Look Again

Small comfort.

I must have a drink. Now. But there are no more Pellegrinos in the bucket. I can’t move. I stand there, my hand hovering over the ice.

I hate this place.

Ginger leans in and grabs two diet colas. She tilts them in my direction and gives me a gentle nudge. I move through the line, wait my turn (like any civilized person would do) for a burger, and pick an apple out of a bowl.

When Ginger and I sit at the empty end of a table on the Chamberlain Academy quad, I scowl at the cola in front of me. I won’t drink it. On principle. I take a bite of what turns out to be a perfect, juicy cheeseburger and look up into the canopy of ancient trees spreading their late-summer foliage over immaculate lawns.

I’m about to ask about the guy. That face. That laugh. I have to know more, but Ginger speaks first.

“What’s your specialty?” she asks. “I mean, is that what you call it? What’s your art?”

I nod. “Photography. I guess I’ll teach art foundations and a couple of other art classes, too, but photography is where my heart is.” Thirst overcomes my principles, and I snap open the top of the soda Ginger handed me and take a sip. It’s too sweet, but it’s wet and cold. I swallow and ask, “How about you? What do you teach?”

Ginger wipes her hands on a napkin. “Chemistry.”

I do not hide my surprise well. “Oh.”

She smiles. “Do I not look like a chemist to you?” She flips her auburn braids over her shoulder.

No. Honestly, she does not look like a chemist. She’s very pretty, and watching her smile, I can tell she’s one of those people who looks even prettier the longer you know them.

She has bright eyes and a great smile that shows off dimples in both cheeks. Her fingers bear about a half-dozen rings made of thick silver and cool stones. I’ve caught sight of what might be a small tattoo at her hairline behind her ear. She appears to be on a larger-than-normal scale, but then, most people seem big to me. Ginger’s bohemian blouse and ripped jeans make her seem comfortable in her tall, strong body.

The point is, none of those things scream “chemistry teacher.”

“I might have guessed drama,” I say.

Ginger’s explosive laugh is loud and monosyllabic. Just a giant “ha.”

She shakes her head. “You saw the drama,” she says, a contemptuous smirk twisting on her face as she points to a table not too far away. The grimace doesn’t stay, and I’m glad, because I feel like—I hope—Ginger is fundamentally a nice person, and I hate to be wrong about things like this. She’s gesturing toward the super handsome jerk from the airport, the one with the laugh, the one who cut the line and stole my Pellegrino (don’t forget, I remind myself), as he leans across the table where he sits, talking with his hands. He seems to be defending some strongly held opinion, and I would never admit this out loud, but his eyebrows are spectacular when they come together like that.

I almost envy the guy across the table from him. I wouldn’t mind that kind of attention.

Except he’s the worst, I remind myself.

“That guy teaches drama?” I try to keep the judgment out of my voice, so my question comes out low and monotone.

Ginger shrugs. “And he directs the competition acapella choir.” She makes a jazz-hands gesture. “He did Broadway for a while, I guess. I don’t really know anything about that stuff.” She takes another bite of her burger.

Broadway? Wow. Trying not to be impressed, I fiddle with a slice of pickle. “Do you know him very well?” I ask, wondering, even as I say the words, what I think she’s going to say. It’s clear she can’t stand the guy. With good reason. Because he mocks women in airports and steals the last Pellegrino out of the hands of poor defenseless photography teachers on their first day on campus. There are rules against such things, I’m positive.

“Sure,” she says, picking up a potato chip and cracking it in half. “It’s not a very big faculty. Only about forty of us. You’ll know everyone within a month. Who did you interview with?”

Subject changed. Noted. And why am I even asking? Despite those perfect eyebrows and the tumble of messy waves, I am very not interested in that guy.

I let my mind settle in, remembering the day of my interview. I’d carefully placed my laptop to avoid any weird angles. My dad told me that I had to be sure to look both older and taller than I am so the committee would take me seriously, very strongly suggesting that it was a good thing my interview was online instead of in person.

I understood him perfectly.

He meant I couldn’t fool anyone in person.

Fiddling with the snap top of my soda can, I answered her. “It was a virtual thing. I posted my portfolio online for the committee to look at, and I did a video call with Dr. Moreau, a couple of parents whose names I forgot the second they said them, Jarvis Kraft—and I can’t tell you how weird that was, since I wrote a paper on his technique for one of my modern painting seminars—and a scrumptious old lady from the Chamberlain Trust.”

“Wanda.” Ginger’s grin spreads as she nods. “Scrumptious is a perfect word.”

I nod with her, and we’re bobbing our heads in tandem as I go on. “She was exactly like a fancy grandma, if the fancy grandma thought she was actually your older sister’s best friend.” I loved that woman the instant I saw her, and the feeling only grew through the interview. Who knew eyes could twinkle over a video call? But hers did. Twinkled like anything. She was delightful. Charming. Adorable. I hope she comes around campus now and then. I don’t know if the trustees have any kind of presence at the school, but I would love to see her. Often.