23. Lina
TWENTY-THREE
Lina
One would think that having to see my ex-boyfriend almost every single day for the next few weeks would be absolute torture, akin to being drawn and quartered, but there are some pros. I think it speeds up the cell regeneration of the gaping wound in my chest. It scabs over fairly quickly. It’s not quite ready to be picked off yet, though.
And that’s because of Frankie, who is still in my office almost every single day, still asking for advice and help on how to navigate the situation with the girls in her class. Who have been bullying her, as much as five-year-olds can, at least, for the things that I think are actually strengths of hers.
Her curiosity and intelligence, for starters. Who cares , they tell her. No one cares about the Titanic .
Because they are five-year-olds, however, bullying looks a little different. It means excluding her activities, from group work, from playing at recess. All because she’s a little different. Not quite being able to communicate some of the complex new feelings and emotions that come along with being a girl in school. So we’re working on finding new friends, friends who will actually appreciate her for who she is. Being kind to yourself. Being brave. This means needing to fade after-school office time and reintroducing her to her after-school program, slowly but surely, but she isn’t quite ready yet.
Which is fine for me, because it means I still get to see her father for a bit.
“She’s into pirates again,” I tell Dom one day. But the new scab I’ve developed helps me to say this. “She wants to know all the tricks pirates had to scare people. Like Blackbeard with his matches. I got her a bunch of books from the library,” I tell him, pointing to the new books on her shelf, in her book nook. “Did you know pirate ships were fairly democratic? Captains were elected by the crew and could be removed at any time.”
He smiles, and it’s a tiny one, but it feels like there’s an explosion of confetti and glitter right there in my office.
“I miss that,” I tell him, because the scab is of an appropriate thickness.
“Miss what?” he says, still smiling, in that gentle voice, strong and tranquil.
“You smiling at me. Your warmth. I want to roll in it. I want to rub it all over myself.”
He gives me a look of surprise.
“It makes me feel better,” I ramble on, unable to help myself, “and not like I’m a sad, sorry sack of shit over here still pining over you.”
Dom’s face softens. For a moment, it looks like he wants to wrap me in his arms. I burn that look into my retinas, so that I can daydream about it later, like the sad, sorry sack of shit I am.
“I think if anyone here is a sad, sorry sack of shit, it’s me,” he tells me. “I miss you, too,” he says finally. “I…” he trails off, but it’s too late, because I gobble this up and swallow it down before he can take it back.
“Well,” I tell him gently. “That sounds like a you problem. But I’ll be here and ready to bend over whenever you say the word,” I say, repeating my words from the beach, from a few months ago, verbatim.
His smile grows a fraction wider, remembering.
“Still waiting for my Ex-Box shipment,” I continue. “Strings attached,” I remind him some more, because I can’t help it. “Big love.”
He shakes his head, still smiling, and walks out of my office.
* * *
I give Frankie the same advice so many times that I start to follow it, too.
I work at being kind to myself. I work at being brave.
I hire assistant principals. Plural. Two.
One is a career assistant principal, like I thought I wanted to be. She’s been an assistant principal for over fifteen years, and has absolutely no interest in becoming a principal. She’s fucking incredible at her job. Better, dare I say, than I was.
The other one I hired internally. A teacher here, one who’s taught here for almost thirteen years and just got his admin license. One of the hardest workers and best teachers we have.
The three of us—my new admin team and I—interview a new teacher to replace his teaching post in the classroom.
“What’s your teaching style? How comfortable are you collaborating on a team? What if that team is the best team in the entire school? What do you bring to the table? What’s your favorite Takis flavor?” Emmanuel fires at this teacher, who takes it all in stride. She reminds me a lot of Georgia. She’ll do great on the third grade team.
I soon find myself being able to leave school every day at a reasonable hour. I don’t go in on Sundays anymore.
I join a kickboxing class. By ‘join,’ I mean ‘attend once,’ because the one and only time I went, I couldn’t move for four days afterwards.
I attempt to knit, but get bored after the first row of a scarf.
I finish Bridgerton .
I hang out with my mom.
“Can we do nothing for Thanksgiving?” I ask her, while we’re sitting on the couch and binge watching her new favorite K-Drama.
She raises an eyebrow at me. “You mean you don’t want to take on the task of cooking a full spread Thanksgiving dinner for ten people, with a ten-pound turkey and seventeen sides, even if it’s just the two of us, like you have every year for the past ten years?”
“That was old Lina,” I tell her. “This is New and Improved Lina.”
She squeezes my hand. “It’s just Lina to me. Let’s order Chinese.”
* * *
The week of Thanksgiving, Frankie only shows up one day after school. We catch each other up on our days. I fix the hair that’s fallen out of a French braid pigtail and tie her shoe. She’s made a new friend. He’s in her class and in her after-school program. She tells me all about him.
“Mateo’s into the MTA,” she says. “All the buses and the subway lines. If you give him a place, he can tell you exactly how to get there. Which subway lines to take and where to transfer and the name of the stop to get on and get off. He’s not that good at the buses yet, but he’s been practicing with Google Maps. Hey, Daddy!” she screams, choking on some spit and sounding more like the Frankie I love, when he walks through my door.
“Hey, beautiful.” He bends down to kiss her forehead, then she takes her things and sprints out the door.
“I see Mateo,” she says excitedly. “I have to tell him about the B38 bus.”
We both watch her go, smiling.
“She looks better,” Dom tells me, and I want to wrap his voice around me like a blanket. Float in it like a lake.
“She is better,” I agree. “Has she spoken to you yet about what’s been going on?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“She will.”
“It’s okay. She has you. Thanks for looking out for her all this time.”
I try to be brave. “You seem better, too,” I say, a bit sadly.
He blows out a breath, avoiding my eyes.
“I hope…” I start one last time. This is the last time , I promise myself. Be kind to yourself . “I’m happy for you. I want you to be happy. I want to see you and Frankie happy.” I pick at the corner of my notepad. “Even if that doesn’t include me. You two deserve all the fucking happiness in the world, and I want the best for you,” I say. Because I love you , I don’t say.
A scoff. But not from Dom.
“You lost all privileges to be here,” Emmanuel says from my door, leaning on the frame and glaring at Dom.
Dom winces, and I almost feel bad for him, because Emmanuel is about to tear him to shreds and shit on his corpse.
“You’re my AP,” I hiss at Emmanuel, trying to save Dom. “Not the bouncer for my office.”
“You hired an AP?” Dom asks me, surprised.
“Two,” I smirk.
“Not that it’s any of your business. Just stay in your PTO lane,” Emmanuel fires back. He turns to me. “Anyway, darling, don’t you have to head out?”
“Why?”
“Don’t you have a date with that hot as fuck man who owns that restaurant around the block?” Emmanuel says, because he is nasty and also one of my very best friends—a promotion I’ve just given him this very moment.
I glance at Dom. There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes. His jaw clenches. I see the muscle pop in his temple. It’s faint, but it’s there.
“It’s next Tuesday,” I admit, because it is. I don’t add that it’s purely for work, so his restaurant can cater an event the school is having, because I, too, am nasty and want to have this tiny crumb of Dom’s jealousy as a light afternoon snack.
“Want me to do your makeup?” Emmanuel continues. “You’re gonna wear the new set you got, right? The tiny slip of lace we got you from Agent Provocateur?” I might have to give Emmanuel a raise after seeing the tips of Dom’s ears grow red.
“Get out,” I say instead. “I’m going to report you to HR,” I tell Emmanuel.
“Honey, I am HR,” he says on his way out, his job done, with a finger wave over his shoulder.
“Dom—” I begin, because it actually doesn’t feel so good. I’m not fourteen anymore and I’m over playing these sorts of games. “That wasn’t… I’m not…”
“Thanks again. For Frankie,” Dom cuts in, unaffected now. His face has returned to its calm, gentle norm. Cool as a cucumber. “Have a great Thanksgiving.” He turns and leaves.
I think it’s time to pick off the scab.