16. Georgia
SIXTEEN
Georgia
“ONE, TWO, THREE,” Emmanuel shrieks.
“EYES ON ME,” the bar responds.
“THREE, TWO, ONE,” Emmanuel screams.
“DOWN AND DONE,” we scream back, knocking back bottom-shelf tequila.
The bar, a dive named ‘Tim’s’ a block away from the school, is silent for a moment as twenty-ish teachers suck on lime wedges. I don’t know exactly how many. I did know at some point, but that was before this fourth or fifth shot of tequila and now-warm half-finished beer in my hand.
I turn to my team. “I love you guys.”
“We hate you,” Emmanuel tells me, dark eyes glazed yet still bright with mirth.
Mia’s tiny body is half seated on a bar stool, one foot on the bottom rail of the bar, the other not-so-firmly planted on the ground, her normally perfect ponytail slightly askew. “I should probably head home soon,” she slurs, but tries very hard not to.
“What? No,” I try equally hard not to slur back.
“I gotta head in a bit, too,” Tamika states. She, unlike the rest of us, sits perfectly poised on the top of a bar stool. The only sign she’s been drinking is the four or five shots I watched her put down with the rest of us.
I look at her with one eye. “How do you look so perfect right now? How do you look like that, and we,” I say, gesturing to myself and Mia, as Emmanuel moves away, “look like this?”
“Don’t count me in attendance to your white girl wasted party,” Emmanuel says, standing next to Tamika and resting his head on her shoulder.
“I’m wasted,” Tamika says.
“Not like them, you’re not,” Emmanuel says.
“We’ve been drinking for, like, a million hours.”
Tamika looks at her watch. “Four hours.”
“I hate that man,” I say.
“ME?!” Emmanuel screeches. “What did I ever do to you?! I fought the lunch lady for a string cheese for you!”
“No, not you. Oliver,” I reply.
“I think we’re really losing the plot here,” Tamika says, propping Mia up so that both her butt cheeks rest on the stool.
“I really didn’t want him to be like my last admin,” I wail. “They were the worst.”
“So, you purposefully antagonize him?” Tamika asks.
“Not anymore!” I yell indignantly.
“I love this song!” Mia and Emmanuel shriek, as a song about calling your girlfriend comes over the speakers. They grip hands and run to the corner of the bar to dance with a group of first grade teachers.
I heave my body onto the stool Mia has just vacated, resting my elbows on the bar and putting my suddenly very heavy head in my hands.
“What happened with Max’s dad today?” Tamika says. I am learning that Tamika is one of those heart-to-heart people, not a butterfly in social situations, but a ‘let’s sit down one-on-one in the middle of this party and have a deep conversation’ person. Not like me. Like Eloise, though. “I saw you and him getting into it the yard.”
“Max’s dad came for me and Max and Dorothy and her family today. I gave it right back to him,” I tell her, seething.
“Good,” she replies. “Was Oliver able to handle it?”
I shrug. “I guess. He kind of brushed me off in front of Max’s dad.”
She hums. “Seems like it was the right thing to do from where I was standing. Max’s dad is an asshole. I remember him getting in another teacher’s face a few years ago. Oliver probably just wanted to separate you two. Especially since you’re all,” she waves her hand towards my body, “you.”
I give her the middle finger. “That’s what Oliver said,” I grumble. “It set my teeth on edge, though. It reminded me of something my ex used to do. Like, ‘Ha! I apologize for Georgia, with her opinions . Georgia, could you be a dear and go fetch us a drink?’”
She nods sympathetically. “I had an ex like that once.” She pauses, thinking. “But from where I was standing, it looked like you handled it well. You stood up for your kids and their families, but you kept it professional.”
“Thanks,” I say reluctantly. “I told Oliver I’d fix my attitude. I really do need to keep this job.”
“We all need you here, too,” she says, gesturing to herself, and Emmanuel and Mia, both of whom have somehow procured sunglasses and are still dancing in the corner.
Her phone dings, and she pulls it out to inspect it. “Shit,” she says. “It’s my son. He had a dinner emergency. I gotta go save him.” She stands and gathers her things. “I wish I could talk to you longer, but we’ll do this again.” She kisses the air twice.
I nod. “Love ya, bitch. ”
She grins. “Love ya, too.”
Tamika starts the mass exodus out of the bar. Emmanuel leaves after putting Mia’s corpse into an Uber. The rest of the grade teams trickle out. Someone gave me their full beer on their way out, and since it would be fiscally irresponsible of me to turn it down, I decide to stay and chat with my new best friend Tim, the owner of this fine establishment.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” he tells me, in what has to be the thickest Brooklyn accent I’ve ever heard in my life. “You just start at PS 2?”
“Yup, about a month ago. How’d you know? Do you know all the teachers? Can I have water?” I ask him.
He laughs, turning momentarily to grab a glass and pour me one. “I’ve been serving PS 2 teachers at this bar for the last thirty-five years. I’ve seen you all. At your best. And at your worst.” He wipes his bar down. “I overheard Tamika telling you they needed you, though. Seems like a good sign for someone new.”
What a kind man. “Yeah,” I try not to slur. “I really need this job. Like, more than anything. I can’t afford to look for a new job again, especially this far into the school year.”
“That doesn’t sound too difficult. You’re off to a good start, at least.”
“I’m making it difficult. My boss drives me insane. He was a jerk. Then I was a jerk. Now we’re both not jerks,” I ramble.
“I know Oliver. He’s not a bad guy. Just keep him happy,”
There is a sharp pain behind my eye. “I need to keep that smug, sexy little fucker happy!” I wail. “Honestly, at this point, I’ll do whatever it takes! I’ll do whatever he asks!”
Tim clears his throat. Loudly.
“I’ll go topless for our coaching meetings! I’ll call him ‘sir’! I’ll let him spit in my mouth! I’ll?—”
Tim coughs even louder than the first time.
I frown at him, one eye squeezed shut. “Do I need to give you the Heimlich right now?”
“He’s fine. But this is exactly why teachers don’t want their administrators coming to happy hour,” a deep, male voice says behind me.
The bar has mostly cleared out now, with a few apparent neighborhood regulars remaining in small pockets. Oliver and I sit at the bar alone, Tim shooting smirks our way from down the bar, Oliver drinking an IPA, and me nursing water.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him, not hammered enough to not be mortified over our encounter moments ago.
“I always come here around this time to meet some friends. This is my dive. I live two blocks away. Teachers are usually gone by now. You’re the only one here late tonight.” I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he takes a sip of his beer. “Why are you still here?” he asks.
“I’m wasted.”
“I know.”
“So I can’t move just yet. I don’t think I can see my phone well enough to call an Uber,” I tell him, squinting at his handsome face, trying to distort it so that it looks less handsome. It doesn’t work. “Also, I feel bad that you heard… what you heard. I feel like I need to redeem myself. Apologize.”
“It was pretty inappropriate.”
“Which part? The part about me going topless or you spitting in my mouth?”
His pupils are huge, maybe because of the dim lighting of the bar, and I can barely see the caramel color around them. “Both. All. Everything.”
Sighing, I take a sip of the beer the bartender places in front of me. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. But I don’t take it back. I’ll do absolutely anything to keep this job.”
He shifts on his stool, pursing his lips. “I?—”
“Oh. My God. Not like… not like that. But I am going to do better.” I take a deep breath. “You gave me a really nice apology the other day. And I was a dick about it. It was really nice. Sincere. I really appreciated it, and I forgive you. And then you went ahead and protected me or some shit today. Which I don’t need, mind you,” I say, “but I appreciate the effort.”
He nods, still looking wildly uncomfortable.
“I want to apologize again. More this time. I have been giving you a really hard time. I’ve been pushing you and testing you, and it’s really unprofessional and inappropriate of me to be doing everything that I’ve been doing. You’re my boss. You’re my supervisor. And you’re one of the good ones, it seems.” At least, that’s what every single one of my new coworkers has been trying to tell me for the past month.
He starts to say something, but I place my finger over his mouth. His very soft, very firm mouth. Oliver lets it stay for a beat, surprised, but then moves away.
“Sorry, I am a very handsy and very chatty drunk. You think I can talk when I’m sober, but you ain’t seen nothing yet. Sorry for touching your mouth. I can’t touch your mouth. Although it’s a very nice mouth,” I tell him, the feeling still spreading warmth over the pad of my pointer finger. “You were a dick at first, and I was pushing back a little, but it was very inapo-… inappoarate… inappropriate of me to do as your underling. I work for you. You are my boss. I should not be touching your mouth, and I should not be mouthing off. I really just wanted to impress you.”
He clears his throat, but gives me the space to ramble. What a polite young man.
What was I talking about? “You seem so competent. And good at your job. I want to impress you, but I don’t want to sacrifice who I am as a teacher. I did that for so long. I don’t want to do that anymore. You know?”
He is nodding, appeasing me like I am a three-year-old. I, in fact, feel like I have the vocabulary and mental capacity of a three-year-old right now.
“Well… SAY SOMETHING! It’s your turn to talk!”
He laughs, a full-bodied one, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever experienced it, and I think it’s my new favorite thing, like a splash of cool water on a hot summer day. “I really don’t feel like I should say anything of merit right now, because I’m not sure you’re going to remember anything in the morning. But I accepted your apology the first time, Georgia, and you are impressive. You are a good teacher. Unconventional, maybe, but yes, I believe you are a good teacher. I’ll admit that it’s taken me some time and some convincing to come to that conclusion.” He takes another sip of his beer. “I’m excited to work with you this school year. You have a lot of potential, and I mean that in the least condescending way possible.” He looks down at the phone I have in my hand. “Did you… are you… recording?”
I grin. “Yep, because you’re right. I’m not sure I’m going to remember this in the morning. I want to record this for all posterity.”
He smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners. I feel the rough pad of his fingers against the softness of my hand as he gently takes my phone. I remember the feeling of them caressing my throat. “Please, let’s not record this. But I do want to set some ground rules here. Offline.”
I scoff. “Would you like me to create a rubric, too?”
Still smiling, he continues. “We’re drinking together right now, at a bar that our school staff frequents, in the neighborhood our school serves. You’ve said some pretty…” He licks his lips imperceptibly, and I track the movement like a hawk. “…expl icit things.” He fumbles with his words here. “This is… it’s not… we can’t… it’s inappropriate…”
I step in to save him, because even though I’m drunk, I think I get it. “No one will know about this, Oliver. This doesn’t belong to anyone except for you and me.” He looks relieved. “Like I said, you’re my boss. I’m your underling. No one will know.”
“Ever,” he says quietly, and I think that we both know what the other is saying.
“Ever,” I agree. “I’m all yours.”
A deep look of intensity, of something like greed, or maybe starvation, flashes across his face for half a second. But maybe I’m just hammered. Finally, he grins, and the moment is lost. He lays my phone flat on the table and presses the red “record” button. “This message is for Georgia Baker, recorded by Oliver Flores, at 9-” he glances at his watch, “13 p.m. on October 18 th . Ms. Baker, you are a good teacher. You are impressive. You are competent. And I am very much looking forward to working with you this school year.” He presses the button to end the recording, then swipes up to find my Uber app. “And with that, I am calling your Uber home.”
“What!” I wail. “But I wanna keep hanging out! We’re having such a delightful time! Can you say more about how awesome I am?”
He enters the address of the bar and directs it to the address I have saved under “Home”. He looks up then, eyes sparkling, like whiskey in a crystal glass. “We are. And you are. But we have the whole rest of the year for that.”