Tell Me Three Things(70)

What would my mom want to know about the last twenty-four hours? Maybe I’d have told her about the kale juice. Or SN’s message this morning, counting the number of minutes till we’re going to meet. Or best of all, Ethan’s I think you should say no, which I haven’t stopped replaying on a loop in my head. Six perfect words.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe I’d have kept that nugget just for myself.



Me: I dunno. Later?

Dad: Deal.



—

“Jessie, you mind staying for a minute?” Mrs. Pollack asks me after English, and my stomach drops. What did I do this time? According to Crystal, Gem’s out with a stomach flu and is “like, you know, puking her guts out, hashtag jealous,” so the day has been uneventful, which is a relief, since I’m in a striped cotton dress that I’m sure would have made me a perfect target. A little girlier than I normally wear, but damn, it’s hot here.

And so I stay in my seat while the rest of the class files out. Ethan gives me a curious glance, and I shrug, and he smiles and mouths Good luck on his way out, and I want to pocket that smile and his words, carry them around with me like a talisman. My own goofy smile lingers on my face too long after he has left. Ethan’s fault.

“I just wanted to talk to you about last week. I owe you an apology,” Mrs. Pollack says, and this time she doesn’t sit backward in her chair. She stays behind her desk, like a proper teacher. She has given up the whole buddy-buddy thing, which actually wasn’t the problem. Her blame was. “I spent the whole weekend thinking about our conversation, and I realized I handled it all wrong.”

I stare at her, thinking of the right words to say. “Thank you”? “No problem”? “No big deal”?

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault Gem is a total bitch,” I say, and then look up in horror. I didn’t mean to say that second part out loud. Mrs. Pollack smiles, which is a relief, because I wouldn’t know how to explain to Ethan that we got an F on our “Waste Land” project just because I have a big mouth. Until last week, Mrs. Pollack was my favorite teacher, and not just because I was grateful to her for not making me stand up in front of the class on the first day of school.

“When I was in high school, I wasn’t particularly cool. Actually, that’s a lie,” she says, and shrugs. “I was tortured. Really bullied. And when I saw what happened with Gem, I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to help.”

Mrs. Pollack looks a little teary. Maybe no one ever gets over high school. She is shiny-haired and beautiful now, a grown-up Gem. It’s hard to believe she ever looked any different.

“I just…anyhow, I just wanted to say sorry. I’ve been watching you, and you so know who you are already. Most girls your age don’t have that comfort-in-their-own-skin thing, and that’s probably what makes you threatening to Gem,” she says, and I wonder what the hell she’s talking about. I don’t know anything about anything. “Anyhow, high school is just…The. Worst.”

“Funny that you became a high school teacher, then,” I say, and she laughs again.

“Something I should talk to my therapist about. Speaking of which, you could speak to the school counselor if you want. We have a psychiatrist on staff. A life coach too.”

“Seriously?”

“I know, right? Finding ways to justify the tuition. Anyhow, if not them, feel free to come talk to me anytime. Students like you are the reason I chose to teach.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, I look forward to your and Ethan’s ‘Waste Land’ paper. You’re two of my brightest students. I have great expectations.” Dickens is next on the syllabus. A literary pun. No wonder Mrs. Pollack was destroyed in high school.

“We intend to reach wuthering heights,” I say, and as I walk by, she reaches her hand up, and I can’t help it—dorks unite! nerd power!—I give her a high five on my way out.

—

Later, at Book Out Below!, which is customer-free, I sit behind the counter, message SN. So far, I’ve successfully avoided Liam since I’ve been back from Chicago, and I am relieved that he’s not working today. If he is really planning to ask me out, I have no idea how I’ll say no.



Me: Are you sure we should meet?

SN: yeah, I think so. why? you getting cold feet?

Me: No. It’s just, you could be anybody. It’s different for you. You know who’s going to show up.

SN: well, I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything like that.

Me: Serial killers don’t usually confess to being serial killers. In fact, isn’t that the first thing a serial killer would do? Say “I’m not a serial killer. Nope, not me.”

SN: true. don’t take my word for it. let’s meet in a public place. I won’t bring my scary white van or candy.

Me: And where should we meet, Dexter Morgan? IHOP, really?

SN: yup. love IHOP. they have pancakes that look like happy faces. I have a thing at 3, so how about 3:45?

Me: Okay. How will I know who you are?

SN: I know who you are, remember?

Me: And?

SN: I’ll come introduce myself, Ms. Holmes.

Me: Brave man.

SN: or woman.

Me: !!!

SN: kidding.