write that on here myself. That way you won’t be disturbing Mr. Campbell’s class as much.”
Barry looked relieved. “Sure,” he replied in the straitjacketed way of an adolescent terrified of any potential uncoolness.
“Thank you, Barry.”
His plump lips parted in a smile to reveal several thousand dollars’ worth of ongoing orthodontic work. Blushing, he ducked his head, and muttered, “Nice red shirt, Ms. C.” Walking away, he glanced back over his shoulder, smirking like he’d really gotten in a clever one that time.
“Well, what can I say?” I held up my hands. “I’m a hopeless nerd.”
His eyes widened in surprise at the idea that painful feelings of nerdiness were not limited to teenagers. With a look of empathy, he shook his head and said, “You look OK, Ms. C,” and slouched off down the hall, his oversize pants swishing against the floor.
Slipping back into my office, I closed the door, took a deep breath, and dialed Bethany’s number. I couldn’t put it off any longer. If I didn’t call soon, her feelings would be hurt, and she’d know I was having an emotional meltdown about her unexpected wedding-and-baby news.
Closing my eyes, I pursed my lips and blew out, trying to practice the guided-meditation techniques I’d learned from Dr. Leland. I pictured a clear blue sky.
Thunderheads were roiling on the horizon.
“Hello, this is Bethany . . .”
The storm swelled around me. “Hi, Bett,” I choked out, and completely without warning, a sob fell on the heels of the words. A rush of tears filled my eyes, and panic tightened my throat.
Bett kept right on talking. “. . . I can’t answer the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a message on my voice mail, I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
Relief spiraled through me.
“Have a great day,” she said, and I hung up before the tone beeped. If I left a message sounding like this, Bett would know I was a basket case. Then she would be worrying about me, and right now she had enough to worry about. I couldn’t do that to her. I wouldn’t. Everything had been about me these past few months. Now it was Bett’s time.
I’d get my head together and call back in a little while, put on a happy voice and talk about bridesmaids’ dresses, tell her that even though the baby was a surprise, she and Jason would be wonderful parents, and I was really happy for them. . . .
This problem, my problem, wasn’t going to ruin one more relationship in my life. . . .
Through the blur, I stared at my fingers, remembering when Jonathan’s ring had been there. At twenty-four, when I was Bett’s age, that ring seemed like the perfect accessory. Just out of a five-year undergrad program, double major in education and dance, engaged, starting grad school, teaching part-time with the outreach gifted and talented program, still dancing. Getting married . . . eventually, sometime down the road when we were both out of grad school and life was stable. Maybe in New York, where I would be dancing with the New York City Ballet.
By the time I was twenty-six, the engagement ring felt like a weight. Jonathan was finished with grad school, signing on as a chemist with a small pharmaceutical company, talking about buying a house with room for a family.
After I’d suffered a minor ankle injury, a round of tendonitis, and two on-again-off-again seasons with the university dance company, the New York Ballet seemed a million miles away, completely off the map. I told Jonathan I wanted to concentrate on dancing first, think about children later. I didn’t admit that the idea of gaining all that weight made me sick, but eventually he began to figure it out. He started studying my body when I wasn’t looking, complaining about the hours I spent jogging and on the exercise bike. I passed it off as pushing hard to get in shape for the KC Metro’s spring auditions. Now that I was finishing my final grad school internships, and my college dance career was over,
Barry looked relieved. “Sure,” he replied in the straitjacketed way of an adolescent terrified of any potential uncoolness.
“Thank you, Barry.”
His plump lips parted in a smile to reveal several thousand dollars’ worth of ongoing orthodontic work. Blushing, he ducked his head, and muttered, “Nice red shirt, Ms. C.” Walking away, he glanced back over his shoulder, smirking like he’d really gotten in a clever one that time.
“Well, what can I say?” I held up my hands. “I’m a hopeless nerd.”
His eyes widened in surprise at the idea that painful feelings of nerdiness were not limited to teenagers. With a look of empathy, he shook his head and said, “You look OK, Ms. C,” and slouched off down the hall, his oversize pants swishing against the floor.
Slipping back into my office, I closed the door, took a deep breath, and dialed Bethany’s number. I couldn’t put it off any longer. If I didn’t call soon, her feelings would be hurt, and she’d know I was having an emotional meltdown about her unexpected wedding-and-baby news.
Closing my eyes, I pursed my lips and blew out, trying to practice the guided-meditation techniques I’d learned from Dr. Leland. I pictured a clear blue sky.
Thunderheads were roiling on the horizon.
“Hello, this is Bethany . . .”
The storm swelled around me. “Hi, Bett,” I choked out, and completely without warning, a sob fell on the heels of the words. A rush of tears filled my eyes, and panic tightened my throat.
Bett kept right on talking. “. . . I can’t answer the phone right now, but if you’ll leave a message on my voice mail, I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
Relief spiraled through me.
“Have a great day,” she said, and I hung up before the tone beeped. If I left a message sounding like this, Bett would know I was a basket case. Then she would be worrying about me, and right now she had enough to worry about. I couldn’t do that to her. I wouldn’t. Everything had been about me these past few months. Now it was Bett’s time.
I’d get my head together and call back in a little while, put on a happy voice and talk about bridesmaids’ dresses, tell her that even though the baby was a surprise, she and Jason would be wonderful parents, and I was really happy for them. . . .
This problem, my problem, wasn’t going to ruin one more relationship in my life. . . .
Through the blur, I stared at my fingers, remembering when Jonathan’s ring had been there. At twenty-four, when I was Bett’s age, that ring seemed like the perfect accessory. Just out of a five-year undergrad program, double major in education and dance, engaged, starting grad school, teaching part-time with the outreach gifted and talented program, still dancing. Getting married . . . eventually, sometime down the road when we were both out of grad school and life was stable. Maybe in New York, where I would be dancing with the New York City Ballet.
By the time I was twenty-six, the engagement ring felt like a weight. Jonathan was finished with grad school, signing on as a chemist with a small pharmaceutical company, talking about buying a house with room for a family.
After I’d suffered a minor ankle injury, a round of tendonitis, and two on-again-off-again seasons with the university dance company, the New York Ballet seemed a million miles away, completely off the map. I told Jonathan I wanted to concentrate on dancing first, think about children later. I didn’t admit that the idea of gaining all that weight made me sick, but eventually he began to figure it out. He started studying my body when I wasn’t looking, complaining about the hours I spent jogging and on the exercise bike. I passed it off as pushing hard to get in shape for the KC Metro’s spring auditions. Now that I was finishing my final grad school internships, and my college dance career was over,
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