The Grump I Despise (When In Waverly 3)

I watch Norah out of the corner of my eye as she cuts off a miniscule bite of bell pepper. She stabs it with her fork and tentatively taps it to her tongue to test it out. She looks like a toddler who has an aversion to green stuff. Glancing over at my plate, she leans in close and whispers, “Why doesn’t yours have cheese on top like mine does?”

“I try to limit my dairy intake,” I reply. Trust me, I wish mine had a pile of cheese on top. I’ve been tempted to reach over and steal hers from her plate ever since I sat back down.

“Oh yeah, I forgot dairy really makes your IBS flare up. We wouldn’t want that, now would we,” she says with a solemn face and a sad shake of her head. What the heck? Where did she hear that? Please tell me she’s just making this up on the fly.

“Woman, I do not have IBS. I just choose to get most of my calcium intake from other things, like broccoli, kale, or beans,” I say. Did Hannah tell her about my stomach problems?

“Mhmm, sure. It’s okay, Colbster. You don’t have to make excuses with me. You can always be your honest self with me. Your secret is safe. I’ll only tell my sisters. I’m sure they won’t tell anyone other than their best friends, and those friends will only tell their boyfriends, and so on and so on. Really, there’s nothing to worry about.” She places her hand on my bicep, and I jerk my arm away with an annoyed growl.

“I could eat dairy if I wanted. And stop calling me Colbster. It’s a ridiculous nickname,” I say. She giggles and then pops a bite into her mouth. She moans, and her eyes roll back in her head as she chews her food. My eyes couldn’t look away if they wanted to.

“Oh my gosh, I didn’t know vegetables could taste so good,” she says. She shoves another bite in her mouth and dances in her seat on the couch. The only person I’ve seen eat food with so much joy is Seth. A laugh almost escapes me, but I cover it with a cough. This is the second time she’s made me smile today, and that feels wrong for so many reasons. I watch her as she scarfs down the entire pepper in record time. She leans back on the couch, patting her stomach, looking satisfied.

I finish my dinner and carry the plates to the sink. She follows me into the kitchen where we clean everything up together. She washes dishes while I dry and put them away. By the time we’re done, the storm has calmed down enough for her to head home.

She slides her feet into her soaking-wet shoes, and we stand at the door in a weird kind of stand-off, both wondering how to end this unexpected evening. She starts to lean in to give me a hug, but then thinks better of it. She drops her arms and tenses up, and I take a step back from her. We laugh awkwardly together, and she waves before running out the door to her car. I watch her from the doorway until she drives away. I plop back down on my couch and breathe a deep, contented sigh. I’ll never tell another soul, but this was one of the best evenings I’ve had in a long time.

Monday morning rolls around, and I head into the school with a bundle of Norah’s clothes that she forgot in my washing machine the other night. I’m going to drop them off on her desk and then promptly erase the memory of folding her garments from my mind. That’s not something I need or want to remember. No, thank you.

Her classroom is on the complete opposite end of the school from mine. I never come over here, so I spend a few minutes scanning the name placards above the doors to find hers. I finally find her room and poke my head inside. The coast is clear. I step into the room and look around. It looks like a rainbow threw up on the walls. Of course it does, because this is Norah. I drop the bag on her desk, then hightail it out as fast as my legs will move. I hear a loud cackle coming from the classroom across the hall from hers. I would know that laugh anywhere. It used to haunt my dreams in high school. I’ve never understood how Norah could laugh so loud. I look into the room to see her clutching her belly, laughing with her head thrown back. Her long curls hang down her back, almost to her backside. What could possibly be that funny at 7:45 in the morning?

The teacher standing across from her, Mr. Davis, watches her with a dreamy look on his face. Good grief. Don’t tell me he’s falling for her ridiculous charm. What could he possibly see in her? Other than her symmetrical face, her soft, tan skin, and her curves. And sure, a lot of her jokes could be considered funny if they were directed at someone other than me. But I’m always the butt of her jokes, so I’ve put her decidedly in the menace category.

I walk across the school to my classroom, and I arrive at my door to find it already unlocked. That’s odd, considering the only people that have a key for it are me, the principal, and the janitor. I’m positive that I didn’t forget to lock it on Friday, and the janitor has never forgotten to lock it before. I decide to let it go and flip on the light switch. The first thing I notice is color everywhere. So much color it almost rivals Norah’s. My walls have remained mostly bare for the entire nine years I’ve taught in this classroom. I have a few cell diagrams that I use when needed, but that’s pretty much the extent of the wall decorations for my classroom. I move farther into my room and look closer at the hundreds—no thousands—of sticky notes covering almost every surface of my room. They’re all over my desk and all of the students’ desks. They’re scattered all over the walls, spelling out words. The spider tank, the mouse cage, and the fish tank are all completely covered in them. There’s a row of them lined up neatly on the door frame. I shoot my eyes over to my supply closet, and my suspicions are confirmed. There’s a row on that door frame as well. They’re everywhere.

I put my things down on my desk, intending to remove every single sticky note from the room. I start working on the ones that spell out ‘hahaha’ on the wall, but the bell rings, and students begin filing into the room. Several girls notice the new classroom “decor” and squeal. They’re talking about how fun they are and discussing what they could be for. They’re assuming that I did this? What about me gives the impression that I would willingly cover my classroom in sticky notes? A huge football player walks in and starts laughing.

“Coach Stuart, why are these things all over the place? Are we doing something fun today?” a girl asks me. I hold in a growl and grit my teeth, willing myself to stay calm. The students had nothing to do with this.

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not a coach?” I almost shout.

I know exactly who did this. The “Colbster” spelled out on the wall is a dead giveaway. I can’t believe she did this after I so graciously let her come into my home, borrow my clothes, and eat my food. This must be why she was laughing so hard earlier.

This is just the type of thing she used to do to me all the time. Not a huge deal, just a minor inconvenience in the moment. But over time, the little inconveniences start to pile up and grate on your nerves, until you explode, and you end up looking like the jerk. Norah thinks she’s going to get to me, but I teach teenagers now. I’ve had nine years to work on my patience and learn to control my temper. I will not let her get to me. I will be the bigger person once again.

I tell my students to gather up all the sticky notes covering their desks and throw them away. Some of them look disappointed to find out that it’s not for a fun activity, while others are still busy laughing and taking pictures of the room with their phones. I take two students’ phones and place them on my desk until the end of class, and everyone else quickly stashes theirs back in their bags and does as they were told.

I start to pull the sticky notes from my desk and notice that some of them have notes written on them. Really sweet things, like The best part of my day always includes you. It’s when you’re leaving, but still. And another one that says, I’ll never forget the first time we met, but that won’t stop me from trying. Oh, and my personal favorite: It wasn’t the onion that made me cry; it was your face. That one almost made me laugh. Almost.