The Player Next Door

“There’s no need to worry about me,” I say instead.

“I know Lucy is a bit odd, but regardless of what some students might think, she doesn’t wish ill on others. She doesn’t cast spells on them.” Wendy rolls her eyes as if the idea is preposterous. “She came to me because she saw the connection between you and Cody’s father, and she became concerned about the backlash you might face. It’s no secret around here, the drama that unfolded between Penelope and Shane. I had to referee a parent-teacher meeting when Cody began kindergarten because they were in the midst of an ugly custody battle. We all know why.” She gives me a knowing look.

Because of Penelope. Because she was still in love with Shane and she’s a vindictive bitch.

“I’m aware of their history. But she’s living with a guy now, so hopefully she’s finally retracted her claws.”

“Out of Cody’s father, yes. But you’re now placing yourself as the other woman in her son’s life. People like Penelope Rhodes don’t handle that well. They can be difficult and loud and angry. Be ready for that, when you do make her aware of your relationship. The last thing I want to see is your reputation at the school suffer unfairly because of this. Or for Cody to struggle.” She hesitates. “I’m telling you this not only as the principal of this school but as someone who remembers a little girl many years ago, crying because of choices her mother made.”

She’s talking about my mother’s scandal.

I remember. I sat in this office—maybe in this very chair—in tears after Chrissy Moorhead callously teased me at recess about the infamous incident. Half the kids didn’t understand what exactly Dottie and Mayor Peter Rhodes were doing in the janitor’s room, but they knew it was indecent. Wendy must have expected the backlash because she found me crying behind a portable, the frigid winter temperatures an oddly soothing balm to my pain. She brought me in here to escape or to talk, I can’t be sure. Either way, it was a kindness when I needed it.

“This is not the same thing.” I’m not Dottie Reed and Shane is not a married political official, and I’m certainly not giving anyone blow jobs anywhere, let alone in the school’s broom closet.

“I know it’s not.” She pats the air with her hand. “But people have a way of connecting dots to suit their needs and make something out of nothing. I would hate to see another scandal follow you around. Just be careful. That’s what I wanted to say to you. Be careful and make sure he’s worth it.”

He is. There isn’t a moment’s hesitation with that thought.

The bell rings to signal the end of morning recess.

“I’ll let you get back to class, then.” She sighs and, in its weighty sound, I sense her fatigue. She’s been the principal at this school since I started second grade. Is she tired of it all yet?

Does she regret hiring me?

I stand and push in my chair, feeling more like a student than a teacher. “For what it’s worth, I was going to tell you, when I thought there was something worth mentioning. When we figured out how far this might go.”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it. I do.” She smiles. “And, between us, I think you’ve got a good one there.” She drops her voice to add more to herself, “He’s certainly a handsome one.”

With a smile, I duck out of her office. A black swirl of fabric catches my attention. Bott is at the photocopier, churning out papers.

Careful, Scarlet. That’s what she said to me that night at the Patty Shack. Could it have been out of genuine concern? Is Bott capable of that for the daughter of Dottie Reed, whom she seems to hold animosity toward, all these years later?

She turns suddenly, as if sensing eyes on her. We lock gazes for a few beats, her expression revealing nothing, before she turns back to the photocopier output tray.

She is so fucking strange.

I rush back to my classroom.

Twenty-Three

A jack-o’-lantern stares at me from a bedecked porch as I trek home, the strap of my bag digging into my shoulder from the weight of papers to grade this weekend. That pumpkin will be a rotten mess by the time we reach Halloween, a month away. But some things clearly haven’t changed in Polson Falls, like the urge to haul out the ghost and goblin decorations the day the calendar page flips to October.

It makes me smile.

The smell of fresh-cut grass fills my nostrils as I round the tall cedar hedge that divides Shane from the neighbor on his other side. Shane’s been out manicuring his yard this afternoon, his lawn groomed in tidy, straight rows.

He didn’t stop at his, though. My front lawn has also been cut.