“And how many of you plan to continue on in band class?”
All of their hands stay raised.
“Great,” he says. “So that means you’ll all be coming to band camp here at the high school this summer, right? And I’ll still be your teacher next year. You’ll see that extra credit on your first report card.”
A murmur erupts as the kids begin whispering to each other. I look at Oliver, unsure of what’s going on. He nods at me, then turns back to his students. The murmur dies down, and then a boy holding a trumpet steps forward.
“We’ll do it for double the extra credit,” the kid says. “We want half the points now, and half the points on our report card next year. And a pizza party.”
I’m impressed by how they all came together to decide on this so quickly. I look at Oliver. He purses his lips, making a show of thinking it over.
“Fine,” he says. “You can have a pizza party, but only after the performance.”
Another murmur erupts. This time, the students are all smiling. The rumble of their voices grows louder and it’s clear that they’re getting off topic. Oliver claps his hands to get their attention.
“Okay!” His voice is loud and authoritative. His students all turn to face him, their voices quickly dying down. Even I stand up a little straighter. “There will be a sign-up sheet and permission slips in the classroom after practice. Make sure you fill those out and get those permission slips back by the end of the week. You’ll need to be at the… studio…” His voice grows less confident. He turns to look at me.
“I’ll give Mr. Edison the details for the sign-up sheet,” I announce.
“Thanks,” he says to me quietly. “There’s a notepad you can use on my desk. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” I turn, ready to head back to the building.
“Do you need help getting back to my classroom?” he asks.
I hesitate. It’s the first room in the hall on this side of the building. It’s not exactly easy to forget, but for some reason I want to tell him that I do need help. I wonder if he would really leave a bunch of high school students alone on a football field. What’s the worst that could happen? Probably a lot. Or maybe he doesn’t plan on escorting me back at all. Maybe he plans on sending one of his students back with me. I decide that I can get back on my own.
“I remember where it is.” I leave him with an awkward wave as I head across the field. I make it to his classroom and find the notepad he mentioned. I write down the name and address of Lana’s studio and also the date and time we all need to be there.
I go back outside and head for the parking lot. I can see the football field from here. Oliver and his students are still out there. I watch them for a minute. They’re all moving into some kind of formation. They start playing music. It’s far away, but I can tell that it’s a different song than what they were playing earlier. I’m about to turn back toward the parking lot when I notice Oliver turning his head around. He looks at the building first, and then keeps turning until he sees me. We hold each other’s stare for several beats until he turns back around and faces his students again.
* * *
I’m sitting at a coffee shop, taking the last sip of a cup that’s been cold for a while, reading my emails and coming up with a plan. Thirty-five of Oliver’s students have signed up to dance in the flash mob. Those same thirty-five students are also going to be marching for Ryan’s part of the proposal, plus ten more who want to play their instruments but don’t want to dance. I still need at least a dozen more dancers so that the crowd is as big as Tina wants it. I go on Facebook and find a local improv group with a lot of followers. I make a post with the details of Tina’s flash mob. I hope I can get at least a few more people to commit to it.
Just as I post it, I become aware of someone standing next to my table. I look up, expecting to see an employee, but instead, I’m startled to see Malcolm Ridges, the president of the charity who got me fired from my job. He’s standing right next to me, staring at me with an odd look and a half smile. It’s the kind of look that’s usually reserved for two friendly acquaintances who have run into each other and are happy to see each other. Seeing this look on his face is confusing and a little bit irritating.
I close my laptop and stare back at him without a word.
He clears his throat. “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”
The fact that he doesn’t know who I am makes this all the more infuriating. How nice it must be to ruin someone’s life, go about his own without a care in the world, and then smile at that person in a coffee shop because he has no idea who they are. I want to tell him off. I want to say exactly what’s on my mind, and I want to wipe that stupid smug smile off his face.
I must take too long to answer, because he takes a step back and, scratching the back of his neck, says, “Or maybe not.”
As much as I want this moment to be over and to never have to see him again, I also don’t want him to continue living in his blissful ignorance of what he’s done to me. I put on a forced smile. “You do know me.”
His smile widens. He takes a step closer to my table. “I thought so. You are… don’t tell me.” He taps the side of his head like he’s racking his brain.
I’m not about to help him. I want this to be as embarrassing and awkward as possible for him.
“Oh. Priscilla Cain, right?”
I raise an eyebrow. Funny how he remembers my name yet doesn’t seem to remember that he demanded I be fired for fucking up his event by using the catererheinsisted we use.
“That’s me. And you’re Malcolm Ridges, president of ANY-Time.”
It’s clear that I’ve inflated his ego by the way he smiles. I kind of wish I had pretended I have no idea who he is.
