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Neverever.
I’m running my sophomores through an obstacle course when the principal, Gregory Townsend, waves me over.
“Anyone tell you about the mixer at Harrison Walcott’s house this weekend, Amanda?”
“No, sir.” The last thing I want is another social weekend after screwing up so spectacularly with Sam Baldwin. What must he think of me?
“Well, it’s required that you come. Usually I get around to all the first-year teachers before now, but with you being out here in the gym most of the time, it slipped my mind. Sorry about that. Thought I’d best get out here to let you know after Beth reminded me.”
Fan-freaking-tastic. Clearly, there’s no way out of this.
“It’s both a backyard barbecue and a meeting. Not only will all the new teachers from this year be there, the school board and the Oak Valley Chamber of Commerce will also be in attendance. It’s informal, so don’t worry about an evening gown or some such.” He chuckled a bit at his obvious joke. “Just show up ready to be recognized for joining our staff. It’ll be a good time. I promise.”
As if the week itself is aware of precisely how much I’m dreading this mixer, it zaps by like Michael Jordan in his prime. Before I know it I’ve donned a sleeveless top, long fuchsia skirt, and sandals and I’m jockeying my way in my little Honda Civic into a massive circle drive. I’m looking around for parking when a man dressed in black and white pops into the lane. He opens my driver’s side door and offers me his hand, which I can’t help frowning at.
“Who are you?”
“The valet, miss. Mr. Walcott has arranged for designated areas for parking, so the neighborhood doesn’t become too clogged.” He pauses for half a heartbeat, still extending his hand. “May I assist you out of your car?”
I’ve never experienced valet parking, and to have it provided at someone’s personal residence blows my mind. Not wanting to divulge my total ignorance at the practice, I allow him to help me out. I must move hesitantly, though, because the valet grins as if to appease me.
“I’m Stan. When you’re ready, I’ll bring your Civic back around lickety-split. No worries.”
Saying nothing, I take a step back as he drives my only mode of transportation out of sight. I’m still unnerved by the concept of this when I peer up—and up—at the mansion where this so-called backyard barbecue is taking place. I glimpsed it from afar as I coasted into the drive, but being thirty feet from its façade is another vantage completely.
I thought this would be someone’s house, and maybe Mr. Walcott does live here. But by my estimation, this is less a house and more a freakingmansion. Its brown brick front stands boldly solid with a span of evenly spaced windows dominating the exterior. There are gable windows above the third-story roofline and a Jeffersonian-style dome over the pillared porch with white double doors.
To me, this should be a government building, or maybe the county seat, not a simple residence where you put your feet up.
Regardless, despite its intimidating architecture, I approach the doors for them to immediately open without me even having to ring the bell. A man stands there wearing head-to-toe black, and it occurs to me that this dude is a butler. Oak Valley is a town with approximately twenty-five thousand people. I never would’ve thought it to have fancy-schmancy homes employing both a valetanda butler.
So, this is how the other half live.
The butler escorts me through impressively extravagant if comfortable rooms to the backyard, where I find steps that lead down to the ground level. There, within the boundaries of a manicured lawn that could belong to city park, is a raised deck with a grill, a landscaped patio, and a flagstone pathway that winds around like the yellow brick road, blooming eastern redbuds and dogwoods, as well as some lofty oaks.
Also, the crowd here could rival the number found at most college basketball games.
I see Principal Townsend, and since he’s the reason I’m here, I careen on over.
“Amanda. So good of you to come,” he greets me, as if I had a choice.
“It’s lovely to be here.”
“Marsha, this is Amanda Sizemore, our new P.E. teacher and girls coach.”
I have no clue who this Marsha lady is, but she seems to know about me.
“Are you the one who played in the WNBA?” she asks, all bright inquisitive eyes and flawlessly pristine smile.
“Well, not exactly. I tried out but didn’t make it, I’m afraid.” I offer my own smile, but internally, I’m reeling as if sucker-punched. It’s a huge sore spot to me to have attempted to follow my lifelong dream only to fail so miserably. Having to admit the truth to a stranger is insult to injury.
“Aww, that’s too bad,” Marsha simpers. “You certainly have the physical stature for it.”
“I do,” I enthuse with false cheer. What else can I say? Facts are facts, and I’m tall. The cherry on top is that my surname happens to be Sizemore which has long felt like an obnoxious twist of fate.
Women who are around the five-foot-two mark have no idea how fortunate they are. But then they don’t normally excel at basketball, do they? I let out a long breath and try to count my blessings.
Some semblance of this same conversation repeats itself as the principal introduces me around. I should really be used to this, but it still stings. I’ll always be the girl who was bullied, always the failed athlete. I’ll always be that gangly woman who towers over everyone else in the room. And no one seems to get that these sort of interactions can be humiliating.
