Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(30)
“Excited to see your boyfriend?”
Cheryl’s been teasing me all morning.
Last night, she texted me a blurry photo she took last week of me and Finn chatting by the monkey bars, along with the message Amirah thinks you should go for it! Winky face, winky face. Amirah is Cheryl’s sixteen-year-old daughter, who I’m sure has more experience in the field of flirting than I do.
You’re being crazy, Cheryl, I had playfully scolded her. Is that the only picture you took?
I sent the image of Finn and me to the group text, where we all proceeded to conduct a thorough analysis of his body language, and what it meant that his feet were pointing toward me. We agreed that the direction of his toes indicated that he was interested in me sexually, except for Jonathan, who was completely silent during the entire conversation.
Weird.
“He’s not my boyfriend yet,” I tell Cheryl. “I still have a lot of work to do.”
“Will you please ask him to get a drink?” She scoffs. “Any guy in his right mind would die to go out with you.”
“You have to say that because you’re my work mom. Finn is out of my league.”
Truthfully, the only reason I could see us working out is because it’s slim pickings here at work. In terms of single women, it’s really just between me, Jane, and Shannon, and even then, thanks to the influx of age-gap romances that have their own display table at Barnes & Noble, I can’t be sure which one of us he would pick.
Cheryl sighs, and her demeanor shifts.
“You would be so much happier if you saw yourself how everyone else sees you.” She crosses her arms as she looks me up and down. “God, what I would give to be twenty-nine again.” She gets this far-off look in her eye, the one that always makes me feel like I’m taking my youth for granted.
“I don’t think being twenty-nine now is the same as what it used to be,” I tell her. “My friend Nora—” I’m about to dive into one of Nora’s many dating app horror stories when I’m interrupted by a tap on my arm.
“Teacher Phoebe?” I turn around to see Ava with a pillow from the reading nook tucked under her shirt. “I have a baby in my belly.”
Ava’s mom gave birth to a baby girl a few weeks ago, and told Cheryl and me that, in classic LA fashion, Ava was with her for the entirety of her home birth. She’s worried about how Ava’s processing the whole experience, so I make sure to react extra positively.
“Congratulations! A new baby! How exciting.”
“How many weeks are you?” Cheryl asks with a laugh.
Before Ava gets the chance to respond, Max runs over with a matching pillow shoved under his shirt. “I’m pregnant,” he announces. “It’s twins.”
“Twins!” I gasp.
“My babies are kicking,” he boasts. “Feel my tummy, Teacher Phoebe.”
I crouch down and put a hand on Max’s stuffed polo shirt. I gasp and he giggles at my shocked expression.
“Wow!” I say. “They are kicking up a storm! I wonder if they’ll like to play soccer, like you.” He beams, the thought seemingly delighting him.
“Do you know anything about the babies you’re having?” I ask.
Ava has one hand rubbing her pillow-stuffed shirt and the other supporting her lower back. “Mine is a girl. Her name is Lola.”
Max mirrors Ava’s movements, putting one hand on his stomach and the other on his back.
“Mine are both boys,” he says. “They’re both named Max.”
“Have you gone to the doctor yet?” I point to Charlie, who is over in the pretend play area with a stethoscope around his neck. “He’ll probably be able to tell you some important information about your babies.”
They waddle over to Charlie, both, of course, with one hand on their lower back. Charlie carefully places the stethoscope on Max’s stomach and then on Ava’s, and my chest tightens at the sincerity of the moment.
That is, until Ava throws herself on the floor and screams.
I rush over to her and crouch down to her level. “Ava, are you okay? Does something hurt?”
She’s too hysterical to get an answer out.
I look up to Charlie and Max expectantly, hoping for some clarity, but they both seem to be as shocked as I am. The rest of the class has stopped their respective activities to pivot their attention to the scene unfolding on the floor.
“Ava, I’m going to help you up now.” I try to get her to her feet, but she’s dead weight. I settle for an upright sitting position, and she throws her head back and wails, a bubble of snot exploding from her nose. I’m usually unfazed by a meltdown, but at this moment, I’m completely panicked that Finn is going to walk in while I struggle to lift a hysterical child from the floor.
The sight of me wrestling with a four-year-old would be more than enough to shatter the image he has of me as the school’s best teacher.
Starting to sweat, I plead, “Tell me what’s wrong so we can try and fix it. Let’s take a few deep breaths together.”
I start breathing in and out until she finally joins me. Cheryl brings over some tissues and Ava’s water bottle, and eventually Ava calms down enough to start talking. In between sniffles, she explains, “Charlie says I’m having a boy. Lola is a girl.”