swallowed the bubble of a yawn. Although my sleep had been dreamless, it had been fast: only five hours before struggling out of bed, ripping off my old clothes, showering, dressing, and then piling into the car for the drive down. For the first time, I‘d drunk half of the cappuccino Mom‘s barista had whipped up. It wasn‘t half-bad. Well, not vile.
Mom had looked rough, though not as bad as some mornings after a long evening with Rachael Ray or Bobby Flay. She hadn‘t said much either, not until dropping me off at school when she handed me one of Meryl‘s books: ―For your teacher‘s wife. It‘s autographed, though not personalized. Tell him that if he and his wife show up at the party, I‘ll be sure they meet Meryl. See you this evening, okay? I won‘t be late, I promise.‖
Mr. Anderson had been reading the newspaper on his computer when I dragged in, and said he was running later in the day: ―I slept in a little this morning myself.‖ But that was all he‘d said and when I gave him Meryl‘s book, he‘d thanked me and gotten down to business.
My biggest job would be to catalog and organize the storeroom. Apparently, David had gotten sidetracked by setting up labs and then fencing practice and left the storeroom in kind of a shambles. We went over the bottles and boxes of chemicals arranged on open gray metal shelves. Mr. Anderson kept his already-assembled experiments in a series of plastic tubs for days if he was really rushed and hadn‘t time to drag equipment out of storage.
―What‘s that?‖ I‘d asked, pointing to a wooden door. The door was the only one on a very short hall and to the right of a separate entrance off an emergency stairwell, marked by a dimly lit exit sign overhead.
―Ah.‖ Mr. Anderson looked sheepish as he dug out the keys. The room was narrow and long, with two large sinks and counters on the right, a cot on the left with a bookshelf affixed to the cinder block right above and a shower stall. Two beige towels hung from a towel bar. A pair of running shoes was squared on a mat next to the cot. The room smelled of Dove and the faintest touch of musky sweat.
―My hideaway,‖ Mr. Anderson explained. ―This used to be a darkroom but then got converted to storage. When they added more classroom space, I renovated a bit. I was refurbishing a cabin I‘ve got on my property and brought the old shower stall down one weekend. This way, I can work out and shower and no one‘s the wiser.‖ He grinned as he shut the door. ―Well, except you.‖
We spent more time going through the computer program in which I would have to record the storeroom‘s contents because the school had to pass OSHA inspections.
Organizing and cataloging took top priority, he said. ―I‘d start with the inorganics to get used to the computer program. I‘d help, but I‘ve got a meeting. Budget. Blah. I have to go militate for more test tubes.‖
―Really?‖ That seemed a stupid thing to sit through a meeting for.
―No. Actually, I need burettes and graduated cylinders and, maybe, I‘ll harass the administration for a PCR machine.... Right, you‘re not interested.‖
I had a hand to my mouth again. ―No. Really. I‘m fine.‖
―Yeah, right. I‘m falling asleep just looking at you. Help yourself to more coffee.‖
―I‘ll be okay.‖ Then I ruined it by yawning.
―Uh-huh. You eat anything?‖
―I‘m fine.‖ I actually was starving. At the mention of food, my traitorous stomach picked that moment to complain, loudly. We stared at each other a moment, and then laughed. That kind of broke the tension, mine mostly. I hadn‘t known how to behave with Mr. Anderson, but things felt . . . normal. No—better than normal. Things felt safe. Like he would be my friend and keep his promises.
―Whatever you say, kiddo. Oh, and here.‖ He bent over his desk computer, typed in a few commands and then straightened. ―Okay, you can access anything through this computer that
Mom had looked rough, though not as bad as some mornings after a long evening with Rachael Ray or Bobby Flay. She hadn‘t said much either, not until dropping me off at school when she handed me one of Meryl‘s books: ―For your teacher‘s wife. It‘s autographed, though not personalized. Tell him that if he and his wife show up at the party, I‘ll be sure they meet Meryl. See you this evening, okay? I won‘t be late, I promise.‖
Mr. Anderson had been reading the newspaper on his computer when I dragged in, and said he was running later in the day: ―I slept in a little this morning myself.‖ But that was all he‘d said and when I gave him Meryl‘s book, he‘d thanked me and gotten down to business.
My biggest job would be to catalog and organize the storeroom. Apparently, David had gotten sidetracked by setting up labs and then fencing practice and left the storeroom in kind of a shambles. We went over the bottles and boxes of chemicals arranged on open gray metal shelves. Mr. Anderson kept his already-assembled experiments in a series of plastic tubs for days if he was really rushed and hadn‘t time to drag equipment out of storage.
―What‘s that?‖ I‘d asked, pointing to a wooden door. The door was the only one on a very short hall and to the right of a separate entrance off an emergency stairwell, marked by a dimly lit exit sign overhead.
―Ah.‖ Mr. Anderson looked sheepish as he dug out the keys. The room was narrow and long, with two large sinks and counters on the right, a cot on the left with a bookshelf affixed to the cinder block right above and a shower stall. Two beige towels hung from a towel bar. A pair of running shoes was squared on a mat next to the cot. The room smelled of Dove and the faintest touch of musky sweat.
―My hideaway,‖ Mr. Anderson explained. ―This used to be a darkroom but then got converted to storage. When they added more classroom space, I renovated a bit. I was refurbishing a cabin I‘ve got on my property and brought the old shower stall down one weekend. This way, I can work out and shower and no one‘s the wiser.‖ He grinned as he shut the door. ―Well, except you.‖
We spent more time going through the computer program in which I would have to record the storeroom‘s contents because the school had to pass OSHA inspections.
Organizing and cataloging took top priority, he said. ―I‘d start with the inorganics to get used to the computer program. I‘d help, but I‘ve got a meeting. Budget. Blah. I have to go militate for more test tubes.‖
―Really?‖ That seemed a stupid thing to sit through a meeting for.
―No. Actually, I need burettes and graduated cylinders and, maybe, I‘ll harass the administration for a PCR machine.... Right, you‘re not interested.‖
I had a hand to my mouth again. ―No. Really. I‘m fine.‖
―Yeah, right. I‘m falling asleep just looking at you. Help yourself to more coffee.‖
―I‘ll be okay.‖ Then I ruined it by yawning.
―Uh-huh. You eat anything?‖
―I‘m fine.‖ I actually was starving. At the mention of food, my traitorous stomach picked that moment to complain, loudly. We stared at each other a moment, and then laughed. That kind of broke the tension, mine mostly. I hadn‘t known how to behave with Mr. Anderson, but things felt . . . normal. No—better than normal. Things felt safe. Like he would be my friend and keep his promises.
―Whatever you say, kiddo. Oh, and here.‖ He bent over his desk computer, typed in a few commands and then straightened. ―Okay, you can access anything through this computer that
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