20
DEXTER
The Ivy League DJ pulls a trailer up to the loading dock at the back of the Hall. I watch the guy unload a few cases onto a dolly before I decide to pretend I didn’t notice that he might need help. He does not need my help. Besides running an efficient portable music operation, the guy has muscles on top of his muscles.
Moving along the side of the building to the front doors, I buzz myself in only to find Joey already inside. She wears a zip-front hoodie and sweatpants, and her hair is piled up on top of her head again. I try to remind myself that I prefer women who make attempts to display their best sides, but my brain has a little trouble dividing Joey’s best side from the rest of her sides. Impossible that they can all be the best.
‘What’s even the point of BEST if there’s more than one?’ I text to Hank.
He answers quickly. ‘Rhetorical question or existential crisis?’
‘Neither. Both.’
Hank replies, ‘Don’t you have a party to decorate for?’
I shove my phone in my pocket and pull open the glass front door of the Hall. Joey turns her head. So does a kid on a ladder.
“Hey, Mr. Kaplan,” Lilian calls from behind a huge pile of tablecloths. “Did you see the scarecrows?”
Lilian is one of my technical theatre students who loves, among other things, set decoration. She’s constructed a dozen PVC pipe bodies and each of the school’s departments used their frame to create a scarecrow that will line the entrance to the dance.
“I didn’t notice. Maybe I came in the wrong door.” Or maybe when Miss Harker is in the room, I can only see her.
I am almost certain I did not say that last part out loud.
Lilian dumps the cloths on the floor and motions me to follow her. She steps to the door I’ve just walked through and points out the scarecrows that range from charming to frightening to hilarious.
“Which is your favorite?” I ask her, eager to keep my thoughts from wandering back into the particular spot in the Hall where Joey must be standing at this moment.
“Science.” She points to the left. “Check it out. They made the hat a flowerpot.”
I follow her and realize that she’s undersold the magnificence of the scarecrow’s head. Long vines grow like tangled dreadlocks curtaining a face molded of mosses and succulents. The whole things looks like a modern mother earth, ready to spread her arms and dance, flowers growing in every footstep.
We walk through the entryway, commenting on each of the creations, from Lady Macbeth to Genghis Kahn to a field hockey player. When I feel confident that I’ve spent enough time outside the main room to compose myself, I say, “Let’s get those tables covered.”
Back inside the Hall, I make myself busy throwing cloths on every surface that holds still. Even though I’m not looking, Joey is there. Here. Everywhere. I keep hearing her laugh with the kids and wishing that I had said whatever makes her laugh like that.
Pathetic. How is it, when was it that I became so pathetic?
I’m the one who said “friends.” I’m not allowed to stare dreamily at my friend.
A text buzzes in on my phone. ‘What is it you want, mate?’
How odd that he would ask me that right now, in the middle of my Joey-fueled crisis.
‘Everything. Nothing. Want an ordered list? Alphabetical? Numerical? I want Joey to adore me. I want Moreau to publicly lift the antiquated ban on dating another teacher at this school. I want to kiss her [Joey, not Moreau] again. I want a burrito. I want world peace. And I want this dance to be a successful, happy memory.’
‘All right, mate. That’ll do. Just wondering why you keep ringing my phone and not talking to me.’
Oh. ‘So… your question was actually what do I want right this minute?’
‘Right. Like I said.’
‘Nothing. Pocket dialing. Unless you want to grab a burrito and bring it to me?’
‘You need a different friend for such things. And possibly a new phone.’
I laugh to myself and stash my phone again, careful to assure it will make no more accidental calls.