So began the best evening of all her chaperoning years.
Their talk went from student cooking to student life hacks or shortcuts that left anyone else with the “What were they thinking?” reaction.
They chased off a party trying to sneak some vaping into the festivities, and Joey stepped in when a couple guys started teasing a nervous girl. Then they moved on to discussing dumb teenager tricks of their young days.
Doris didn’t have any. She’d grown up in the shadow of a gorgeous older sister whose natural charisma had made everyone turn her way when she entered a room. Even if she was in an old T-shirt and jeans. Whereas Doris could wear candy-apple red, and relatives would ask if she was home sick when she’d walked in right behind Sylvia. Doris had grown up relying on her excellent grades to make her mark in the family, and then on being responsible and dependable.
But Joey had apparently been mischievous as a teen, loving the sort of practical jokes that had no victims—visual jokes and dares. He kept her in a continuous ripple of laughter, so that s
he was actually so startled when the dance ended.
As they did a last walk around to check for canoodling couples, Joey exclaimed, “That was fun! I’d really like to do this again.”
“Chaperone a dance?” she joked.
“If you are there to do it with,” he countered, with that smile that bloomed straight Down There. “Or even get together without the chaperonage of a battalion of eighteen-year-olds.”
There it was, out in the open. Thump, thump, thump went her heart.
“Alas,” she said—and grimaced, hating the pomposity of that word.
He looked an inquiry, through those wide, candid golden eyes.
And he did want to, she could feel it. And she wanted to. The ferocity of her wanting scared the stuffing out of her. A real date? Like, going to a restaurant, maybe a play or a movie, and then . . . and then that intensely awkward waiting after, was she supposed to invite him in, or not, and what if he . . .
No. No. Her mother’s expectations—Phil the Philanderer—every small humiliation over a lifetime of indifference and rejection that had kept her firmly in place as safe, practical, sensible Doris choked her. She forced herself to breathe, then said with a Herculean effort to sound normal. Casual. “As it happens, the semester break coincides with Purim—that’s a Jewish holiday—”
Joey smiled. “I know.”
It was so nice not to have to explain everything to him. She went on, “My family traditionally goes to the mountains to celebrate, at a cabin my great-grandfather built. We call it the grandpa house.”
“That sounds restful,” he said. “Surrounded by family in a beautiful setting.”
Doris smothered a snort at the word restful. Much as she loved them, her family was seldom restful. Feeling off-kilter, she began to babble. “Great scenery, yes. It’s a locale no one has ever heard of, and it takes forever to get there. Which is why my grandfather’s grandfather picked it. I suspect he really wanted to be a hermit. All the other houses belong to rich people who use them as summer resorts. The area is empty most of the year, except summer…”
She only stopped because she ran out of breath. Joey had listened without any impatience, with that warm gaze.
“Anyway, that’s where I’ll be.” She forced herself to stop.
“Sounds like an interesting place,” Joey said with a hopeful tilt to his head that shot a pang of . . . something . . . straight to her heart.
Was it possible he wanted an invitation?
No, she was being delusional. She shifted her gaze to the fascinating sight of the parking lot as she rattled on even more desperately, “Anyway, he built it, and stories are, he used to play his violin to the bears and the deer. Nobody has lived there full time since, but it’s become tradition for us to go every Purim in hopes there might be snow. And when we come back, there’s school . . .” And she remembered Fridays. Her lifeline. Friendly, but not in that dangerous date category. “But I’ll be at the writers’ group next Friday. I’ll see you there, won’t I?”
Okay. That was totally friend-ly. But not date-y. Right?
She held her breath. He was still smiling, but the gold in his eyes had dimmed. His smile was still there, but it was more wistful than beaming. “Of course. Thank you for an excellent evening.”
“Thank you on behalf of the school,” she said firmly, in her best Teacher Voice.
Spinster teachers were in charge of their own destiny. Spinster teachers didn’t make awkward mistakes or create drama. They lived securely in their safe little boxes, doing their work and disturbing no one. Including themselves. “Good night.”
He gave a little bow, eloquent with a quiet dignity. She fought the impulse to keep him there, keep him talking, at least, but he turned and was gone.
Yes. That was the right thing to do, watch him walk away. Kept her safe. Awkwardness avoided.
So why were tears streaming down her face when she got into her car to drive home?