Chapter 21
The inside of Mr. Korgy’s car isn’t what I expected.
I figured there’d be copies of plays at the foot of the passenger seat.
Lined notebooks with hurried thoughts scribbled throughout, too important to not write down.
Instead there are crayon marks on the seats, Cheerio grinds in between the cushions, colorful plastic toys with greasy handprints on them.
This car isn’t a vivid representation of a vibrant artist, but of a tired dad.
He’s letting me sit in here while I wait for Triple A but despite the nice gesture, he’s making it very clear this is only out of necessity. He hasn’t said a word, or even looked at me, his natural warmth replaced with a detached coldness.
Finally, I can’t take it any longer.
“I wish I could take it back,” I say. “What I did.”
“Triple A should be here any minute,” he says, an unfamiliar rigidity in his tone.
Mr. Korgy traces his finger along the steering wheel. I pinch a pimple behind my ear, a place I didn’t even know pimples could grow.
“Are you gonna report this?” I ask.
He gives me a you-wouldn’t-understand, sympathetic smile with no condescension, which somehow makes it worse. He doesn’t patronize me, he just has a lot of life experience that I don’t. Life experience that gives him a perspective I couldn’t possibly fathom. He’s the adult. I’m the child.
“No, I’m not reporting this,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not telling anyone about this. If anyone found out, I’d be fired.”
“I came on to you—”
“It doesn’t matter. I should’ve seen this coming. I’m more than twice your age and I’m your teacher. I shouldn’t have invited you to dinner. I shouldn’t have gone on the walk. I shouldn’t have engaged at all.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well I promise you that’s not what anyone else would think.”
“Who cares what other people think? People are mostly stupid anyway, and they don’t think for themselves, they just regurgitate headlines and buzzwords and the point of view of the people they follow on Instagram. I would’ve thought you didn’t care about what people think.”
“Waldo, please,” he says as the Triple A car turns onto the road, its bright headlights blurred in the snowy windshield. “Let’s move on from this.”