Love Lessons

Chapter Six Strawberry

Chapter Six Strawberry

Andrew

Andrew wasn’t against the arts by any means. However, there were other parts of the curriculum that were important, and having

music in the background was distracting, and, quite frankly, it was driving him a little insane. He’d always been prone to

migraines, and the constant sound was triggering headaches. They’d been getting along, as well as two people who did their

best to interact as minimally as possible while still sharing a classroom and over two dozen children could. He didn’t criticize

her when she taught, and she didn’t make a peep when it was his turn. He’d seen her literally bite her lip and stay quiet

when he’d handed out homework during the first week of class. And that lip... God, that lip did things to him.

“Don’t you think they need to know how to read and write their own names?” he’d said when the bell rang at the end of the

day.

“Of course.”

“But? I can see the but you’re trying to hold in.”

“No buts,” she said, as she tidied up the classroom while they waited for the parents to pick up the kids. He wanted to shake

her into liking him. He had been doing his best not to antagonize her. He’d been a damn saint. Didn’t she see it? The woman

was infuriating, and fuck him—he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her even when he wanted to wring her neck. She smiled

at the parents and waved goodbye as they walked the children out; they worked in tandem until the classroom was empty and

all the chairs tucked in to the desks. Why didn’t she smile at him? He smiled at her, didn’t he? He was going to make more

of an effort to smile and be nice. Right now it seemed as if they were existing only not to murder each other.

“Have a good ni—” he began, starting the process of going above and beyond being just civil.

“I mean,” Valerie interrupted, “it’s one thing to write their name and it’s another to have them write their name over and

over again, like punishment. We’re already working on it during the day. Do they really need to do it at home?”

Well, there went that plan, he thought. “You don’t believe in homework, do you? You’re one of those—”

“I refuse to engage,” she said, and zipped up her bag. “Have a good night, Wexler.”

He grabbed her arm, stopping her before she walked out. “Wait. You can’t just spit out words and then say you refuse to engage

when you shot the first shot.”

She didn’t step away. His hand was still on her arm. She smelled like Elmer’s glue and her flowery perfume. Her cheeks were

the pink hue he liked. The fiery one.

“I’m trying, Marquez. There’s never been two people more different than you and I, but I’m trying.” He almost felt as if she’d holstered her gun when he said that.

She let go of a deep breath. “I know you are, Andrew. I’m trying too.”

He let her arm go, and she looked up into his eyes. “I appreciate that,” he said.

“Have a good night too,” she said, as she walked around him and out of the room. It felt like a cease-fire, and he felt an

overwhelming amount of relief. He liked Valerie, even if she hated him.

That had been a week ago. The cease-fire was now a full-on war, again because his head felt like it would explode. Now it

was his turn to disengage when he didn’t agree with something, except his ears were bleeding and his head was throbbing.

“Must we hear music all day?”

“It’s on in the background. Classical music is scientifically proven to have a positive neurological effect, and it’s great

for memory, it’s soothing, and it’s beautiful. Close your eyes and listen, Wexler.”

He was not going to do any such thing. He shook his head and continued to correct some papers, but when he heard a sniffle,

he looked up. She was standing up and writing something on the smartboard while the children picked up their supplies in preparation

for art time. Her back was to the class.

“Are you crying?” Andrew whispered, and his heart almost fell to the floor. Seeing the strongest woman he knew in tears moved something deep inside of him. Who hurt her? He felt rage like never before.

“Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata ,” she said, as if that would explain it all. She wiped a tear off her eyelash and quickly looked away.

“You are. You’re actually crying. Why?” he asked, incredulous. He had been ready to kill someone, and she was crying over

a song? Jesus Christ, the woman was giving him whiplash.

“Music moves me, okay?” she said indignantly. “Leave me alone, Wexler. I can’t expect someone like you to understand.” She

walked past him to look at what the students had done. The way she cried so freely over a song was very uncharacteristic considering

what he knew about her so far, but also exactly Valerie. He should have known that something like music would be what made

her soft and vulnerable. He had to hold in a smile. She oohed and ahhed over all the drawings, asking them in detail what

they’d drawn and why they’d chosen to draw it. Truth be told, she took a lot of time with the students. She was thoughtful

and sincerely listened to them.

The most surprising thing he’d observed about her in the past two weeks they’d been working together was the way she spoke

to them. He’d thought she would treat them like babies, but that wasn’t true at all. She had real conversations with them.

Of course, she softened her tone, but it wasn’t condescending. She asked open-ended and insightful questions that made the

children open up in a way he’d never been able to do. She was a wonderful teacher. Truly inspiring. He wanted to take these

traits and bottle them up so he could re-create them later. He watched her intently, hoping she wouldn’t catch him.

“All right, class. You can have some water now. Remember to wash your hands. Mr. Wexler’s going to hop right into math.” She turned around, and he looked away.

“What?” she asked him.

“Nothing, Valerie. Absolutely nothing.” He smiled.

Surprisingly enough, she smiled back, softly and sweetly, as if she knew he’d been staring the entire time.

Valerie

Valerie was exhausted. She couldn’t remember ever having a more taxing first couple of weeks of school. It was probably all

the anxiety about co-teaching that had been keeping her up all night. She planned on using the time when she wasn’t teaching

to catch up on grading classwork, but she found herself watching Wexler teach math on the smartboard. He wasn’t as hard-assed

as she had imagined. He used objects to put numbers into context, and the kids were excited to answer his questions. Plus,

those boring cardigans were starting to look sexy as hell. Every morning, she tried to guess which color he’d wear that day

and if it somehow affected his mood. But there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to them, as far as she could tell.

During her time teaching, there was more chaos. The children would get excited, and she’d join in on the excitement, and the answers sometimes seemed more of a class effort, everyone yelling out at once. Usually, she loved this. As an only child, having boisterous children and noise was something she craved. These days she wanted more quiet and more sleep. They should reinstate nap time, she thought.

Wexler, on the other hand, demanded restraint and order. He didn’t do it in a nasty way, though. He wasn’t overly strict,

but his tone when he spoke and the way he corrected someone who yelled out an answer created a chaos-free environment. His

presence alone demanded respect, and she wasn’t sure why. She wished she could pinpoint how he was different. He didn’t yell

or scold them. There was something in his voice that just made everyone want to listen quietly.

He wasn’t very different from some of her favorite composers. There weren’t words in the classical masterpieces, yet she knew

exactly what Mozart felt, what Tchaikovsky meant, what Bach wanted to show the world. She was also starting to understand

Wexler much the same way she knew, without words, what those masters were saying with their instruments. His cadence was soothing,

and she looked forward to his time in front of the children.

“You okay?” Wexler said when he caught her staring at him. She shook her head in confusion and looked around; the entire class

was watching her. Shoot. He’d caught her lusting.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” It was said too quickly, and she could feel her cheeks turning beet red.

Andrew neared her, and with the back of his hand he touched her cheek. She startled for a moment. “Do you have a fever or

something?”

She moved back. “No. Of course not. I’m fine.” Why was he touching her? It reminded her too much of that night. That hot night. She needed to stop staring. She needed to think of something that was not cardigans, composers, math, sex...

“You don’t have a fever,” he said matter-of-factly, and then went back to teaching.

Radishes. She would think of radishes. She hated radishes. Radishes were gross and unsexy. Radishes didn’t wear cardigans.

She focused on the smartboard and the numbers he was scribbling. Her eyes grew heavy, and she yawned. Andrew’s cadence reminded

her of Edward Elgar’s Enigma Variations . One of her favorites. God, she was tired. Maybe she was coming down with something.

“Ms. Valerie is snoring!” Sophia C. yelled, and the class started to laugh, causing Valerie to startle and almost fall off

her chair.

Andrew’s lips were pursed. “There’s drool, Marquez,” he whispered, and she quickly wiped the side of her lips.

Oh my God! She was mortified. She had fallen asleep. In class. In front of her nemesis, who already thought she was a bad

teacher. She’d never live this down. To add insult to injury, the kids were bent over in fits of giggles.

She felt disoriented and off-kilter, as well as embarrassed.

“I wasn’t sleeping. I was visualizing what Mr. Wexler was saying,” she lied, and the kids saw right through her. Luckily,

she was saved by the bell.

“I’ll walk them to the cafeteria. Why don’t you take a moment and compose yourself, Marquez,” he said snidely, as the students lined up with their lunch boxes. He was mad. It had been a few weeks since she’d seen him angry. She didn’t like it. Now that she’d gotten to know him more, she didn’t want him mad at her. Plus, what the heck was there to be mad at? She knew how to add and subtract; it wasn’t as if she needed the lesson. She wasn’t a kindergartener, and she didn’t appreciate his tone.

She stood up, indignant, but she was dizzy. She stretched her arms up and then bent down to touch her toes. A little stretching

to get the blood circulating. But damn, she really was exhausted. She would give anything to crawl into bed and just sleep.

She rushed to the restroom and splashed water on her face. When she looked up at herself in the mirror, she was surprised

to see how crappy and unkempt she looked. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her ponytail was askew, and she didn’t

have an ounce of makeup on. She took her hair tie out and shook her hair. Maybe her ponytail had been too tight, because her

head ached, not with an actual headache, but her scalp hurt. She needed a head message. Hell, she needed an everything message.

She pinched her cheeks, hoping a little color would help her look human.

When she returned, Andrew was standing in the middle of the room, waiting, and the vein in his temple throbbed. “You know,

I give you respect when it’s your turn to teach, even when your stupid music gives me migraines. I may not exactly agree with

your methods, but I don’t make fun of you in front of the class. It’s not cool that you’re turning the kids against me. Carmichael

wouldn’t find it funny, either. If this is how—”

“I was not doing that!” she interrupted him. “I swear. I would never do that.”

He eyed her, clearly not believing a word she said.

“Wexler, I would never do that,” she repeated. She was truly embarrassed and overwhelmed with emotion. “Not to you. Not to

anyone. This is our class. What good would it do me if the kids turned on you? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve just

been so tired lately. I’m sorry I fell asleep—that’s never happened to me before.”

“It wasn’t a joke? You actually fell asleep?”

“Yes!”

He looked at her for a moment, and she wasn’t sure if he believed her or not, but it didn’t really matter, because he was

done with the conversation. She needed him to believe her. “I’ll be in the teachers’ lounge,” he said. Then he walked away.

It was disrespectful to just doze off in front of the class, but it had been a sincere accident. She felt terrible about it;

if the shoe had been on the other foot, she would be livid too.

“Yoo-hoo,” Monique said from the doorway. “You coming to lunch?”

“Nah. I’m not too hungry,” Valerie replied, feeling defeated.

Monique’s brow crinkled, and she closed the door behind her. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good. There’s a stomach bug

going around. I have five students out today.”

“Oh, no. I hope I’m not getting sick. I’m so tired. I kinda fell asleep while Wexler was teaching. He’s furious.”

“Yikes,” she said. “But it’s Wexler. He’s moody. Come have lunch and ignore him.”

“I’m really not hungry. I’m going to catch up on some work.”

“Okey dokey. Just remember, don’t let him get to you.”

“Easier said than done.” After Monique left, Valerie stayed in her room to work but instead ended up dozing off again, not thinking of the disappointing glare Wexler gave her as he walked out of the room.

On Friday, Valerie met her mother at their favorite Cuban restaurant a few blocks from school. It wasn’t fancy, but it was

Valerie’s favorite. It reminded her of home and comfort. Her mother was already there at their usual corner table when Valerie

arrived. Anabel stood and gave her daughter a kiss before sitting back down. “I ordered you a Materva,” Anabel said. It was

Val’s favorite soda.

“Gracias. How are you doing, Mom?”

“You look terrible, mija. What’s wrong?” she asked.

Jeez. Her mother was never one to mince words. She turned on the camera on her phone to look at her reflection. Sure, there

was a little more purplish color underneath her eyes, but it wasn’t anything that profound.

“I haven’t been sleeping so well. I’m going to take a nice warm bath and head off to bed as soon as I get home. I’ll murder

anyone who calls me before ten tomorrow.”

“Are you eating well? You should make a batch of your abuela’s lentil soup. That will give you energy for days. Full of iron

and fiber. You know, it’s very important that you keep regular. Constipation can make you bloated and irritable.”

“Seriously? We’re discussing my bowel movements at dinner?”

“I’m just saying that at your age—”

“I’m not even thirty yet, Mom. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my digestive system. But Abuela’s lentils do sound good.” That sounded delicious, actually. She was hungry, and the thought of her abuela’s lentil soup made her want to run to the supermarket and buy the ingredients to make it right then and there. But she was currently at a restaurant. A restaurant that she’d been to a thousand times. She knew the menu backward and forward, yet she couldn’t think of a single thing she wanted to eat. In fact, everything on the menu made her stomach turn.

“I’ve been craving a pan con bistec—you want to share?” her mother asked.

Valerie closed her menu and nodded. She didn’t want a steak sandwich, which was something she never thought she’d say. But

she needed to eat something. She’d skipped breakfast and lunch earlier. Her mother ordered their food, and Valerie ordered

a second soda.

“That’s pure sugar, Val. You shouldn’t overindulge.”

The server looked at her to see if she wanted water instead, but Valerie ignored her mother and asked for the second Materva.

Anabel shook her head but chose to ignore her daughter’s bad decision. “So, what’s new? How’s the school year so far?”

“We haven’t killed each other yet. If that’s what you’re asking.”

“I don’t know how you’re putting up with him. With what you’ve told me, the man is awful.”

“He hasn’t been that bad.”

“Isn’t he the same teacher who had your class quarantined in a different wing of the school for lice a few years ago?”

“One and the same.” That’s right, he had exiled her to the other side of the school two years earlier. She couldn’t forget—the man was not nice. One of her students had contracted lice. It was kindergarten, and unfortunately lice sometimes happened. When Wexler heard, he had a fit and made such a huge stink, Carmichael quarantined her class for two weeks and they were forced into daily head checks by the school nurse. Valerie had been livid. She’d had it under control, and patient zero had been sent home, and no one else had shown signs of itching. Yet they’d been moved to the other end of the school, forced to have lunch in the classroom, and even the parent drop-off and pick-up were separated from the rest of the school. “But we’re making it work out.” We also made it “work out” two and a half months ago. Something she tried her hardest to forget.

She thought she was doing a good job at squashing all sexual thoughts, but every once in a while, Andrew would do something

that would remind her exactly what the man looked like naked. It always made her face feel as if it were on fire, and she

had to avert her eyes and think of something else, something very unsexy—like math or radishes.

When the food arrived, her mother portioned it onto their plates and added some plantains. Valerie took one bite and almost

gagged. But she didn’t want the inevitable questioning or nagging from her mother, so she swallowed it down and ordered a

third soda. The soda soothed her stomach. She pushed her food around the plate. Luckily, Anabel had a gift for making all

conversations about herself and didn’t notice when Valerie tossed her napkin on the plate and practically shoved it into the

server’s hands. Anabel never ordered dessert, but she always ordered a cafecito. Valerie normally did too, but she didn’t

think she could stomach it today.

“Mom, I’m going to take off. I’m sorry to eat and run, but I’m tired and have a terrible headache. I’ll make it up to you. I know I wasn’t good company.”

“It’s okay, mija.” Her mother signaled for the bill. “Go home and sleep. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She was home within twenty minutes, and her mood went from not wanting to eat a single thing to thinking about her grandmother’s

lentil soup and feeling ravenous. She hadn’t eaten a full meal in almost two days, and even though just minutes ago she couldn’t

stomach the thought of anything, now she’d give her right arm to eat something. No, not something. Lentils.

Her stomach made a noise as if in agreement. She pulled up a food delivery app on her phone to see if there was anyplace she

could get lentils at this time of day. The thought of eating anything but her abuela’s recipe made her stomach lurch. She

kept scrolling and scrolling until her eyes became heavy. The last thing she remembered was thinking that she’d go straight

to the market to buy all the ingredients and make it herself.

Andrew

You look like hell,” Andrew said, instead of hello. The woman was quirky but not messy. She was always well put together, and her fashion choices, although unconventional, always worked on her. Today, it was not working. She wore black trousers and a white button-down shirt. Where was the mishmash of colors and prints? The splash of something vibrant? He didn’t like this version of Valerie. It was disconcerting. He looked forward to watching her stroll in with an absurd color pattern, rosy cheeks, and a huge smile. He didn’t even think she owned a piece of black or white clothing.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. You look... ill. And you’re dressed like a server.”

“Didn’t sleep well is all. I’m fine.” She looked down at her clothes. “People wear white blouses all the time. Not only servers.”

“No, seriously.” He pulled her chair out and pushed her down into it. “You look sick. Are you sick? You should’ve stayed home.

The last thing we need is a roomful of sick kids. I heard there was something going around.” He took a step back, which made

him feel like an ass. But they couldn’t afford to both get sick. “There were a lot of absences in the school last week. We

had four here.”

“I left in a hurry this morning and haven’t even had a chance to grab coffee. This is me without coffee.”

Without hesitation, he slid his mug of coffee her way. He had yet to take a drink from it, and she clearly needed it more

than he did. “I just poured it in the teachers’ lounge. Haven’t even touched it. You without coffee is not a pretty sight.”

She eyed it suspiciously.

“Just have it, Marquez. It’s not poisoned.”

She reached forward and took a careful sip. “Ew,” she said, pinching her lips together and screwing up her face. “Black coffee?

I’m not surprised, but still... yuck.” She slid the mug back to him just as the children began to stroll into the classroom.

Andrew took the lead so she could stay seated, waving to the parents and ushering the children to their seats.

“Good morning, class,” Valerie said from her desk. Usually, she was front and center. She took a deep breath before continuing.

The children all started talking over each other until the bell rang and everyone quieted down to listen to the morning announcements.

Art was always the first thing on the agenda. It had been her idea. She’d ninja mind-tricked him into believing that after

the weekend, the best way to ease the kids back into learning mode was through art. He had thought it a bunch of bologna,

but art was part of the curriculum and he had to pick his battles. Having it be the first thing Monday morning wasn’t enough

of an issue to argue over.

His migraines hadn’t been as bad lately. Maybe he was getting used to the constant noise or maybe she hadn’t been as loud.

He’d learned that she played annoying nonsensical loud noises when she was being spiteful. When she was being “normal,” her

music was mostly instrumental and classical, and she didn’t just have the children start banging and blowing on instruments,

as he’d imagined she would. She taught them the basics of reading notes, and sometimes she showed them while playing the instrument

herself.

Valerie was full of surprises. Not only did she speak multiple languages, but she seemed to be able to play every instrument and she could read music.

Maybe she’d been onto something with all this music and painting. But the past couple days, she’d been off. He wanted to know

what was wrong, but they weren’t close enough for him to pry.

“Why don’t you let me handle things today? Seriously, I don’t mind, and you look unwell.”

“I appreciate it, Wexler, but I’m okay. I can teach just fine,” she said, her chin jutting out, but that spunk that normally

enveloped her was not there. Regardless, he couldn’t force her to go home or to sit and relax, so he shrugged and tidied up

his desk while he waited for the bell to ring.

Valerie

Once the morning announcements were over, and the kids were all seated and focused—or as focused as a bunch of kindergarteners

could be—Valerie walked to the cabinet where they kept the school supplies. For some reason, there was an overwhelming smell

of Play-Doh. She’d never thought of the smell of Play-Doh as pleasant or unpleasant. It was just... Play-Doh, but now the

scent was stuck in her nostrils. As she began to take out the clear containers of crayons, she felt the black coffee that

she’d sipped moments earlier start to burn back up her esophagus.

She clutched her chest. Heartburn. The very bad kind. The nauseating kind.

She put the Tupperware container with the Play-Doh back on the shelf and held on to the sides of the cabinet, head hanging down.

Andrew came up beside her. “Okay, okay. I get it, you need coffee with lots of sugar. No need for the dramatics. Here, I added

four packets of white sugar,” he said, handing her the mug again.

The smell of the coffee, the overwhelming yet familiar smell of Play-Doh, and the waxy scent of crayons all swirled together.

She gently pushed the mug away.

“Get that away from me, please.” She didn’t mean to sound so nasty, but she needed all these pungent smells removed immediately.

“A little dramatic, don’t you think? Make your own damn coffee next time.”

But he didn’t get it away from her quick enough, and, unable to control her gag reflex, the coffee shot up from her stomach

together with the little she’d eaten and drunk in the past twenty-four hours all over Andrew Wexler’s very expensive and very

clean beige Cole Haan loafers.

The class started to yell, “Gross!” and “Ewww.” Andrew placed the mug on a shelf and called the school nurse for help. Two

kids, Remy and Amber, threw up from seeing Valerie throw up, and some of the class dry heaved.

This just worsened the nausea she felt, and she ran straight out of the room and into the bathroom, where she expelled a lot

of nothing from her system.

Maybe somewhere inside her soul she should have been mortified about having thrown up on Wexler in front of the class, but the thought of not dying was all that was on her mind at the moment.

“Val... Val... are you okay?” It was Monique. “Andrew and Nurse Angie asked me to come check on you. She’s knee-deep

in vomit and gagging and couldn’t come herself.”

“Oh God.” Valerie groaned into the toilet bowl. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with toilet paper, flushed the toilet,

and left the stall. She splashed her face with water and rinsed her mouth out. “I feel better.” But she definitely didn’t

look better. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose was red and runny, and her skin was splotchy.

“Well, that’s more than I can say for your class. Angie wants to know if you all ate something? Did you bring them any food

from home? She’s trying to rule out food poisoning.”

“No. They saw me throw up and then they started to gag. I don’t think they’re sick. I’m sick, but they’re not sick—they have

secondhand vomiting.” It was a thing, she was sure of it.

How would she face Andrew? She had vomited on him! Now that she was feeling somewhat human again, the mortification reared

its ugly head.

“I think I did get that virus, after all,” she said, placing her palms on her cheeks. No fever. Just that gross nauseous sensation.

“Yeah, probably. I have three other kids out today, and I heard there’re a few absent teachers too.”

“I’m okay now. Let me go help Wexler and Angie. Poor Wexler and his shoes.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Monique said as they parted ways in the hall.

With a loud exhale, she pulled the classroom door open. She expected full-on chaos. A scene from The Exorcist , with vomit splattered all over the walls. Instead, all the children were in their seats. There were a few with red eyes

and tears on their faces, but the rest were entertaining themselves with Legos.

“Hey, are you okay?” Andrew asked when he saw her walk into the classroom. She noticed two empty seats.

“Remy and Amber went with the nurse to call their parents. I think they’re fine,” he said, and she realized the custodian,

sweet Patrick, was already cleaning up the mess with that weird powder they spread on the floor that smelled like fake pine,

which was much better than the alternative smell.

“I’m so sorry, Patrick,” she said. “Let me help.”

“Don’t you worry, Val. Look, it’s like it never happened,” he said as he wiped the floor.

“That’s was dicusting, Miss Valewie,” Henry said, and the other children agreed.

“I know. I’m so sorry, kiddos. I don’t know what happened. Is everyone okay?” Then she turned to Andrew. “I’m mortified. I’m

sorry about your shoes. I’ll buy you new ones or wash them or...” She looked down and realized he was wearing sneakers.

“Relax, it’s fine. I had my gym bag in the car.”

She scrunched up her nose and whispered “sorry” one more time.

“Yesterday, tears. Today, vomit. What’s it going to be tomorrow? You’re full of surprises, Marquez.”

“It must be my hormones. I’m about to get my period, is all.” As she said those words, she got a sickening feeling. Her period—of course. No wonder she’d been feeling ill. Her periods had always been erratic, and it wasn’t unusual for her to have spotting one or even two months and a full-on tsunami the next. This month must be tsunami season.

“Too much information, Marquez.”

“We’re room buddies, Wexler. It’s inevitable that you’ll know when I’m hormonal.”

He shrugged and then began to reorganize the class, and she started to help, but he ushered her to her chair. “Let me. I don’t

want any more emergencies today.”

She didn’t argue and sat. Was she hormonal? Was it time for her period? She had some spotting in Haiti and then again the

first week back in Miami. But she didn’t get cramps or get cranky even when her flow was heavy. She definitely didn’t throw

up on people. It must be the virus.

Unless...

Oh. My. God.

It suddenly hit her like a ton of bricks, and she stood up, her chair rolling back and hitting the wall from the momentum.

“That’s the opposite of you sitting, Marquez.”

She ran to the hook by the door where she hung her purse and took out her cell phone and looked at the calendar. It had been

over a month since she’d been back in Miami. Like a zombie, she plopped down on a chair, unaware of what was happening around

her. Andrew and the class were staring at her.

“What now, Marquez?”

She looked down and around. She was sitting on a student’s chair. She looked like a giant. She googled: Can someone have spotting if pregnant?

The answer was yes. In fact, it seemed some women even had their period while they were pregnant.

Then she googled: Can pregnancy make you insane? Because that’s how she felt, but she didn’t wait for the answer, because Andrew bent down and whispered into her ear, “I’m

amazed your kids even learned the alphabet. You’re a disaster. Are you on drugs?”

It wasn’t an unreasonable question considering how she’d been acting.

She stood abruptly and grabbed her purse. “Ummmm... can you take over the rest of the day? I have to go.”

Before he had a chance to agree, she ran out of the classroom and out of the school and straight to the nearest pharmacy.

Valerie sat on the floor of her bathroom, having a full-blown panic attack, surrounded by positive pregnancy tests. Digital.

Analog. They all screamed POSITIVE.

She was pregnant.

She was having a baby.

The pregnancy tests confirmed it. It seemed so obvious now that she thought about it. The mood swings, the nausea...

There was a baby in her belly, and it was making her sick.

The father was her enemy. Well, at conception they’d been enemies. Now they were in a weird zone. Not exactly friends but

not not friends.

Valerie had never wanted to have kids, and she sure as shit didn’t want kids with someone she didn’t like. At that thought, she started to sob. Ugly, loud, heart-wrenching sobs. How could this have happened? They’d used a condom. This kind of thing didn’t happen to people who were careful.

A baby?

She reached for one of the pregnancy tests scattered around the floor and looked at the result again. Yep, still pregnant.

She was selfish. She couldn’t be a mother. She liked to sleep in, rarely had food in her kitchen, ate junk food all the time,

didn’t make annual appointments for the dentist, was overdrawn on her checking account more often than she cared to admit,

not because she lacked money but because she lacked organization. She didn’t have plans. She still lived in this tiny apartment

because it was easier than moving her stuff to a bigger place, which, incidentally, she could afford. The reason she had money

saved was because she was frugal and too lazy to spend it on frivolous things. She also loved to travel, and she couldn’t

travel with a baby in tow, especially to places that required an entire appointment for special vaccinations. Her life was

over, and all she could do was sob.

Plus, what kind of woman was she that she didn’t find joy in knowing that there was a living thing growing inside her? It

was part of her, and she should be happy. She was broken, missing that maternal spark that every woman had.

The sobs grew and grew until she lost track of time and tears.

She obviously couldn’t live on the floor of her bathroom, but she felt that if she got up and left the small room, this problem

would become real. Right now, contained in her tiny bathroom with only the sticks and her fears, it wasn’t real real. The moment she stepped out, reality would set in. Decisions would have to be made.

What the hell was she going to do?

Eventually her foot cramped from sitting in an awkward position in a small space, and she had no choice but to get up. Still,

not ready to leave, she took a long shower and started to cry again before she eventually faced the real world—aka, the world

outside the bathroom.

Just by reading those results, her world had changed. She looked around her apartment, and it now looked completely different

from earlier. There were hazards everywhere. Her coffee table had a glass top with sharp edges. Her knickknacks were basically

just choking hazards. There was only one bedroom, so she’d have to share it with the baby. The tuba could easily fall on a

crawling child; the electrical cord from her keyboard could be chewed—her mind spiraled. Her cozy home, which she loved, was

an obstacle course of dangers for a child.

She wanted to call someone and vent, but she didn’t know who to call. She needed to talk this out, but there was no one. She

couldn’t tell her overly critical mom. She sure as hell couldn’t tell Wexler yet. All her friends knew Wexler, so they too

were out of the picture. Valerie had never felt so alone in her life.

She opened up the Sprite she’d bought when she’d purchased the pregnancy tests and sipped it, hoping it would settle her stomach. Her phone dinged from her bedroom with an incoming text, but she was scared to see who it was from. This baby, this pregnancy news, was so huge that she feared that if she opened her mouth the words would roll out, and she wasn’t ready for that. She couldn’t even wrap her own head around it. Whoever was texting would have to wait. She paced the small room until her eyes grew tired from all the crying.

As she slid into bed, exhausted from the events of the day, the phone dinged again. Hesitantly she looked at it. It was a

text from Wexler. He’d texted three times and called once since she’d run out of the classroom earlier that afternoon.

Andrew: Very professional, how you just ran out of the class like that.

Andrew: I apologize. You don’t skip out of class normally, so I’m thinking you were feeling sick again. I hope you feel better.

Andrew: Not that I care, but... are you okay?

Andrew: Maybe I care, a little. We’re co-teachers. Are you okay?

Andrew: Do I need to call Carmichael for your emergency contact? Answer your texts, please.

With a sigh, she typed into her phone.

Valerie: Sorry, I hadn’t seen your calls/texts. I’m fine. Thank you for covering for me. I owe you one. G’night, Wexler.

Andrew

Valerie Marquez was a lot of things, but one thing she was not was an “I’m fine” person. She was a chatterbox. She described

things in detail and went on long-winded tangents. “I’m fine” meant... she was not fine. But it wasn’t any of his business.

Andrew had gone through the entire range of emotions since Valerie had thrown up on his shoes. After the initial shock of

what had happened, he’d immediately felt terrible seeing her so sick, which made him confused as hell. Why was he so concerned

for her well-being?

He knew why. It was because she was strong and independent, and her vulnerability was disconcerting. She wasn’t a damsel-in-distress

kind of woman. Yet he wanted to swaddle her and take care of her. And then when she bolted out of the room and would not return

his texts, he became anxious and, quite frankly, worried. Very, very worried. She had looked nearly hysterical when she’d

left. He was so immensely relieved when she’d returned his text that he was finally able to take a shower and go to bed, even

if he was left wondering what the hell had happened to her.

The next morning, he expected to see Valerie stroll through the door. Instead, it was Carmichael. “Wexler, can you handle

the class alone or do you need someone to cover for Marquez? She called out sick.”

“I’m okay. I got it,” he said. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Not sure. She said she wasn’t feeling well.” And then Carmichael left the room. He was curt. No good morning. No smile. Normally, he was a cheerful man, except, of course, when Andrew and Valerie fought and made the man’s ulcers act up.

Was there something going on at the school that was making everybody weird and sick?

So, Valerie wasn’t “fine” after all. During lunch he tried calling her, but she didn’t answer. Then he sent a text. He felt

uncomfortable with the number of text messages he’d sent her in the past twenty-four hours. They were colleagues, not friends.

In fact, in the years that they’d worked together, they’d texted a handful of times and it was always school related. This

was above and beyond their norm. Would he have sent Luis so many messages if he was out sick? Or Jim or any other teacher

at the school?

Andrew: You’re giving me a stalker complex, Marquez. Just reply to my texts so I know you’re okay. Please.

Valerie: Sorry for not replying earlier. I’m okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Owe you one.

Andrew: I think, if we’re keeping count, you owe me two.

Valerie: Actually... I think we’re even.

Andrew: Even? What did that mean?

Andrew: ?

She never replied.

The next day, Valerie was in class before Andrew arrived, which wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the feeling of relief

he felt when he saw her. That meant she was okay. He was tired of “I’m fine.”

“She lives,” he said as the door closed behind him. “Oh...” He grimaced when he looked up at her. Her eyes were puffy and

bloodshot, and she was pale.

“Don’t say it,” she warned. “I know how I look.”

“So, you’re not feeling better? Is it that virus that’s going around?”

She took out some saltine crackers from her purse and munched on them. “I’ll feel better soon,” she said, and then turned

away and busied herself with a stack of papers on her desk. He didn’t miss her non-answer.

“Just tell me, are we all going to get it too?”

“Nah, you’ll be fine.” But she didn’t look up. How many times could she straighten the same stack of papers? When the students

began to stroll in, Valerie plastered on an obviously fake smile and greeted them all one by one. By midmorning, she seemed

more like herself, even if she was obviously distracted. If he was a paranoid man, he’d say she was trying to avoid him. Maybe

she was embarrassed about throwing up on him?

Regardless, it was good having her back. The kids loved her, and of course they commented on the vomiting, and Valerie being

Valerie made them laugh as she imitated the incident.

“Well, looks like you’re doing better,” he said once the last child was gone that afternoon. He went back to his desk but noticed her pacing around the room. There was nothing left to pick up, and he wasn’t sure why she was still lingering. Then, as if she’d decided something, she went to the door and closed it.

And locked it.

It was the first time she’d made eye contact with him that day.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, and he stood up, not sure why. The tone of her voice made him feel as if he needed to make

a quick getaway or something. He eyed her suspiciously.

She was too serious. His heart raced. Was she gravely ill? Was she quitting? Did she hate working with him that much that

she’d just up and quit? “Okay, talk.”

“I think you need to sit.”

“Let me guess. The virus is super contagious and I’ll be sick tomorrow?”

“No,” she said, and pulled out his chair and again asked him to sit. Now he really was worried. She took something out of

her purse and handed it to him.

“Wexler...” She let out a deep breath. “You’re going to be a father.”

All the air in his lungs left his body.

And he finally sat down.

Once in college he had been in a car accident, and the airbag had been deployed. He survived, obviously, but he had never

forgotten the feeling of that bag exploding against his chest. It had left wounds that hadn’t healed for weeks. This was the

same, but worse.

“Here,” she said, and slid his water bottle to him. Then she dragged her chair to his and sat in front of him, knee to knee.

“I’m pregnant. I was able to get to the doctor yesterday, and she confirmed it. I’m ten weeks along. The baby is the size

of a strawberry. It’s why I’ve been so emotional and nauseous. My boobs have been throbbing and I’ve been exhausted.”

He didn’t respond. She continued to talk. “You don’t have to say anything. I mean, it doesn’t look like you’re ready to say

anything anyway, but hear me out. I’ve only had this information for a day or so, but I know one thing for sure.” He looked

up. “I don’t want kids. I’ve never wanted kids. I know that for a fact.” Her voice cracked.

He wasn’t sure what that meant exactly. Was she going to terminate the pregnancy? It wasn’t his decision to make, and he didn’t

want to pressure her one way or the other, but he also needed a moment to think this through.

“We used a condom” was the only thing he said.

“Well, I’m pregnant, so I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I’m in shock, I think.”

“Understandable.”

“Are you going to... end... terminate the pregnancy?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I also don’t want to be a mother.”

He stood and paced the room. “Can you not do anything for a few days? I need to process all this.”

“Yes.”

He walked out of the room. He was having an out-of-body experience.

“Wexler, wait!” She jogged after him. “Your things.” She had his bag over her shoulder and his cell phone and car keys in her hand. She handed it all to him. “I felt like you should know. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything until I made a decision?”

“No. No. It’s fine. But processing. Still.” He sounded like a robot even to himself. Then, in a daze, he walked out of the

school, the bright sunlight blinding him for a moment. She was pregnant? Valerie Marquez, the woman who drove him crazy in

every sense of the word, was going to have his child—maybe. How could this happen? How would they make this work?

On his way to his car, he passed a number of teachers who said words to him, but he didn’t know what those words were. All

he heard was “it’s the size of a strawberry.”

He didn’t like strawberries.

Valerie

The same evening, there was a knock on Valerie’s door. She furrowed her brow and looked at her phone. It was almost eight.

She rarely had visitors, especially the unexpected kind. She looked through the peephole.

“Wexler?” she said out loud, mostly to herself, but she must’ve been louder than she thought, because he replied.

“Yes, it’s me. Sorry for the time but I need to talk to you.”

She looked down at herself. She was in a threadbare Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and shorts. “One sec,” she said, and jogged to her

bedroom and grabbed a robe, equally threadbare but it would have to do.

She unlocked the door, and before she had a chance to say anything, he walked right in as if he’d been inside her home a thousand times.

“How’d you know where I live?”

“Teachers roster,” he said, waving off the question. She closed the door behind him and watched him take in the room. “Wow,”

he said, looking around. “You really like your colors, don’t you?”

“Why are you here, Wexler?” She wrapped the belt around the robe tighter and crossed her arms over her chest. Earlier today,

he had reacted the way she’d expected him to react. There wasn’t excitement; they hadn’t planned it and they weren’t in love,

after all. Heck, they weren’t even in like.

He’d been in shock, and the shock had either worn off (quicker than she’d anticipated) or he was there to beg her to terminate

the pregnancy.

“Can I sit? I’m gonna sit,” he said, and then sat down on her couch.

“You want some water... er... or scotch?” He looked like he needed hard liquor. She didn’t blame him. If she could,

she’d open up a bottle of wine and gulp it all down.

“No. I’m okay. Come sit, we need to talk.” He patted the space beside him.

Instead, she opted for the armchair next to the sofa so that they were eye to eye but also not intimately close.

“I’ve processed this.”

“Have you? Because I haven’t, and I’ve known for longer than you.”

“Well, I sort of processed it. I want you to know that I’m going to support whatever decision you make.”

“Okayyyyy.”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t have a better reaction earlier.”

“There was no other plausible reaction, Wexler. You were fine.”

“No, I wasn’t. I want you to know that—and I don’t say this to tip the scales of your decision in any way, but it’s something

I feel I need to share—I’ve always wanted a family. I had the best childhood growing up. My parents were married until my

father passed away ten years ago. I always thought I’d have that.”

“Then having this baby—the one with the woman you hate—is not the way you envisioned your life. So, you want me to end—”

“No! No! That’s not at all what I’m saying. I’m saying that, while this is unconventional and certainly not ideal, I’m not

opposed to it. Not at all. If you decide to keep it, I want to be part of the baby’s life. Completely. So, when you’re making

your decision, please take that into consideration. Having this baby and excluding me will not be an option.”

“Understood.”

Then he slid down onto his knee in front of her. For a brief second she thought, holy crap, was he going to propose? No. Please stop stop stop... she said inside her brain as he grabbed her hand. She tried to pull it away, but he held on tighter.

“Relax, Marquez. I just want to tell you that I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you. You’re not my favorite person on the

planet, and you’re super fucking weird and I don’t understand you or any of this,” he said, looking around the house and the

tchotchkes in every nook and cranny. “But I don’t know you enough to hate you. We started off on the wrong foot, and regardless

of what decision you make, maybe we can be friends.”

She raised her eyebrows high up.

“Okay. Not friends yet. But friendlier.”

He squeezed her hand one last time and then sat back on the couch. Friends. That was an interesting thought.

“I can do friendlier,” she said, and extended her hand, and they shook.

“I just wanted to make it clear to you that you’re not alone. One way or another.”

“I appreciate that,” she said.

He stood up and helped her up with the hand that was still clasped in a handshake.

“So... morning sickness, huh?” he asked.

“Ugh... it’s the worst.”

“I can cover for you in the mornings, if you’d like?”

“No, no. I’ve been reading about it, and having a completely empty stomach doesn’t help. The saltines are making it better,

especially in the morning. I didn’t feel as bad today. I think I’ll be okay.”

“But if you’re not, I can help.”

“I’m fine, Wexler. Thank you for coming over and for saying all that... stuff.”

He let out a huff. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll leave, but please, anything you need, you let me know, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Marquez.” He walked himself to the door and opened it.

“G’night, Wexler.”

That was a good start to friendlier.