Mystic Summer (9 page)

Sharon finds us standing in the back of the crowd. “This should be good. My bookshelf isn't even finished.”

“What do you mean? Your bookshelf looks great,” I tell her.

“Well, they better not turn it around to the backside. We forgot to paint it!”

I chuckle. Poor Sharon. The larger her belly grows, the smaller her ability to focus seems to become. “No one will notice.”

She gives me a look. “Did you forget what happened last week?”

I cringe. Last week Sharon sent the much-anticipated end-of-year reading assessments home with the wrong students. Scores, and all. Needless to say, that did not go unnoticed. “Look at it this way. At least the bookshelf isn't filled with classified information.”

The crowd presses tightly around the stage to get a better look. This year the second graders built birdhouses, which dazzle in a palette of rainbow colors. The third graders decorated a set of Adirondack chairs, which are clearly hand-painted. Complete with swirls, brushstrokes, and fingerprints, the overall effect is both amateur and adorable.

I have to say, biased or not, our fourth-graders' Harry Potter–themed bookshelves look pretty impressive. The largest items on the stage, they wow in both size and color. Like Sharon, I'm dismayed to see a small bald spot in the corner of my shelf that somehow got overlooked. But I'm glad that I took the extra time to help the kids outline the characters in black permanent marker to make them stand out. Even from where I'm standing, Hedwig the Owl practically pops!

John Hartman finds us in the crowd. “Well done, ladies. Everything looks great this year. Should bring in some interesting bids.”

We all clap as the kindergarten mural of five-year-old-sized handprints goes for twenty-five hundred dollars. The next two classes sell quickly, the bids falling just short of the kindergarten's amount. I wink at Sharon. In spite of ourselves, each team of teachers revels in the rivalry and hopes that their students' work goes for the highest bid of the night. It's one of the few times we get competitive. We can't let the kindergarten win again.

“Which brings us to fourth grade,” the auctioneer announces.

Parents glance over at us and Sharon and I force bright smiles.

“This year the classrooms have designed bookcases. Hand-painted and made with love, these fanciful childhood designs are both inspiring and practical. Just picture these in your children's bedrooms. Because, remember, folks, childhood memories have no price!” He's really laying it on thick.

The auctioneer claps his hands. “Let's begin!”

The opening bid for Sharon's shelf is five hundred dollars. She lets out a low breath. “That's being optimistic.”

But quickly it's up to seven hundred fifty, then eight. By the time it's reached one thousand, our heads are swiveling back and forth between the two final bidders. A paddle flashes to our right, and I get a glimpse of our tablemate, David Artrek. But the sleek woman to our left is not to be outdone.

“Who is that?” I whisper. She's minimalist chic in a white tunic dress, her black hair pulled in a low ponytail. A thick gold armband is her only adornment.

“That's Leslie Cryden, one of my students' moms. She works in the valuations department at Christie's.”

We share a chuckle. Kid-art it may be, but Leslie Cryden will be hard-pressed to put a low price on this piece. By the looks of it she's not giving up without a fight.

Again and again she raises her paddle as the bidding wages on. Until, despite the pouty look on David's date's face, he is outbid. “Sold, for two thousand one hundred dollars!” the auctioneer cries.

Leslie Cryden is already storming the stage steps.

Sharon leans in. “Glad that's over. But we still didn't beat kindergarten.”

“I never realized how cutthroat this cultivated crew could be,” Evan jokes.

“Makes me long for a real drink,” Sharon says, wistfully eyeing my glass.

“Let me get you another club soda,” Evan offers.

I glance at Sharon's husband, who is staring distractedly off in the distance. Does he have Baby-Brain, too? “Don't be gone too long. My bookshelf is coming next,” I remind Evan.

“Don't be discouraged, folks,” the auctioneer booms. “If you had your heart set on that last bookshelf, there is still one left!”
The spotlight moves from the auctioneer to my bookshelf, which suddenly takes on a garish greenish hue under the beam of the stage bulbs. The bald spot glows. “Fresh from Miss Griffin's fourth-grade classroom!”

The spotlight swivels to me, and I tuck my drink behind my back and force a smile in the blinding glare.

“Since that last one was such a success, let's start the bidding high on this one. Who has one thousand for this lovely piece of artwork?”

There is a beat of silence and for a second I fear no one will bid at all. That's too high! Quickly I glance over my shoulder for Evan.
Did he have to get Sharon a drink now?

Finally, someone raises their paddle. The auctioneer looks as relieved as I feel. “Right here! One thousand! Who has one thousand one hundred?” And like a sudden wave approaching shore, the paddles rise.

“One thousand two hundred. One thousand three hundred!” In seconds we are up to two thousand dollars. Sharon squeezes my hand.

The auctioneer is on fire. “Come on, folks, this is not just a shelf. It's a work of art! A childhood keepsake. Don't let it get away!”

Soon we've passed Sharon's bidding amount. “Two thousand two hundred dollars!” I crane my neck to see who is holding the paddle at the front. To my dismay it is Ainsley Perry.

“Impressive,” Sharon whispers. “I didn't think she liked anything about fourth grade.”

“It's a fight,” I whisper back. “There's nothing she likes better.”

Soon the paddles have dropped away, and two bidders remain. Ainsley Perry, and someone standing off to the side of the stage.

“Two thousand, eight hundred dollars!” the auctioneer announces.

“Your class did it! You beat kindergarten!” Sharon shrieks in my ear. But I'm too distracted watching the volley that continues.

Mrs. Perry raises her paddle again, smirking triumphantly. “Three thousand dollars!” she barks. The crowd exhales. Beside her, Mr. Perry shakes his head.

All heads turn to the remaining bidder in the corner. Sharon clears her throat. “I'm dying of thirst.”

There is a pause. “Last call. Three thousand dollars. Do we have three thousand one hundred? Anyone?”

Ainsley Perry smiles and lowers her paddle. The women next to her begin to offer congratulations.

“Four thousand dollars!” a voice cuts through the murmurs.

I gasp.
I know that voice.

“You're kidding me.” Sharon is tugging on my arm. “Is that??”

“Evan.”

The crowd shifts and there in the corner I make out his tall frame. Evan stands poised on the edge of the crowd, one hand casually in his pocket and the other holding up his paddle.

My thoughts skitter in my cocktail-altered state.
It's too much money! Evan doesn't need a Harry Potter bookcase. Just how much is he getting paid for his new show? I have to stop him. We have to beat the Perrys!

As Ainsley Perry goes to raise her paddle, Mr. Perry puts his hand on her arm. Ainsley Perry flashes her paddle, but this time Mr. Perry plucks it from her hand before she can raise it overhead. She spins around to face him, a wild look in her eye. For a beat, I feel sorry for her.

The auctioneer points at Evan. “Going once, going twice . . .”

The crowd parts as Mrs. Perry stalks through it, leaving the stage area.

“Sold! For four thousand dollars.” The ballroom thunders in applause.

My bookshelf is the highest bid of the night. And for the first time in three years we have managed to unseat the kindergarten team. But even they are applauding like crazy!

Across the room, Evan turns my way. He shrugs, as if wondering what the big deal is. But I'm already closing the gap between us on my wobbly heels. “What were you thinking?” I cry, grabbing his hands in my own.

A crowd of my colleagues has gathered around us, including John Hartman, who claps him vigorously on the back. But Evan's eyes are only for me. “Now all the kids can have the bookshelf. You can put it in your classroom.”

I shake my head in disbelief. The fact that every student gets to enjoy it is a gesture beyond the huge donation to my school.

“Do you know who you outbid?” I whisper, tucking my hand into his.

Evan cocks his head. “Oh, you mean the Perrys?” He winks, and lowers his voice. “Just so you know, I would've kept going.”

“You're crazy!” I cry, throwing my arms around his neck.

He holds me tight. “Since the day I met you.”

M
onday morning, I wake up to the patter of rain on the apartment windows. My alarm never went off, and I'm late for work. When I get outside, the light rainfall has changed over to sheets of driving rain that match the steel-gray sky. My umbrella is, of course, in the car, parked up at the far end of the street. I'm already running late as I race down the sidewalk, with my coat tugged up over my head. By the time I flop into the driver's seat, my carefully blow-dried hair looks like I just stepped out of the shower.

When I finally arrive at school the first bell has already rung and the kids are lining up outside my locked classroom door. Despite the nasty morning outside, I can't help but smile at their comments.

“The lights are out!”

“Miss Griffin's not here.”

“Who will feed the crayfish?”

“Maybe she's sick?”

“Maybe she's dead,” Andrew Willets says.

“I'm not dead, Andrew,” I say, sailing up behind them, key in hand. Andrew ducks his chin, but I smile at him. “At least not yet. Good morning, boys and girls. Come in.”

Mrs. Coates is making the announcements over the PA “And, now, we'd like to announce the winner of this year's writer's workshop essay contest,” Mrs. Coates says over the loudspeaker. “Here is Dean Hartman with the results.”

I hurry the children to their seats and seek out Timmy Lafferty. His gaze remains fixed on his book, but his eyes are the size of small plates. My heartbeat upticks at least fifty percent.

“In third place,” John Hartman announces, “is a fifth-grader from Mrs. Brigg's class. Jennifer Crier.” My students sigh audibly, but we clap.

“In second place, from one of our fourth-grade classes . . .”

The kids perk up. “Hey, Timmy! Maybe it's you!” Johnny Goldman says. Tim flushes deeply.

“Shhh,” I remind them, secretly hoping that Johnny is right.

“From Mrs. Olson's class . . .” This time I sigh, too.

“It's okay, boys and girls, “I say. “We don't enter to win. We enter for the experience and the accomplishment.”

Tory Whitcomb scowls. Deep down, I'm with her.

“Which brings me to our first place winner.” There is a loud crackle over the PA system.

Timmy's hands are shaking as he grips his book. And that's when it hits me. What if he doesn't win? What if I picked this shy kid out of the class, convinced his mother to send him to the writer's workshop, praised him doggedly—and he loses? Would he still be glad he wrote “Four Frogs and a Magician”? Or, ten years from now, would he find that story in a cardboard box in his mother's attic and curse his fourth-grade teacher for post-contest stress disorder? My temples throb at the very thought.

“This year's fiction workshop award goes to . . .” Dean Hartman
pauses. For the only time all year I could actually hear a pin drop in my classroom.

“Another student from the fourth grade . . .”

I steal a glance at Timmy. He's sheet-white.

“From Miss Griffin's class . . .” The kids suck in one collective breath. “Timothy Lafferty!”

The class roars. I can't hear anything else that Dean Hartman is saying. All I know is that Timmy Lafferty is being mobbed. The kids have leaped out of their seats and are pounding him on the back and giving high fives. I don't stop them. Tim's freckled face is flushed red. He's smiling so wide I could count every tooth. That is, if I could see through my tears. I take advantage of the chaos to pull myself together before wading through the throng to Timmy's desk. “Congratulations, Timmy.” He glances shyly up at me, grinning. “I'm really proud of you, kiddo.”