted out, I need to keep my cards close to the chest.

  “Well, how about a little Salt and Straw and she never finds out?”

  Amelia gives me Angel Eyes™, the required accessory of every ten-year-old girl. “You’re the best, Daddy.”

  See that? I’m the best. Ice cream for every meal from now on.

  We’re sitting on the street corner in Larchmont, enjoying a double serving of sea salt caramel ice cream, when my phone buzzes on the table. It’s an incoming FaceTime message, and Amelia’s eyes go wide. As for me, my testicles retreat a little bit up into my body. I try to keep that information limited to as few people as possible.

  “Hide the ice cream,” I tell her, because Suzonne is messaging me. I accept the FaceTime, and she’s there. Right there. Looking as beautiful as the day I met her, and as utterly pissed as the day she left. “Hey, Suze. What’s up?”

  She says nothing. At first I think this is a call to let me take a hard look at what I let slip away, but then she holds up a dry erase board.

  CAN’T TALK. SILENT YOGA.

  Oh. Right. I let Amelia polish off my own ice cream while Suzonne erases the words and writes again, her brow furrowed with concentration. On the bright side, this is the quietest she’s ever screamed before. Finally, she holds up the board with a new message.

  VMAIL FROM SCHOOL. AMELIA IN TROUBLE??

  “It’s not bad,” I tell her, mentally kicking myself for not coming down sooner and keeping Suzonne out of this. Then again, the school probably called her first. Since she’s the primary caregiver, it makes sense. Still, a friendly little aneurysm is building up in my brain, just waiting for the moment it can finally pop and end this. “Everyone laughed about it. Me, the teacher, the assistant principal… Well, she didn’t laugh, but she did finger-paint. We enjoyed that.”

  There we go, writing again. I wait about three minutes, and in the intervening time I toss my ice cream cup and wipe Amelia’s face with a napkin. I swear to god, her food ends up everywhere. Finally, Suzonne finishes, and it’s a long message, so the words are much smaller.

  Why can’t I go out of town for three days without a problem? My guru says that this entire divorce has thrown me out of alignment, and I can’t put up with this amount of negativity. They say it’ll cause brain cancer. I’ve been on a cleanse since Monday, and I’m already low on blood sugar. This did not help! Why can’t you think about my needs once in a while? Why don’t you try spending some quality time with our daughter so she doesn’t end up doing something crazy like taking drugs or dating an engineering major when she’s older??

  “Is Mom mad at me?” Amelia asks, her voice uncharacteristically quiet, her eyes on the table. Okay. You can take it out on me all you want in this life, but you mess with my kid and the Hulk breaks out. And I don’t have those expanding underpants Hulk does, so it’s going to get really awkward exceptionally fast around here.

  “No way,” I tell her, then turn my attention back to Suzonne. “Suze. The school is fine. The teacher is fine. The class is fine. Amelia is fine. Go back to your garbanzo bean treatment, and we’ll see you in a couple of days. All right?”

  I’m still being pleasant, but Suzonne knows me well enough to understand not to push any harder. She mimes a sigh, and nods. The tension deflates. Then, quickly:

  ARE YOU EATING? WHAT KIND OF FOOD?

  Oh, dammit.

  “Soy yogurt,” I tell her. It’s not a lie. Except for the fact that it’s a lie. She looks mollified, and signs off of the call. I look at Amelia, who’s now scuffing the toe of her sneaker across the sidewalk. She’s drooping.

  “I didn’t mean to screw up,” she says softly.

  “You didn’t. Ms. Chelle thinks the world of you,” I tell her. Just like that, her energy powers back up to 100%. The kid runs on sugar and good thoughts. I defy you to find me a more perfect human. “She even told me you have a lot of energy and stage presence.”

  “Really?” Now Amelia’s flying high, and starts typing away at her iPhone. “I need to put that on my calendar of good vibrations.”

  “They make you keep that at school?” What am I saying? Of course they do. “You want to audition for that school play, huh? Nervous at all?” Amelia’s never done anything like that.

  She scrunches up her face and giggles. “Nope. I’m going to get in, and then I’m going to get an agent, and then I’m going to get into movies or TV. I’ve got it all planned out,” she says, serious as a heart attack. Where’d she hear about agents? “Nichole’s dad’s an agent. Maybe he’ll be at my play!”

  “Slow down, lightning. You still need to get cast.” I ruffle her hair. Then, more softly, I say, “This is why I’m proud of you. I never had such big plans for myself when I was your age.”

  “Okay. First get the play, then talk to Nichole’s dad. That’s on the planner.” She hits send on the email, and sits back in her chair, swinging her legs and feeling pretty damn pleased with herself. I point at her ice cream.

  “I don’t like to see quitters. Finish that up, then we have some work to do. Like picking which movie we want to go see.”

  Look, I’m not going to be one of those Willy Wonka dads, I swear. But you’d never believe how happy a kid can sound. As she thinks about how much butter she wants on her popcorn, I realize Amelia’s only this happy because of Chelle. The woman really did her a solid on the very first day.

  Must be good at what she does.

  That’s a pretty sexy quality, come to think of it.

  5

  Chelle

  “So. First week. How you feeling?” Emery asks as she sits across from me, swinging back and forth in her hammock. I’d like to tell you we were having this conversation at some exotic tropical locale with drinks in umbrellas and taut cabana boys sauntering around, but no. Hammock’s at school. Turns out the teachers’ lounge took a page out of the 19th century navy and replaced our sofas and chairs with hammocks. One of them you have to climb a ladder to reach, and you better be supple. José, the alternative chemistry teacher, fell out of it on Wednesday.

  Then again, I’m pretty sure he was dabbling in some alternative chemistry, if you know what I mean, and I mean pot.

  “It’s wild. Kind of crazy, but also kind of lovely? The kids are a dream.” They really are, too. I’ve always loved kids—you’re a masochi
st to get in this job if you don’t—but these are among the cutest I’ve taught. And so conscious of things like the environment, child labor laws, and the history of the Tibetan conflict.

  Okay, those parts are a little creepy in a Lake Woebegone sort of way, but these kids also have the most pinchable cheeks and happy giggles. That makes up for the socialist stuff.

  “I just wish Willow would lay off Amelia a little bit,” I say, taking a sip of my all natural, high symbiote Macha green tea. I make a face, and not just at the hedge clippings in my mug. “It’s not the kid’s fault she’s energetic. And likes animal protein.”

  This entire week, I’ve put Mr. Surly Munroe out of my mind and have focused entirely on his perfect angel of a daughter. Amelia’s the bounciest, most excited kid in the class. Anytime I’ve got a scene to read out or an activity to demonstrate, she nearly falls off her beanbag chair to be allowed up. But apparently that much energy is distracting from the natural rhythms of the class, or whatever it was Willow said.

  It’s starting to irk me, actually.

  Emery rolls down her sweatpants leg and falls out of the hammock, somersaulting before she lands on the floor. She teaches karmic hockey and other physical activities over at the gymnasium, which is really just a nice term for a small patch of lawn to the west end of campus. Bay of Dreams isn’t exactly the place to send your competitive athletes, in case you were wondering.

  Still, it’s because of Emery I’m here at all in the first place.

  She flips her dreads over her shoulder and walks out with me into the hall. Ah, the gong sounds. Time for my afternoon munchkins.

  “Let’s get some actual coffee this weekend and discuss more. My treat,” she calls, walking backwards to wave at me before running to class.

  God. Coffee, and maybe some processed sugar. Life never tasted so good.

  The kids are already running in a circle when I get there, warming their little bodies up. I spot Amelia right away; she’s the one who insists on always wearing a hoodie with mouse ears.

  Could I bottle her cuteness? Is that allowed?

  “Okay, center and circle,” I call, clapping my hands. I lay out a few purple gym mats, and everyone scampers to a seat at once. Amelia’s sitting Indian style first, rocking back and forth with enthusiasm. “So we have an announcement. Our spring musical is going to be…” I do a little drum roll, banging on the mat, then throw my hands in the air. “Oliver!”

  It’s true, in order to get the Dickensian tale of porridge-deprived urchins and Victorian haves and have-nots past the faculty, I had to take a few liberties. Like we’re setting the play in a Koreatown sweatshop now, not London. And Oliver needs to have one song at least about saving the whales. Beyond that, though, the sky’s the limit.

  Amelia squeals, and the rest of the kids get excited as well. Kids loving theater; is there anything better?

  “We’re going to have auditions real soon, but first I need you to talk to your parents this weekend and see who might be happy to volunteer.” I look over the sea of silent ten-year-old faces now. Can you blame them? Who wants their mom or dad hanging around with their teacher for weeks on end? “I only need one for right now, and you can tell Mom and Dad it’s going to be basic stuff. Help with picking out sets, help with costumes, help with snacks.” I widen my eyes dramatically. “Snacks are the most important part.”

  They all start laughing at that. Amelia starts bouncing up and down, waving her hand in the air.

  “My dad can! He can do it!” She stretches as far as she can into the air without actually standing up. She’s so adorable that I almost forget that her dad is probably the last man on earth who wants to pick out attractive yet affordable urchin costumes. In fact, if he’d been alive in Charles Dickens’s day, he might’ve been one of the guys who told Oliver Twist to stop asking for luxury items, like food.

  So I do my hem and haw routine, hoping to throw her enthusiasm off track. “Oh, well, we don’t need an answer right now. Go ahead and ask this weekend, and—”

  “But he wants to do it! He told me.” She gets the saddest, most stricken expression. “He told me how you’re a really good teacher for me.”

  I am not impervious to a little flattery, especially not from an adorable little girl with a super hot dad. It’s all I can do not to start twirling my hair around my finger like a teenager asking about her damn crush.

  Focus, Chelle!

  “Your dad said he wanted to work on the school play?” I’m not quite buying this, but Amelia looks pretty serious.

  “He said he never cared about anything as much as I care about acting. He told me he wants to support me.”

  Amelia’s now getting some ten-year-old side eye, probably because she’s being enthusiastic and passionate and generally happy. Still, I don’t want to set her up for a lot of teasing, so I quickly say, “Well, let’s see what your dad says after school. That sure would be a ton of fun!”

  “He’ll say yes.” She looks proud enough to get up and take off flying around the room. “He used to not do anything with me at school, but he told me that he’s done being a jerk and is, uh, ready to be present. Or something. I don’t know.” She giggles again, but what she says pierces my heart a little. Doesn’t shock me Will Munroe used to not be the world’s most attentive dad.

  It also softens me a little toward the guy. Going through that divorce probably made him more sensitive. But sensitive in a John Wayne learning to love way, not a guy who wears a sleep mask and spends a lot of money on facials way.

  I don’t know why I felt the need to make that distinction, or why all I can see now is John Wayne in a glittery sleep mask. I need to stop thinking things. Like ever.

  I also need to stop thinking about how sweet Mr. Tightass Munroe is with his daughter, or that’s going to seriously compromise my ability to hate him for no reason.

  “Yoga exploration time!” I say, standing up and beginning our stretches. The kids are all right with that, let me tell you.

  When class is done, it’s the final gong of the day. Everyone slips into their shoes and backpacks while I tail after Amelia. My heart rate hasn’t gone up because I’m going to talk to her dad, oh no. It’s all that yoga. That’s what it is.

  Will’s parked in the shade of a pine tree, leaning against his car and staring down at his phone. He’s wearing a studly, frowning expression, like he just realized the world on average is not as hot as he is. A stunning realization, that.

  Okay Chelle, let’s go in nice and slow here. No need to profusely thank him or anything. A firm, diplomatic handshake ought to—

  “How’d you like my first born child?”

  He looks up in shock. “What?”

  If I step back and get a good running start, I can maybe plummet all the way down the canyon to my end. Just keeping that in reserve.

  “Sorry, it’s how I do you. Talk to you. How I do, and talk to you, I sort of combined those.” Come for me, sweet death. Take your servant now. While Will slowly slides his phone into his pocket, thus giving my insanity his full attention, I continue to try to stop fumbling the conversational ball. “I just meant first born child, like, in a ha ha way? Funny? Sort of like Rumpelstiltskin, you know? Did you ever read Amelia that story?”

  Will thoughtfully nods. “Much as I love collecting infants, I still don’t think I understand why I need yours.”

  Firing. On. All. Cylinders. Today. Chelle.

  “I just, sorry, I thought you were a dick when we first met. Turns out you’re not. The thinking you were a dick thing, that was on me. I was raised to make quick choices and not look back, it’s how I ended up with six figures of college debt I’ll never repay. You know. It’s the exact same thing.”

  Now Will is looking like maybe he needs to get me into the car so he can surreptitiously drive me to Cedars-Sinai to get them to check my frontal lobe for any possible trauma, and honestly dude? Right there with you. Thankfully, I’m saved from any further nonsense when Amelia comes skipping up t
o us. Truly skipping! Truly saving my ass! Love this kid.

  “Daddy, you’re going to help with the play, aren’t you?”

  Will’s face stretches into utter blankness, and I know right then that Amelia volunteered him out of hope, not truth. God, now this is embarrassing. At least I can go back to sulkily judging him as an Armani-wearing douchebag. Good. That’ll comfort me in the dark of the night, when I reach for my vibrator.

  I…I don’t know where that last part came from.

  Then, to my seemingly endless supply of shock for the day, we add this little nugget:

  “You bet. Helping with plays is what I do.” He looks up at me, an eyebrow raised. “It’s how I repaid all six figures of college debt.”

  Oh ho, it is to laugh.

  “I don’t know if Amelia’s told you all the particulars.” I put my hands on my hips. Cock one hip a little bit. Maybe even swivel it… No, I don’t do that—there’s a child present. “It requires work on nights and weekends. Grueling decisions, last minute choices between costumes and sets. Granted, we’ve got a fantastic budget to work with.”

  “A lot of money, I take it.”

  “James Cameron gave us a grant of nine hundred thousand for the next three years. I could have actual lions doing Lion King if I wanted.”

  “Have to keep them fed. Lions, and all that.”

  “You could provide the meat.” There. Is. A. Child. I. Did. Not. Mean it. To sound like that. Thankfully, Amelia’s tapping away at her iPhone, and I recover fast. “Like, you could buy it and make choices between rump roast and filet, and it would probably need to be a lot—”

  “You’re asking me to give up nights and weekends from my twelve hour a day job to help with my daughter’s school play,” he says coolly. He puts a hand on Amelia’s head. God, he’s like a hot thirtysomething Daddy Warbucks. Maybe we should’ve done Annie. Maybe he could’ve shaved his head.