6. Lemon

six

lemon

There are times in my life when I wish I still had the Magic 8 Ball to guide me. To tell me if a person I can't name is the love of my life. When you're a tween and using some toy to determine your future with the hottest kid in town—that's very telling of how your life is going to turn out.

I'd shake it now if I had one, and believe me, I'm tempted to head to Walmart and buy one, two, or ten. Or at least stand in the aisle and ask the stupid thing my laundry list of questions.

Geez, I need help.

More help than I'm willing to admit.

I'm currently hiding in the utility closet, with the door ajar so I can peek through the thin crack and watch the scene in the hall unfold. Being the adult I am, I ducked into the closet when I saw Wade come out of Ms. Matson's room instead of putting on a brave face and holding my head up high while I walk past him.

I'm such a coward .

And now I'm stuck in here, with the pungent scent of cleaner mixed with plastic while my not so faithful secretary sends my ass down the river with a hole in my rowboat and no oar to get myself to shore. I can easily say I forgot to contact someone about the fifth-grade garden while Jean was out of the office. I can also say I was busy, between the school board meeting and other important school activities. What those were, I can't say because my mind is nothing but a revolving prism of mush.

God, he's hot .

I cringe at the sound of my voice inside my head. There's this constant, ongoing battle between how I feel. The rational part of me, the side with the broken heart sees a life I could've had with the sexy landscaper. I know, deep down, we would've been happy, living in Magnolia Grove and raising the family we planned. But then, I see his daughter and those dreams disappear like wisps in the air or move so far out of reach I have no choice but to remember every moment of the devastating phone call when he divulged the depths of his betrayal.

His and Jean's voices grow quieter, and I strain to hear them. Jean has already blamed me for everything, I'm not sure what else she could say to make the situation any worse.

Our resident landscaper looked pissed and rightly so. He's busy, which is going to be the reason I never reached to him. One of our janitors could probably use overtime and likely knows how to rototill a damn garden. There wasn't and still isn't a need for the school to pay the lawn boy to dig up some earth.

But he might take his shirt off.

I close my eyes at the thought and feel my temperature rise, easily telling myself it's because I'm stuck in this closet with no air flow versus my body reacting to the vision that plays out in my mind.

The man of my former dreams and my backstabbing assistant head toward the double doors. I watch the previously mentioned man's ass, all nice and tight, covered by khaki cargo pants leave the building.

Those aren't sexy, but he is .

Once he's out of sight, I'll be able to get out of there and hightail it back to my office without being seen. When a class walks by, likely on their way to the library, I have no choice but to wait. They'd surely question why their fearless leader is hanging out in the utility closet. The door closes and latches. Right off, I grab and handle and let out a mumbling string to obscenities.

"Fuck, shit, damn . . ." all on repeat because the door is locked. I jiggle the handle.

Nothing.

No phone. No way to call for help unless I want to bang on the door.

I rest my forehead against the cool, metal door, and try to calm my racing heart while fighting back and sob. Life should be easy. This is not easy. I close my eyes and start counting seconds.

After five minutes, I give up and accept that I'm either going to die in here or I need to start pounding my fist against the metal while simultaneously screaming at the top of my lungs for help.

The door opens, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me. I cover my mouth to keep what's left of a scream muffled. My eyes widen at Jean, standing there with her hands on her hips. I swear she's about to hold up her index finger and shake it at me.

"What are you doing?" I ask, playing it off as if she's the one doing something she shouldn't be doing.

"I was just going to ask you the same thing. How old are you, Lemon? Seriously hiding in the closet." Jean walks off, shaking her head. I peer out, looking up and down the hall, before following her back to the main office. Every few steps, I open my mouth to say something in my defense, but words fail me. There isn't an excuse for what I did, other than I'm not brave enough to face him. I've spent years ignoring him, avoiding the places he'd hang, watching for his truck to be in parking lots. And all those years, he's never had to step foot in my business, my place of work, until now. It's unnerving.

I expect Jean to go to her desk, but she doesn't, and goes into my office. She rests her hand on my door and waits for me to pass by before shutting it. At this point, I don't know whether to take the seat across from my desk and let her sit in my chair or take my hired position as her boss.

Opting for the latter, I step behind my ornate desk and plop my ass in my chair. I don't sit like the professional I'm supposed to be, I slouch, and then cover my face with my hands. The groan I let out is one of exasperation and frustration.

"Imagine how the children would've felt had they gone outside to plant their garden tomorrow, only to find the area still full of grass."

"We could've taught them how to use shovels and pull weeds," I say without removing my hands.

"I'm fairly certain that's a violation of some child labor law and goes against everything the school board and this community stands for."

"It'd be a great teaching lesson," I tell her. "Maybe it's a class the high school should offer."

"Gardening skills?"

I nod and spread two fingers apart to peer at Jean. She's contemplating my idea. I drop my hands and point at her. "See, you like my idea. Having gardening skills is something everyone can use and benefit from."

Jean sighs. "I'll admit, it's a good idea. However, . . ."

She drags the word out until I meet her gaze.

"All you had to do was call him."

"Easy for you to say."

"Lemon," she says my name softly and leans toward me, closing the distance my desk has put between us. "It's time to put on your big girl panties on and act like an adult."

Thankfully, my chair has casters, and I can push away from her penetrating gaze. "You don't get it," I say as I stand and stare out the window. "He hurt me and it's not something I've been able to let go of."

"Then maybe you need to seek professional help because Wade isn't going anywhere."

At the mention of his name, my cold dead heart thumps. My hand fists and rests over the middle of my chest. "Look, I know I need to grow a set and act like everything is okay, but the truth is, seeing his daughter every day just exacerbates the situation. Maybe I should move."

"I'll start looking for openings."

I turn sharply at her words and my mouth drops open. Jean shrugs.

"You're being childish," she says. "Everything that happened between you was eight years ago. Let it go. Move on. Hell, find someone new."

"Not in Magnolia Grove."

Jean sighs. "Not unless someone single moves to town, which let's be honest, isn't likely to happen anytime soon. And yes, I fully admit, Wade Jenkins is the hottest, most eligible bachelor in town. Who, correct me if I'm wrong, is seemingly single."

I shrug. "I wouldn't know."

"Liar," she says, shaking her head. "You sit on a throne of lies."

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes or reference Will Ferrell in Elf .

"You do know, and you do everything to avoid the elephant in the room."

"I love elephants," I tell her. "They're my spirit animal."

"And they're about the stomp your career if you don't wise up." Jean turns and heads toward the door. "You're welcome, by the way," she says as she walks out.

"Thank you," I yell to the open door.

"And you're paying him overtime."

"I—"

"I don't want to hear it," she yells back, effectively ending our conversion and leaving me no choice but to work. I sit down and boot my computer up. My emails ding, one after another, while I look at my calendar. In two hours, I will be in the cafeteria, watching all the littles carry on their conversations. Some are so animated, talking wildly with their hands, that I can't help but focus on them. And then there are always the shy ones, the kids who sit by themselves and watch as their classmates thrive with a group. The shy kids eat slowly, often picking at their food to prolong their time at the table before recess starts. Those are the children that I promised to protect, and one of those kids is Marigold Jenkins.

I sigh heavily at my realization. I'm being a shitty human and principal by holding this little girl accountable for what her parents did. It's not her fault. I see her in the lunchroom, sitting by herself, nibbling at her sandwich. From time to time, she'll look around at her classmates, with longing on her face. I can't imagine what she's going through or how she ended up in my school. But she's here and one of my charges, and I've done nothing to help her.

Tears well in the corner of my eyes. I dab them and pinch the bridge of my nose. When I look at Marigold, I see her mother—a woman I've never met and who has never come to town. At least, not when I'm around. Is that Wade's doing? Is he trying to protect me?

Doubt and regret fill me. I'm failing in the principal department and need to rectify this immediately.

Once my emails stop dinging, I begin the scroll from bottom to top, ignoring the ‘reply all' ones that have nothing to do with me, whatsoever. Pressing Jean's button on my phone, I wait for her to answer.

"Hey," I say when the channel opens. "Can you draft a letter regarding the use of reply all. I have a million and one emails that have nothing to do with me."

Jean sighs. "I sent it last week. I'll remind everyone."

"Kindly," I tell her.

"No, now it's time for the slapstick to come out."

I shake my head and tell myself I don't want to know what an email slapstick is. "Thank you." I disconnect the call and go back to reading each message, pausing when I see Marigold's name in the subject line.

Ms. Walsh,

Mr. Jenkins reported this morning that Marigold is being harassed by a couple of the boys in class. I've reached out to the parents of these boys to let them know I've asked them to keep their hands to themselves.

Thank you, Brittany.

My heart hits the floor and takes a god-awful amount of time to bounce back into place. Any type of bullying is not tolerated here. I forward this email to Jean. She'll know to print and add it to everyone's file. After replying to Ms. Matson, I begin shuffling the papers on my desk and happen to glance at the clock. Somehow, the rest of my morning has flown by, and classes are going to start releasing for lunch.

"I'm heading to the lunchroom," I tell Jean as I pass by the front. Instead of going straight there, I head down the hall where Ms. Matson's room is and linger until she opens the door, and the kids file out one by one. I fall in step beside Brittany and smile kindly at her.

"Tell me about Marigold."

Brittany lights up when I say the young girl's name. "She's such a delight in class, but barely speaks unless I call on her. She does all her work, doesn't complain, and will engage with others if I encourage it."

"But?"

Ms. Matson sighs. "She's having trouble making friends. I've put her in a reading group with Lacie and Maye. They seem to get along, but Goldie is pretty quiet. Doesn't talk much."

"Goldie is what she likes to be called?" I ask, knowing full well her intake form listed Goldie as her nickname.

Brittany nods. "She will answer to Marigold as well."

I thank her as we head into the cafeteria. As normal, I take my post and greet kids as they walk by. My eyes land Marigold. She's sitting by herself, away from her classmates. Then I scan the room for Lacie and Maye, who are doing what girls their age do best, gabbing up a storm.

I make my way over to Marigold and sit down. "Hello, Goldie. I'm Ms. Walsh. Do you remember meeting me?"

She nods and picks at her sandwich.

"How do you like our school?"

She shrugs.

"Is it smaller than your school in Jacksonville?"

This time she nods. "I miss my friends." Goldie looks across the room, at the table where some of her classmates sit.

"How come you're not sitting with Lacie and Maye? Ms. Matson tells me the three of you work together."

Goldie shrugs.

"How about I take you over to the girls?"

She says nothing and starts packing her lunch. Goldie follows and as I approach the table, Lacie smiles.

"Hi, Ms. Walsh."

"Hi, Lacie. Is there room for Goldie to join you?"

"Of course," Maye and Lacie push aside, letting Marigold sit in between them. Right away, the two girls start chatting with her. I walk back to the front, where I can see the room, but barely take my eyes off Marigold even though the knife in my heart tells me to look away.