office, neighbors. I’m going to feel Lisa out and see how things went with Grady. See if he’ll be there . . . ,” Jill says, her voice trailing.
Jill is quiet. Too quiet.
“Jill?”
“Hm?”
“I want it on the record that I am asking you—point-blank—not to invite any potential suitors.”
“You can’t ask me to do that.” Jill’s voice is strained.
“What? Why can’t I?”
“I simply cannot be expected to do that!” Jill takes on the demeanor of a hostage, bound and tied to a wooden chair, as she’s asked where the weapons of mass destruction are hidden.
“You . . . you’re honestly—”
“Mrs. Fweming?” A little blond girl approaches Jill hesitantly.
“Try it again, Kaylee. Fleming. Get that l,” Jill says, giving me a quick wink.
“ Fleming . Mrs. Fleming ,” Kaylee says, victorious. Jill gives her a quick high five. She’s nothing if not good at her job. Whether it’s speech therapist or matchmaker.
“This isn’t over,” I say as I head down the hall feeling like a freedom fighter defying an iron-fisted despot. Jill and Kaylee disappear innocently around a corner. Unbelievable. Maybe I’ll burn a copy of that classic rock mix after all. Just in case. I continue down the stairs toward Emma Dunham and her summons.
“I’m here to see Headmistress Dunham,” I say to the receptionist, a tight, overdressed seventysomething woman called Dolores.
“I’ll see if she’s ready for you,” Dolores says, looking down her nose at me. I smile brightly and find a seat in one of the leather club chairs in the luxurious anteroom. Gilt-framed oil paintings of past heads of school line the wood-paneled walls: all old, white men. While Emma’s the first female I remember being head of school, I hadn’t really put it together that Emma is the first female head of school ever. The lower master—an older white gentleman whose painting would have fit perfectly with the others in this anteroom—leaving his post in a huff now makes a lot more sense. I grab a New Yorker off one of the mahogany coffee tables and flip through as I wait. After several minutes, Dolores picks up her phone.
“Yes, ma’am? Fine,” Dolores says into the phone. Then to me she says, “Headmistress Dunham will see you now.”
“Thank you.” I open the door to Emma’s office with as much confidence as I can muster.
Emma picks up the phone behind a massive wooden desk. “Headmistress Dunham, I know you’re on a call, but Ms. Reid is here.” Dolores is quiet as she awaits instruction. She gives me the signal to hold on and keep it quiet. I think I can manage that. I close the door behind me and proceed toward one of the two tufted leather wingback chairs. Harry Sprague is sitting—gangly legs dangling—in the chair farthest from the door. He is sporting a very sizable black eye. I lunge toward him.
“You okay? What happened? Harry?” I whisper, swiping his bangs out of his eyes, taking in the black eye as close as I can.
“I’m fine, Ms. Reid. I’m fine,” Harry says, his eyes darting from Emma to me and back to Emma.
I try to hold my temper. Hold. I stand quickly and walk out of Emma’s office. She’s still on the phone; she holds her hand over the receiver as I walk out of the office.
“Ms. Reid?” Emma whispers. I ignore her and continue to walk out of the office, past Dolores—whom I shall now refer to as Cerberus the Three-headed Hound of Hell. By the time I’m out in the hallway, I’m at a full-out run. I hop the steps two by two and continue down the hallway, through the double doors, out onto the breezeway and into the teachers’ lounge. I don’t acknowledge the huddling group of lower school English teachers as I whip open the freezer. Ice. I pull open one of the drawers, get a freezer bag and fill it with ice. Fasten it closed, slam both freezer and drawer—hard. I rip off a paper towel and wrap it around the bag as quickly as I can.
“Everything okay?” one of the teachers
Jill is quiet. Too quiet.
“Jill?”
“Hm?”
“I want it on the record that I am asking you—point-blank—not to invite any potential suitors.”
“You can’t ask me to do that.” Jill’s voice is strained.
“What? Why can’t I?”
“I simply cannot be expected to do that!” Jill takes on the demeanor of a hostage, bound and tied to a wooden chair, as she’s asked where the weapons of mass destruction are hidden.
“You . . . you’re honestly—”
“Mrs. Fweming?” A little blond girl approaches Jill hesitantly.
“Try it again, Kaylee. Fleming. Get that l,” Jill says, giving me a quick wink.
“ Fleming . Mrs. Fleming ,” Kaylee says, victorious. Jill gives her a quick high five. She’s nothing if not good at her job. Whether it’s speech therapist or matchmaker.
“This isn’t over,” I say as I head down the hall feeling like a freedom fighter defying an iron-fisted despot. Jill and Kaylee disappear innocently around a corner. Unbelievable. Maybe I’ll burn a copy of that classic rock mix after all. Just in case. I continue down the stairs toward Emma Dunham and her summons.
“I’m here to see Headmistress Dunham,” I say to the receptionist, a tight, overdressed seventysomething woman called Dolores.
“I’ll see if she’s ready for you,” Dolores says, looking down her nose at me. I smile brightly and find a seat in one of the leather club chairs in the luxurious anteroom. Gilt-framed oil paintings of past heads of school line the wood-paneled walls: all old, white men. While Emma’s the first female I remember being head of school, I hadn’t really put it together that Emma is the first female head of school ever. The lower master—an older white gentleman whose painting would have fit perfectly with the others in this anteroom—leaving his post in a huff now makes a lot more sense. I grab a New Yorker off one of the mahogany coffee tables and flip through as I wait. After several minutes, Dolores picks up her phone.
“Yes, ma’am? Fine,” Dolores says into the phone. Then to me she says, “Headmistress Dunham will see you now.”
“Thank you.” I open the door to Emma’s office with as much confidence as I can muster.
Emma picks up the phone behind a massive wooden desk. “Headmistress Dunham, I know you’re on a call, but Ms. Reid is here.” Dolores is quiet as she awaits instruction. She gives me the signal to hold on and keep it quiet. I think I can manage that. I close the door behind me and proceed toward one of the two tufted leather wingback chairs. Harry Sprague is sitting—gangly legs dangling—in the chair farthest from the door. He is sporting a very sizable black eye. I lunge toward him.
“You okay? What happened? Harry?” I whisper, swiping his bangs out of his eyes, taking in the black eye as close as I can.
“I’m fine, Ms. Reid. I’m fine,” Harry says, his eyes darting from Emma to me and back to Emma.
I try to hold my temper. Hold. I stand quickly and walk out of Emma’s office. She’s still on the phone; she holds her hand over the receiver as I walk out of the office.
“Ms. Reid?” Emma whispers. I ignore her and continue to walk out of the office, past Dolores—whom I shall now refer to as Cerberus the Three-headed Hound of Hell. By the time I’m out in the hallway, I’m at a full-out run. I hop the steps two by two and continue down the hallway, through the double doors, out onto the breezeway and into the teachers’ lounge. I don’t acknowledge the huddling group of lower school English teachers as I whip open the freezer. Ice. I pull open one of the drawers, get a freezer bag and fill it with ice. Fasten it closed, slam both freezer and drawer—hard. I rip off a paper towel and wrap it around the bag as quickly as I can.
“Everything okay?” one of the teachers
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