Wynn in Doubt (4 page)

I raise my fist midway in the air. “Go Trojans.”

He beams at me. “I love it. And I saw you were among the top in your class. Impressive.”

“Thank you, it was a great achievement.” There’s that word again.

“And”—Mr. Sharland flips open a manila folder, reading from a piece of paper on top—“it seems you were heavily involved in a number of school activities as well.”

I fold my hands together to prevent them from fidgeting. Restless hands, Grams called it. “I was, yes.” He smiles, waiting for me to go on, but I’ve lived a decade since high school clubs, football games, and yearbook photos. Those things no longer hold the same importance for me, if they ever did. “There were—are—a lot of great activities for the students here. I was lucky to be able to take advantage of them.”

His eyes scan the length of the page. “I see you went to Loyola and got an art history degree. What made you think of teaching?”

I open my mouth and take in a breath, my body preparing to respond, but nothing comes out. I lick my lips and cock my head to the side, smiling, buying time. I can’t tell him the truth. That teaching became my default dream. That I’d arrived at it only after I’d given up on having a grand adventure. That it made my family happy to think I could be content with a simple life, and that I’m too much of a coward to go against them. “I just . . . wanted to share my love of knowledge with the next generation.”

His smile suggests he expected more from me. “You didn’t want to work for a gallery or a museum? Something more in line with your degree path?”

I pretend nonchalance, moving my head side to side. “That was . . . you know . . . the economy. The economy really limited my career choices when I graduated.” I nod importantly, how I imagine the Fed chair must when sitting in front of a congressional caucus.

“And—” He stretches the word over several seconds.

“And . . . my grandmother was ill. I needed to stay close to home, to help care for her.”
Okay, so it’s not the truth, but who tells the truth at a job interview?

His face perks up. “Oh, well, I hope she’s on the mend?”

The words stick in my throat. I don’t think I’ve actually spoken them aloud. Tabby told Lucky about Grams, and it seemed everyone else knew before I had an opportunity to tell them. “She died a little over a month ago.” The sentence seems hollow, like a lie.

Mr. Sharland steeples his fingers together and looks at me with compassion. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

I can hardly swallow. “It’s fine, really. She lived a long life.”

The room is quiet for a few seconds, as though we’re observing a moment of silence for my loss. I’ve waited years for the opportunity to teach full-time. For any opportunity, really, and now I’m ruining it by laying the image of my dead grandmother across his gleaming desk.

“Wynn . . .” He says my name in a slow, considered way. “Let me ask you a question.”

My fingers slide against one another. I don’t stop them. What’s the point? There’s no way I’ll get the job based on this interview.

“What do you want?”

His question catches me off guard. I stare at him. His eyes are blue and his eyelids sag a little, like a basset hound’s. It makes him look both sad and endearing.

“I want a full-time position teaching here at this school.”

“Do you?” He pushes himself toward the desk, one elbow taking his weight, and rests his chin against a fist. His gaze doesn’t lock on mine but wanders across my face. “High school’s no picnic, as you may well remember. These kids ooze hormones like jars of hot jelly. I need to know, are you up for that? Do you want that in your life, now and twenty years in the future? Because we’re looking for a long-term commitment and, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re still incredibly young. Are you certain that’s something you want for your life?”

An irrational desire to crawl across the desk and hug Mr. Sharland consumes me. I suppress it, lest I find myself the defendant in a sexual harassment suit. But his words fill me with gratitude. No one ever asks me what I want for my life. They tell me what
they
want for my life. They shower me with opinions and forewarnings, but they never ask what I want. I’m not even sure
I
know anymore. Teaching sixteen-year-olds about the Industrial Revolution isn’t exactly what I’d planned, but anything is better than standing still for one more minute. I’m so tired of not moving.

I stop fiddling with my hands and try to put all of my gratefulness into the smile I give him. “Thank you, Mr. Sharland. I appreciate the question more than you know, actually. I think what I want is to just have a meaningful life. One that allows me to do something important. Something I can be proud of.”

“Teaching is a difficult career choice, Wynn, but it can be incredibly fulfilling.”

I nod and listen as he moves on, telling me about the school, the staff, and the responsibilities of the position. I answer how I’m supposed to, when I’m supposed to. I try to care. Try to be engaged in the moment. He speaks passionately and gestures with his hands. I think I’ve fooled him, and when he stands to usher me out of the office, he closes both of his hands around one of mine and smiles warmly down at me.

By the time I make it back to my car, I’m sweating. The interior is even hotter than the air outside. I turn the key in the ignition and focus all of the vents in my direction. The hybrid engine whirs so quietly I can hardly hear it. I pull the ribbon from my purse and stare at the black inscription.
Lifetime Achievement
. Maybe this job is it, the thing that’ll give my life direction. I want it to be. Not because it’s convenient or even because it would get my family off my back, but because I need something, anything, to believe in. I look at the brick and concrete school with its pretty windows and manicured lawn and try to remember what it felt like to be excited about my future.

I roll the window down as I pull onto the road. The wind gains momentum, pushing hair across my face, as I accelerate. I let the ribbon slip from my fingers, watching in the side-view mirror as it falls to the ground. It seems fitting to leave it behind.

Oliver shakes his head, smiling at her and the rest of the girls crowded around him. “Sorry, girls. Can’t do it.”

“But we go back to school tomorrow,” says another one.

He hands the big-lipped girl a white receipt. “Be careful driving back, alright? And stay away from those frat boys. They’re all trouble.”

Her breasts threaten to de-shell the peanuts scattered across the bar as she bends toward him. “I thought musicians were trouble,” she coos.

“Oh, we are.” He leans close to her. I strain to hear his words. “Which is why I’ll be staying right where I am, and you’ll be heading back to school.” His tone is slow and disarming. “Education is very important to me.”

“I bet your favorite class was sex ed.” Her hooded eyes focus on his mouth, the corners of which have turned upward. Her smile makes me want to take a shower.

My mouth opens, and I speak before I’m conscious of doing so. “We’re closing!” My voice is loud, high, and alien to me. Oliver grins curiously in my direction, but the spell is broken between him and his groupies. I set the glass in my hand on the counter, too hard. It bounces out of my grip, falls to the cement floor, and breaks.

“Oh my God.” I squat to pick up the shards with shaky hands.

Oliver says something to the girls before crouching down and taking the broken glass from me. “Here, let me get that.”

I lean back on my heels and watch the muscle flex beneath his short sleeve shirt.

“You okay?” He turns his head toward mine.

His closeness makes me unbalanced, and I sway slightly. “What? Yes, yeah. I’m fine. It just slipped.” I rise with him, wiping my hands on my black apron. “Thank you.”

He tosses the glass into the trash. “No problem. Anyway, I should be thanking you. Those girls didn’t know when to give up.”

“Oh. I totally didn’t notice. Were you talking to them?”

He squints at me. “They’ve been here for, like, four hours.”

I wipe the counter with my dry rag, flinging crumbs across the bar.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

No, I’m not okay. I’ve been in love with you since ninth grade.
“Me? Yeah, totally . . . totes magotes.”

“You’re acting a little strange.”

The burst of high, giddy laughter doesn’t help my case.

Oliver’s hand falls over mine. “Tell you what. Why don’t I lock up and grab us some beers, and you can tell me all about grown-up Wynn Jeffries?”

Well, at least it’ll be a short conversation.

With the exit of his fan club, the bar is empty. Music from the old jukebox plays on as Oliver flips the dead bolt. He smiles on his way back to me. A knot of nervous energy has taken up residence in my stomach. I take a seat on one of the wooden stools and press stray crumbs into the counter with my finger.

He removes the tops of two green bottles of Mexican beer and sets one in front of me. I watch his drink take the journey from the bottle to his lips as he stands behind the bar. “So”—he clinks his glass against mine—“how pissed were your parents when you grew up to be a bar wench?”

His joke breaks the ice, and I return his wink with a sheepish smile. “Pretty pissed.” I take a sip from my bottle. The alcohol weaves a warm stream of ease through me.

“Seriously, though, I thought you’d be running the country by now. What happened?”

I’ll give the guy points for bluntness.
What happened?
It’s the question I ask myself every day. I lift my shoulder. “I don’t know. Things just haven’t panned out the way I thought they would.”

“Yet.” He points the neck of his bottle in my direction before taking another drink. “Things haven’t panned out for you
yet
.”

I turn the glass bottom of my beer on the wooden bar. “I’m starting to think there isn’t a yet, only a never-ending string of somedays.”

“As in?”

“As in, someday I’ll leave this town and see the world. Someday I’ll find a career that excites and fulfills me. Someday I’ll become whoever it is I’m supposed to be.” I roll a wayward peanut shell back and forth, unable to keep eye contact with him.
Someday you’ll kiss me again . . .

“That doesn’t sound like the girl I knew at all.”

Knew? The only thing Oliver Reeves knew about me in high school was how to maneuver around my book bag when Shannon Jefferson wanted to play doctor between classes. I shake my head. “Maybe you just had the wrong idea about me back then.”

“I don’t think so. You were smart and interesting, not like everyone else.” He rests his elbow on the counter and leans forward. “I’ll be honest, when I saw you here the other night, I couldn’t believe it. Weren’t you valedictorian? What happened?”

My face warms uncomfortably. “Nothing happened, per se, and I wasn’t valedictorian.” The disappointment of being edged out of our class’s top honor by Kristen Jarecki still haunts me. I wasn’t even a remarkable nerd. “I applied for every museum and gallery job within a five-thousand-mile radius. I was qualified, but apparently I wasn’t a”—I raise my fingers in quotation—“‘good fit.’ So I got my teacher’s certification. You know what they say about those who can’t do . . .”

“What? Give up?” His grin is almost as fast as the wink he gives me.

My hand moves to punch him playfully in the shoulder, but I stop myself. I purse my lips together and give him a wry smile instead. “Haha, very funny. No, I thought I’d try my hand at shaping young minds and contributing to the fabric of society.”

“All that shit, huh?”

Why does he have to be so adorable?

“So what happened next?”

“Next?” I blink at him, unsure of the answer he’s looking for. “I haven’t found a permanent job yet. Budget cuts and everything. I sub regularly during the school year. I just had an interview to teach social studies at North, actually.”

“And?”

Frowning, I take another sip. It seems I’m not measuring up to anyone’s expectations today.

Oliver pushes back from the bar. “Come on, Wynn. Give me something else, here. Where have you been? What have you experienced? What else have you
done
?”

I resume crumb collecting, embarrassed to admit that I haven’t really done anything. Certainly nothing he’d find amazing. Amazing is hard. Amazing is scary, and I’m nothing but a big, fat coward. I shrug, again unable to meet his eyes. “Like I said, someday.”

“C’mon, you must’ve gone on a few road trips or run out on a future husband at the altar.” He leans toward me across the bar. Humiliation keeps me focused on the peanut. “Spent the night in jail? Echoed into the Grand Canyon?”

He’s teasing me, and every unanswered guess makes me feel more and more like a failure.

“You must’ve done something.”

Tears blur my vision. I did plan a road trip once. I was going to drive solo in my old Volvo from Chicago to Lake Tahoe and try to match the paint on my canvas to the colors brushed across the sky there. But Grams broke her hip, and I stayed to help take care of her. My sisters couldn’t do it, and I couldn’t leave my mom to do it on her own. Then my ex, Tom, wanted me to move to Thailand with him. He got a job selling futures for some big-shot firm there, but that was the month Franny had Samuel. My passport was in my hand when Grams called to tell me she was in labor. She said Thailand would be there next year, but my nephew would smile and walk and talk for the first time only once.