Page 19 of A Hexcellent Chance to Fall in Love

Until the Store Closes

Christina

The last students leave, and the room hums with silence after sixth period. My cell phone buzzes before I even have a chance to take a breath.

Dad flashes on the screen.

He never calls. It’s usually Emily, or Mom, or Ashley even, but never Dad. I snatch the phone up and press it to my ear.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yes, Pumpkin, everything’s fine. Just wanted you to know people are getting a little restless over here,” he says, and I let out a breath.

So this is the reason he’s calling. Everyone else is complaining that I haven’t officially RSVP’d to Emily’s engagement party—and it’s not that I haven’t wanted to.

I just need to know if I can take an entire day off and still be on schedule.

Getting behind this early in the planning and preparation stage would be a disaster.

“It’s looking promising, but I don’t want to make any commitments in case something comes up.” I don’t understand why they can’t understand this.

“What’s going to come up? Halloween doesn’t exactly call for an emergency situation, and it’s still way over a month out.” His voice is light, but the comment cuts deep. This is the problem. They don’t see what I do as something serious even though there are people depending on me— lots of people.

I clench my teeth and count to three—although I really need to count to ten. “It’s an important event—”

“I’m sure it is. But it’s your sister’s engagement. Which is arguably more important, wouldn’t you say.” He says this like a statement, not a question, and I’m not sure why both things can’t be equally important. “Can’t you tell your sister you will be there?”

“I could, but I want to be one hundred percent sure first. There’s so much to do, and I’m under a lot of stress—”

“I thought you took this job because it was less stressful,” he tells me, or more specifically, he’s using my own words against me. One of the reasons I left my last job was that it was too stressful—but that was only one out of a much more extensive list of things I didn’t like about it.

“I did. It’s just a different kind. They are counting on me to make this event really spectacular.

” And the school needs the funding, but I don’t say that.

It’ll just get him started about how schools don’t know how to budget, and blah, blah, blah, like he’s ever worked in a school or knows anything about what we have to deal with on a daily basis.

“It doesn’t mean I don’t want to be there; I’ve gotta figure it out, okay? ”

“And no one else is more capable of doing an amazing job than you are. You can do anything you set your mind to.” He repeats the thing he’s said to me since I was little for the gazillionth time.

“I just wanted to let you know it’s really important to Emily that you are there.

” The tone stays light. Dad has never been one to raise his voice—he doesn’t need to—but the underlying message is loud and clear.

I need to make this happen or I’ll never hear the end of it.

“I know. She told me. Now I have to go if I want to stay on schedule.”

“Love you, Pumpkin,” he says. “And we’ll keep this little conversation between us, don’t worry.” He says it like he’s doing me a favor, and in a way he is. If Dad calls, that means everyone is talking—aka complaining—once again, about me. I will need to deal with this quickly, just not right now.

“I promise I’ll talk to her,” I tell him. “Love you, too, Dad.”

My classroom door swings open, and Mia from my third period class walks in as I toss my phone back into my bag. I’m really not going to catch a break today, it seems. I’ve got so much to do, and I should’ve left seven minutes ago.

“Something I can help you with?” I ask.

“Mr.Kennedy was hoping he could borrow your key to the janitor’s closet. This kid Brady’s soda exploded in his backpack, and I guess the janitor is busy cleaning up some puke or something.”

“I don’t think I have one,” I tell her.

“Can you check, please? Mr.Ecklers shooed me out of his class before I could even ask, and it’s a huge mess.”

I shimmy and yank open the top desk drawer—it hasn’t worked right since my first day walking into this room.

It’s the kind of desk that has seen some things, like it was used in detention or something before, with writing and marks all over it.

All the drawer needs is a little beeswax to get it sliding smoothly in and out, but I keep forgetting to bring some.

I riffle through the pencil tray I shoved in here the first week I started teaching—to “stay better organized,” ha!

It’s a mess of found pens and pencils and random knickknacks.

With all the shaking and lack of care when tossing things inside, items have gotten shoved to the back, but since the drawer doesn’t open wide enough, I pull the tray out.

And there, right in the back corner, is a small set of keys that, now that I think about it, I remember being in the drawer and not knowing what they were for. “Are these them?” I ask.

Mia shrugs. “It’s possible, and more than what Mr.Ecklers offered.” She rolls her eyes. He’s known to be quite the curmudgeon. “But I can ask Mr.Kennedy.” She reaches her hand out, and I pass her the keys.

“Tell him to hold on to them. I’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Oh. Are we going to get to spray-paint those skeletons today?” Mia wiggles her eyebrows like she is itching to get her hands on some cans of neon paint—because “it’ll look so cool under the black lights.”

Which, yes. Shit. I was supposed to pick some up at the store before heading over there today. “If I can get out of here, yes.”

“Say no more.” She rushes out the door.

Answering that call was the worst idea—I should’ve let Dad go to voicemail.

Now I really have to hurry if I want to go to the library before I head to the hardware store.

I’m about to shove the pencil tray back into the drawer when I hesitate.

Has this always been here? My fingers trace over a drawing of a flower.

The same one from the back of the receipt.

The same one that’s on the wall in the staging house.

A chill races up my spine and my scalp tingles.

I should know these—my heart, not my brain, is telling me, which is the oddest sensation. Do they remind me of something sentimental? Is that why my stomach is getting tight? It feels like something I should remember—but just like the wind, it’s something I feel but I can’t see.

Sirens whirl by on the street in front of the school and pull me out of my head. I need to go. I stop rubbing the scar on my arm, shove the tray back in, and grab my bag.

“Ms.Loring, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Mrs.Turner, our lovely librarian, calls out to me as I walk through the library door—the scent of old paper and her lavender aromatherapy air freshener greeting me.

“Need to do a little research, and I couldn’t think of a better person to talk to.”

Mrs.Turner pushes her ruby glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I’m your girl. What kind of information are you looking for?”

The flowers are the first thing to pop into my head, but instead I go with, “Dr.W left me some notes about the haunted house, but we’re missing information about the sound system, so I thought maybe I could reach out to the teacher before him.”

“And you came to me for yearbooks, since Mrs.Beckerstein isn’t the most prolific with the computer.

” That was a kind way of saying the secretary was in no way a tech-savvy girl.

She still took minutes with pen and paper at our staff meeting.

But if I went to her with a name, she might be able to look it up.

“Exactly.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Mrs.Turner says. “Was it Mrs.Scott?”

“I’m sorry?” I ask.

She scans the line of books on a shelf behind the desk. “The teacher before Dr.W. I was thinking it was Mrs.Scott, but she left when our last principal retired.” She grabs a book off the shelf. “Ah, here it is.” She looks at the book in her hand, then grabs two more. “Just in case.”

I’m not sure just in case of what, but I don’t have time to ask. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

“No problem, deary. Let me know what you find, though, will you? I pride myself on knowing all the teachers here and, well”—she taps her head—“maybe I need a little afternoon coffee.” She chuckles.

“Sign me up for one of those,” I say. “I just don’t have time.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Mrs.Turner says. “Have a wonderful rest of your day.”

“You too.”

After spending the afternoon at the haunted house spray-painting skeletons, I settle onto my couch with all the yearbooks and a glass of angry water—seltzer is too nice a name for something so aggressively bubbled.

Licorice decides now is a good time to inspect the new objects I’ve brought into his domain.

He takes a few moments sniffing their glossy covers, then flops onto his back to lick his hind leg. Silly cat.

The spine protests as I open the first one.

The task is simple enough, yet anxiety is swirling in my stomach, and my guava-flavored seltzer water isn’t helping settle it like it usually does.

Seriously, what’s the worst thing I could find?

My mind can’t even come up with a worst-case scenario.

Nothing about this task would call for one, and yet lingering dread tightens in my chest. I should’ve poured a glass of Moscato instead of an angry water before I started this.

But then I’d probably spill it all over the books, and Mrs.Turner would never trust me again.

Although white wine wouldn’t stain, it would still be sticky and gross.

I really should switch to red—there was that article about how it helps with blood pressure.

Focus, Christina.