Odd Mom Out

The principal, Dr. Fielding, is at the microphone, and the meeting begins. Every school meeting seems to be filled with the same good-intentioned people making the same good-intentioned speeches that all somehow manage to be achingly boring.

The Korean family next to me with three kids attempts to shush their youngest, a toddler, as she fusses. I look at the child with sympathy. I want to fuss, too.

People continue to arrive even though it’s now fifteen minutes past the hour. One man arrives and takes a position against the wall not far from me, and immediately heads turn and people murmur. The man looks quite nice, broad-shouldered, sturdy, a balding head, but otherwise ordinary, and I’m not sure who he is or why he’s suddenly attracting so much attention.

“Steve,” someone a row down from me whispers, “here, take my seat.”

“Steve, do you want to sit here?”

“Hey, Steve, I don’t mind standing if you want to sit.”

But Steve declines each offer, shaking his head and smiling. “No, no, I’m fine,” he answers.

I’m curious about this very popular Steve. He does look familiar, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve seen his picture somewhere or if it’s because he looks like the wholesome, hardworking midwestern farmer I used in an ad campaign last month.

Tuning out the third speaker, I glance around and spot faces from the Points Country Club pool. Lana. Taylor with her husband, Nathan—he is good-looking in a very scrubbed Ralph Lauren polo ad sort of way. Mary-Ann Lavick, who definitely didn’t enjoy my company at last week’s brunch.

I continue scanning the crowd, impressed by the number of dads who have shown up. It’s good to see so many men taking an interest in their kids’ education. I know my dad never attended any school meetings, not even the parent-teacher conferences. That was always my mom’s job. But then, anything to do with me seemed to be Mom’s job.

Maybe that’s why I had a baby on my own. If my mom could do it, why couldn’t I?

Then, as I finish scanning the gym, looking for anything remotely interesting, my heart falls and I go all hot and fizzy.

He’s here.

He’s here right now, standing at the back of the gym with dozens of others, yet he stands out. Head and shoulders far above everyone else.

I take a quick breath, jolted.

I thought he was huge when he passed me in the fog on 84th Street, thought he was imposing at the grocery store, but here, next to the other men, the other dads, he looks like a mountain.

As I sit there gawking, he turns his head and looks at me.

It’s the same cool, piercing gaze from before. It’s intense. Discomfiting.

Flustered, I look away, shift uncomfortably in my seat.

My eyes burn, and my pulse races. I feel breathless again, which is ridiculous because I’m not running, not even moving. I’m just sitting in a putty-colored metal chair listening to people talk about buying new math technology and fund-raising to afford more teacher aides. Yet I can’t breathe. I can’t get enough air.

Suddenly too warm, I take the program given to us and fan myself. Hot, I’m so hot, and I wish I hadn’t worn all black with this car coat on top.

But it’s not me making myself hot. It’s him. And I can’t let him do this to me, can’t respond like this. So ridiculous, so silly. I’m being silly.

Yet I turn my head and look again. I’m like a schoolgirl, completely infatuated and unable to stop myself.

He’s so . . . so . . . everything.

He has the coloring of great Scottish warlords, his short, thick hair shades of red and gold, and his features are strong, male, as though whittled by wind and weather and war. He reminds me of a time long ago, of battles and warriors, peasants and kings.

Makes me almost wish I believed in love.

Makes me wish—even if it’s just for a split second—that I had someone like him at my side. With me, to love me, maybe even protect me.

I never wish for things like that. I’m an independent woman, a fiercely self-sufficient woman, but lately . . . lately . . .

I blink, give my head an all but imperceptible shake. The romantic stuff has got to stop. I’m a mom at Back-to-School Night, and he’s not part of an ad campaign, he’s not part of some great sales scheme.

If he’s here tonight, he’s a dad. He’s someone’s father. And most likely someone’s husband.

But he hadn’t been wearing a ring last Thursday night at P. F. Chang’s, and neither was his date.

Which means he could be divorced or widowed.

He looks my way again, and our eyes lock, hold.

I’m glad I’m sitting. I don’t think I could stand right now.

I don’t believe in love at first sight. Haven’t wanted to feel anything for anyone in so long, but he, this complete stranger, does something to me. He makes me feel so much, it hurts.

I’m not prone to infatuation, but I’m overwhelmed at the moment. I need to get out of here, need to get home and out of these clothes and into my tattered jeans and my paint-splattered clogs and my big oversize men’s shirts I wear on fall weekends.

The principal wraps up his talk, and the moment he’s excused everyone, I’m on my feet, purse under my arm, racing for the door.

I’m literally fleeing the building, practically running for my truck, when I turn smack into a rather unmovable chest.

I know who it is. I can tell. I can feel the size and width and warmth, and every nerve ending in my body screams. I’m wound so tight, I stumble back a step and then another.

“You all right?” asks a deep voice, a voice that rumbles its vowels and consonants.

My chest constricts, growing tighter and tighter, and I still haven’t made eye contact. I’m afraid to, yet normally I’m fearless. “Yes.”

“We’ve never met,” he says, and thankfully he doesn’t extend a hand. I don’t think I could touch him. I don’t want to touch him.

“Luke Flynn,” he adds.

“Marta Zinsser,” I answer, finally lifting my gaze and looking up, all the way up. He towers over me. He’s taller than six feet six—I’d swear he’s at least six seven. I’ve never met anyone this big who was also so unbelievably gorgeous.

His gaze narrows as it rests on my face. “You have a daughter.”

I nod. “Eva. She’s in fourth grade.” My heart’s thumping so hard, I struggle to say the next words. “And you? How old are your kids?”

“Not married. No kids.” The edge of his mouth lifts ever so faintly, almost slyly.

He knows I’m interested in him. The heat in his eyes isn’t my imagination. He’s interested in me, too.

“You just miss your elementary school days?” My voice sounds breathy, unsteady.

“I’m a Big Brother to a little guy here. I come to his school events whenever his parents can’t.”

I’m speechless. It’s the last scenario I imagined.

Luke glances at the throngs of parents heading to classrooms now. “Better go. Don’t want to be late.”

I nod, and as I look at him, I feel the strangest thing, as though something in me, something fragile, is about to fall. “I need to go, too.” I force a smile. “Good-bye, Luke.”

“Good night, Marta.”

I join the parents moving like great herds of cattle to yet another holding pen and enter Mrs. Shipley’s classroom with the others. Lots of parents sit at the student desks, while a few moms and dads line the wall.

I’m about to take a place on the wall, but one of the moms from the room parent meeting gestures to me. “You’re supposed to sit at Eva’s desk.”

“Thanks.” I squeeze through the clusters of small chairs to reach Eva’s desk and sit in the small chair.

The classroom door opens and a man sticks his head inside, takes a look around, and then just as swiftly leaves. I recognize him from the gym. It’s the balding man, the one named Steve.

I turn to one of the dads at the small desk next to me. “Do you know who tha

t man was?” I ask, nodding at the door. “I think I overheard someone call him Steve.”

“Yeah, that’s Ballmer,” the dad answers. “Steve Ballmer. CEO of Microsoft. Gates’s right-hand man.”

Ah, right. No wonder he’s familiar. His face is only plastered over the Seattle papers’ business sections every other week. “He seems like a nice guy.”

The wife of the man I’ve been talking to leans forward and whispers, “His wife’s lovely, too. I like her a lot. And you wouldn’t know they’re . . . you know. They’re not flashy, not material. Not like a lot of people around here.”

Wow. Someone with an honest opinion. I like this lady, whoever she is. Smiling, I extend my hand. “Marta Zinsser, Eva’s mom.”

“Lori and Jake Hunter, Jill’s parents.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say. And it is.