THIRTEEN
F uture me is a lovesick fool.
Cluttering my desk in the guidance center are seven framed photos of Renner and me. There’s another 8 x 10 of us cheesing on the beach affixed to the wall next to my master’s in counseling diploma. There’s even a Valentine’s Day card from 2036 with a cartoon illustration of a single macaroni noodle holding hands with a triangular piece of cheese that reads, You are the cheese to my macaroni . The inside of the card is even worse:
Happy Valentine’s Day, Char. Every year gets better and better with you. I am so thankful to have you in my life. Thanks for putting up with me. Love, J. T.
This is just obnoxiously extra. What exactly am I trying to prove by displaying all these love tokens in my professional work space?
I pile the particularly nauseating photos into a random drawer in my desk, catching a glimpse of my ring sparkling in the sunlight. I thought about not wearing the ring out of protest today. But it is stunning. I’ve never owned a piece of jewelry like this—neither has Mom—so I’m wearing the crap out of it, regardless of what it symbolizes.
While I shudder for turning into that girl, the one who takes kissing photos and brags about how great her relationship is, at least I have good taste in snacks. I’m about to gorge a Halloween-size Snickers bar and scroll through the unhelpful results of my Google search, Help I’ve fallen into a wormhole and can’t get out , when Leigh, the student administrative assistant, pokes her head in. We met when I needed help signing into my computer. Apparently, future computers rely on iris recognition.
“Ms.Wu? Your nine o’clock appointment is here.” She sounds like a Pixar character, not a high school student volunteering for community service hours.
I cough, swallowing a hunk of stale chocolate. “My what?”
“Your nine o’clock appointment,” Leigh says sheepishly, adjusting her plaid headband.
Appointment? Shoot. There goes my plan to barricade my office door, hide under my desk all day, and self soothe by eating my way through my stockpile of snacks.
“Uh, sure. Send them in,” I say, nervously straightening a pile of papers next to the computer.
Before I have the chance to confess that I’m a fraud, a dude wearing frayed denim shorts and a T-shirt three sizes too large with a photo of his own face across the belly collapses into the chair opposite my desk. “Hi, Ms.Wu.”
Kyle, my nine o’clock, tells me his name about five times before I remember it. Just like the hedgehog-loving teacher, he asks if I’m okay. He seems like a nice guy, despite his questionable fashion sense and the fact that he smells like he bathed in Axe body spray. Boys of the future still haven’t learned.
Turns out, he needs help planning his class schedule for his sophomore year. I have no idea how to pull up the list of potential classes. But Leigh saves the day, working her magic to project Kyle’s schedule on the wall.
Luckily, the curriculum is essentially the same. Kyle says he wants to be a welder when he grows up, so I convince him to take all the shop classes he can, as well as math. He leaves the appointment hopeful and optimistic about next year, which makes me feel marginally better about my general ignorance. Maybe I am good at my job, after all.
My eleven o’clock appointment never shows, which gives me ample time to root through my phone. It’s full of unanswered texts and emails from wedding vendors. I really should have invested in a wedding planner. Then again, I’m not surprised my adult self doesn’t trust anyone else with the logistics.
One text from yesterday catches my eye. It’s from Alexandra, Dad’s girlfriend.
Alexandra: Hi Charlotte. I just wanted to let you know we won’t be able to join you for your party tomorrow night. Both Marianne and Lily caught a nasty bug that’s going around at school. We’re recovering, but not fully healed. I’m really sorry. We really wanted to be there. But can’t wait to see photos and will see you on the wedding day.
I’m shocked. Dad is still with Alexandra after all these years? After his second marriage imploded, I pegged him as a noncommittal guy. But what’s even more shocking is that I have sisters. Two, from the sounds of it. And while I knew Alexandra was pregnant, seeing their names in text is entirely different. They’re real. They’re living, breathing humans.
As I digest that information, it occurs to me that Alexandra is the one texting me. Not Dad. From my phone’s history, it looks like Dad and I don’t text at all. I guess I shouldn’t be shocked that he won’t be at my party either. I wonder how many other life events he’s missed out on. Frankly, it would be a miracle if he came to my wedding. Not that I’m having one.
Before I can formulate a response, another young teacher slips into my office to vent. Apparently, a nasty girl in her English class created a social media post about her that went viral. She had unknowingly spent an entire class teaching with the back of her dress tucked into her period panties. The girl caught it all on her phone.
“She even hashtagged #missperiodpanties. I swear, I’m at the end of my rope with these little twits.”
Her candor catches me off guard. I’ve never witnessed a teacher reveal their honest feelings about students before.
Before I can offer adequate sympathy, she begins explaining (in detail) the proper technique to express her hairless cat’s anal glands with piercing eye contact. What is with teachers at MHS and their strange pets? Then she quickly pivots, asking if I want to go out for lunch since she “owes me” for taking her after-school detention duties all last week. To be fair, she seems cool (despite said cat details), but I politely decline to avoid embarrassing myself or ruining my reputation and rush out to find Renner.
He’s in the gym, running drills with a freshman class. Turns out, Gym Teacher Renner is not some chump in a tracksuit with a whistle trying to relive his glory days. In fact, he appears to be living his best life right now. He looks like an A-list actor playing a teacher in a movie. He fills out his button-down and chinos nicely, iPad in hand, brows knitted in concentration as he encourages his students across the gym.
The sight of him makes something inside me flutter. Gym Teacher Renner is kind of, sort of, attractive.
“You look like you were born to do this,” I admit, sidling up next to him.
He startles at my presence before giving me a flirty smile. “You think?”
There’s a nagging in my gut that makes me wonder if he’s disappointed in how his life turned out. Does he regret giving up his dream of coaching a college team to come home and teach high school kids?
“I really couldn’t picture you in an authoritative position, but it looks like you’ve got this coaching thing down,” I say, cringing at the sight of a guy doubled over, ready to hurl after running drills.
He abruptly blows his whistle before he can respond. “Hey, man.” He points to a kid in red gym shorts. “Your speed is fantastic right out of the gate. But I notice you lose steam a bit at the twenty-yard mark. Let’s focus on your endurance,” he tells him encouragingly.
The student nods and says, “Thanks, Mr.Renner.”
A satisfied smile plays across his lips, like a puppy awaiting approval after learning to sit. “See? They’re listening to me.”
I clap my hand to my chest. “Wow. I’m surprised you didn’t let them run feral and smoke dope behind the bleachers.”
He chokes out a laugh. “Dope? You sound like my police officer dad.”
“I know.” I shrug, owning it. “Hey, wanna have lunch together? Talk strategy for tonight? Apparently, I hoard snacks in my desk ... along with knitting needles, yarn, and a container of Tums.” Adult me is a rip-roaring good time.
This piques his interest. “What kind of snacks?”
“Lots of candy bars. And jumbo bags of chips.”
“Flavor?”
“Plain.”
He makes a face. “Plain? What kind of sicko are you?”
“Wow. The slander. Plain is delicious, thank you very much.”
His lips curve, teasing. “Well, you get to enjoy them all to yourself. I actually need the hour to prep for my health class after lunch.”
I raise a brow. This is very unlike Renner. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him crack open a book. And somehow, he still manages to pull off decent grades.
“It’s the STI unit,” he clarifies.
“You’re teaching sex ed today?” I can barely contain my giggle. I’d give my left arm to sit in on Renner’s sex ed class.
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, very funny. I’m petrified, I’ll have you know.”
I snort. “Do they still have the sex ed treasure chest?”
“Oh yeah. It’s in my office. It was the first thing I saw when I walked in. It’s filled to the brim with condoms. And some dental dams,” he adds matter-of-factly. “I’m in over my head.”
I pat him on the shoulder sympathetically. For a flash, I think about offering to look over his lesson plan, until I remember we do not have that kind of relationship. We don’t help each other. We’re enemies, after all. So I settle for, “You’ll do just fine.”
He cringes. “But what if they have ... questions?”
“Well, luckily you have a lot of experience,” I point out. As rumor has it, Renner lost his V-card in tenth grade to an eleventh grader named Harley at a tent party. Since then, he’s practically made his way through the female population of our class, as well as the class below. Not that I care.
He gives me a look. “Are you slut shaming me?”
“Not at all. It’s simply a fact.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay, can we not talk about my sex life? I’m freaking out. I’m not qualified to teach shit. This feels illegal.”
“More illegal than giving a student advice on their educational future? Probably not. Let’s just get through the day without drawing suspicion. Do you have a lesson plan?”
“Yeah. It’s in a binder. I’m really into consent and protection, I guess, because I wrote pages’ worth of notes,” he adds.
“Just read straight from your lesson plan. They won’t even notice.”
“If only it were that easy ...”
“Best of luck, Renner. Remember, the sexual health of the next generation rests on your shoulders!” I call back at him before exiting the gym.