The Life List Read online

  The shrill sound of a school bell rings out, knocking me from my reverie. My eyes shoot to the clock above the chalkboard. Oh, dear God! School’s about to start.

  I rush to Mrs. Porter’s desk and search for lesson plans. I lift the attendance book and scramble through a stack of worksheets, but find no lesson plans. I yank open the desk drawer. Nothing. I plow through the wooden cabinet. Still nothing! Where the hell are my lesson plans?

  From down the hall I hear the rumble of an army stampeding toward the classroom. My heart races and I snatch a file folder from a metal basket. The loose papers spill onto the floor. Damn! I catch a glimpse of LESSON … before it cascades to the floor and lands upside down under my desk. My lesson plan. Thank you, Lord!

  The army is closer now. My hands tremble as I gather the fallen papers. I’ve retrieved most of them, except the most important one, the lesson plan wedged under Mrs. Porter’s desk. On my hands and knees, I crawl toward it, desperate to retrieve it. But it’s too far back. That’s when my students arrive, my hindquarters providing the first impression of their substitute teacher.

  “Nice ass,” I hear somebody say, followed by hearty laughter all around.

  I pull myself from under the desk and smooth down my slacks. “Good morning, boys and girls.” I raise my voice so I can be heard over the morning chatter. “I’m Ms. Bohlinger. Mrs. Porter isn’t here today.”

  “Cool!” a freckled redhead says. “Hey everyone. We got a sub today! Sit anywhere you want.” Like in a game of musical chairs, my students leap from their desks and fight to capture a new seat.

  “Back to your own desks! Now!” But my words are swallowed by the chaos. It’s only eight twenty and I’ve already lost control of my classroom. I turn my attention to the back of the room where a girl with Medusa braids screams at a brown-skinned boy who looks to be about twenty.

  “Stop it, Tyson!”

  Tyson twirls while pulling her bright pink scarf, winding it around his waist tighter and tighter.

  “Give me my fucking scarf!” Medusa says.

  I march over to them. “Give her the scarf, please.” I reach for it, but he shimmies from me and continues to spin in circles, stretching the scarf like he’s pulling taffy. “C’mon now. Pink’s not even your color.”

  “Yeah,” the freckled boy shouts from across the room. “Whatcha want with a pink scarf, Ty? You gay or something?”

  Tyson springs to life. He’s almost as tall as I am, and a good twenty pounds heavier. He leaps over row after row of desks in search of the redhead.

  “Stop!” I rush down the aisle as quickly as I can, but I can’t leap the rows like he does. He’s already got the kid by the throat, shaking him like a martini. My God, he’s going to kill this kid! And it’ll be my fault! Could I be charged with manslaughter? I call to Medusa, “Get the principal!”

  By the time I reach the scuffle, the boy’s freckled face glows red and his eyes are frantic. He’s struggling to wedge Tyson’s fingers from his neck. I yank on Tyson’s arm, but he jerks away. “Let go!” I scream. But my voice doesn’t seem to penetrate.

  Kids gather around the fight, whooping and hollering, escalating the frenzy.

  “Sit down!” I shout. But they don’t flinch. “Stop it! Now!” I work to peel Tyson’s fingers from the boy’s neck, but they’re like steel pipes. Just as I open my mouth to scream, a stern voice calls out from the doorway.

  “Tyson Diggs, come here. Now!”

  Instantly Tyson lets go of the boy’s neck. I nearly collapse with relief, and turn to see Mrs. Bailey in the doorway. At once, the students retreat to their seats, silent and orderly.

  “I said come here,” she repeats. “You, too, Mr. Flynn.”

  The boys skulk forward. She claps a hand on each of their shoulders and nods to me. “Proceed with your lesson, Ms. Bohlinger. These young men will be spending the morning with me.”

  I want to thank her. No, I want to bow down and kiss her feet. But I don’t trust my voice. I simply nod, hoping she can identify the gratitude in my face. She closes the door behind them. I take a deep breath and turn to my class.

  “Good morning, boys and girls,” I say, leaning one hand on a student’s desk to steady myself. I try out a shaky smile. “I’m your substitute teacher.”

  “Duh!” a girl who looks seventeen says. “We know that.”

  “When’s Mrs. Porter coming back?” another girl asks, her sequined T-shirt identifying her as a PRINCESS.

  “I don’t know, exactly.” I look around the room. “Any more questions before we get started?” Started on what? The damn lesson plan is still under my desk.

  The princess raises her hand. I lean in to read her name.

  “Yes, Marissa? You have a question?”

  She cocks her head, pointing her pencil at my orange Prada flats. “Did you actually pay for those?”

  All I can hear is high-pitched, juvenile laughter, and I’m back at Meadowdale. I clap my hands. “Enough!” But my words are swallowed by the chaos. I need to get these prepubescent monsters on track, now. I spot a girl in the front row, presumably named Tierra. “You,” I say. “Help me.”

  The volume in the classroom is mounting, and I don’t have a moment to spare. “I need my lesson plan, Tierra.” I point to the white sheet of paper wedged under the desk. “Can you climb under there and get it, please?”

  Possibly the only obedient child in the room, she gets down on all fours and burrows under Mrs. Porter’s desk, just as I’d done earlier. She’s smaller than I am, and she reaches the paper easily. I watch as she plucks it up, and immediately I see the heading, LESSON 9—SILENT “E.” It’s not my lesson plan! It’s a friggin’ spelling list!

  “Damn!” I say without thinking.

  Tierra’s head jerks to attention, slamming against the underside of the desk and sending a boom like a thunderclap throughout the room.

  “Get the nurse!” I scream to whoever might be listening.

  ——

  After an interminable six hours and forty-three minutes, I shuffle the students from the classroom. I want nothing more than to race from the school grounds and throw back a strong martini, but Mrs. Bailey has summoned me to her office. With lavender reading glasses balanced on the end of her nose, she hands me a stack of papers and her pen.

  “I need you to sign off on these incident reports.” She nods to the chair in front of her desk. “You might want to sit down. This could take a while.”

  I slide into a vinyl chair and scan the first report. “You must be incredibly busy, dealing with these incidents all day long.”

  She peers at me over her glasses. “Ms. Bohlinger, you sent more students to my office today than most teachers send in an entire school year.”

  I cringe. “Sorry about that.”

  She shakes her head. “I sense you’ve got a good heart, I really do. But your classroom management skills …”

  “Once I get the hang of things, it’ll get easier.” Like hell it will. “Have you heard from Mrs. Porter? Did she have her baby?”

  “She did indeed. A healthy baby girl.”

  My heart sinks but I paste on a smile. “I’ll be back Monday then, bright and early.”

  “Monday?” She pulls off her glasses. “You don’t think I’d allow you back in that classroom, do you?”

  My first instinct is to be elated. I’ll never have to teach those little hoodlums again! But rejection growls in my face. This woman doesn’t want me in her building. I need to prove to her, and to my mother, and to that little girl with the silly dreams, that I can teach.

  “Yes. I just need another chance. I can do better. I know I can.”

  Mrs. Bailey shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sugar. No deal.”

  ——

  Whether Brad really was available, or whether Claire sensed I was having a breakdown and hastily cleared his schedule, I’m not sure. Regardless, he’s waiting for me when I arrive at his office. My hair, wet from the afternoon downpour, clings to m
y skull, and I reek of damp wool. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and leads me to the familiar leather chair. He smells like evergreen trees. I close my eyes and begin to cry.

  “I’m a loser,” I blubber. “I can’t teach. I can’t finish those goals, Brad. I can’t.”

  “Stop,” he says softly. “You’re okay.”

  “Have you heard anything from Pohlonski?”

  “Not yet. I told you, it’ll be awhile.”

  “I’m losing it, Brad. I swear I am.”

  He holds me at arm’s length. “We’ll get you through this, I promise.”

  His placating tone infuriates me. “No!” I say, pulling away from him. “You don’t know that! I’m serious. What happens if I can’t complete this list?”

  He rubs his chin and looks me squarely in the face. “Honestly? I guess you’d be just like millions of other folks out there, beating the bushes for a job and trying to make ends meet. But unlike most people, you’d have no debt to deal with … no retirement account to worry about …”

  His words shame me. I’ve been so laden in self-pity that I’d forgotten how lucky I am—even now. I lower my eyes.

  “Thanks. I needed that.” I sink into the chair. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll find another advertising job. It’s time I got on with my life.”

  “Your old life, you mean? With Andrew?”

  A wave of sadness comes over me, imagining the rest of my days spent in a passionless job, and my evenings alone in a cheerless condo I can’t even call my own.

  “Sure,” I say. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

  “That’s not true. You’ve got options. That’s what your mother is trying to show you.”

  I shake my head, feeling my frustration mount again. “You don’t get it! It’s too late to start over. Do you know what the odds are of meeting the love of my life, and finding out he wants kids and a dog and a friggin’ pony? And my clock is ticking, Brad—that cruel, one-sided woman-hating biological clock.”

  Brad perches on the chair facing mine. “Look, your mother thought completing that life list would lead to a better life, right?”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “Has she ever let you down?”

  I sigh. “No.”

  “Then make it happen, B.B.”

  “But how?” I nearly scream.

  “By channeling that bold little girl you used to be. You criticize your mom for being a coward, but you’re no different. You want those wishes, I know you do. But you’re too damn scared to take a chance. Go make your dreams happen, B.B. Do it! Now!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Andrew’s asleep on the sofa when I step into the loft, the illuminating flicker from the television playing hopscotch on his face. He must have knocked off early today. I want nothing more than to tiptoe past him, change my clothes, and pretend I just got home from a long day at the office, but I don’t. My heart thrums in my chest. It’s time.

  I switch on a lamp and he stirs.

  “When did you get home?” he asks, his voice groggy.

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  He checks his watch. “I was hoping we could beat the crowd at The Gage.”

  “Sounds great,” I say, hearing the slight tremor in my voice, “but first I have something to tell you.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve been lying to you, Andrew. It’s time you learned the truth.”

  I sit down on the sofa beside him, and reveal the wishes of a girl I once knew.

  ——

  My throat aches by the time I’ve finished. “So, that’s the deal. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was afraid you’d … I was afraid of …” I shake my head. “I was simply afraid of losing you.”

  Andrew props his elbow on the arm of the sofa and kneads his temple.

  “That’s pretty shitty of your mom.”

  “She thought she was doing me a favor.” I find myself defending my mother, which seems simultaneously crazy and absolutely right.

  Finally, he turns to me. “I’m not buying it. Elizabeth wouldn’t keep you from your inheritance. In the end, there’ll be a fortune, with or without meeting those goals. Mark my words.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Neither does Brad.”

  “I’ll do some checking. So far you haven’t gotten a dime?”

  “No, and there’s no time to investigate. I have to complete this list by September.”

  His jaw drops. “Next September?”

  “Yes.” I take a deep breath. “So, I need to know, how do you feel about all this?”

  “How do I feel about this? It’s fucking nuts!” He repositions himself so that he faces me. “You need to do what you want, babe, not what your mother wants you to do. Granted, I didn’t know you when you were fourteen, aspiring to teach school and have babies.” He raises an eyebrow and grins at me. “All I know is the accomplished woman you are today, or rather, the woman you’ll be once you land your next big position—if that’s what you choose.”

  He grazes my cheek with his thumb. “Look, I know it’s not perfect, but what we’ve got is pretty damn good. Sure there’s stress with our careers, but it’s nothing compared with our friends who have kids. And add to that a dog, and a horse, and social obligations.” He shakes his head as if horrified by the thought. “I cannot imagine. I happen to love our life together, the way it is now. I thought you did, too.” He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Am I right?”

  My face burns but he won’t let go of my gaze. If I answer truthfully, I’ll lose Andrew. My mother’s words call to me as if she were shouting them from above: When you’re fearful, grab hold of this courage and shake it loose, because now you know it’s yours, just as I’ve known all along.

  “No,” I whisper. “My mother is right.”

  “Jesus.”

  Tears spill over my lids and I brush them away. “I’ll make plans to move out this week.”

  I start to rise, but he grabs my arm.

  “You’re telling me this is the only way you can get your inheritance? There’s no other option?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “How much are we talking about? Five, six mil?”

  Is he talking about my inheritance? At first I’m taken aback, but I’m asking him to be my partner in this endeavor. Doesn’t he have a right to know? “Yeah, something like that. I won’t know for sure until I get my envelope.” For some reason, I don’t tell him about the exorbitant trusts my brothers received.

  He exhales loudly, making his nostrils flare. “This sucks, you know that?”

  I nod and swipe my nose with the back of my hand.

  “Fuck!” he says. Finally he looks at me. “All right, damn it, if that’s what it takes to keep you, I guess we’ll have to do it.”

  He wants to keep me? Does he understand the stakes? I stare at him, my mouth agape. “You—you’ll help me reach my goals, all of them?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  It strikes me as an odd response, since he’s the only character in this play who actually does have a choice. But the bottom line is, he’s willing to help me accomplish my goals! We’re going to have a family! For the first time, Andrew is putting my needs ahead of his own. Or is he? An uneasy feeling comes over me, but I tamp it down, hoping against hope that my instincts are wrong. What right do I have to second-guess his motive?

  With a blessed sense of relief, I’m alone in the loft Sunday afternoon. Since our decision Friday night, Andrew’s been colder than the gales of Lake Michigan. So today, when he grumbled about having to go into the office, I tossed him his coat and shooed him out the door before he had time to change his mind. But I can’t blame him for being upset. He was blindsided by this crazy life list, just as I was. And just like me, it’ll take time for him to get used to the idea of a different lifestyle.

  I take my laptop to the dining room table and log on to Facebook. One message. A reply from Carrie Newsome.

 
Hooray! I can’t wait to see you on the 14th! Thanks for suggesting the hotel for dinner. It’ll be easier than trying to schlep across town. Six o’clock is perfect. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed you, Bretel.

  Not one mention of my disloyalty. Who could be that forgiving?

  The last time I saw Carrie I was a sophomore at Loyola Academy. She’d been in Madison for a year, and for her birthday her parents bought her a bus ticket to come see me. She seemed surprised when she saw me, so much had happened in those twelve months. I’d made the cheerleading squad that year and was immediately catapulted to the cool crowd. I’d gotten my braces off and wore makeup. My hair was cut in the new Rachel style, which I painstakingly straightened each morning. But Carrie was exactly the same—plain, stocky, and unadorned.

  We sat on my bedroom floor, listening to a Boyz II Men CD and thumbing through my yearbook. When I saw Joni Nicol’s picture, I pointed to it. “Remember Joni’s brother, Nick? I’ve got a humongous crush on him. Are there lots of cute guys in Madison?”

  She looked at me as if she was surprised by the question.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t paid much attention.”

  My heart broke. Carrie had never had a boyfriend. I kept my eyes on the yearbook, embarrassed for her. “Someday you’ll meet someone great, Care Bear.”

  “I’m a lesbian, Bretel.” She said it without shame or regret, as if she were telling me her height or her blood type.

  I stared at her, praying she’d bust out laughing. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. I told my parents a few months back. I’ve known pretty much all my life.”

  My head spun. “So, all those times we were together, those times you spent the night …”

  She laughed. “What? You think I was hitting on you? Don’t worry, Bretel, it’s not like that!” I must have looked upset, because she stopped laughing then, and reached out a hand to touch my sleeve. “Hey, I didn’t mean to spook you. It’s still me—Carrie. You get that, right?”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled. But my narrow, fifteen-year-old mind didn’t get it. My best friend wasn’t normal. I studied her short hair and clipped nails, her barren face and baggy sweater. She looked foreign to me all of a sudden, masculine and odd.