Page 24 of Curveball
Palmer
What’s not to love about an entire week of early release days? Well, nothing—for the students. Dylan certainly doesn’t mind lounging around the house all afternoon with no supervision. Maybe I should have a responsible adult stay with him so he’s not home alone. Someone to oversee his actions and make sure he’s being, well,responsible.
My cell phone buzzes with an incoming call, but my head’s not so far in the clouds I don’t check the Caller ID before I answer. What if Alejandro is on another of his quests to control my life? When I see it’s Priya, I grab for the phone and answer.
“Hey, lady! I haven’t talked to you in days. How you feeling as a wardrobe curator for the city’s Gen Z titans? And I don’t mean the football studs.”
“Well, my friend, it’s funny you mention professional athletes, actually. Because we’re about to remember how we feel abouthockeystuds. You’ll never guess who I just fucking signed as a client.”
I could only think of one hockey player—oneperson—she’d sound sopissedabout representing.
“God, Pree, tell me no.”
“Oscar Torres? Abso-fucking-lutely.”
“I told you your socials are badass.” It was a weak attempt and humoring her.
“Thanks, but that’s no help, Palmer.”
“Yeah, I know. Maybe there’ll be a silver lining?”
“Sure. Maybe. When you think of it, let me know. In the meantime, there was one piece of good news in that otherwise craptastic meeting.”
“Don’t keep me waiting. How does this get better?”
“Well, that night of the casino fundraiser, when you were in the bathroom, you know, getting face fucked by a tall, dark stranger—” she interjects a loaded pause and I roll my eyes and twirl my finger in aget to the pointgesture becauseI remember it clearly, thank you—“I met Oz’s agent in person. Flynn Nichols, that’s his name. I think he said he’s Max’s guy, too?”
“I don’t know, but I can find out if?—”
“Nah, it’s not important. Anyway, he was there with his wife. Till then, I’d only emailed or talked with him by phone. But his wife, Colleen, loved my dress, and now I have an appointment with her to go over wardrobe strategy.”
My heart swells with happiness at her success.
“Amazing, Pree, and well deserved! I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m just glad you went with me and I didn’t pass on the tickets. It was sheer luck that Kevin in Accounting couldn’t make it so he gave them to me.”
Lucky for her because she got a promising client . . . along with whatever we’re referring to her ex as these days.
The jury’s still out on whether it was lucky for me.
After another few minutes of chatting and deciding we need to get together soon, we say goodbye and I openanother student’s file to review the contents in preparation for tomorrow’s parent meetings. Thank God it’ll finally be Friday. Early release days for teachers is only a matter of exchanging hours spent with students for hours interacting with parents and administration.
As if I conjured it, the file I have open is Natalie’s. Max’s daughter. He’s been on my mind far too many times in the week since I met him, especially since I thought we turned a corner away from antagonism and maybe—oh please, pretty please—back to the bad boy and his Palmer Girl. But so far, radio silence. No calls, no texts, no email, no carrier pigeon. I know he’s attracted, because apparently,I do make everything hard.
And now . . . now that today’s memory of Max has broken the seal and left me feeling dejected and abandoned, and a little bit horny, I wonder how to put him back in the bottle. I haven’t been able to manage it all week, and Mike’s had to be generous with his magical touch.
These continued thoughts are doing me no good at all, so I return to my original quandary. It would be nice for Dylan to have company this summer while I teach summer classes, but who would it be? I don’t have family nearby, not that any of them would be willing to help. Maybe we should get a dog. Not exactly the same thing, but until something, or someone, more suitable comes along, I’m all he’s got.
As if sending a reminder that I do have options, my phone dings with a text message notification. It’s Alejandro. My heart jolts and I swipe left and send it to trash without reading.
Hey, universe, I wasn’t calling for an intervention!
I wait anxiously for a repeat notification from Alex’s dad at the four-minute mark, but for once, he seems content to settle for causing vague anxiety rather than my total meltdown.
It’s late in the afternoon when Natalie Murphy appears at the door to my classroom in a T-shirt and shorts, hair wet andin a combed-back ponytail as though she just showered after practice, her shoulders sagging with the weight of her backpack and gear bag. Again, I wonder if my thoughts are so loud that I’m manifesting my feelings. Next thing I know, I’ll get a call fromThe Max Murphyhimself.
The difference is, that’shope.
