Chapter 30 Ligaya
LIGAYA
It’s mid-January and I am officially rocking the second trimester. No nausea. No whipped cream withdrawals. No brain fog.
The babies are the size of limes, according to my new favorite podcast called “Bump and Beyond.”
Only my bladder refuses to cooperate because it wants to be emptied out every hour. Things are getting crowded in there. Sort of like my classroom at the moment.
It’s a circus. Auditions for the spring drama, Alice in Wonderland, are underway with enough wannabe British accents to make English royalty weep.
This year we’re emphasizing physical comedy, student-led costume design, and maybe puppets if Mrs. Kinzer can get funds for the materials.
She’s Centerstone High School’s art teacher and willing to integrate puppet design into her course.
A more energetic teacher is hard to find.
Speaking of energy, it’s brimming in here.
Before a play is fully cast, the air is thick—and a bit smelly, because these are teenagers—with possibility.
Some kids wear their enthusiasm on their sleeves, but others are more hesitant.
Yet they’ve showed up, laying hopes on the line and putting skills to the test. Plus, there’s always the hidden gem that shines unexpectedly. I’m on the lookout.
“Julian, you’re up.”
A mop-haired sophomore slowly rises from the back row, clutching his script like it’s a shield. He’s new and barely talks above a whisper when he states he’s auditioning for the Mad Hatter.
“Take your time,” I tell him gently as he steps onto the taped X at center stage. “You’ve got this.”
Julian’s ears flush pink. He starts to read, but his voice is muffled by the whir of my portable heater. When he trips over the third line, a couple of kids in the back snicker.
I hold up a hand. “Pause.”
He freezes. “I can start over.”
“You will,” I say, stepping toward him. “But first, I want you to picture the Mad Hatter as a full-blown chaos goblin. Pretend you drank four Red Bulls and made a hat out of . . . out of pens! Or kitchen utensils!”
I move around in a clumsy imitation of Chris Farley in Tommy Boy. Although my students won’t get the reference, that movie is a masterclass in physical comedy. My somewhat unhinged impression earns some giggles, this time at my expense.
Julian’s eyes widen and his shoulders lower. Nothing staves off insecurity more than knowing someone else is willing to be weirder than you.
“You’ve got something to say, Hatter,” I holler jovially. “Make the walls shake! Let’s go!”
He swallows with difficulty but expands his chest before beginning.
When he reads again, his voice is louder.
Still trembling, yet raw in its manic edge.
As the energy builds, his posture transforms from stiff to fluid.
He drops the script, delivering the lines off-book.
When he’s done, other students offer appreciative claps.
I shoot him a quick thumbs up. Julian beams like he performed on Broadway.
This is why I do it. For moments of bravery that few notice, but that I get to witness up close.
After the final read through and a brief mop-up of red glitter because someone wanted to show design ideas for the Queen of Hearts, I head to the main office. Principal Reinbacher, with his wrinkled cargo pants and untucked button-down, shepherds me in.
“You said you wanted to talk after the auditions,” my boss says, inviting me into his office while sipping from his eternal mug of coffee.
“Thanks for making time for me.”
We sit across from each other, his desk the epitome of mayhem.
“I’m pregnant.” I’ve practiced different versions of this speech, but nothing is more important than clarity.
“My due date is late June, so it won’t interrupt the school year.
However, because I’m carrying twins, it’s categorized as a risky pregnancy.
In the unlikely chance I need a day or two off, I’ll be sure to prepare extensive notes for the substitute. ”
He is expressionless when he asks, “Who’s the lucky guy?”
The question is expected, but it still rankles.
“I am going to be a single mother.”
My boss’s face morphs into uninhibited surprise. He opens his mouth, and I can see the moment he censors himself. My status as a parent is none of his business.
“I guess congratulations are due,” he utters in a decidedly non-congratulatory way.
“Thank you, Principal Reinbacher. One other thing. I’m hoping we have the resources to hire Toby as an assistant director for this production. In case I need to take time off.”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have the funds for that.”
The man didn’t even pretend to check the ungodly pile of papers before rejecting my request.
“I thought we would use the grant money I secured from the Ohio Imagination Foundation. Toby actually helped me write that application.”
He looks at me unblinkingly. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
I’m halfway to the door when he says, “Due in June, huh?”
“Yes.” I smile politely. “Summer baby.”
“Good,” he nods. Then pauses. “You know, being a single mom isn’t easy.”
My smile freezes.
“I mean, women nowadays think they can do it all, but it’s a lot. You should line up extra help. Mentally, physically, emotionally . . .”
He trails off, watching me like I might crumble or offer more information. I don’t.
“Thanks for the advice.”
I leave before my rising annoyance erupts. Huffing all the way to my classroom, I purge myself of mansplaining bosses. I’ve got scripts to print, callbacks to post, and a schedule to fine-tune with the precision of a hair. He can stick his advice where the sun doesn’t shine.
A few hours later, after a quick dinner and a long shower, I find myself pacing in front of my closet, a pair of leggings in one hand and my new robe in the other. My phone buzzes.
Toby: Is tonight the night Prince Hockey returns from exile?
Instead of texting back, I give my friend a call.
“Do you think it’s weird if I answer the door in a sexy robe?” I ask.
There’s a pause. “Do you even own a sexy robe?”
“It was a holiday gift from one of my aunts. It’s red, satiny, yet surprisingly comfortable.”
“Lingerie masquerading as loungewear. Genius.”
“The other way around,” I say impishly. “It looks like lingerie because it’s fancy on the outside. But inside it’s fleecy loungewear. I’ve been wearing it every night this week.”
“It doesn’t matter what you wear,” he quips. “You’ll take it off once Tristan arrives, anyway.”
I roll my eyes but laugh. “I haven’t seen him in two weeks. Is it weird that I’m a bit nervous? We’ve hardly had time to talk since the New Year.”
“There’s not going to be much talking,” he cackles.
Although I’m liable to jump Tristan as soon as he walks through the door, I can’t deny I miss him in other ways. The person, not the sex god.
“I finally told the office. Reinbacher gave me bullshit today, mansplaining why being a single mom is hard. How would he know?”
“He knows nothing. Don’t mind him.”
“You’re right.”
“To robe or not to robe, that is the question,” Toby says.
“I have a few hours to decide. Tomorrow is the real test.”
“You mean the Inquisition? Otherwise known as the Thorne parental unit.”
“I’m already pre-cringing.”
“You will be the epitome of poise and wholesomeness,” Toby reassures me. “Wear a pastel floral dress and use your parent-teacher-conference voice. Works every time.”
“Will do, except for the dress. I had to buy a new one. Nothing else fits.” I pause for a minute. “It’ll be fine, right? They won’t be awful, will they?”
“In what way?”
“When they fired my mother for ‘encroaching on their family,’ they were deplorable. They basically told her to fuck off because she was a lowly housekeeper. It didn’t matter that she adored Olive and she was trying to help Tristan.”
“That’s a long time ago. Maybe they’ve changed.”
“I hope so.”
“And you have Tristan.”
Body: Do I, though? He’s not under or above me. I want him NOW!
Brain: You should articulate expectations of each other as you navigate the new demands of parenthood.
Uterus: It’s getting tight in here.
Toby continues. “But for real, if they suck, that’s on them. You’ll be great parents, with or without the Thorne blessing. And everyone knows you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to Tristan.”
“I doubt that, though I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Now slap on some mascara, gloss up those lips, and put on your loungewear masquerading as lingerie. Or is it the other way around?’”
“Thanks, Toby.” My phone beeps. “Oh, he’s calling. Gotta go. You’re the best!”
“Back at ya.”
I press the answer button. “Hi.”
“Hey, Ligaya. God, it’s great to hear your voice.”
“Are you already on the road? On your way here?” I’m speaking at a higher pitch, triggered by my eagerness to see him.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I’m not gonna make it to your place till tomorrow morning.
I’m helping Sean overnight. You met him on New Year’s Eve, remember?
He’s on concussion protocol, and Gordon and I are splitting the night to take care of him.
I didn’t volunteer, but since the coach asked me, I can’t exactly say no. ”
Disappointment fills the silence, but I rally a cheerful voice.
“What you’re doing is a good thing. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Can’t wait. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. What time will you swing by to get me?”
“They expect us at the country club at ten.”
“But we’re telling them about the pregnancy, right?” I ask, confused about the choice of venue. “Why would they want to be somewhere so public? Did you mention or hint at the sensitive topic?”
“Shit, that’s my bad. I agreed to the country club out of habit.”
“Habit?”
“I hate going to their place. I’m sorry, Ligaya, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll call them in the morning to say we’ll meet them at the house.”
“No. That might worsen their mood if we invite ourselves. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”