Faking Christmas(9)

My fingers dropped the plate in my hands, and it splashed into the water, sending droplets all across the front of my shirt. He called me Olive, maybe for the very first time besides our initial meeting nine months earlier. I wasn’t sure he even realized that he had.

“I know,” I said as I grabbed the plate once more. “I’m not upset about anything.”

He nodded his head toward the sink, where I was attacking the dish with hostile fury. “I can see that.”

“I’m serious.” I slowed to a carefree scrub before rinsing the dish and placing it on the drying rack next to the others, then picked up the washcloth hanging on the faucet and began wiping the counter. Maybe if I said it slowly and with conviction, he would believe me. Most people didn’t want to dig too deep; that usually just left everyone feeling uncomfortable. Not Miles. He was watching me with his arms folded like a puzzle he seemed vaguely interested in piecing together.

“Well, that’s good because I almost feel a moral obligation to contest the whole thing. If I showed them the love note you sent me, they’d take away your trophy for sure.”

I gave him a scowl, which only made an annoying grin spread slowly across his face. “That was a casual email to a friend, not an English paper. And I was in a hurry when I wrote it.”

He went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “When I saw that our very own Grammar Queen didn’t even know the difference between the possessive ‘your’ and the contraction, I felt a deep sense of worry for the education of our students.”

“It was probably spell check. It’s always getting it wrong.” I wiped the counter, boldly moving closer to force him backward to wipe in front of where he stood. He chuckled and took a step back.

“Whatever you say. I’m not the one that has the whole school fooled.”

Ironic. He most certainly did have the whole school fooled.

I opened the refrigerator door and wanted to cry at all the plates and old Tupperware containers filled with leftovers. I knew for a fact most had been in the fridge for weeks. Why were people like this at work? It was disgusting.

Miles grabbed my arm, moved me aside, and pushed the fridge door closed. “You’re not cleaning in there.”

Extracting myself from his grip, I responded with a mature, “I can do whatever I want.” Suddenly, I wanted to clean the whole room. I’d clean all night if that was what it took.

He looked at me incredulously. “Give me two minutes, and I’ll go to the office, get on the intercom, and tell everyone to come grab their crap from the kitchen and wash their own dishes. It’s not your job.”

“I don’t mind doing it.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “It’s a little game I like to play. First I imagine that every dish has your face on it, and then I get to half drown it in water.”

I didn’t have to look directly at Miles to know that his mouth lifted in his trademark (annoying) grin. “I knew you liked me, deep down.”

“How did you get that from what I just said?”

“You’re thinking about me while doing mundane tasks. I think my heart just melted.”

Miles Taylor was looking at me as though something amused him, and it made me want to claw his eyes out.

“Want to know what I think?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“You’re a martyr.”

I folded my arms as I glared up at him. “I like things clean, so sue me.”

He shook his head, mirroring my body language as we leaned our hips against the counter, facing off. “Just like in the staff meetings when suddenly you’ve been assigned five more tasks than everybody else, and you act like it’s Christmas morning. Or when Harvey asks you to edit his master’s thesis for free in all your spare time. Or when Davis stole your idea for the spring project. And you just smile through everything.”

“You smile all the time,” I accused, fully aware that that particular burn sucked.

“Yeah, I’m a happy guy. But that’s probably because I’m not bending over and letting the whole school spank me while I do all their homework.”

“Ew.”

He laughed, which only made me angrier. I leaned closer, my fingers clenched with fire. “I help out because I’m a team player. And you don’t know anything about me.”

“Whose fault is that?”

We were interrupted as Mr. Johnson, from the music department, slid into the room. Where Kenneth Harvey was greasy and awkward, Jason Johnson was smooth and slick. He wore a suit like a car salesman, laughed too much, and could talk himself out of just about anything. I took a step back from Miles.

Jason peered at us both, amused, as he slowly raised his arms in the air. “Whoa, where’s the fire? I thought the English department settled their differences over books and a cup of tea.”

There was a pause in the air as we each put down our weapons to face a common enemy.

“We’re fresh out of tea,” Miles countered, his eyes never leaving my face.

I smiled and added, “We’re just talking.” As much as it pained me, I kept my gaze focused on Johnson’s gray tie and his well-fitted, monochromatic suit, very aware of another pair of eyes watching me.

Jason noticed his dishes on the drying rack. “Oh, thanks, Olive. I’ve been meaning to come down and wash those, but I’ve just been so busy.” He strode toward the fridge and took out a couple more half-eaten plates covered in plastic wrap. Checking his watch with a flourish, he turned to me and motioned to the plates in his hand with a sheepish smile—one he probably thought was charming, but it gave me the distinct urge to punch his face. “I hate to ask, but I’ve got to run and pick up my wife—her car is in the shop—or else I’d wash these myself right now.”