Emma
Ismiled from my place among the stacks when I saw what book the boy held delicately, remembering how I felt the first time I discovered the same story years ago.
“Good choice,” I said, startling him. He jerked backward, dropping the book and pressing himself against the shelf. I chuckled, bending to retrieve it before running my fingers over the title. “I think my favorite part was when the Potion Master’s robes were set on fire.”
His eyes widened briefly before he returned my smile. I held the book to him, but he made no move to take it, choosing to turn back toward the shelf and glance at the rest of the series. “I liked the Cerberus guarding the trap door.”
“Ah, yes. Fluffy. I liked that part as well.”
He made no move to turn around, still browsing the titles in the young adult section, and I shrugged, turning to the opposite shelf and doing the same.
As I finished playing gopher each day for the various directors and teachers at the academy, I always found myself drawn back toward the library. After being employed for a few months, there was an unspoken understanding that this was where I’d be when my to-do list was exhausted. Even Headmaster Hopkirk couldn’t find fault in me being here, but he certainly enjoyed checking up on me unannounced—like he hoped to catch me doing something nefarious.
It wasn’t like the school harbored a secret section of erotica and tantric sex books—not that I would indulge in something like that during the workday. My personal collection at home was far more gratifying than anything hiding in these stacks.
There was something so satisfying about using the outdated Dewey Decimal system or cracking open a dusty, old hardback that still carried the smell of yellowing paper and stale air. I’d willingly deal with the side-eye looks from the headmaster and lead librarian if it meant spending my free time here.
“Okay. Um. I’m sorry, Miss James. I didn’t mean to bend the book—or drop it. I’m done looking, so I’ll leave. Quietly. Bye.” He turned back to me and waved sheepishly, pivoting to the double doors that lead toward the eighth-grade hallway.
“Hey. Wait a second,” I said, following as he breezed past the non-fiction shelves. “Would you like to check this one out? It’s one of my favorites. Or I could recommend one with more dragons. Perhaps a series about time travel?”
“Um,” he stuttered, pointing to the book in my hand and digging his toe into the carpet. “I’d like to check that out, please.”
“Well, come on, then.” I waved him to the counter, shaking my head as I thought about the lead media specialist who believed her purpose in life was to strike fear into the hearts of all who entered her sacred space—also known as the library. How could she instill a love of reading when the kids were afraid to touch the books?
He passed over his school identification card when we got to the front, and I logged into the computer, scanning the barcode and smiling as he reached for the paperback. Before I gave it back, I ran my fingers along the title and opened the book to the middle, cracking the spine.
Sacrilege—I know—but a part of me hoped this conversation would stick with him—giving him a better love of reading than any boring lecture could.
The boy sucked in a breath, eyes wide, and stared. “Books are meant to be read and well-used.”
I winked as he took the story from me with a small smile, running his finger along the crease in the spine. I’d like to think I made a difference, and he’d be back for the second book in the series next week, but he could just be imagining what Mrs. Bryce would do when she saw the devastating wrinkle.
“Head on to class, Vince.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I shook my head, watching him leave before peeking into the librarian’s office. She was leaning close to her computer screen, glasses perched on her head, and her finger clicking away on the mouse. Satisfied I could get away with another hour of putting away returned books and wandering the corridors, I turned toward the spiral staircase leading to the second floor.
Later that afternoon, I paused in the hallway past the cafeteria with a red apple partway to my lips, straightening my shoulders when I recognized the voice behind me.
“Miss James.”
“Headmaster Hopkirk,” I said, spinning around with the apple behind my back as he perused my appearance.
The black pants and green button-up blouse I’d thrown on this morning felt ridiculously casual compared to his charcoal gray, pinstripe, three-piece suit. His black leather shoes were polished to such a shine that I was sure my reflection would peer back at me if I got too close. Meanwhile, my black ballet flats still had a scuff from last week when I’d accidentally tripped in the parking lot.
It wasn’t even my fault—how was I supposed to know the landscapers would be there, and bushels of pine straw would be stacked throughout the staff lot? Everybody knew pine straw was the most idiotic thing to use as mulch because it was so flammable—not that anyone bothered to listen to my ramblings about the state of the shrubbery.
“My office. If you will, Miss James.”
He nodded once before taking a pocket watch out of his vest and opening it. He clicked his tongue like I was keeping him from some essential administrative task and walked away, not bothering to turn to ensure I followed.
Of course, I’ll follow, Mr. Headmaster, sir.
I felt like a kid being sent to the principal’s office—heck, I was being summoned to the principal’s office, and I scrambled, thinking of any indiscretions I’d had these last weeks.
My dresses were all below the knee, and my pantsuits matched. My hair lacked its typical chunky platinum highlights, instead opting for a darker honey-bronze, and my nails were a dull pink. I’d been late once but was 95 percent positive I snuck in the back door without anyone noticing.
After I was asked to leave my last job, my father swept in from the sidelines, pulling what he claimed was an astronomical number of strings to get me a provisional contract at one of the most prestigious private schools in South Carolina. I couldn’t let him down, not again, so I kept my head high as I followed the headmaster to his office, determined to impress the man who held my future between his well-manicured fingers.
“Tea?” he asked, rolling a silver cart next to the wing-back leather I’d perched on and motioning to the kettle.
“Thank you.” I laid the apple on the corner of his desk and opted for a bag of the oolong, finding it the least offensive of all the caffeinated dirt water offered, before proceeding to add three cubes of sugar.
Cubes,because simple packets of sugar damaged the integrity of the tea—or so he’d once said. I finished by adding a lemon wedge, then stared at the cream and debated adding enough to drown out the flavor of the tea and give me enough gastrointestinal distress to excuse me for the rest of the afternoon and get me far away from this conversation.
“Cream?” he asked, motioning to the cup and saucer that had my attention. If he knew my allergy to lactose, he wouldn’t have offered it unless he was playing some sick practical joke. But some part of me still wanted to reach for the offered saucer, knowing I’d be running out of the room in desperate search of an antacid within five minutes.
What was I so afraid of?
Confrontation?
Disappointing my father?
Failing?
All of the above.
“No, thank you, sir.” I stirred the tea, careful not to touch the spoon to the side of the teacup before setting it aside and raising it to my lips. For once, I didn’t grimace with the taste, having added enough sugar to make my back teeth ache. I watched as he prepared his cup—a dash of cream and one lemon—and sat behind the heavy wooden desk.
The large grandfather clock loomed in the corner of the office, the afternoon light reflecting on the glass from between the thin, sage curtains. With each second that ticked by, my pulse raced, and I crossed and uncrossed my legs, finally putting one ankle over the other. The silence was maddening, deafening, and I wanted to scream at him to just put me out of my misery and fire me so I could go crawling back to my parents, reminding them of what a failure I’d become.
“I suppose I should be the one to tell you the rumors are true, Miss James,” he began, skipping all pleasantries and jumping straight to the point. I appreciated his candidness—if I were to get reprimanded, I’d prefer not to waste time discussing the weather. Unluckily for me, I had no clue what he was talking about.
“The rumors, sir?” I placed the teacup on the saucer and tilted my head, hoping he’d give me at least one more clue so I wouldn’t flounder. He adjusted the cufflinks on each wrist, adorned with the school’s crest, and ran a hand through his artfully styled short, dark hair. My hands went reflexively to my rumpled curls, trying in vain to smooth the untamed frizz since I forwent my diffuser this morning in favor of riding Miller’s dick.
Crass—sure, but making that comment in my head gave me a tiny measure of control over the uncontrollable situation I found myself in. I hated this feeling—the disheartened emotion of not having adequate time to prepare intelligent answers to asked question.
“Yes, the rumors. Mrs. Dawlish is retiring at the end of the year, leaving us with an open Director of Communication position to fill.”
Oh. I wasn’t aware of that rumor, but aside from giving me menial tasks and busywork, Mrs. Dawlish and I barely spoke. Her style had more judging looks and pursed lips than warm, inviting afternoon gab sessions.
“I wasn’t aware of her upcoming plans.”
“No?” he said, arching an eyebrow and sipping his tea.
He gracefully set the cup on the saucer and straightened his Windsor knot, arching a brow as I smoothed down my blouse and felt a light sheen of sweat on my neck.
Was I projecting my dirty thoughts of Miller across his ornately large desk that was, of course, not compensating for anything lacking on his person? Surely, not.
“Well, regardless of whether you are participating in water cooler chatter, she’s leaving, giving you a much sought-after opportunity to obtain a permanent position here at Cresswell.”
If my job as a gopher to every department, running around making copies and fetching tea, was the way to a permanent position, I’d eat his tie.
“The board of directors has brought to my attention that the staff needs an infusion of young blood to keep up with current trends. You’d be an asset to the school with your willingness to assist in all departments and degrees. Everything you’ve done here has not gone unnoticed. Provided you adhere to our moral guidelines, of course.”
Young blood?Moral guidelines?
The way he emphasized those words had my brain working overtime to process the rest of his sentence, and when it managed to catch up, my eyes flicked to his. He smiled, the emotion looking strange but not unpleasant before he tilted his head.
“Is that something you’ve considered, Miss James?”
“Of course, sir,” I stuttered, not reaching for my tea so he wouldn’t see the slight tremble in my fingers. “I’d be honored to be chosen for a full-time position. I didn’t think an opportunity for continued employment was something I could achieve at this stage.”
“I thought you might say that, but your work ethic reflects your dedication. Don’t sell yourself short, Miss James. However, here at Cresswell, we want a professionally and personally well-rounded staff.”
I nodded, furrowing my eyebrows and hoping he’d explain so I wouldn’t have to vocalize that I had no clue what he was talking about.
“What I mean, of course, Miss James, is we want our staff to thrive outside the classroom by participating in volunteer opportunities—”
“Oh. Yes. I see,” I said, determined to save face from my stuttering and half-finished thoughts. “I help relocate sea turtle eggs during mating season and also—”
He held up his hand, cutting off my sentence as I wiped my hands on my slacks, then reached for the tea to keep from fidgeting, shaking hands be damned.
“Yes. I have no doubt your volunteer efforts are worthwhile. Your father would not have recommended you otherwise. However, Miss James, I was referring to your personal life. Are you currently in a committed relationship?”
Relationship? What does that have to do with my work ethic?
“You must think I’m terribly old-fashioned.”
Nope. I was just looking at the empty spot on your desk where a picture of you and your wife used to be before you divorced.
“But, you understand, of course, that the parents have certain expectations of the staff.”
Wasn’t there a scandal last year involving the captain of the squash team and prescription drugs?
“And with those expectations, we, the staff, have obligations to fulfill.” He clasped his hands in front of him and laid them on the desk, smirking like the villain in a Dr. Seuss story.
“Yes, sir. I understand the importance of having a well-rounded staff.”
“Excellent. I’m glad we understand each other. I look forward to receiving your official application and references once the position has been posted.”
He stood, motioning to the door, and I set the tea down and grabbed my apple, following his lead.
“I also look forward to meeting your beau at the Fall Formal.”
My what?
I froze, my mouth open to say goodbye, and waited. Perhaps I needed to add another multivitamin to my morning routine because my brain seriously lacked the ability to keep up with this convoluted conversation.
“My beau?”
“Yes. Apologies, Miss James. I thought we just discussed the importance of a well-rounded character.”
Ah. No guy. No job. That’s crystal clear, Mr. Headmaster, sir.
“We did. Of course. My apologies. I’m sure he’ll also be thrilled to meet you, sir.” I bobbed my head, looking like a velociraptor, and swallowed, the inside of my mouth turning to cotton. I was not in a committed relationship. I was not in any relationship other than the no-strings fun I had with Miller—and thinking of him attending formal events with me was laughable.
Perhaps at some point over the last decade, I turned left instead of veering right, causing drastic changes in my life that led me to this point—unattached and alone. But I was Emma James, for fuck’s sake, destined for great things after being my high school’s valedictorian and ready to set the world ablaze with my intelligence and fiery good looks.
I was perfectly capable of living my life without relying on anyone. There was no dramatic desire pulsing through me to meet someone because, truly, I was happy with my life. I appreciated my job—most days—I saw my friends once or twice a week, and spent my evenings immersed in several hobbies that kept my calendar filled.
Every once in a while, perhaps a little more lately since the big three-zero was just over the horizon, I’d feel a flutter of otherness that resembled, maybe, an interest in finding someone to spend the rest of my life with. Plus, there were always the physical aspects of a committed relationship. One-night stands were never something I partook in, especially with the awkward conversation that was sure to happen afterward.
The entire issue was that the men I met either fell into the overbearing types who couldn’t carry on a conversation or ones who wanted to skip straight to sex. It couldn’t be too much to ask for someone firmly in the middle.
I didn’t need a relationship to prove my worth to anyone—but I did need this job. A job that was going to make me jump through hoop after hoop until I showed I was the right fit. So here I was, sans relationship and nothing more than a growling stomach and flats that pinched my toes.
“Fantastic. Then I’ll let you get back to your duties. Please give my regards to your father. We enjoyed a rousing game of squash last week.” He dismissed me with a nod, and I swallowed the urge to curtsey before I left his office. I took a bite of the apple and powerwalked back to the library with nothing but a sinking dread in my stomach and the sound of my shoes on the polished tile.
The tales of the headmaster’s odd requests were nothing new since they mostly surrounded trivial things like the menus served during team meetings and the proper height of high-heel shoes so the recently replaced tile floor wouldn’t scuff. Sure, I remembered Mr. Donovan complaining that Hopkirk required him to send the same attachment separately to each member of the foreign language department, but nothing as intrusive as questioning a person’s relationship status.
Nausea replaced the dread as I stopped in the middle of the hallway, pressing one hand to my forehead and the other to my stomach. It was too much of a coincidence, too convenient that I was given such an unusual request as opposed to a simple one like replacing all the disposable coffee mugs with teacups or ensuring the landscapers only planted white azaleas around the campus.
There was only one person who could burrow his way into my life, hoping I’d be too naive or grateful to notice the intrusion. I’d play his little game—and I’d win. The vindictive light would leave his eyes when he realized his youngest daughter not only snagged a full-time position but did it with a smile on her face and a boyfriend on her arm.
Game on, Dad.