Hate you maybe, p.21
Hate You, Maybe, page 21
“What do you think Mr. Wilford wants?” Sayla asks on our way to the administration building. By now, the buses have all left, and most of the teachers took off after the bell, ready to start their weekend. In a couple of hours, people will return, flooding the parking lot and streets for Friday night football. But for now, the campus is deserted. Still, Sayla and I should be careful. As much as I want to reach for her hand, discretion is key.
We don’t need any rumors about us circulating around school. At least for another week. Until then, everyone’s attention has to be on the accreditation. Not my crush on Sayla Kroft.
“I hope the ringmaster costume I ordered for him fits,” she adds.
“I’m sure the costume’s great.” I shrug. “Wilford probably just wants to thank us for doing such a great job in the lead up to the visitation.”
“Wow.” Sayla huffs an amused laugh. “You’re sure not lacking in confidence.”
I flash her some side-eye. “I didn’t hear you complaining back in my office.”
“Hey!” She swats my elbow. “But since you brought it up,” she glances around, lowers her voice, “we have to promise not to do that again.”
“Well, that could be a problem, Kroft. Because I really want to do that again, as you eloquently put it. We’re way too good together not to. We managed some Guinness Book of World Records-level kissing back there.” I nod back toward the science building. “Do you really want to keep that kind of achievement out of the history books?”
“When you put it that way, I suppose we do owe it to history.” She snickers. “So let’s circle back to this discussion after the accreditation team gives us that four-year pass.”
I let out a groan of protest. “So long?”
She guffaws. “They’re coming next week.”
“I repeat. So long?”
“You managed to keep your lips to yourself for the past three years.”
“That’s only because you were covered in barbed wire.”
She scrunches her nose. Man, this woman is adorable. “I guess I did have some defenses up.”
“And hand grenades ready to lob.”
“Sorry about that,” she chirps.
“You don’t sound sorry,” I chuckle.
“Anyway, once you’ve moved over to Harvest High everything will be easier.”
This part catches me off guard, but I try not to miss a step. “Huh.” I rub at my beard. “Why is me leaving Stony Peak a part of the equation?”
“Because once you’re at the other school, you won’t technically be my coworker anymore.”
“And that matters because …”
“Because not dating colleagues is a boundary I set years ago. After my mom … Well. You know. I’m sure you understand, after everything I went through.” She takes a beat. “What I’m going through. Her workplace drama still wreaks havoc on my life. And anyway, next semester’s only a couple months away.” She smirks. “Surely you can control yourself until then.”
I clear my throat and pick up the pace. I’m not prepared to discuss my future plans right now. Especially since they don’t include a job change.
Sayla skips along next to me, trying to keep up as we approach the building, so I slow down and hold the door for her. “After you,” I say.
“Thank you, kind sir.” She curtseys, and I ignore the tightness in my chest as we make our way down the hall.
We’re almost to Wilford’s office when he pokes his head out the door. “Thought I heard you two.” He gestures for us to join him, and we head inside, settling into the same seats we took the day he told us we’d be going to Camp Reboot. That feels like a lifetime ago, even though it’s only been a few weeks. Still, so much has changed between Sayla and me since then. And I’m grateful for everything that’s happened. For what might still grow between us. I can only hope she’s willing to reconsider her stance when she finds out I’m not transferring schools.
“I was glad to see you were both still on campus,” Mr. Wilford says, sinking into his chair. “But I’m not surprised. You’ve really gone above and beyond these past few weeks. I’m very grateful to you both.”
I cut a look at Sayla and offer her a quick nod. Yep. He brought us in to thank us.
“I wanted to talk to you about something else before next week,” he says.
“Is this about the grant?” she asks. “I thought you weren’t going to make any announcements until after the visitation.”
“Yes, well. I wanted to give you both time to process my decision.”
She leans forward, expectantly, one hand on her knee, the other holding a clipboard. I can practically feel the energy vibrating off her, and my pulse picks up, too. Wilford officially informing Sayla that her department will get the money should go a long way toward reminding her where my priorities lie.
Yes, I want to stay at Stony Peak. But I can still put her first in other ways. I have already. And this will be the best reminder.
“As you know, this choice hasn’t been an easy one,” Wilford says. His hands are folded on his belly, and I notice the button above his belt is undone.
Heh. Full circle.
“A lot was riding on my decision. Not just for the future of this school, but for my future with the district. As principal, it’s my job to demonstrate the ability and willingness to do whatever it takes to make Stony Peak thrive. The home of the Gray Squirrels is my baby, so to speak. I’m this school’s parent. And being a parent sometimes means having to make difficult choices. Especially when the alternative is getting sent to Vista Middle School.”
“Right. No tweens for you,” I say.
Wilford grimaces. “Perish the thought.”
“We appreciate how hard this has been for you,” Sayla chimes in. “And I think I speak for Dexter as well when I say we’re both prepared to respect your decision. Whatever it is.”
“Yes.” I bob my head. “Of course. Exactly what she said.”
Wilford lifts a hand, tugs at his tie. “I’d been hoping Bob and Hildy would weigh in after the retreat, but they were—frankly—useless.”
“No, no.” Sayla shakes her head. “What they did for us was extremely helpful. Dex and I made so much progress there. We’ve been able to work together so well these past few weeks because of Camp Reboot. So thank you very much, sir, for encouraging us to go.”
“Well, you’re welcome, of course,” Wilford says. “And I’m glad you think the retreat was a help, Ms. Kroft.” He adjusts his tie. “I must admit, that makes this moment a little bit easier for me.”
I draw in a breath, preparing to act like the grant going to performing arts is news to me. Wilford has no idea I already spilled the beans to Sayla, so finally having this out in the open will be a major relief.
“On the other hand,” Wilford continues, darting his gaze between Sayla and me, “one of you will leave here disappointed. And I wish that weren’t the case. Nevertheless, I want to assure you both that all hope is not lost. Yes, this grant will be a tremendous boon to one of your departments. And we may not receive another FRIG this large for several more years. But we will make do. We always do.” He takes a beat. “So without further ado …”
I glance at Sayla, and her lips part in anticipation.
“The FRIG goes to the athletic department,” Wilford says.
Oh, frig.
Chapter Thirty
Sayla
“I’ll take one more of your delicious wines, please.”
My request comes out a little slushy, but the haze from the Chardonnay is just what I need right now. And besides, I’ve only had two wines so far. I think. I’m not usually a drinker, but it isn’t every night you have your dreams ripped out from under you. Dreams the man you were starting to care about promised would come true.
“This one tastes so buttery,” I say, pointing to the empty glass in front of me. “Is it supposed to be buttery?”
The woman behind the bar stops wiping the sticky rings along the counter. She’s got her red hair wrangled in a bun and a diamond stud in her nose. “I’m not sure a third glass is a good idea.”
See? Three. I knew I could count.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “How many until I forget?”
“Forget what?” the bartender asks.
I splay my hands, triumphant. “Exactly.”
Too bad I still remember everything.
I remember sitting in Mr. Wilford’s office, thinking this can’t be happening.
I remember the look of shock on Dexter’s face.
I remember Mr. Wilford explaining himself before I fled his office.
He said both Dex and I had made strong arguments, which is why he’d been on the fence for so long. That is until the activities director, Polly Warner, met with him to plead the case for the athletics department. Apparently, Polly pushed hard for the gym renovation based on the fact that her department also uses that space. For assemblies and pep rallies, plus fundraising events and other stuff like that. I guess she was convincing.
But I can be convincing, too.
So I pointed out that Polly could host all those same things in the theater once the building was redone. Which is when Mr. Wilford stopped me. He told me how impressed he was by all my hard work. Not just over the past month, but ever since I came to Stony Peak.
Yeah, right.
I sat there blinking back tears, hearing all about how the performing arts department is so deserving. But then he summarized everything with this little nugget: Dexter and his department “just need the funding more.”
According to Wilford, a school like Stony Peak can’t survive without its sports. Their booster clubs and fundraisers and tickets and concession stands flat-out bring in more money than all our concerts and plays. And to keep that influx of money going, the athletic department needs—wait for it—more money.
Pfft.
I kept waiting for Dexter to tell Mr. Wilford he’s transferring to Harvest High. When he didn’t, I almost blurted the news out myself. Now I’ll never know if Dex’s leaving would’ve swayed Mr. Wilford. But I don’t want to win like that. And doing whatever it takes does not include betraying Dex’s confidence.
Instead, I let my entire department down.
Dexter chased me all the way to the parking lot, begging me to slow down so we could talk. But I knew he couldn’t actually follow me. He was already late to the JV football game. And anyway, I wasn’t up to discussing my heartbreak with him. Not after all my goals for the new theater just went up in smoke.
Poof.
He tried calling and texting to track me down, but even I had no idea where I was going. So I drove around a while before I ended up here. Tequila Mockingbird. It’s this bar downtown I’ve heard people talking about for years. Until tonight, I’d never been inside. For a Friday evening, the room isn’t very crowded. Then again, it’s still early. I’ll bet a lot of the town is at one of the football stadiums right now. Either Stony Peak or Harvest High.
Maybe they’ll end up here later.
For now, I like having the bartender all to myself. The lighting is moody. The music is … loud. When I got here, they were just starting up a trivia game at the other end of the room. After my first wine, I put my name down as a solo player for the next round. They should be ready for me soon.
Still, thinking about trivia makes me think of the retreat. And Dex. And how jealous he got over Hogan. Ugh. I press a palm to my temple. My head is starting to hurt.
But not nearly as much as my heart.
“I can hold my liquor,” I tell the bartender. “I mean, I think I can. I don’t really drink liquor. But don’t worry. I’ll get a ride share later. So go ahead. Hit me. Again.”
“This isn’t blackjack.” The bartender narrows her eyes, but she grabs the bottle from the rows behind her. She fills my wine glass barely halfway. Then she fills another very tall glass with water all the way to the top. “Drink this first.”
“You’re so pretty,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Madelyn.”
I suck in air, my cheeks puffing up like a blowfish. “I wish I was a Madelyn. But my mom named me Sayla. So dumb.”
“Sayla’s a great name. Really original.”
“Yeah, it’s so original, Bob thought my name was Sailor. Which it’s not.”
“Is Bob your boyfriend?”
“Ewww. No. Bob has a wife named Hildy, but they don’t want anyone else to find out they’re married. So don’t say anything. Please.”
“Deal.” Madelyn crosses her heart with a finger, and I study her features through my slightly blurred vision.
“You look like my best friend.”
“Really?”
“No,” I snicker. “But she has red hair like yours. Her name is Loren. But it’s spelled weird. We’re both a little weird. Which is one of the many, many reasons why I love her. And I don’t even need a list.”
“Right.” Madelyn pulls two beers from a fridge behind the bar and hands them over to a cocktail server. “So, where’s weird Loren tonight?” she asks. “How come she’s not with you?”
I blow a raspberry. “She’s at our house cooking a romantic dinner for her fiancé, Foster. Today’s the anniversary of their first date, and I don’t want to ruin their special night. Just because Dexter ruined mine.”
“Dexter Michaels?”
I cough out a laugh. “How did you guess that? You must be good at trivia.”
“Aren’t many guys in this town named Dexter.”
“There aren’t many guys in town like Dexter, period.” I press my lips together and fight the bile rising in my throat.
“Does weird Loren know you’re here, at least?”
“Nobody knows I’m here. Dexter’s at the football game. Loren’s having linguini. She says linguini is the most romantic of all the pastas. That made me laugh.” I let out a giggle. “Linguini,” I repeat.
“Have some water,” Madelyn says.
“Okay.” I take a long drink, and I only spill a little down the front of me. I’m just wiping my chin on the sleeve of my cardigan—my lucky cardigan, yeah right—when my phone starts ringing in my bag.
“Maybe it’s Dex again,” I blurt, my heart leaping in my chest. “I’ll bet he’s checking in to be sure I’m all right. I wasn’t ready to talk to him before, but I’ve had a couple of wines now. So maybe I will. Anyway, we need to have another ‘adult conversation,’ as they say.” I put that last part in air quotes, then dig in my purse for my phone. “He’s probably worried about me. You know, he got so worried about me at Camp Reboot, and I only went to the bathroom.”
“What’s Camp Reboot?” Madelyn asks.
“Noooo,” I groan, when I see the contact.
“Not Dex?” Madelyn says.
“Nope.” I brace myself against the bar top. “Hey, Mom,” I say. “Sorry, but I can’t really talk to you right now. I’m busy with Madelyn. She’s my new friend at Tequila Mockingbird. Loren’s with Foster. And Bob is with Hildy, but don’t tell anyone they’re married, okay?”
“Sayla?” My mom sounds confused. She should know who she called. “You don’t sound like yourself. Is something wrong?” For once in her life, my mother isn’t launching into a story about herself. Or crying about some problem in her life. Or gushing happy news that’s just for her. “Baby. Have you been drinking?”
“Yes.” I sigh. “Just some wine. But like I told Madelyn, I can hold my liquor.” I hiccup. “At least I think I’m holding them. It’s kind of hard to tell.”
“How much have you had?” My mother is either feeling shy or she doesn’t want to change the subject from my wines. Either way, I’m done talking about me.
“Let’s talk about you, Mom. What’s going on? You must’ve called for a reason.”
“Well … Oh … I … Well.”
Getting her to talk about herself usually isn’t such a chore. “Spill it!”
“I just thought you should know that Eugene and I are back on.”
“Umm.” I blink. Blink. Blink. “Back on what?”
“Our wedding is back on.”
“Ahhhh. The wedding.” I shoot Madelyn a look and nod at her, even though she’s a new friend, so she doesn’t know my mom. Or Eugene. Or anything about their engagement that was called off but is back on again. I guess. “Why the change of heart?”
My mom stays quiet for a bit. Then she says, “Well, you see, after many long talks and lots of begging on his part, Eugene and I decided on a compromise that works for both of us.”
“Right. Compromise.” My throat goes dry, and there’s a twinge in my stomach. Compromise is one of those words that’s making me queasy right now. Along with collaborate. And cooperate. Sure, they sound good, until you’re the one doing all the compromising. But at least my mom’s not calling to say she quit and she’s moving.
Again.
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” I say, but I’m not sure why. “Sometimes.”
“I couldn’t agree more, baby.” My mom’s tone is brightening, and despite everything else, this makes me glad. That’s always been my role with us. I’m the cheerer-upper. My mom’s the … down-in-the-dumper.
“Anyway, Eugene and I were hoping you’ll still be my maid of honor,” she says.
“Sure,” I say. Or maybe I slur it. “When’s the wedding now?”
“December 25th,” she says.
“Wait. Christmas?” I squint down at my Chardonnay to be sure I haven’t already finished my third drink. “How is keeping the original date a compromise?”
“Eugene is the one who compromised.”
“I’m not sure that’s how compromise works, Mom. If you got your whole way, that’s not really meeting in the middle.”
“Well.” She’s quiet for another stretch. “I thought you’d be happy for me, Sayla.”
“I am happy for you.” I arrange my face into a grim smile, even though she can’t see me. “I’m just sad for myself.”
“Sayla.” She clucks. “What happened, baby?”
“You don’t really care.”
“Of course I care,” she says. “You’re my daughter.”
