Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(62)

Dan continues. “Second, we have some new rules to enforce this year. Specifically in relation to…”

We all know what’s coming next.

“Grinding.”

There it is.

A deep chuckle arises from behind me, and while I don’t have to turn around to know who it’s coming from, I do it anyway. Finn’s smiling at me, shaking his head slightly as he suppresses another laugh. I raise my eyebrows and nod in a playful “told ya so” sort of way.

The origins of the grinding epidemic are unknown. I know that it started sometime before my middle school years, but after Cheryl’s. According to her, back in the eighties, kids were more focused on perfecting their individual craft. Her school dances were full of teens breakdancing, practicing their running man, and writhing on the floor like a worm. The dances of the early 2000s were different.

“Who are you going to grind with tonight?” That was always the question on everybody’s lips the day of the dance. “Jacob B. told Jacob R. who told me that he wants to grind with you, Phoebe.”

I remember it vividly. The feeling of being on the dance floor, waiting for Jacob B. to approach me from behind, place his hands on my hips, and begin to sway. When we finally made contact, the movement of our bodies was almost imperceptible as we gyrated to Akon’s “Smack That.” And when the song was over, he was gone. There was never any eye contact. No words were exchanged. It was highly unromantic, and left me feeling slightly used. My teachers turned a blind eye to it, and so that’s what I, along with the rest of my colleagues here, have continued to do. But I have a feeling Dan is about to instruct us otherwise.

“The PTA and I spoke extensively about protocols to put in place to avoid a repeat of last year’s…incident,” he says. “And we’ve decided to outlaw grinding altogether this year.” Everyone nods in understanding. After what happened, it really is the only logical thing to do.

“Lastly,” Dan adds, “whoever’s Volkswagen is parked by the curb outside the Brick building, we need you to move it. To make way for the PTA bake sale.”

I almost can’t believe my luck. A perfect setup for me to lay the necessary groundwork. “It’s not mine,” I pipe in, raising my voice slightly to ensure my message reaches the right ears. “I ubered here. My car is in the shop.”



* * *



—

Dan ushers us into the gym, where hundreds of blue streamers now hang from the rafters to reflect this year’s Under the Sea theme. Varying sizes of plastic orbs attached to fishing wire float in midair, creating the illusion of bubbles. Next to the snack table, which is lined with bowls of Swedish Fish and Goldfish, a kiddie pool filled with sand and lukewarm mini water bottles sits on the floor. I help myself to one.

The speakers come to life with an ad for a once-daily high blood pressure medication. “You promised there wouldn’t be ads this year,” a visibly frustrated Dan whispers to Teacher Rob. “I can’t keep defending him, Rob.”

“Take it easy,” Teacher Rob says to Dan, who responds with a facepalm. “I’ll go talk to him.”

Teacher Rob walks over to the makeshift DJ stand, where his former bandmate and current best friend, DJ Spider, fiddles with the volume levels on his laptop. After a heated back-and-forth, Teacher Rob removes a lone Bank of America debit card from his pocket and begins typing numbers into the computer.

“And you…” Dan turns to me with a smirk. “You’ve been awfully hard to track down.”

“I’m sorry.” I chuckle nervously. “But I have an answer for you.” He raises his eyebrows in anticipation. “I’ll do the interview.”

“Wonderful!” Dan claps.

“But I haven’t decided on anything further than that,” I tell him. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” he assures me. “You have time.”

You have time. I replay his words in my head. I like the way they sound.

“But don’t lead me on for too long,” he adds. “The last thing I want is to have to scramble to find an outside hire. Last time that happened, I had to bring on Rob.”

Dan winks as he walks away, and I laugh and nod. It really does seem like the job is mine if I want it. It’s nice in theory, but in practice, I wish someone would just tell me what to do.

I wish I could text Matthew.

Once the uninterrupted, ad-free streaming of today’s pop hits begins to fill the room, Dan walks over to the doors and props them open. The dance has officially begun.

“C’mon in, kids!” The first wave of arrivals trickles in, some strutting to the front of the room with unabashed confidence while their more timid counterparts linger toward the back. Among the confident is little Lucy Silverman, a member of my first ever class eight years ago. When she started pre-K, she was painfully shy, with a speech delay that kept her from interacting with the other kids. The few words she spoke were only to teachers, and only out of necessity. Bathroom. Hungry. Ouch. She spent the first few months of school as my shadow, glued to my leg, sitting next to me on the bench at recess, saving me a spot next to her at lunch. While all the other kids built block towers together or acted out dramatic scenes in the pretend play area, Lucy was at the art table making picture books by herself. And then one day, after months of encouragement and intervention, Lucy agreed to share one of her books with the class. Though she stumbled over her words, the kids were enraptured by her storytelling. They began to act out her stories while they played pretend. They called themselves the names of Lucy’s characters while they chased one another around on the playground. And eventually, Lucy joined them. She stopped saving a seat for me at lunch so she could make room for her friends. She continued sharing her stories, reading them out loud with almost perfect fluency by the end of the year. On the last day of school, she gave everyone in the class a personalized storybook. I still have mine: The Adventures of Teacher Phoebe and Lucy.