Which takes some getting used to.
I stroke her back and hand her another tissue while tryingnonchalantly to glance at my wrist and see what time it is. I’ve got to getback into my own classroom soon and sort things out for tomorrow’s substitute.
As I begin to go off into a daydream about the joys ofjury duty—sleep late, eat lunch out, meet new friends, read a cheesy novel—Katclears her throat. I snap back to attention. Her bloodshot green eyes findmine.
“Peter wants a divorce. For real, this time.”
I am momentarily startled. I was in Psycho Mom mode, andso this is surprising. Although, in most ways, it makes perfect sense. I shakemy head, shifting gears, and manage to get out some words of support. “Oh damn,Kat. I’m so sorry.”
She produces another candy cigarette from a pocket in herblazer, holding it out to me with a shaking hand.
“You sure he doesn’t want to work it out? That he isn’tjust being hotheaded like usual?” I ask, taking the sugary stick.
She shakes her long black ringlets back and forthemphatically, like a woman selling shampoo on TV. “He bought a Maserati withour retirement savings. He’s moving in with a younger woman named Carly.”
“No!” I groan.
“Yes!” she cries.
“But that’s so…stereotypical! Like a caricature of what aforty-year-old guy would do. It can’t be for real.”
“What can I say? Peter always did lack originality. It’sthe friggin’ truth.”
We sit like that for a moment, smoking and taking bites inthe still classroom. No wonder she is losing her mind. “This sucks,” I offer asencouragement.
“The candy or my life?”
“Um…both?” That gets a half chuckle out of her.
I have a momentary image of Kat, hiding on her weddingday. She disappeared before the ceremony, but I eventually found her hiding inthe back of the florist’s van her dress bunched up around her. She was pullingthe petals off some discarded daisies.
“Can I just say something?” I ask, and Kat nods. “Withoutoffending you, I mean?”
“Now my interest is piqued.”
I speak quickly, in one short breath. “You never reallyliked Peter all that much. You didn’t want to marry him.”
“Not the point.”
“Kind of is.”
She stares at a blank spot on the wall, between all thekid art. “Still…it hurts. I should have left him a long time ago.”
“I’m sure it does, Kitty-Kat.” I rub her back and we chewon our candy cigarettes. I feel like a sixth grader suddenly, helping my friendthrough a breakup with a boy who beat her to the punch.
“Consider it your starter marriage,” I try.
“As in: I have to start all over because now I’m broke?”She attempts a wan smile.
“As in: Practice makes perfect. Next one’s a guaranteedPrince Charming.”
“Can you put that in writing? Guaranteed in under five?Cause my eggs are getting hard-boiled as we speak.”
“You’re fine. You’re what? Thirty, thirty-two?”
“Thirty-three next month.”
“A mere babe in the manger. A wee lass.” I dismiss. “Ididn’t have Becca until I was almost thirty-five.”
“I won’t think about it.”
“That’s the spirit!” I encourage, because, really, whatelse is there to say?
We make plans to go drinking after school with the gymteachers, which brightens Kat’s mood significantly. “I hope they are allsweaty,” she pines. “Even the girl ones.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m hurting.”
I glance at the clock over the door and stand, stretching.“How can you sit on this carpet all day? Doesn’t it kill your back?”
“I’m not old like you, remember.”
“Ha.”
Kat turns to me, her green eyes intent. “Seriously,Lauren, I know I’m the one who’s an emotional wreck, but can I be honest withyou?”
I consider her request. “Actually, I’d prefer if youlied.”
“You really look like shit.” She gets to her feetand gives me the once-over. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while, see ifyou wanted to get your makeup done at Nordstrom’s or something. On you,thirty-nine is like the new fifty.”
“And on that note…” I start heading for the nearest exit.I pull the handle on the classroom door and say, with fake enthusiasm,“Thanks!”
“It wasn’t a compliment!” she calls back.
I give her the finger. “Call down to the gym, please. Seeyou at Flannigan’s. Three fifteen!”
There are still nine minutes left before last period. Inteacher time, that’s like an hour. I figure I’ll sneak into my classroom oncemy students vacate to attend their foreign language classes at the end of theday. That way I can set up the lesson plans for the rest of the week and leavethem on my desk for the sub. Which reminds me: Better call the sub service andsecure a real substitute through Friday, since I’m sure Martha won’t beinterested in keeping the job past today. My ballet flats squeak against theglossy linoleum tiles as I make my way purposefully down the hall.
I duck into the nearest girls’ bathroom and examine myface in the cloudy mirror.
Kat has a point.
I don’t know how or when the change occurred, but staringback at me is not the me I picture in my head. Instead, I have beenreplaced with one of those poor, unsuspecting women pulled out of the crowd at theToday show for a miracle makeover.
Over the winter, my hair has grown very long, and it’s nowtoo heavy around my face. And though technically the color fits somewhere onthe blond spectrum, my mousy natural-colored roots are showing themselves in athick racing stripe down the center of my head. My blue eyes lack spark. Worstof all, the skin around them seems swollen and slightly black-and-blue. Andforget my forehead. All those creases and lines. Put it all together and Ilook…what is the right word? Haggard? Harried? Haggard and harried?
Oh hell, who am I kidding? That assessment is kind. Intruth, I look like a woman who has just had her mug shot taken and is next inline for fingerprinting: Dazed.
“Mrs. Worthing. What are you doing here?” The monotone ofMartha’s voice simultaneously shakes me from my reverie and scares the shit outof me. “Is that a cigarette in your hand?”
“Jeez, Martha!” I clutch my chest. “You trying to give mea heart attack?” I realize my error as soon as the words escape my lips. Imean, not that Martha necessarily caused our assistant principal’s
