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No.
I can’t have missed it.
I throw my coat on and run out the door, feet barely touching the crunchy, frosty grass. As I approach the Hall, I repeat those words I said in my apartment and add a few extras. Dr. Moreau stands at the door, saying goodbye to her guests.
I start to aim for a different door without catching her eye, but she sees me and nods.
A nod.
What is that about? What does it mean?
Is it a “you’re busted” nod? Or a “we’ll talk about this later” nod? Maybe an “all is forgiven” nod? Do those even exist?
I push my way through the exiting crowd, smiling and saying good night to people I pass without registering any faces.
When I make my way into the nearly empty Hall, I look around to see that the cleanup is well underway. Laughing kids flick the off-switches on the electric candles and toss them in plastic bins. I can’t see Joey. Not anywhere I look. A few teachers stayed to remove twinkle lights and help the DJ pack up. I see Hank on a ladder pulling down decorations and handing them to a girl in a shiny silver dress.
Wait.
That’s Joey. Joey, waiting at the bottom of his ladder to be handed giant paper maple leaves. He appears to be making conversation. I hurry over, certain I can save the night.
“Hey,” I say, lightly touching her shoulder. Do I imagine that? Or does she shudder before she pulls away?
“Hi,” she says without looking at me. She turns to take an orange leaf from Hank’s outstretched hand.
“Listen,” I begin, but I don’t know what to say after that.
When no other words seem to come, she speaks. “How about you help with those tablecloths?” She points across the Hall. “They go in those white canvas duffels.” She turns her back on me again. I know where the tablecloths go. They’re stored in my classroom. But I don’t dare say that to her. Not when she’s being so polite. So coldly polite.
I can’t think of anything else to say, or how to apologize, or how to interpret this strange frosty silence from Hank, or what to do next, other than help kids put dirty tablecloths in white canvas duffel bags.
At the tables, Lilian grins at me, and I’m surprised at the relief that washes over me. “Did you go home to change?” she asks. “Good thinking. I’m useless in this dress.” She makes a show of leaning awkwardly away from the table as she rolls up a cloth, working to avoid tossing crumbs on herself. I notice I’m the only one here in jeans and a sweater. Everyone else in the room is in their fancy best. Lilian doesn’t wait for a reply. “Wasn’t it great?” she says. “Everyone loved the decorations and the DJ and the food and everything. We did great!” She keeps squealing happy sentences as I follow her from table to table, stuffing cloths into bags.
She didn’t notice.
I missed the whole thing, and my student didn’t notice. Maybe Joey didn’t notice either. There were so many people here. My press through the exodus showed me the size of the crowd.
Can I pretend I’d been here? Should I? I balance the ethics of lying to Joey against the possibility that I could get one hundred percent busted. Something inside me suggests that I should confess and apologize and grovel in the hopes that Joey didn’t yet say anything (and won’t) to Moreau. Okay, yeah. That something is called a conscience.
On the other hand, it would be foolish to make waves if she somehow missed my absence. I don’t need Moreau to give me negative marks for this event. I mean, I helped. A lot. So if she missed the fact that I wasn’t actually present for the dance part, I am not going to be the one to tell her.
I’m not sure how I feel about the possibility of Joey not noticing I wasn’t here. No, I think. That’s not true. I know how I feel about that possibility. Not good. Not good at all.
I pick up a push broom from the corner and start sweeping the floor, making huge piles of glitter and corsage petals and unbaled straw. Telling myself not to watch Joey and Hank as she climbs the ladder and he holds it and moves it is not working. I keep looking. They seem to be getting along so well. I was so sure that Joey disliked Hank; probably because Ginger Rogers dislikes Hank (as much as anyone has ever actually disliked Hank—and as far as I can tell, she dislikes everyone else, too) and those things are contagious among women.
That is neither kind nor fair. But I understand—all too well—the likelihood of passing along a distaste for a person, even if by accident. And if I’m being honest with myself, I kind of enjoy the animosity between Joey and Hank. I know all too well Hank’s tendency to, in his own words, woo women. Happily, Joey has thus far proven un-wooable. By either of us.
Tonight, Joey and Hank look like friends. I pass near enough to the ladder to hear Hank say something about Wanda Chamberlain and Joey’s answering laugh. I don’t lurk to analyze the qualities of that laugh, but my push-broom drive-by allows me to notice that although she sounds amused, she doesn’t seem to be throwing herself at him. Not that she would. Rules. She’s very fond of the rules.
As I get farther from the ladder, the details of the overheard conversation sink in. Wanda Chamberlain. Wanda was here tonight. Wonderful. Joey must have made the most of her face-time with the board president, adding more weight to her side of the scale. The scale of possibility seems to be tilting precariously toward Joey’s side these days.
I reach the end of the Hall and turn back again, pushing the pile of trash in front of me.
“Hey, Mr. Kaplan?” Lilian’s voice pulls me out of what may or may not be drifting toward a funk.
I set my face in an expression of polite interest before I turn to her. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“What do we do with the scarecrows?”
