Page 20 of A Hexcellent Chance to Fall in Love

I take a deep breath and search for the teachers’ section, scanning each name and title, then flipping the page.

I don’t think I’ve met even half of these people, which tells me I need to get out more—but I don’t have the time, especially right now.

The next month and a half are full of work and haunted house stuff, aka more work.

I should at least try to hit the gym, since I pay for a membership and it’s easily been a few weeks since I’ve been there.

My finger keeps scanning along the names.

Ms.Wu—the math teacher—looks completely different than she does now, but dang, short hair looks good on her.

Wait. That’s strange. I may not have been completely focused, but there wasn’t a listing for the theater teacher.

Did I miss it? I go back to the beginning and scan again, this time more carefully.

But as I get to the end of the teacher section for the second time, they aren’t in here.

Maybe they were sick that day? And couldn’t make the time to do retakes? Totally possible.

No worries. They’ll have to be in the back with all the photos from the theater department’s many productions, and their name will for sure be listed there.

It doesn’t take long before I’m scanning photos from Grease and then candids from that year’s haunted house.

I wasn’t at school with any of these kids so none of them are recognizable, but the feeling of the photos is the same.

Smiling faces, grand gestures—big personalities—and of course, there are a bunch with kids covered in fake blood.

At the very end of the section, there is a group shot out in front of the haunted house building, but unless the teacher that year looked young enough to be a high school student, they aren’t in there.

Not even their name is listed on the picture of the program from that year’s performance.

That’s super weird.

They couldn’t have not had a teacher. That wouldn’t make sense at all, would it? But then again, Mrs.Turner said she couldn’t remember who it was, so maybe that’s what “just in case” meant.

I grab the yearbook for the year before the one currently in my hand and do the same thing.

And once again I come up empty-handed. Cami and I started teaching at the same time so it’s not like she would have any idea.

Could I ask Principal Wilkson? I really don’t want to bother him.

Maybe his secretary could figure out how to look it up—but that’s probably wishful thinking—or she would let me jump on her computer.

Is it even legal for them to give out past employees’ information?

It’s not like I want to know for nefarious reasons. I just want to figure out how the sound system works and if any of them noticed those weird little flowers—or was perhaps the one who left them.

There’s probably a completely logical reason why the theater teacher isn’t listed in these books—even though every other teacher in every other subject is there, and most have more than one photo, posing with the club they are in charge of.

Witness protection?

Celebrity?

Is there a word for “fear of photography”?

My cell phone rings, and my little sister’s name and face fill the screen.

Shit. The call with Dad from earlier replays in my mind.

I had planned on touching base with Emily, it just hasn’t happened yet, but if I avoid her any longer, she’ll probably think I’m dead, so I pick up—the picture of her replaced by her actual face, an expression of faux shock plastered there.

“Hey, Em. What’s up?” I ask, knowing full well what this conversation is going to be about.

“You are still alive. I’ll make sure to cancel that wellness check.” Her scowl is softened by the grin she’s trying to suppress. She’s always been a terrible liar.

“Very funny.”

“What isn’t funny is that I still haven’t gotten your RSVP yet.” She presses her lips together. “Titi, you know you have to come. You have three weeks now to make it happen. I’m only going to get married once.”

“You hope.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Now who’s being not funny.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve just been—”

“Busy, I know.” She shakes her head at me the same way Mom does—like she’s disappointed.

My stomach sinks. This is one of the many reasons I don’t want to go.

It’s not that I don’t love and support Emily—I do—I’m just…

tired. Tired of the guilt from Mom and Dad, and Ashley, and now Emily, too.

She gives me her best puppy dog eyes, and I crumble.

“I’ll be there.”

Her entire face lights up. “Promise? You aren’t just saying—”

“I promise. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.

This is a really big event, and the whole town is counting on me.

” It’s a lot of pressure, and even if I’m not sure this is going to be my forever career, it’s at least something I’m pretty good at, and right now—away from the pressures of home and my sisters—that’s enough.

She leans back on her couch. “Antonio and I will totally come out and support you. I know it’s super stressful. If you weren’t so far away, I could help you after work.”

“But I moved to the middle of nowhere—yeah, I know.”

Licorice, obviously sensing my distraction, jumps from the couch to the coffee table to inspect the bubbles in my water. I give him a stern look and shoo him off. He’s seriously the naughtiest kitty in the world.

“Titi.” Her voice is light, not accusatory like Mom’s or Ashley’s. She means well. I really shouldn’t give her a hard time. None of this is her fault. But all those words and feelings are rolling around in my brain and don’t want to come out of my mouth, so instead we’re both quiet.

She’s in her robe—the one I bought her three Christmases ago. She always complains she’s cold no matter what time of year it is. That’s why that year it felt like the perfect gift. I remember it so vividly—almost as if it were yesterday.

I think it was the winter blues that had me down.

Shopping had felt like such a chore. Getting out of bed started to feel like a chore, but I did it and braved the crowds and wandered store to store doing my best not to cry while picking out gifts for my family.

I might have also been PMSing at the time.

Without even meaning to, I found myself in the PJ section at Nordstrom, and there it was—a gift that screamed Emily.

That Christmas morning was like any other in the Loring house.

Mom always wanted the holidays to be special—an event that was special for “her girls.” Even though we were adults by this time, Mom would wake up early to make pancakes, and the smell of maple syrup was the first thing to greet me.

I wandered downstairs, where she stood at the stove in her PJs that matched my own—another tradition the Loring family was known for.

“You’re up,” she said. “Coffee is all ready.” She tipped her head toward the carafe on the counter, which no doubt was already full of the steaming liquid of the gods.

As I fixed myself a cup, I asked, “Am I the last one?” A chatter of conversations came from the formal living room.

“We were about to send someone up,” Mom replied.

“Sorry.” I took a sip of the warm brew from my cup—creamy and sweet, just how I liked it.

“The kids already opened their gifts. They couldn’t wait any longer.

” She meant my niece and nephew, and it hurt a little, but I understood.

Christmas mornings when my parents made us wait to open gifts when I was the kids’ age were brutal.

I was sure to get the play-by-play later of what I missed anyway.

She turned away from the stove toward me. “How are you feeling today?”

I took another sip of my coffee before responding. “It feels good to be home,” I replied, which was true, but I still felt tired deep in my bones.

“I’m glad you came,” Mom said, and I was glad, too.

For a moment I’d said I would drive down for the day—since missing altogether would be out of the question—but Mom “persuaded” me to stay the night like tradition dictated, and there in the kitchen with the scent of coffee and maple and then pine from the fresh tree in the other room, my soul felt lighter than it had in the past two months.

“We will eat first and then we will open our presents,” Mom said.

And true to her word, once the last pancake had been eaten, the rest of the family sat around the perfectly manicured tree with a stack of presents next to each of us—and over the next hour we would take turns opening each of them one at a time so everyone could see.

“Golf clubs? You shouldn’t have,” Dad said.

“Luke says they’re the best,” Ashley said.

“They should help with that bogey problem,” Luke, Ashley’s husband, joked, and Dad laughed.

“Oh, then you will love this.” Emily stood and pulled a small box off Dad’s stack and handed it to him. He looked to Mom since we were breaking the rules of order—one gift at a time—but Mom nodded, and Dad unwrapped it. “The Madison Club.”

“Antonio got them,” Emily said.

“You’re going to love it,” Antonio, Emily’s fiancé, said.

“And there’s something for you, too, Mom.” Emily did the same—standing and sliding a small box off Mom’s stack for her to open.

“I hope you don’t think I’m playing a round or whatever it’s called,” Mom said as she unwrapped it, then she smiled. “This is more like it.”

“And you can pick your own services, though if you want a massage, I’ll get you the name of the person Antonio’s coworker recommends,” Ashley said.

“I’ll let you know.” Mom winked.

This was what Christmas was in the Loring house. Who could outdo the others in getting the perfect gift. That year, though, it felt like it had gotten out of hand, and the gifts I’d picked out for everyone seemed to pale in comparison even though I had been very specific in choosing them.

“You’re next, love,” Mom said to Emily.