Feisty Read online

  “I'd better. I work with twenty of them every day for a living.”

  “Wants kids,” she says under her breath. “Kinks?”

  “What?”

  “Any sexual kinks?” For good measure, she pumps her hips up and down, sacrum arching off the booth seat.

  “Uh, what does that mean?” I imitate her. “Like, strap-ons? Because no.”

  “No kinks. Camping is next. You like camping?”

  “Camping is next to Kinks on the app?”

  “They spell camping with a K.”

  “The developers make six figures a year but they can't bother with an English major on staff,” Mallory grouses.

  “No. It's Kute. Spelled K-U-T-E. Everything on the app is spelled like that.”

  “How K-stupid.”

  “Make sure you mention the fact that she dips French fries in mayo,” Mallory stresses with a shudder. “Any potential mate needs to be warned.”

  Before I can respond, Perky's face screws in confusion.

  “Wait a minute. The app won't let me create an account for you.”

  “Which app?”

  When she names it, I realize the problem.

  “You'll have to use my old Yahoo email address.”

  They both look at me, stricken.

  “What did you do on this dating app to get your regular email address banned, Fiona?”

  “I encouraged people to vote.”

  “Huh?”

  “On election day in 2018, I swiped right. Had a script I used to encourage people to vote.”

  “You used a booty-call app to lecture people about voting?” Perky gasp-laughs.

  “I used a piece of technology that reaches the average person in ways nothing else can to nudge them to do their civic duty.”

  “How many guys did you do this to before they shut you down?” Mal seems fascinated.

  “Six hundred and twelve.”

  “And how many dick pics did you receive with 'I Voted Today' stickers on the tip?” Perky asks, as if her question is perfectly natural.

  How did she know? “Seven,” I reply. “Eight if you include the guy who put it on his waxed butthole.”

  “I don't know whether to have you committed or marvel at your ingenuity,” Mallory declares.

  “Both,” Perky says flatly. “Using your old Yahoo address now. FirstChakraBlueLight90 is the email, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Once she's in, she sets up my profile. “Can't use Fiona Gaskill. What name should we use?”

  “How about Cassandra? My middle name. And my mom's maiden name is Jones.”

  “I can't believe Fiona the preschool teacher was kicked off a dating site for Get-Out-the-Vote efforts.”

  “They said I violated their terms of service. I didn't tell people how to vote, just that they were letting the world down by not voting.”

  “There,” Perk declares. “Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones. I uploaded an old pic of my sister in case their system is sensitive.”

  “I look nothing like Ditie!”

  “It's that picture from back when she did female bodybuilding competitions.”

  “Didn't she do one? Just one?”

  “Yeah. Turned out she's allergic to spray tans. We had to hear her complaining about her labia itching for weeks.”

  “Why would female bodybuilders spray tan their labia?” Mallory asks.

  I cut off the answer. “You put up a picture of your Instagram-influencer-wannabe sister on a dating site so guys will find 'me' hot? No way. Change the pic to me.”

  “Fine. The only one in your Photos folder on your phone that works is an older one, before you dyed your hair. Back when it was your normal color. And it's in profile.”

  “Good enough!”

  A few taps later and we're done.

  “Excellent. That's settled.” Mallory pulls out a three-ring binder the size of New Jersey. “Now, let's talk about wedding planning. We have a dress fitting coming up, and a shower and a bachelorette party to plan.”

  “I need more cheesecake,” Perky and I say in unison. Is that a set of color-coded spreadsheets and pens Mal is pulling out?

  My phone buzzes.

  “Date?” Perky asks hopefully.

  “Just Rafaela. Told me to add her to the new dating app account.”

  “How did she know?”

  “I guess she's tracking my phone.”

  “That feels stalkerish.”

  “So does Fletch.”

  “See? You can't stop thinking about him.”

  You know how guys think about baseball stats to keep from ejaculating prematurely? Or they imagine their mother, to come up with the most repulsive image they possibly can to strip away all sexual arousal?

  Wedding planning with Mallory is my version.

  Then again, I have to admit to myself that every time there's some wedding-related event, I think about him. I realize I get to see him. We have dance lessons coming up, and Mallory speaks constantly about Will's bachelor party plans, how his cousin might not make it as a groomsman, how Parker's status as a congressman complicates security – and it's all rolled up in being around Fletch as we both celebrate our respective friends' happiness.

  Her wedding has become a touchpoint for being near Fletch.

  And as reluctant as I am to admit it, I like knowing I'll see him.

  “You're right,” I admit. “I can't. I can't stop thinking about him, and I know I shouldn't.”

  “Why shouldn't you?” Mallory asks, her fingers flipping through a tiny set of pointed Post-it note flags.

  “Because I've spent all these years filtering him out of my life. Trying to make him a non-entity. And I succeeded.”

  “Did you?” Mal's brown eyes seem wise in a breathless way as she looks at me. I hold my inhale, feeling seen but questioned at the same time.

  “Hmm?”

  “Did you succeed? If you spent so much energy filtering him, maybe you failed. Maybe you should examine why you spend so much time on him.”

  “Time?”

  “It takes effort to make someone be unimportant, Fiona. Why has it been so necessary?”

  “You know how much I hate that stupid nickname! And how people viewed me as my old self.”

  “So?”

  “So... what?”

  “Who cares what people think. You know you're not Feisty. You know you're a wonderful preschool teacher with a master's degree and a soul-perfect career you're really, really good at. Even Will thinks so.”

  “Will?”

  She blushes. “We were talking about kids the other day, and he said he'd want you to be our kids' preschool teacher.”

  Just then, Perky comes back with one of every dessert option.

  Mal's eyes are big as the macarons on the plate.

  “Perk! We just ate three desserts!” Mallory pats her belly. “And I have a wedding dress to fit into.”

  “Hey – Sharon and Roy are buying to thank Feisty here for her brave service to the community. Can't disrespect your parents.”

  For that comment, I snatch what I know is her favorite macaron, a lavender vanilla, and shove it in my mouth.

  “But!”

  “To the fighter go the spoils,” Mal says, flipping to a page in her binder that says, RIBBON.

  Just... RIBBON.

  As I chew, I listen to them bicker and think about Mallory's energy comment. She's right. It takes a lot of energy to avoid Fletch. To stay angry at him for something he did all those years ago. To keep up the forcefield around me that I think protects me from being hurt even more.

  What else could I do with that energy?

  Then there's the fact that he's not an asshole. Not even a little bit. Every interaction with him since the attack in my classroom has been nothing but kind. Caring. Sweet, even.

  And a little sexy.

  Okay. Fine. A lot of sexy.

  “Wait,” I say after swallowing, holding up one finger as I drink water, my friends looking at me in anticipati
on. “Am I the asshole?”

  “Yes,” Perky says immediately.

  “We haven't even heard why she's asking!” Mal points out.

  That elicits nothing more than a shrug from our friend.

  “What if,” I say, eyeing the RIBBON page, wondering why Mallory has an entire page of scribbled notes on that topic, “I've been wrong all these years?”

  “I told you the word tits is terrible!” Perky crows.

  “Not about that.”

  “Your taste in coffee?”

  “Nothing is wrong about my taste in coffee!”

  “Shhhh,” Mal admonishes. “Let Fiona speak.”

  “Thank you.” I look at my water glass, the drops of condensation reflecting the restaurant's soft light. “What if Fletch is a really good guy? What if I've been mad at him for doing something that stuck me with a nickname I hate, but the problem isn't him? It's my inability to let it go?”

  “Then that's easy – just become Elsa and let it go.”

  “If it were that easy, I just would!”

  “Maybe it is that easy, Maybe you're right – it's you. Not him,” Mal says as she taps the tip of her pen on the RIBBON page.

  “He was a jerk.”

  “Sure. In middle school and high school.”

  “And a little at the reunion.”

  “That was well over a year ago, and he'd been drinking. He was boisterous, but I don't think he was a jerk,” Mal says gently.

  “You don't?”

  “I think you're a little biased,” she ventures.

  Perky snorts.

  “A little?”

  “Says the woman who spent five years being miserable because she wouldn't take a single text from the guy she was wrong about,” I snap at her.

  “And you should learn from my mistake.”

  “Learn what? I assure you I never, ever sext or take nude photos with guys or allow dogs in the bedroom when I'm – ”

  “Not that mistake.”

  “Which one? Because when it comes to you and mistakes, there's a list longer than the contents of Mallory's wedding binder.”

  “How did you feel when you saw Fletch? Just now?”

  My heart flutters.

  “See?” Perky pops a piece of pie in her mouth.

  “See, what?” I demand.

  Mallory answers for Perky. “You look smitten.”

  “Smitten? Mallory, you've been spending way too much time with your mom.”

  “We're planning my wedding!” she taps the word RIBBON. “Speaking of which, we need to talk about the ribbon we're using.”

  “For what?” Perk asks.

  “Everything! I need to decide on colors for the flower arrangements, the goodie bags, and the – ”

  Perky shoves a macaron in Mal's mouth.

  “I can't like Fletch! I can't change my mind about him!” I blurt out.

  “Why not?” Perky challenges.

  “Because – because – because he...”

  “If you bitch about being called Feisty yet again, Fi, so help me God,” Perky says, using a pirouette cookie like it's a cigarette. She takes a drag off the end, tapping it like she's ashing. “He's a hot, nice, hometown guy who did a really good thing helping you after the attack. When we were at the ER waiting to see you, he even brought me a coffee. Asked if I knew how to reach your parents and brother. Sure, he was kind of a dumb jock in high school, but you can't be mad that he gave you a nickname that doesn't represent who you are anymore and then put him in a box and do the same to him.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “The side that gets you laid.”

  “This isn't about sex.”

  “Every time you look at him, your eyes say otherwise.”

  “So do other parts of my body,” I admit.

  “Can we get back to my wedding?” Mallory asks kindly, the look on her face making it clear she's not selfish.

  She's doing me a favor.

  “Ribbon!” I chirp. “So excited! So many colors!”

  A grimace is her reaction.

  “I liked you better when you were questioning your life,” she snaps, sliding the binder to Perky, who thumbs through it.

  “You have an entire page devoted to lighters and long matches?”

  “The colors of the handles and the boxes matter, Perk.”

  “Where's your page on color-coordinated bottles of lube?”

  Mal blushes.

  “You have one, don't you?”

  It all boils down to this, I realize, as Perk and Mal argue over... lube.

  We're all on the side that gets us laid.

  Chapter 6

  The first day of classes every school year is the scariest one for kids and teachers. So many unknowns.

  This year, though, the scariest day has a completely different date attached to it.

  I arrived early today, ready to give each child as much time as he or she needs. We've created a special schedule, with the twenty children coming in pairs, two at a time, five minutes apart. It means the first hour of school will be calmer, more methodical, less chaotic. Some kids will need to arrive a bit late, but not one parent complained.

  Truth be told, I needed to build a little time in there for the parent hugs, too.

  Mattie and Jahra are the first kids to arrive. Jahra hands me a big, rolled-up paper.

  “What's this, sweetie?” I ask her as she fiercely hugs my neck, legs wrapping around my waist. We generally don't hold the children like this, but her grandmother's face spreads with a weepy grin and suddenly, I'm enveloped by a sari-wearing, grey-haired woman named Nisha, whose grip on my shoulder rivals her granddaughter's.

  “Bless you,” Nisha whispers as we hug so tight, I think a rib will crack.

  “Nani!” Jahra shouts against my chest. “I can't breathe!”

  Stepping back, Nisha looks at us, her weathered hand coming up to my face, cradling my cheek. Her eyes capture mine, the old, grounded energy in her making me feel so heavy, like a rock that weathers everything, never needing to move, mere presence more than enough.

  “You,” is all she says before spotting a very excited Mattie, who is jumping up and down with eagerness, a wrapped present in his hand.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as Nisha nods, turning back to walk the five blocks to the home where she lives with Jahra, her son, and daughter-in-law.

  “FIONA!!” Mattie shouts. “This is for you!” Shoving a present at me, he beams.

  I take it. Small pieces of tape cover every possible surface, the wrapping paper lumpy.

  “You wrapped it yourself!” I exclaim.

  “How could you tell?” he asks as Candi stands next to him, quivering and sobbing. Mattie looks up at her and frowns. He pats her hand.

  “It's okay, Mommy. Daddy didn't hurt her like he hurt you. Fiona stopped him. Uncle Chris says Daddy can't hurt people anymore. He's not a bad man. He just did a bad thing.”

  The words come out of his mouth just as Fletch appears behind Candi, jaw setting tight as he overhears what Mattie's just said. Our eyes meet, his full of unspoken pain. The fact that he's here, his hand resting carefully on his sister's shoulder, means so much.

  “Fiona, I'm so sorry,” Candi chokes out, face crumpling as Mattie ping-pongs his attention between me, his mother, and his uncle. They don't know this, but I built in an extra buffer for them, the next pair of kids coming in ten minutes, not five.

  Before I say anything to her, I bend down, one knee touching the ground, my leggings covered with brightly colored donuts and my tunic a pink, frothy thing with piping the color of the icing on one of the donuts.

  My new slippers have hard soles on them.

  “Mattie, thank you.”

  “Open it now,” he insists.

  Candi nods, and Fletch offers her a handkerchief, an honest-to-God old fashioned one, ironed neatly in a square. She makes a hand motion that says I should open the gift.

  When I do, I stare at it, dumbfounded.

  �
��It was Mattie's idea,” Candi says, uncomfortable.

  Fletch's throat bobs with emotion as he realizes what Mattie gave me.

  “Is this a lock-picking kit?” I ask, the case designed to hold the same kind of long, thin metal tool Rico used to break in.

  “Yes! That way, you have your own if someone tries to come here again and do a bad thing,” he says, hugging me.

  And then he runs off, waving to Michelle, who looks like she's about to crawl into a heating vent.

  “I'm so, so sorry!” Candi says, chest rising quickly, her hands ice cold as I reach for her, trying to reassure her. “The–the counselor the school sent to talk to him told me I should let him give you that, because he's working through his feelings and–”

  I pull her into a real embrace, chin on her shoulder. Fletch's helpless look is one of raised eyebrows and a keen sense of frustration that he can't rewind time and make it so Rico didn't do what he did.

  In my classroom, and to Mattie and Candi long before.

  It's okay, I mouth to him. He nods, then takes in a long, deep breath. The urge to comfort him is overwhelming.

  The need to comfort him is almost unbearable.

  “Jesus, Fiona, I can't believe you did whatcha did,” Candi says, chattering. It's not a cold day, but she's freezing, a semi-shock state making me worried for her.

  “I did what I needed to do, Candi. And I don't want you or Mattie to ever, ever think any of what Rico did is your fault. Don't you ever tell me you're sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about. You and Mattie are important members of our school community and we love you.”

  Her grip on me is fiercer than Jahra's.

  We're both sobbing as Fletch turns away, and–is he wiping a tear from his eye? The way he coughs makes me think so.

  “I'm, uh, going to be in the car,” he says to Candi without turning around.

  As she pulls away, Mattie comes running back to us, tugging on the hem of her shirt. She looks down, pain and love pouring out of her.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Uncle Chris is staying, right?”

  “Uh huh. I have to go to work, but Fletch will be right there.” She points outside, to a small black compact car. Fletch has the door open. He waves.

  Mattie waves back. I have to curl my fingers into a fist to stop myself from doing the same.

  “What's he doing?” I ask as Mattie runs back into the other room to play with Michelle. Ani's busy with Jahra.