Hope This Helps #4
He lifts a scrap of tablecloth so that I can see the variety of Kool-Aid and Mountain Dew bottles hiding beneath. He whistles. “You clocked that perfectly.”
“I have a gift.”
He holds up one of the cookies. “Without coming any closer, tell me what flavor this is.”
“It’s a sugar cookie. Do they even make snowflake-looking cookies that aren’t sugar cookies? It’s practically a rule.”
He takes a bite. “Correct.” He scrutinizes me, then says, “Turn around for a second.”
“Why?”
“Humor me.”
I do so, smiling and shaking my head a little. I hear crinkling from the chip bags, and then he says, “All right. For the big prize: What flavor is this?”
I begin to step forward, but he holds the chip aloft. “Uh-uh-uh. No smelling.”
Biting down on a laugh, I clasp my hands behind my back and observe the chip held between his fingers. It’s dusted with a reddish-orange seasoning. “Barbecue,” I say decisively.
“Errrr!” he replies, sounding like a game show buzzer. “Wrong! It’s fruitcake. Novelty flavor.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Ew. Why?”
He cackles. “I brought ’em.”
“But why?”
He shrugs one shoulder, grinning crookedly.
He’s cute, with wavy brown hair that curls over his forehead, and a wide, dimpled smile.
His light brown eyes glitter with mischief.
“They’re festive.” He slowly reaches for a Solo cup of punch I’ve prepared, and, maintaining eye contact with me, takes a sip.
“Oooh, I wanna cookie!” Kaylee approaches us, dragging her friends along. “And punch. Mmmm, punch. Thanks, Mom.”
The man coughs into his drink. “Mom?” His eyes grow twice their usual size as he surveys me. “Don’t tell me. Not Miss Audrey Thorn.”
“Yes.” My chin drops. “No! You?”
“Best regards,” he says, looking both curious and amused.
I shake my head. “I can’t believe it.”
“What’s going on here?” one of Kaylee’s friends asks us, red and green strobe lights shining off her braces.
“Kaylee’s mom is trying to find my devil horns.” Mr. Gladwin winks. “I left them at home. They’re more of a Halloween vibe.”
I am speechless. I scoot away from him, down toward the end of my table.
I stir the punch viciously, and thank the gods it’s so dim in here, because I’m pretty sure my face has gone as red as this “punch.” Before I know it, I’ve mindlessly prepped one hundred cups of punch that I am certain will go to waste.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gladwin passing out cookies to the girls. “Have fun!”
“No thanks to you,” I grumble under my breath, quiet enough that no one hears.
“Cool tie, Mr. G!” Kaylee and her posse flounce away, and Gladwin turns to me, right eyebrow springing upward in an imitation of The Rock.
“ ‘No thanks to you’?” he echoes.
Whoops. “It’s true.” My hands are on my hips again. My hips are getting a lot of hand action today. “You wouldn’t let Kaylee retake her tests. She has an F. If it were up to you, she wouldn’t be here.”
“It’s because of me that she’s here,” he replies mildly.
“No, I didn’t let Kaylee retake her tests.
I didn’t give her any shortcuts or change her grade undeservedly.
She still has an F. But I don’t think punishing students for struggling by taking away the few fun moments they get to experience in middle school will make them struggle any less.
I had a talk with Mr. Brice.” He swirls the liquid around in his cup, analyzing my reaction.
“I made a case for letting all the kids go to the dance. Mr. Brice disagreed. We squabbled for close to an hour before he gave in purely because he wanted me to shut up.” Mr. Gladwin smiles brilliantly, and I am shocked by how charming it makes his face look.
That should be against the rules. “So there you have it.”
I am speechless. Again.
“Well,” I huff after a full minute has passed.
“Well,” he parrots. He sounds quite pleased with himself.
“Excuse me. I see a… a child being rowdy.” I walk stiffly away until I reach the gymnasium doors, and once I am on the other side of them, I begin speed-walking down the hall while trying not to hyperventilate, my brain moving a million miles an hour.
Mr. Gladwin is hot!
He’s hot!
Not fair, not fair! He should look like a swamp creature.
And here I am in my… I look down at myself, having forgotten what I’m wearing.
Okay, that’s not too bad. Black leggings and an oversized burgundy sweater with a gingerbread man on it.
I don’t know if leggings are “hip” anymore, but whatever, I came of fashionable age in 2004, and you’ll pry my leggings from my cold, dead millennial hands.
I have changed my hairstyle from a side part to a center part, and that is as much as I am evolving with the times.
I hustle into the girls’ bathroom and dig through my purse.
Tampons, Kleenex, cough drops, where is my— Ah, there it is.
My trusty, dusty, five-year-old tube of Clinique Black Honey lipstick.
I watch my reflection in the mirror apply four layers of it to her lips.
Then she frowns at me and rubs it off. A little stain is left.
This is so stupid. I am not putting on lipstick for Mr. Sadwin.
Yes, I am. I apply more lipstick and avoid my own judgmental gaze.
I emerge from the bathroom feeling nervous and also confused, because why is a deejay in the year of our lord 2026 playing hits from when I was a youth? What is today’s equivalent to Usher’s “Yeah!” and why isn’t that playing instead?