On Turpentine Lane(46)

“Planting the seeds of stewardship,” said Nick, with a wink.

One wink across the table in my direction? Who would even notice that?



The girls started it as we left New York on the ride home. “You two married?” one of them called out from the giggling back row.

“No. That would be Mr. and Mrs. Smilowitz, the chaperones who had to drop out,” said Nick.

“You know we’re not married,” I said.

“You share an office, right?” Carlee asked.

Then the debater I knew via my thoughtful stewardship updates offered, “Yah. And it’s, like, microscopic.”

Nick said, “Not true. Nor am I appreciating the subtext of that inaccurate description.”

I said, “People! Let’s talk about the play. How many of you read the novel ahead of time?”

Silence. “Nada!” someone finally yelled.

I told them that I owned a copy and would be happy to loan it. Which is when I heard a whispered “They live together.”

“And you know that how?” I asked.

“Her grandmother lives on your street,” Hayley answered.

I couldn’t deny our housemate status. I told them yes, we shared a house. I knew what they were giggling about, but they were crossing boundaries.

Someone asked if we could give out demerits like teachers could. Nick said, “No, but we can get you all expelled,” which only added to the merriment.

We asked for a change of topic, or silence and mercy. Why weren’t they texting or plugged into their music like every other kid on campus?

“We’re team building,” said Amanda. “It’s the whole reason for field trips.”

“Bonding,” said her Holiday Inn roommate.

“For the last time,” I said, “Mr. Franconi and I are coworkers and teammates. And don’t you think it’s retro and unhip to tease two people because they work together and happen to be of the opposite sex? Wasn’t the Tenement Museum about many unrelated people who lived under one roof?”

“They had no money. They were immigrants. They worked in sweatshops.”

“They had to share beds!” someone said, to more hilarity.

I said, “Okay. Enough. These jokes are getting very tiresome.”

Was “tiresome” funny? Apparently so.

We didn’t get silence or mercy. We got whispers, guffaws, and, finally, “We saw you slipping out of Miss Frankel’s room last night,” another wisenheimer tried.

Before I could protest, Nick said, “Or maybe you saw me slipping out of the police station where I’d just reported you delinquents to the authorities.”

Jeers and laughter. What fun these two nonfaculty chaperones were!

I whispered to Nick, “That wasn’t exactly a denial. Maybe you should have been more direct.” He took one of his hands off the wheel and snapped his fingers. “Delinquents? Listen up. Ms. Frankel wants you to understand . . . wants me to make it very clear that I was not slipping out of her room. That is uncalled for and—don’t quote me—bullshit. In fact, I don’t even know what room she was assigned to. Ms. Frankel? Would you like to add anything to that?”

I swiveled around in my seat. “Yes, I would. I know you’re all having fun. I know you think you’re hilarious. Mr. Franconi and I happen to live in the same house, but that is a financial arrangement. And I think there’s a teaching moment here (boos) . . . no, wait, it’s challenging the antiquated notion that two people of the opposite sex sharing an activity or an office or a van have to be a couple. It never occurred to us that if we agreed to chaperone this trip, we’d be . . . what? Accused of hooking up?”

That phrase appeared to be highly amusing, too.

“Settle down,” Nick said to them. And to me, quietly, “They’re having fun. They’re harmless. And I don’t mind.”

Truthfully? I didn’t mind, either.



Parents were waiting when we returned. Each one said, “Was Amanda/Pilar/Kayla/Carlee/Hayley/Jordan/Rafe/Khaled good? Well behaved? No trouble?”

Nick winked at whichever son or daughter was fending off a parental embrace. “Couldn’t be more delightful,” he said every time.



Heading home I asked, “Do you think we’ll never hear the end of this?”

“So what? They’re all seniors. They’ll be gone in six months. Until then, we’ll just keep being the consummate professionals that we pretend to be.”

Pretend to be? Which part were we faking? I said, “It doesn’t make sense, does it—how all eight of them were singing the same tune?”

We turned onto Turpentine and then into our driveway. There were a few moments of silence before he unclicked his seat belt. “Not so hard to grasp,” Nick finally said.

Did he mean something other than blatant senior silliness? Us, for instance? I chose not to ask.





30





Bratty Brooke


UPON RECEIPT OF e-mail invitations to Stuart and Brooke’s Christmas-Hanukkah-Winter-Solstice open house, I asked Nick if he’d known that our exes’ housing arrangement had worked out.

“Only because she had the decency to tell me that my half of the rent was now covered.”