“What are those?” The question comes from a woman barreling toward me. I glance around the auditorium at the sea of khaki, golf shirts, and Burberry to scope out who she’s talking to. Just my luck, she’s talking to me. And she’s pointing to the cling wrap-covered paper plate in my hand. I would have thought it obvious.
“Cookies,” I say.
She looks pleased. “Oh! Are these the faux-nut butter cookies we needed? I shared the Pinterest recipe for them with Ms. Fairhope but I don’t know if she looked at it…”
“You must be Janeane,” I say. “The fuck is a faux-nut?”
Her eyes flutter and she gives a shocked head wiggle. She looks like she’s about to school me on something when my rescuer shows up.
“Hi! Janeane! This is Vince Cole, Max’s daddy.”
Jewel picks up my plate of cookies and makes introductions. I shake hands with half a dozen extremely nice parents whose names I will never remember because all I have stuck in my head right now is the feeling of Jewel touching my shoulder and the sound of her voice calling me “Daddy.”
That’s not fair. Now my cock is as stiff as an iron fence post.
I do my best to nod and smile while silently begging for her to remove her hand from my body but also hoping she never does.
Some dude wearing a cardigan knotted around his shoulders says, “Say, yours must be that old Mustang I keep seeing in the drop-off line in the mornings.”
Finally, a car guy. What a relief.
“That’s me. 1968 GT fastback. My father was the original owner. Still purrs like a kitten.”
The dude looks a tiny bit envious and I’m not gonna lie, it’s a good feeling.
He goes on to ask about the engine. “302 cubic inch V8. Four speed,” I tell him.
“Nice,” he comments. “Haven’t driven a manual since I don’t know when.”
I shrug. “We can carpool sometime. Ditch the Volvos for one day, at least. Fuckin’ Detroit. Nothing cooler, am I right?”
Cardigan Man
looks interested but his wife pipes up with, “Well, the Scandinavians make the best safety features. Does that old car even have side curtain airbags?
“Good point,” I say. “But feel free to borrow it on date night. You never know, you might score with the Mrs.”
“OK!” Jewel snorts and takes the plate out of my hands as she physically steers me away. “Let me show you where these go!”
She smiles excitedly when we’re out of earshot from the PTA crowd. “I can’t wait to see what you made!”
When we reach a display table she’s chosen, she sniffs the plate of cookies and her eyes roll up in her head as she sighs. “Oh…god… Whatever they are, they smell amazing.”
Shit. Also not fair. Her eyes stay closed in rapture over my stupid cookies so long that it’s pornographic.
Lady, I think to myself, you are cruising for a sweaty dry hump under the bleachers if you don’t knock that shit off.
“Elvis cookies,” I say.
Her eyes fly open and her mouth spreads into a smile that says she’s elated by the two words I’ve said. “Did you say Elvis? What are Elvis cookies? No wait! Don’t tell me!” She pulls back the film and takes one out. “Do you mind?”
I shrug. “Shit, girl, it’s the PTA’s money. I have zero fucks to give.”
I hear a couple of parents nearby laugh and a couple of others make tut-tut noises. Cussing is one way to weed out the uptight ones.
Jewel takes a cookie out and inhales deeply. “Hmmm. Peanut butter…and…I’m getting banana. Oh my god, I get it! Peanut butter plus banana equals Elvis!”
“You win the grand prize,” I tell her, making jazz hands despite myself. The fuck is wrong with me?