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Chatting about a children’s holiday play is the last thing I have in mind if we put our heads together. But the play and stage scenery is the most pressing issue at the moment. That and my nagging libido. It hums an undeniable tune of attraction low in my belly.
I hit the play's highlights, describing my vision. We’ll keep the tree but move it to center stage. I need a fireplace in the background and an easy-to-assemble Santa chair. We need a red carpet, candy cane poles with red ropes, a sleigh, and a cozy Christmas morning family setting.
“Oh, and wrapped presents under the tree,” I add as if my list isn’t long enough.
Connor strokes across his five o'clock stubble as he soaks in the surroundings and my enormous wish list. His brows wrinkle and furrow, and he does this crazy adorable thing with his lips as he mulls over the problem. His lips twist and pucker, then release. He bites at the inside of his lower lip, and I want a nibble, too.
He scribbles on his notepad, then flips a page to sketch some more. I crane my neck to see, but his meaty forearm and musky scent distract me. He smells delicious. Irresistible, in fact. My mouth waters, and I inch closer, hoping he won't mind.
He tilts the notepad for me to see. I’m impressed. His sketches bring to life the vision in my head.
“We need more cardboard, some paint, and tacos.” He throws me a sideways glance, and I burst into laughter. I bump against his arm, and he leans into me as naturally as old friends picking up where we left off.
“Tacos fix everything.”
***
Connor
We agree to a taco and supply run and bring the goods back to the community center. We sit cross-legged on yoga mats and spread napkins across the surface to catch stray crumbles, so no one's the wiser during early morning meditation. I wipe taco grease from the corner of my mouth, mulling over everything I want to know about her.
“I don’t mean to pry, but–”
Ginger stops mid-bite with her head leaning to the side. She arches an eyebrow and gives me an impish grin.
I laugh. “Okay, so I’m prying. Why do you teach drama and put on plays with your afterschool group if public speaking and attention make you so uneasy?”
“To break the cycle. Maybe my students won’t be like me when they’re older. Every child should have a voice and know they’ll be heard.” She shrugs her shoulders and takes a bite of taco.
I never felt unheard as a child. Not by my parents anyway. We endured enough hardships outside of the home, contending with low income and making ends meet. But inside the confines of my family's cocoon, there wasn't any room left for self-doubt or feeling like an outsider. I knew I was loved and that my feelings mattered. It's a shame not every child has the same experience.
“Did you feel like you didn’t have a voice as a kid?”
Bits of lettuce and tomato fall onto the napkin-covered mat. She pinches the crumbs between her fingers and leans her head back, dropping the escaped veggies into her mouth. She’s comfortable and unfazed as I watch, giving her my full attention. I wish she could see herself the way I do now. Unspoiled, natural, and genial. She’s a walking, talking example of confidence.
“I did, but I also felt like I had my place, and it wasn’t the same as my brother’s place.” She picks at a corn chip, not appearing to have any intention of eating it. “One of those rationales that girls should be seen and not heard. I deferred to Killian most of the time, and boy, did that leave me wide open for his ornery streak. But he’s a good brother, no matter how flawed and overbearing he can be.”
The words are pragmatic, without the slightest bit of malice or sadness. The soft spot in my heart grows as I get a deeper understanding of what makes her tick.
“Well, I think you’re setting an excellent precedent in teaching by example.” I leave the rest of my taco unfinished and brush the crumbs from my hands. “You did a terrific job with the crowd the other night.”
“Ugh. Don’t get me started on the mixer. Killian roped me into that.” She brushes her hands on her napkin and leans back, steadying herself with a hand planted firmly on the floor behind her. Her breasts billow upward, and I steer clear of ogling her curves. “Tell me about you. Do you have a bossy older brother, too, or do you have a misguided younger sister who puts her full trust in you?”
She snickers and begins crumpling her taco trash. I do the same. If we’re going to get any work done this evening, we need to start moving.
“I don’t have siblings, but I do mentor a young boy.” I toss my used napkin in the empty taco bag as Ginger holds it open. “One of those big brother kind of things.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her eyes brighten, intent as she listens.
“He’s a good kid but shy. It’s taken a while to figure out how to pull him out of his shell.”
She nods, understanding as only a parent or teacher can.
“The Dirty Santa gift is for him.”
“Oh. I assumed it...I mean, I know those sets can be collector’s items. Did you know there’s a website dedicated to collectors and how many they’ve acquired through the years?”
“I didn’t know that. I’m sure Christopher doesn’t, either. He’s the boy I mentor.” Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned his name. Is it some kind of ethics breach? Ginger’s a teacher. I’m sure she’s seen her share of underserved children. I trust her enough to share. “He loves to build things. He carries around a notebook for sketches. He has big dreams, and I hope to teach him he can achieve them if he puts in the work to make them happen.”
