Page 7 of Connectio
I mouth to him, “Thank you.”
He winks.
“Yes,” Fi says while stabbing an innocent piece of broccoli, “but it means longer hours.” She sucks on her tooth, and I get the impression she’s not happy.
“Oh.” Mum gives Dad a sideways glance.
“It’s only a couple of hours extra a day,” Ian adds.
“A couple of hours that you should be spending with us.”
The room goes quiet, so I decide to change the subject yet again.
“Scrapbooking? You haven’t done that in years, Mum.”
“Well, I have a grandchild now, which means lots of photos.”
I shake off yet another of her stabs at my single status before enduring more of them throughout dinner until I’m standing in my old bedroom, my fluffy lilac pillow clutched to my chest, while I stare at the Disney Princess decals still stuck to the pale pink walls. They were my favourite decorations growing up, and I’d almost taken them with me when I moved out, much to Carly’s disgust.
Reaching forward, I trace my finger over Ariel and Prince Eric, both of them about to kiss in a boat—so innocent, so in love. My heart swells; I want to be kissed in a boat under a weeping willow while animals sing in the background.
Never gonna happen, Libby.
Shoulders slumping, I move to where Belle and the Beast are dancing in his ballroom, followed by Prince Phillip leaning over Aurora while she sleeps, and then to Prince Charming on bended knee, securing Cinderella’s glass slipper to her foot.
I cock my head and let out a giggle. Prince Charming kinda looks like Oliver—tall with dark, neatly swept hair, clothes pristine, a smouldering smirk.
Pointing my toe like a ballerina, I assess my shoe. Hmm… maybe I could “accidentally” lose it at school next week like Cinderella did? And maybe, just maybe, he’ll find it for me.
I laugh then leave the room.
Again, never gonna happen.
* * *
Monday comes around rather quickly,and during second session—right before recess—I can’t seem to get Carly’s mantra of Vagina’s rule the world together with Operation: Oops, where’s my shoe? out of my head. It could work. I mean, nowhere in the laws of romance does it say you can’t help your own fairy tale along. And, sure, Cinderella’s missing shoe wasn’t intentional, but so what? That’s a minor detail.
Lifting my head, I blink a couple of times and focus on Oliver who is at the helm of the double classroom we share. He’s filling in an analogue clock on the whiteboard while I grade spelling tests in the corner behind my desk. Beige chinos fit snuggly to his butt, a white shirt to his chest underneath a cute woollen vest with a duck-blue diamond pattern. He looks dashing. Very clean-cut, very… Oxford.
Kicking off my shoe, I nudge it with my big toe until it’s under the bookstand next to my desk, instantly regretting my decision to do so as the smell of sweaty feet hits me like a grotty slap to the face. Abort, Libby. Abort Operation: Oops, where’s my shoe? now. Goddamn it, what are you doing? You know your feet pong when you wear these shoes.
I quickly suck in a breath and inconspicuously slide down my seat to try to fish my fluorescent-yellow Tiek safely back onto my foot, where it should stay… forever.
“Mr Bunt, why is there twelve numbers on the clock?” Jet Bradley asks.
Oliver swivels to look at Jet, his eyes growing wide before they meet mine. I sit back up, unsuccessful with my foot-fishing. Shit!
“Uh… because….” Oliver’s brow crumples, his expression saying, Good fucking question, and I can’t help but bite my lip to refrain from laughing. “Maybe Ms Hanson can answer that question, Jet,” Oliver says, looking rather pleased with himself before turning back to the whiteboard.
I smile—not an entirely happy smile, because the stench of my foot is near killing me. “Sure,” I say. “Time is measured by the movement of our planet, Earth, in relation to the sun.”
My Grade 3 and Oliver’s Grade 2 students all turn their heads to where I’m sitting, so I continue. “The earth rotates or spins—”
“The earth spins?” Jet asks.
“Yes, it—”
“Then why aren’t we dizzy?”
