We Run the Tides(41)

She’s a terrible liar. It’s winter and it’s been overcast.

“Well, it worked!” my mom says.

The two mothers stare at each other for a moment—it’s time for my mom to go. “I’ll make sure Eulabee’s back before dinnertime,” Kate says. “And thanks again for the cheesecake.” I know she won’t eat it because she’s constantly worried about having a bubble butt. She says all ice-skaters get them.

After my mom leaves, Kate shows Julia and me the valentine-making station she’s set up for us in the dining room. This is what she calls it—a station. Construction paper, scissors, sequins, beads, stickers, and glue have been set out for us as though we’re nine. There’s even a packet of Scooby-Doo valentines from some other decade.

“You know what all those boxes are about?” Julia says when we’re alone.

I shake my head, and try not to show my relief. I’m so glad we’re going to talk about the electronics boxes and not about Maria Fabiola’s party.

“When Gentle’s mom took off she went to this ashram.”

“I thought she went to India,” I say.

“Yeah, the ashram’s in India.”

I don’t ask what an ashram is.

“She started this love affair with the head guy and now she’s basically considered the queen of the ashram.”

I make a sound to show I’m impressed.

“I know, right?” Julia says. “Anyway, since she’s the queen, guess who’s the princess?”

“Gentle,” I say, with authority.

“Exactly. So the members of this ashram treat her like a princess and they give up all their money and buy her all these presents. All these . . . things.”

“They just send them here?”

“Yeah, boxes just arrive all the time. Gentle hates it. She thinks it’s horrendous. She calls it ‘eighties commercialism.’ Anyway, I’m tired of everything being about Gentle all the time.”

We both stare at the valentines on the table. I can feel Julia retreating from me again, like a wave.

“I have an idea,” I say. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we sent all the teachers valentines from other teachers saying how much they loved each other?”

“What do you mean?” Julia says, leaning a little bit forward.

I suggest we make one from Mr. Makepeace, to Ms. Mc., the science teacher.

“I wanna talk dirty to you—in my stupid British accent,” Julia says.

I laugh. She writes it down. This is good, I think. She likes me again.

“We need one from Mr. London to Ms. Catanese,” she says.

“I love you—literally,” I say.

Julia laughs, then pauses, as if realizing she didn’t get the joke. I lunge ahead to erase the awkward moment. “Ms. Ross should get one from that therapist who filled in for her that semester. Mr. Gunji.”

“She was having personal issues,” Julia notes. “Faith says she got a breast reduction.”

“I miss your boobs,” I say. “Love, The Gunj.”

We snicker for a good two minutes.

“Ms. Patel needs one from Mr. Makepeace,” I say. “Actually, everyone should get one from Mr. Makepeace.”

“Even the men?”

“Especially the men.”

We decide Mr. Makepeace’s should all be Scooby-Doo. On each one we write “R-roh! I love you!”

Then we add, “Love, your Boss.”

From Mr. Robinson, the gym teacher, to the sewing teacher: “I want to run away with you. But not too fast, because I’ll be wearing my long pants designed for the Outback and they make it hard to run.”

From Ms. Mc. to Mr. Robinson: “When I watch instructional videos about the reproductive process, I think of you.”

From Mr. London to Ms. Catanese: “How about a threesome? Franny, Zooey, and you? Oh, and also me. So it’ll be a foursome.”

From Ms. Peterson, the math teacher, to Ms. Trujillo, the Spanish teacher: “Me + you = Amor.” We look up the Spanish word for “sex” in a pocket dictionary, and we paste Sexo over Amor.

We laugh for an hour, but eventually, when we decide every teacher should get at least one from at least two other teachers, it becomes an oddly workmanlike process. We use all the supplies Julia’s mom has set out: metallic pens and stickers with googly eyes. No one is spared except for Ms. Livesey. She won’t fall for it, we decide without debate.

When we’re done, we place them all in a black garbage bag that we think won’t look suspicious. I stand up and stretch and while feeling very proud of our creativity and work ethic, I smell something foreign. I wonder if Kate’s burning something—she’s a terrible cook.

But it’s Gentle. She’s descended from her bedroom, which is in the attic. The smell, I realize, is her patchouli. Her hair is parted in the middle, but other than that she looks disappointingly unlike a hippie today. She almost looks normal.

“Why are you guys working in the dark?” Gentle asks.

“It’s not dark,” Julia says, glancing up at the chandelier.

“Just open the curtains,” Gentle says, moving toward the window.

“No!” Julia says.

“Who cares if you can’t see the bridge from this house?” Gentle says.