The Better Half(90)
I’ve never written an admissions email, that’s Roan’s job. But I feel like I owe one to Carmel on behalf of the two Royal-Hawkins buffoons who inserted themselves in her family’s future. As head of school, I have to take the hit for their unethical behavior. I reread and tweak the email once, twice, five times, and then I put it in my draft box. I’ll let it sit and give it one more read after the board meeting. Then I’ll click “Send.”
I apply my Night on Fire lipstick and clip my braids together behind my neck. I smooth my arms and hands with shea butter and make sure my B girls turned DD ladies are immovable in my dress. I squeeze my feet back into my heeled booties, barely getting the zipper up and over my swollen ankles. For comfort, flats would be preferable, but tonight I need to leave the board with the indelible memory of a highly capable woman in command of Royal-Hawkins before I waddle out the door for four months of family leave.
“Nina, Mr. Hawkins is already in there,” Pablo informs me under his breath, tilting his head east. First surprise of the evening, and I’ve barely reached the conference room. I peek through the small window in the door and then take a few steps back. Winn’s talking on the phone, dressed in a charcoal-gray suit. Seems he got the power dress memo too. I clear a tickle of self-doubt in my throat.
“Would you like some water?”
“Thank you, Pablo, but it looks like Mimi has a couple of pitchers and plenty of glasses out on the tables. I’ll grab one when I go in.”
“You got a good poem or something?” Pablo asks, though he knows the answer.
“We have a lot to accomplish tonight, so I’m going with a favorite quote.” I’ve been holding on to this one since I was appointed Royal-Hawkins’s fourteenth head of school. I knew a meeting toward the end of my first year would be the appropriate time to share. I hope Maya Angelou and my mother are up there listening. Together.
“Pablo my man, how you doing?” Jared blows into our conversation, a muscular hurricane, and offers Pablo a friendly fist bump. “Hey, Nina. Winn invited me to check out my first board meeting tonight.” While Winn’s been a champion at avoiding me, Jared read the tense gym atmosphere right last week. And it got him scared. This week he’s been full of talk about teaching primary source writing with his sixth graders, and he even extended an invitation to me to visit his classroom and serve as the judge for his eighth grade mock debate.
“When your kid’s old enough, I’ll teach it to play hoops,” Jared offers, shooting an imaginary basket toward the end of the hallway. I wince. Oof, another kick. “Or you know, history,” Jared quickly amends, thinking my wince was directed at his talk of basketball.
“Nina, you’re looking well,” Courtney offers in a nervous twitter, walking up to me as Pablo and Jared have moved on to discuss what Pablo refers to as “real fútbol.” Why is pregnancy an invitation to anyone and everyone to comment on your fitness for public viewing? I’m about to repay Courtney the shallow compliment but stop short. She does not look well at all, particularly for a woman with unlimited means for personal upkeep. Courtney’s hair is revealing more gray than blonde at the roots. Bloodshot eyes hide below puffy, purplish lids, and despite the venti coffee she’s toting, Courtney’s grayish skin hints at an exhausted woman. Even her shirt is misbuttoned, the expensive collar sagging left.
I gently grab Courtney by the elbow and steer her away from the stream of board members sauntering into the conference room. I’m pretty sure no life coach wants to be viewed as unhinged. “Are you okay?” I ask quietly, tucking my head close to her ear.
“Of course, I am,” Courtney insists, shaking her head like she’s waking herself up out of a haze. “A poor night’s sleep is all. Where will you and Winn be sitting for tonight’s meeting?” Courtney inquires, smoothing her bangs to the side of her forehead.
“Same as always, in front of the SMART Board.”
“Wonderful. I’ll seat myself directly across from you two,” Courtney says, removing my concerned hand from her elbow and joining the side of Anders Nilsson heading into the meeting. I’m left standing alone, utterly confused, wondering, Am I walking into a firing squad?
Seated, I close my eyes, putting my hand over my racing heart. One, two, three full breaths. I open my eyes. I look to my left and Winn gives me a tight grin, but none of the charming chatter he’s famous for.
“Nice to see you, Winn,” I say, my head of school tone spot-on.
Ignoring my acknowledgment, Winn cocks his head to his left. “Nice to see Jared take an interest in the future of the school, don’t you think?”
Hmm, is it nice? Curious for sure. And a little concerning since he happens to be here at Winn’s invitation on the one meeting a year when we talk about admissions. But nice, no.
Winn here early and dressed to intimidate, Jared joining the meeting, and Courtney eyeing the three of us from across the table like a hawk hunting prey, is unnerving. Something’s up. Or more accurately, something’s teed up to take me by surprise, I can feel it.
Marisol’s the keynote speaker at a spa directors conference in Phoenix, otherwise I’d text her for backup support. Instead, I’m going to have to muster every ounce of conviction necessary all on my own. God, I think I need to pee again.
“What’s nice is seeing Jared refocused on his classroom given the end of basketball season. That’s definitely nice,” I respond self-assuredly, holding Winn’s gaze. I will not be the first to look away.