Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Iris
* smack*
I get shocked awake, slurring a mealy “Whassthebig . . . hey . . .!”
My forehead hurts, and I crack my eyes open and peer at the side table where my alarm clock sits. A rolled-up newspaper obstructs my view of the time.
I open my eyes wider. “Did you just hit me again?”
The newspaper disappears with a wispy tinkling of chimes, leaving behind a golden, misty shimmer.
I can now see my clock.
Holy heck! I have twenty-six minutes to get to work. I jump out of bed and holler a quick, “Thank you!” to the magic building, because apparently, I’m going all-in on this now.
Somehow, I manage to get to work only two minutes late, and I’m immediately met at the back entrance by a woman with a dog.
“Is this the way we should go in?” she asks.
I look down at what appears to be the bestest girl and wonder why I don’t have a pet. “With the dog? ”
“We’re doing a presentation?” the woman says. “Letting the kids meet the dogs?”
I stare at her for a moment, and it finally clicks. “Therapy dogs!” I point at her and the dog simultaneously with both hands.
The woman gives me a quick nod. “Yes! I’m Darla Graves. I’m giving a quick talk about the dogs, what makes them special, how they help with stress, anxiety, and anger, and then each class will spend time with one of our trained emotional support animals.” She smiles.
“Right!” Emotional support sounds like a dream. I might need some one-on-one time with these dogs myself, this floofy one especially. “We’re so glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re here! The kids have been so excited about this.”
I’ve been excited about it too, but with everything going on, I completely forgot today was the day.
Darla is a plump woman with dark, wiry hair, and the kind of glasses that tint when you’re outside. She’s holding a leash attached to an adorable tan dog.
“This is Shandy,” Darla says. “She’s a sweetheart.”
I bend down and pet the dog with both hands—behind the ears, under her chin, scritching her shoulders—and I decide that yes, I absolutely need a support animal.
This support animal. Like, right now.
“I feel less stressed already.” I kneel and look Shandy straight in the eyes. Hers are big and chocolate-brown, and they radiate kindness. I hop up and hold open the door. “Come in! If you don’t, I’m going to take Shandy to my classroom to hang out for the rest of the day.”
Darla smiles as she leads the dog into the back hallway.
“She helps with all kinds of things—stress. Anxiety. Loneliness,” Darla continues. “We take our dogs into retirement homes and schools. Colleges often have them round the clock, especially during finals week.” She reaches down and ruffles Shandy’s head. “Dogs are such a gift.”
I consider this as an idea forms. “Do you think a cat could help with those things too?”
“Sure,” she says brightly. “Cats get a bad rap because they’re pretty independent, but I know several people who rely on cats as support animals. Animals are so much better than people,” she chuckles. “Better comfort, I mean. But also”—she shrugs—“just better.”
I sit with that for a second.
Should I get Winnie a cat?
I wasn’t allowed to have a pet when I was growing up, and I don’t know the first thing about how much time, work, or money is involved. Feels risky to buy a cat for a stranger. But the paper was really detailed about the cat she lost. Lenny—black with white feet and a white circle around one eye. Those details must be important.
I walk Darla into the main office and find two other dogs (and their people) have already arrived.
Mid-morning, the entire school gathers in the gymnasium for Darla’s talk. While she introduces the dogs to all the kids, I google local animal shelters, hoping to find a black cat with white feet. Surely, there must be one somewhere.
But I come up empty. Lots of gray cats. Several white ones. One that’s all black. And several orange ones with descriptions like “Not the brightest animal, but still loveable” which feels like a blatant lie.
Hmm. Maybe a cat isn’t the move.
If you wanted to be more helpful , I think, you could’ve been a little more specific.
Why I’m thinking that this magic newspaper can hear my thoughts is beyond me. And yet, maybe it can. It is magic . . .
At lunch, I’m sitting in the teacher’s lounge, eyes glued to my phone, having expanded my black cat with white booties search, when Brooke plops down in the seat across from me.
“You’re getting a cat?” she asks, leaning over and looking at my phone.
I turn to her as I click my phone off, the image of a gray and white kitten disappearing as the screen goes black, and frown. “Uh, privacy.”
She opens a Chipotle bag—which may or may not be hers—and my stomach growls. I glance down at my sandwich, wishing it was a burrito.
“Every time I’ve seen you today you’ve been on your phone.” A frown. “And you look terrible.”
I fluff my unruly hair with my fingers and lean back in my chair.
She winces. “That didn’t help.”
I scrub a hand down my face and groan. “I didn’t get much sleep.”
“Please tell me the hot neighbor kept you awake,” she says.
I shoot her a look.
“Fine. Don’t kiss and tell, I don’t care.” She shrugs as she opens her chips, scoops up a healthy pile of guac, and looks at me. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I take a bite of my PB&J and chew, trying to figure out how not to freak out about this. How not to let my big feelings creep in.
But honestly, this is a big feelings kind of thing, right?
I have to tell someone what’s happening—and Brooke and Liz will eat this up. They might even make me feel like I’m not losing my mind. Maybe they can even help me figure out what to do next. Even if talking about it out loud makes me feel a little ridiculous.
I inhale a slow breath, then say, on an exhale, “Do you actually believe my building is magic? ”
“Uh, yeah .” Her eyes go wide. “Wait.”
I wince.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Do you? Did something happen?!”
I pause. “Maybe?”
“Oh, my gosh. Tell me everything.” She doesn’t hide the excitement in her voice. “Wait, we need to get Liz.” She pulls out her phone, shoots off a text, and less than twenty seconds later, we’re a trio.
She doesn’t say anything when she comes in, and I can only assume this is because Brooke’s text revealed enough for her to know that we’re talking magic—a subject they take very seriously if their expressions, a mix of somber and bursting, are any indication.
“Okay,” I say, trying to choose my words. “I know how this is all going to sound.”
Liz waves me off. “Just tell us what’s happening. Is it the hot chef? Did you run into him again?” She looks at me, deadpan. “Is that the kind of magic we’re talking about here?”
“Oh, my goodness, no ,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, yes. I did run into him again?—”
They both hold in a squeal.
“— and that only confirmed what I already knew. That man is a serious jerk.”
They exchange a glance and a shrug, acting like his completely off-putting nature doesn’t matter.
Then Brooke takes my hands and says, “Tell us everything ,” so dramatically, I almost forget how ludicrous this is going to sound.
I inhale a slow breath and then unload the entire story. I soften the parts that make me look like a total halfwit. I also leave out how I felt when I first saw Matteo, with his runway-worthy looks .
I don’t want to admit that I really liked what I saw. But I really liked what I saw.
The whole thing is awkward, and I feel a little silly. It’s one thing to say you believe in things like magic, but something else entirely to say you’re experiencing it first-hand.
When I finally stop talking, I lean back in my chair and wait for their judgment. “Well?” My eyes bounce from Liz to Brooke and back.
Finally, Brooke stands. “This. Is. Awesome .” Her eyes are wide, her mouth agape with delighted anticipation, while Liz leans back in her chair, apparently processing.
“It’s really not,” I groan. “It’s confusing. And weird. It’s weird, right? It’s weird.”
“Weird as it may be, Iris, it’s obvious,” Liz states matter-of-factly.
“What is?”
“You need to get Winnie a cat.”
“Yeah, I thought about that,” I say. “But I don’t even know if she wants another cat.”
“Oh, she wants a cat,” Brooke chimes in. “The article said she was struggling because she lost Lenny.”
“And you saw the kids with the dogs today—animals keep people from being lonely. That’s not a coincidence,” Liz says. Then, after a slight pause, “Actually, you should get a cat.”
“Me? Yeah, no, I definitely don’t want a cat,” I say, brushing her off.
“A dog, then?” She offers.
“Maybe the whole point of this was to show you that you need a dog,” Liz suggests.
“Or that you and Winnie have something in common . . .” Brooke sits back down. “You’re both alone.”
I shoot her a look. “Okay, thanks for that.”
Brooke scrunches up her nose. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that , but . . . you know. You’re both . . . without people right now.”
“There has to be a bigger lesson we’re not seeing here,” Liz says. “Or a romance brewing behind the scenes? Most of the stories I’ve heard about your building have to do with romance.” Now she stands. “Somehow, I think this might have to do with the hot chef.”
“It doesn’t,” I say, though I’m not all that convinced.
“It might.”
“Might not.”
“His name is on these newspapers, right?” Liz says. “That’s not an accident.”
I shake my head. “I’ve got that figured out. I’m thinking the newspaper thinks he’s too much of a tool to actually help anyone else other than himself. I’m a different kind of person than he is.” I pause. “I love helping people. The newspaper knows I won’t rest till I figure out how to help Winnie.”
Brooke chuckles. “You’re talking about the newspaper like it’s alive.”
My hand reflexively moves to the spot on my forehead where it’s been smacked by a flying newspaper. Twice.
“Yeah. Silly me.”
“We told you that building was magic, Iris!” Liz says, practically bouncing. “Can we come over? Can we see it for ourselves?”
“Ooh! You can text or call when it starts happening again!” Brooke adds.
I throw away my trash, then zip up my lunch bag. “Look, I don’t know if this is going to keep happening. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do. I’m still having a hard time wrapping my brain around this. It doesn’t make sense.” I start toward the door, but Brooke blocks my exit.
“Magic is like love ,” she croons. “It doesn’t have to make sense. ”
I hold in a chuckle. “How long have you been holding on to that one?”
She shrugs. “Eh. A while. But it’s still true!”
“All we’re saying is that your building chose you for a reason. The magic chose you . It’s up to something,” Liz says from behind me. “And whatever it is, you don’t want to miss out on it.”
I stop. “You’re right. I kind of don’t,” I admit.
They exchange another glance.
“It is exciting, right?” Strange, yes, but still exciting.
“Uh, yeah it is,” Brooke practically shouts this at me. “And who knows? Maybe you can, you know . . . exchange papers with the chef.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks at the mention of Matteo. “Okay, that’s my cue.” I try to escape and push past Brooke, out into the hallway.
She follows me. “Oh, come on, Iris. This would be way more exciting than crocheting those weird little animals on Friday nights while you watch reruns of New Girl and The Great British Baking Show .”
“Ouch! Below the belt, Brooke!” I whip around, mouth agape and smiling, mostly because I know she’s right. It’s possible I’ve over- corrected my tendency to insert myself into other people’s lives.
And it’s also possible I’m suffering for it. That doesn’t mean I should get overly involved in whatever is happening with my building. One time . . . and then done. No more. That should be enough to satisfy my curiosity—then Matteo can deal with things.
His frowning face flashes through my mind, and I wonder what he would look like if he smiled.
Be careful, Iris.
Brooke holds up her hands, as if in surrender. “All I’m saying is . . . maybe this could be a good thing. ”
“For whatever reason, the building is opening a door between you and your neighbor. You should probably pay attention.” Liz looks so certain, as if any of this is normal. “Maybe you are exactly what he needs.”
I can’t imagine that man needing anything, least of all, me.
“Okay, stop. This isn’t about the chef, or even about me. This is about my lonely old neighbor who needs a sort of . . . intervention.” I frown. “And yeah, maybe a cat. I researched shelters all day and found zero black cats with white feet.” I glance over. “Should I just get any old cat?”
Liz shrugs. “I have a turtle. I don’t know anything about cats.”
Both Brooke and I turn to Liz. “You have a turtle?” I ask.
“Yeah. Donatello.”
I love Liz a little bit more now that I know that, and I make a mental note to crochet her a turtle.
“Can’t it be about both your lonely neighbor and the hot chef?” Brooke asks, ignoring me.
“No.” I start walking, and they both follow. “If this does have something to do with magic”—I glance over at her—“and I’m not saying it does—I think the newspaper found me because it knew this guy . . . Matteo Morgan”—I say his name like it leaves a bad taste in my mouth—“couldn’t be bothered to help anyone other than himself.”
“Mm-hm,” Brooke says, making it clear she doesn’t believe me.
“ Matteo Morgan ,” Liz whispers, as if saying something sacred.
I leave them swooning in their adolescence and head back to my classroom and find a note on my desk. It’s from Mr. Kincaid.
Please send Joyce your proposed date for the art show and let us know how to best support you and your students! —CK
The art show. Right . This is just part of my job. And I decide in this moment that the best way to handle it is to go all in. We’ll make the event feel special. We’re not just hanging pictures in the hallways. We’re going to turn the gymnasium into a gallery. How? I have no idea, but I’m determined to create new, wonderful art show memories—for my students and for me.
I open my laptop, scroll over to the calendar, and choose a Thursday evening in April with nothing scheduled. I email the date to Joyce, copy Mr. Kincaid, and put it in my own personal calendar.
I try to brainstorm more ideas to make the art show special for the kids . . .
. . . but I can’t stop thinking about the newspaper article stuck to my fridge.