wiped his mouth daintily with a paper napkin. “Sloppy Joe. It’s not bad, actually.” Lars was perfectly groomed as always, his blond hair moussed just so, his white shirt tucked into his linen pants. I can’t wear linen for five minutes without looking like I have slept in my clothes, but Lars pulled off the Ralph Lauren elegantly rumpled look with panache.
“Don’t you ever worry about mad cow disease?” Jill asked.
“There’s no mad cow in the United States,” Lars countered, taking another bite.
Jill speared a chunk of chicken salad with grapes and tarragon. “I’m thinking maybe they imported some special for today’s lunch.”
I was eating—well, drinking—a yogurt smoothie that looked far more satisfying on television than it did in my insulated lunch bag. When I was done, I’d eat a not-quite-ripe banana. And then I’d be hungry for the rest of the day. I’d considered keeping cashews in my desk to stave off hunger pangs, but one of my students was dangerously allergic to nuts, and I feared leaving cashew residue on her corrected homework and sending her into anaphylactic shock.
There are some overweight teachers at school, but I don’t know how they do it. At times I look at them with something approaching envy. Someone must be getting up early to pack them mayonnaise-laden sandwiches and homemade brownies—the same someone who cooks fried chicken or cheesy pasta for dinner while the teacher-spouse grades the never-ending pile of papers.
“I began my advertising and marketing unit today,” I announced. Advertising and marketing was a required part of the senior curriculum, intended to stop teenagers from wasting their parents’ hard-earned money on name-brand sneakers and flashy jeans. I described my television homework to Lars and Jill, feeling borderline clever, even if I hadn’t gotten the initial response I’d hoped for.
“I’m having my kids create and market their own products,” Lars said between sips of milk from his mini carton. “They’ll design a marketing campaign and shoot thirty-second commercials. It got a terrific response last year—really made the kids look at the media world in a new way. I’ve got the whole thing spelled out on my Web site if you want to take a look at it.” All of the teachers at Agave had Web sites. A handful even knew how to use them.
I tried to imagine my Adventures class creating marketing campaigns. I considered it a triumph if they handed in their homework on time. Or anytime.
“That reminds me,” Lars said. “I’ve chosen the play for the autumn theater workshop. It’s called Romeo and Jules —basically a contemporary version of Romeo and Juliet . A kid in my summer playwriting workshop wrote it, and I’m totally into the idea of producing an original work. At any rate, I could really use an assistant director, and you’d mentioned that you were interested in theater.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
My interest in theater had fallen closely on the heels of my interest in Lars. I blinked at him, unsure of what I was agreeing to but nodding nevertheless.
six
I don’t know what shocked me more: the sight of my mother standing in the kitchen or the envelope she held in her hand. “A young man stuck this in the front door, but he just kind of scurried away and waved when I called out to him.” The envelope had my name scrawled on it. In the top left corner it said, “Pomeroy Restaurant Supply.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked my mother. We hugged. “Where’s Daddy?”
“I sent him to AJ’s to pick up some food. Really, honey, you should keep the fridge better stocked.” She put her hands on her hips. “You could look happier to see me.”
“I am happy.” I tried to look happy. “Just surprised.”
“Didn’t you get my messages?” I looked at the answering machine on the counter; the light was blinking. While I occasionally used my parents’ phone for outgoing calls, my friends, colleagues,
“Don’t you ever worry about mad cow disease?” Jill asked.
“There’s no mad cow in the United States,” Lars countered, taking another bite.
Jill speared a chunk of chicken salad with grapes and tarragon. “I’m thinking maybe they imported some special for today’s lunch.”
I was eating—well, drinking—a yogurt smoothie that looked far more satisfying on television than it did in my insulated lunch bag. When I was done, I’d eat a not-quite-ripe banana. And then I’d be hungry for the rest of the day. I’d considered keeping cashews in my desk to stave off hunger pangs, but one of my students was dangerously allergic to nuts, and I feared leaving cashew residue on her corrected homework and sending her into anaphylactic shock.
There are some overweight teachers at school, but I don’t know how they do it. At times I look at them with something approaching envy. Someone must be getting up early to pack them mayonnaise-laden sandwiches and homemade brownies—the same someone who cooks fried chicken or cheesy pasta for dinner while the teacher-spouse grades the never-ending pile of papers.
“I began my advertising and marketing unit today,” I announced. Advertising and marketing was a required part of the senior curriculum, intended to stop teenagers from wasting their parents’ hard-earned money on name-brand sneakers and flashy jeans. I described my television homework to Lars and Jill, feeling borderline clever, even if I hadn’t gotten the initial response I’d hoped for.
“I’m having my kids create and market their own products,” Lars said between sips of milk from his mini carton. “They’ll design a marketing campaign and shoot thirty-second commercials. It got a terrific response last year—really made the kids look at the media world in a new way. I’ve got the whole thing spelled out on my Web site if you want to take a look at it.” All of the teachers at Agave had Web sites. A handful even knew how to use them.
I tried to imagine my Adventures class creating marketing campaigns. I considered it a triumph if they handed in their homework on time. Or anytime.
“That reminds me,” Lars said. “I’ve chosen the play for the autumn theater workshop. It’s called Romeo and Jules —basically a contemporary version of Romeo and Juliet . A kid in my summer playwriting workshop wrote it, and I’m totally into the idea of producing an original work. At any rate, I could really use an assistant director, and you’d mentioned that you were interested in theater.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
My interest in theater had fallen closely on the heels of my interest in Lars. I blinked at him, unsure of what I was agreeing to but nodding nevertheless.
six
I don’t know what shocked me more: the sight of my mother standing in the kitchen or the envelope she held in her hand. “A young man stuck this in the front door, but he just kind of scurried away and waved when I called out to him.” The envelope had my name scrawled on it. In the top left corner it said, “Pomeroy Restaurant Supply.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked my mother. We hugged. “Where’s Daddy?”
“I sent him to AJ’s to pick up some food. Really, honey, you should keep the fridge better stocked.” She put her hands on her hips. “You could look happier to see me.”
“I am happy.” I tried to look happy. “Just surprised.”
“Didn’t you get my messages?” I looked at the answering machine on the counter; the light was blinking. While I occasionally used my parents’ phone for outgoing calls, my friends, colleagues,
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