Chapter 7 #2
Well, that was a flustered speech. Maureen said, “This is Duncan. About the same age as Olive, I think.”
“Hi,” Duncan said. He had a mop of brown curls and a thin, serious face.
“Hi, Ms. Fairburn, you should say,” Scarlett said.
She’d lost none of her air of command in the years since she’d been in Skylar’s classroom, that was sure.
Tall, hazel-eyed, and with a way of standing square on that reminded Skylar of Zane.
The opposite of Georgia, who was a wee sprite of a thing with big dark eyes and soft brown curls.
A genetic throwback, or maybe she just favored her mother.
“How would I know her name?” Duncan said. “Nobody told me her name.”
Scarlett sighed. “She’s Georgia’s teacher? Hello? Who Georgia’s been talking about for months? Really? After all that drama about the rats?”
“I knew that,” Duncan said. “I just didn’t know her name.”
“Manners, please, you heathens,” Maureen said.
“Hello, Georgia. And Olive and Finlay, too. Quite the crowd tonight, aren’t we?
I hope you’re going to come sit by me at the end here, Geoffrey.
This is meant to be a date, I understand.
A very well-chaperoned date. I might ask you to buy me a beer all the same, though. ”
That didn’t come off roguishly, like one might expect.
That was because Maureen had too much dignity for that.
She was a tall Maori lady with cheekbones any woman would die for, a straight, strong nose, skin like burnished teak, and silver hair cut daringly short and softened only by a side-swept fringe.
Her shape, too, was as trim as her profile was regal.
Like Rangatira, was how she looked—Maori nobility.
Nothing like Skylar’s own comfortable Gran, Granddad’s late wife.
She was even wearing dangly silver earrings with her puffer coat and trousers!
No wonder Granddad had taken to wearing polished loafers and tailored trousers in the mornings instead of jeans and trainers.
Now that she was noticing, he’d been using a bit of product in his hair, too, hadn’t he?
And getting it barbered more often. That new moisturizer by the sink hadn’t come from nowhere, either.
She herself was wearing the following: black leggings with boots over them in case of puddles—probably unstylish again—and a long, bulky cowl-neck jumper, because it was cold.
It wasn’t even alpaca or merino or anything flash like that, just garden-variety polyester and acrylic, and she’d had it for yonks.
She was wearing her old blue puffer jacket over it.
It was short, didn’t reach the bottom of the long jumper—maybe if you called it a sweater dress, it sounded more attractive?
—and wasn’t nearly as stylish as Maureen’s long, tailored one, which was in a shade of lipstick red that made her look even more glamorous.
Skylar had on a bit of eyeliner and brow pencil, because a ginger really had no choice, but any lipstick was only a memory at this point, and she had a ribbed black beanie that technically belonged to Finlay stuck down over her hair. Because. It. Was. Cold.
Zane Mahuta. You had to be joking. Not again! And his entire whanau.
Fuck my life, she thought and did not say. Pity she could only swear in her head. Her head was becoming a surprisingly dirty place.
Right. They were watching Zane—and the rest of them, of course—play this match.
Then they’d head to the motel, she’d put the kids to bed, she would not wonder where her once comfortably old granddad and this surprisingly glamorous lady were spending the night, and she’d …
sit up in bed in her PJs and read a book until she fell asleep.
And not feel old. So she wasn’t a rugby captain and didn’t wear dangly silver earrings and had no love life.
So what? She lifted weights! She had classroom rats, not guinea pigs or hamsters.
She’d had to get special permission for them, too.
In the world of Year One teachers, she was downright edgy!
Finlay said from her left side, watching the men going through their warmups in their tiny shorts and tight jerseys, “Somebody will probably get injured tonight. Probably more than one person. It’ll be interesting to see in person.
Statistically, there are almost two concussions in every rugby match, and it’s worse in very important matches like this one, where there’s a rivalry.
Last year, there was a test match for the All Blacks where one player broke his leg and got a head knock, and another player broke his ribs and was out for the whole rest of the test season.
One of the props got a concussion, too, and he was out for the rest of that match and the next one.
They lost that match really badly. It was the worst ever loss to South Africa. ”
Scarlett was sitting beside Finlay, as Granddad and Maureen had headed up to the concession stands to load up on food and drink, and, Skylar suspected, wouldn’t be much use in the child-minding arena for the rest of the evening.
The girl said sharply, “Why would you even say that when my dad and my uncles are all playing?”
Finlay blinked at her, clearly surprised. “Because it’s true?”
“You don’t say it,” she said. “Honestly. Do you have no social skills at all?”
Finlay said, “I was observing, that was all. I like to observe.”
“Well, observe and don’t talk, then,” Scarlett said.
Finlay opened his mouth once more, and Skylar said, “Finlay, would you trade places with George, please? I think I’ll sit in the middle of you kids, in case somebody needs the toilet.”
Scarlett said, “I’m not in Year One anymore, Ms. Fairburn. If my little sister needs the toilet, I can take her.” Not quite rudely, but fairly stiffly.
“There you are,” Skylar said. “It’s easy to forget that somebody I had in my class once is nearly grown now. I’d love to hear how you’re finding intermediate school, though. You can explain the rugby to me as well. I’m afraid I don’t always understand the details.” She smiled. Winningly, she hoped.
Were they having fun yet?