6. Kate
“The cheek? What’s so wrong with that?” Emma shrugs at this mind-boggling information, setting up her paints and brushes for the class day, waving her paintbrush in the air as if to tell me I’m freaking out for nothing.
“Um, nothing. I just thought it was interesting.” I shrug back. Maybe I am freaking out for nothing.
“Interesting?” She muses, crossing her arms over her chest, accentuating that little bump underneath her paint-splattered apron.
“Not interesting,” I deflect. “Weird. I thought it was weird.” Just play it cool, Kate. You’re probably overthinking this like you do everything else.
“Did you want him to kiss you on the lips?” The paintbrushes in her hands swish toward me, pointing at me. Accusing me.
“No!” I yell abruptly. I don’t sound convincing at all. Did I want him to kiss me? Surely not. This is Malcolm we’re talking about.
“Are you sure about that?” Planting her hands on her hips, the brushes stick out like a tail on one side.
“Yes, yeah. I’m sure. Totally.”
“Well then, there’s nothing to worry about. Maybe he was just trying to be a gentleman.” She waves me off, brushes now being placed in their appropriate cups on the table.
Nothing to worry about. Perfect.
I just spilled every single detail surrounding the mistletoe fiasco the other night, and this is what I get? I knew I should’ve had this conversation with Margaret. At least with our eighty-year-old librarian an aloof response wouldn’t be as baffling. But Emma here is supposed to be my friend. Malcolm’s friend too! Yes, I came to her because I need someone level-headed to discuss this with. But I half-expected her to at least ask me what his breath smelled like. Mint-infused brandy. Refreshing and spicy swirled together in an invigorating concoction. My mouth waters at the thought of it.
“What is it?” She eyes the thumbnail I’m now biting.
I yank my hand away from my mouth and wipe the dampness from the corners of my lips. What is going on with me? “Nothing.”
“Are you sure you didn’t want more than a cheeker?” She raises an eyebrow at me. It’s just as accusatory as the brushes. I might as well have a spotlight on me in the middle of an interrogation room.
“I’m sure.” My words linger in the air, like my thought is incomplete. I wrap my arms around my waist and squeeze. A hug would be really nice right now. “I’m sure,” I repeat. I have no idea what I wanted to happen. I just know that, since that moment under the mistletoe, my feelings toward Malcolm and everything that has to do with him has changed, and I have no idea what to do with them. My brain keeps getting flooded with Malcolm in ways I’ve never thought before. Excitement and confusion are battling it out inside my chest like a 90’s film dance-off, pulling out wild, unrealistic moves with me caught in the middle, stunned and sometimes breathless.
I don”t know whether to embrace these thoughts or shove them deep down inside me. Heat flushes my neck and cheeks at the recent change in my daydreams. When I used to imagine a paramedic jumping out of a moving ambulance to rescue me from a car wreck, the person always wore sunglasses, and the sun was so bright I could never make out their features. But we’d kiss, as if my rescuer was the Prince Charming I was waiting for. It was an odd dream, but I grew attached to it, savoring it every time it happened. But then two days ago, the rescuer was no longer wearing a medic uniform. No, he was wearing a fishing shirt and khakis, sliding on his knees across the grass to pull me out of the broken window. And instead of sunglasses, it was a set of piercing blue eyes gazing down at me. Eyes I see every day. And just as I was preparing to kiss my rescuer, I woke up in a puddle of sweat and gasping for air. Blood was coursing through my veins like it needed to revive all my organs.
There’s no denying that the rescuer was Malcolm. And the effects it had on me physically were jarring. Every part of me twisted and burned, making me feel almost uncontrollable. I’ve never had such an episode like that before. And I’ve never had an episode over Malcolm, for crying out loud!
“Well, there you go.” Emma pulls me out of my thoughts just in time. Any longer and I might’ve spontaneously combusted in the middle of her classroom. “It happened. It’s over.”
“And cheeker is weird. Please don’t ever say that again.”
Emma snorts and unties her apron, the sweet baby bump no longer hidden by paint splatter. She has that sweet glow about her, but I’m not allowed to mention it. Apparently, it’s sweat, and it’s annoying, so it’s better left unmentioned. “Sorry,” she laughs. “Come on, I’m starving.”
We make our way down the hall to the break room as students shove their way around each other, almost knocking us down as they race to the cafeteria. Gertrude, the cafeteria lady, only bakes one large batch of the good brownies on Mondays. They’re basically crack. If you don’t get there in time, you’re stuck with a fruit bar. Why even get dessert at that point?
We’re the first ones to snag a table for lunch in our break room. Half of the faculty stays in the building for lunch, and the other half tends to be as antisocial as they possibly can by going to a coffee shop or eating in their cars.
“Is Sarah Kim joining you for camp?” Emma takes a seat at the big, round table in the center of the room.
“She is. She’s our team assistant. It’s pretty adorable, honestly. She’ll do anything she can for a chance to include sports in her college admissions packet.” I shake my head and join Emma at the table.
“The girl is ambitious.” She smiles, biting into her sandwich.
“The girl is a headache,” Malcolm’s deep, warm voice fills the room, and it makes my cheeks heat. We still haven’t talked about the other night. We’ve never been that close to kissing before. Actually kissing. And being that close to him has never left me so stunned that I lost sleep over it. I just think the fact that we were basically breathing the same oxygen for a solid thirty seconds might need to be addressed. You know, for peace of mind. But by the looks of it, no one is freaking out about it but me.
This is the kind of situation that could drive me mad.
It will drive me mad.
“She just wants to succeed,” Emma says with her mouth full of potato chips. Crumbs fly as she tilts the bag upside down to get every last piece into her mouth. Remember when I said she was glowing? The glow seems to dull a bit here.
“Okay.” Malcolm’s face is pinched as he watches Emma and sits in the empty seat next to me. We both watch her inhale the rest of the bag. Her table manners disappeared around the second trimester. “You get ‘em all?” he asks with a sly grin.
Emma’s eyes whip to his face. They aren’t the sweet eyes of our friend and colleague. Nope. They’re the eyes of a ravenous mama bear about to rip Malcolm to shreds.
“Dude, don’t anger it,” I whisper behind my hand, slouching as far down into my seat as possible. Emma crumples up the bag and stands from the table, tossing it in the trash. Completely ignoring Malcolm’s comment, she collects papers from her binder for today’s meeting and starts passing them out to the faculty that is slowly migrating into the break room.
“Are we covering camp today or not?” Malcolm asks without looking at the agenda Emma just handed him. I elbow his ribs and point at the first point.
Camp Coming Up.
For the past five years, Malcolm and I have been partners in coaching tactics, tag-teaming our practices and schedules. It’s created a sense of comradery they hadn’t had at Glendale in a long time, breathing new life into the school.
Volleyball and football aren’t your typical buddy sports, but we’ve made it work, and it’s always made Athlete Camp that much more exciting. We both take a group of athletes from different sports and spend an entire week running drills, scrimmages, and attending seminars. It’s a high school coach’s dream! Or maybe just my dream—whatever, it’s fun. And for the last five years, I’ve been able to go with Malcolm and a few of the other coaches.
“Yes, Athlete Camp is our big topic today,” Benny announces as he walks into the break room, holding two cups of iced coffee. One cup has a large heart drawn on the center. Envy bubbles in my chest at the sweet gesture as he hands the cup to Ellie, who walks in behind him. They share sweet smiles and part ways as Benny begins today’s meeting.
“Do they make you want to vomit or what?” Malcolm leans over, whispering to me behind his coffee mug.
Correction: my coffee mug.
My pink mug with a picture of Hilda, my pug that lived to be fourteen, on it. The first secret Santa gift Malcolm gave me four years ago, when Hilda was still alive. Poor thing had a heart attack and died in her sleep a month later.
“Maybe not vomit, but they definitely make me want to throw something at them,” I whisper back. He gives me a soft pinch in the arm before repositioning back into his usual pose, leaned over the table with an arm resting perpendicular to me, the other holding his mug in the air, his back taut and rigid. It doesn’t ever look natural, how he sits. But that’s what he does, every day. The one time I asked him why he didn’t just relax in his chair, he stiffened even further then cracked his neck like I scratched my nails on a chalkboard. I never mentioned it again.
“Throw something at who?” Ellie asks, taking the vacant seat Emma just left.
“Um, no one.” I gnaw on my lip and swivel around in my seat to face Benny.
“She said you guys are gross,” Malcolm mumbles.
Ellie tosses her sticky note pad at my head and whispers, “Rude!”
“I still love you,” I whisper over my shoulder and glare at Malcolm. Benny clears his throat and stares at us as if we’re the hoodlums in the classroom. I mumble under my breath, “Ellie started it.”
Another pack of sticky notes flies over my shoulder, and Benny continues staring at all of us, as well as the rest of the faculty. They’re annoyed. We’re cutting into their lunch break. “May I finish?” He clears his throat, forcing a seriousness to spread across his boyish face.
“Please hurry,” Malcolm answers over his shoulder. He’s still facing away from Benny, drinking his coffee. It might come off as rude, not facing your boss in a meeting, but everyone has realized two very important things about Malcolm in the last five years:
He’s never rude intentionally.
And we should never question him about it.
“As I was saying, Athlete Camp is next week. Unfortunately, Bill can’t attend anymore.”
Wait, what? Bill isn’t going to camp?
“So, unless we get one more volunteer,” Benny continues, “there will only be two faculty members attending, which makes it very difficult to manage the students as well as the coaching seminars.”
“We need help!” I yell, startling the entire room—and myself a little bit—the projection of my voice practically throwing me out of my chair.
“Um, yes,” Benny says hesitantly, telepathic questions being thrown at me through his gaze. What was that for? Why do you look crazy right now?
That’s what I’m assuming he’s thinking because there is no doubt I look like a maniac.
Gripping the back of my seat, my eyes feel twice their size. The truth is, I need help. The thought of spending an entire week alone with Malcolm right now is freaking me out for some reason. I’ve never had any concerns about this the last few years. It’s always been one of the best weeks of my year. But after mistle-gate…with his steamy breath rippling across my face and his oaky cologne tingling my nostrils… I don’t know what to think about any of this. My mind can’t seem to land on one certain point.
Why was he nervous? Why were his lips trembling? And why did the idea of kissing him seem so appealing?
These are not the typical buddy-bro-bestie thoughts I usually have pertaining to Malcolm, and I can’t bring myself to ask him about it. I’m too chicken. And being alone with him in seminars and coach dinners will inevitably force the conversation to happen.
I don’t know if I’m ready.
“Do we have any volunteers?” Benny asks the room.
Please, somebody volunteer. My forearms burn from the death grip I have on my chair.
“Is it me, or are you afraid of going to camp with me, Stanley?” Malcolm whispers. My grip tightens as I glance at him. His eyes are still fixed on the big break room window behind me, creasing in the corners as he fights a smirk.
“N–no,” I stutter. “I just don’t want us drowning, trying to juggle all the kids on our own.” He nods an ah in response, still looking out the window, coffee cup at his lips. “We really need assistance to ensure the athletes are fully supported,” I say to the room, clearing my throat.
A few head nods in agreement, but no volunteers. Of course not.
“I’ll go,” Ellie offers cheerily.
“Yay!” I whip around in my chair, reach across the table, and squeeze her.
“Honey, er…future Mrs. Divata, you will be unavailable.” Benny’s voice is pinched, like he’s trying to remind Ellie of their pre-established plans. I groan loudly into her shoulder then slide across the table back into my chair. Ellie mouths an apologetic, “I tried.”
“Alright, then it seems like we will just have the two faculty members attend. Now, let’s focus on end-of-term evaluations,” Emma says as she takes over the meeting.
Defeated, I rest my head in my hands and press my palms into my eyes. Somehow, not seeing anyone in this moment is comforting.
I hear Emma’s footsteps and the rustling of paper around me. The chair next to Ellie slides out, and Benny sits next to her. I know it’s him because I hear their whispered hellos and flirty giggles, all followed by Malcolm’s muttered, “God, help me.”
I smile into my hands at his voice. The disdain he has for the idea of love in general has always been amusing—another reason why the other night has me baffled. His eyes under the mistletoe weren’t that of disdain. They were something deeper. Intimate. A deep sea of unspoken thoughts swirled inside of them, threatening to overflow. Even after he pretty much barricaded me from open fire in the living room, the most surprising moment of the entire night was under that dang mistletoe.
“That’s all for today, everyone.” Emma concludes the meeting, and people shuffle out quicker than they came in.
“Well…looks like it’s just you and me.” Malcolm tugs on one of my curls tied on the top of my head as he scoots his chair out.
I stay seated and stare into my palms as I hear Malcolm’s boots move across the floor to the sink then the running water and clanging of his mug as he gently places it back in the cabinet. His footsteps fade until there’s silence. I blink and adjust to the bright sun shining in through the break room window and peer out at the football field. The green turf is freshly cut, the goal lines painted a crisp white. A few students lounge on the bleachers for their lunch. A few others stretch and run drills down the red track that circles the field. I give myself a second to collect my thoughts before heading to fourth period and go to stand.
“You gonna tell me what’s up?”
“Cheese and rice! I thought you were gone!” I screech as I grip my chest and lean against the table, Malcolm’s voice just about throwing me into palpitations.
He chuckles, “Sorry.”
He stares at me as he leans against the doorframe, waiting for a response. What am I supposed to say? I’m freaking out about the other night, and I don’t know how to act around you? Yeah, no. Then it would seem like the other night means something, and what if he was just joking? What if I’m the one making this more than it needs to be? The possibility of that sends erratic flutters through my chest.
Oh great, now I’m giving myself palpitations.
“Spill it, Stanley.” His eyes glisten at me like the ocean. A sea of wonder—and concern, based on the crease forming between his eyebrows. They’ve always been so captivating, drawing me in and filling me with this sense of calm I can’t get anywhere else. Like God Himself said, “I have these eyes capable of making someone feel both calm and exhilarated, and I’m going to attach them to a man so surly and grumpy that it will confuse the heck out of people.” They defy all logic.
I open my mouth to speak, like normal people should do, but nothing comes out. My throat makes a raspy, bubbly noise instead. I clamp my mouth shut because it’s clearly useless.
A ding comes from my pocket.
You’ve scored! pops up on my screen.
I gnaw on my lip as I stare at the screen, afraid to open it in front of Malcolm.
Another ding. I stare down at my phone, torn between the man in the doorway and the app blowing up my phone.
“See you later, Kate,” Malcolm whispers, rubbing the back of his neck and backing out of the room like he’s interrupted something.
Dread coils itself around my heart and throat and squeezes as I watch him walk away, making it near impossible to call after him. My limbs feel like they’re tied to bricks, heavy and useless. The need to have a conversation with Malcolm is becoming clearer and clearer, but the mere thought is clearly affecting my sanity. I feel like a lunatic. Every part of me is sirening off to abandon ship before it’s too late.
Another ding in my pocket sends a surge of frustration through me. I open my phone to a slew of matches. It’s as if the universe has unleashed havoc at the most inconvenient time for these men to find my profile all at the same time.
I open the first match and am met with, Yo, drinks at Mariachi’s tonight? No flatteries or introductions, just straight to the point. The message from JusticeBeaver3000 isn’t my ideal choice for evening plans, but if I go, maybe it’ll distract me from the Malcolm situation.
It probably won’t, though, if his username and the fact that the one solitary photo on his profile is of half his face is any indication, this guy is not the best option for a distraction.
If only I were a dragonfly.
Why, Kate? Because, Kate, dragonflies play dead to prevent mating with unwanted males. Play dead, and JusticeBeaver3000 will fly off to some other insect.
Seems like a logical plan. Yes, I’ll go to this date and play dead.