I wasn’t as enthusiastic as some of my colleagues. Having spent my professional life in Silicon Valley, I had reservations about the single-sex classes—I thought they would backfire on our female students, leaving them ill-prepared for the male-dominated tech world—but I was open to persuasion, eager to hear more. Unfortunately, Dr. Vargas withdrew from the process the day before her second-round interview, informing us via email that she’d accepted a position with a prestigious private foundation that paid twice what we were offering.
So that was that. By the end of February, Tracy was back on top. We’d done our due diligence, considered all the viable alternatives, and ended up right where we started, with our very own highly capable, perfectly acceptable Assistant Principal.
And then I got a call from Buzz Bramwell on a Thursday night, asking if I was free for dinner on Saturday.
“Just you,” he said. “Not your spouse. There’s some confidential business we need to discuss.”
Tracy Flick
I have to give Marissa credit for tenacity. If I were her, I would have given up, but she reached out for the third time on the Friday after Valentine’s Day.
“Hey there,” she said. “It’s your favorite stalker.”
“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”
I was happy to hear her voice. I’d been having a rough week—anxiety about the job search, difficulty meditating, winter malaise, you name it. Also, my nose had been bleeding, something that hadn’t happened since college, when it had been really bad. I’d gotten both nostrils cauterized senior year, and that had solved the problem—permanently, I thought. But in the past few days, out of nowhere, it had started up again with a vengeance. At the office. In my car. At the dinner table. I’d be going about my business, and my nose would erupt. It was gross and embarrassing.
“Do you have a cold?” she asked. “You sound a little congested.”
“No. I’ve got a wad of toilet paper shoved up my left nostril. Bloody nose.”
“Ugh. My son Ike gets those. You should swab some Vaseline inside your nasal passages. That helps sometimes.”
“Yeah, I know all the tricks.”
“Do you have a humidifier?”
“I used to. It broke last year.”
“I think we have an extra. Let me check the basement.”
“You really don’t have to do that.”
She was quiet for a second or two, letting me know that we were done with the nosebleed portion of the conversation.
“So listen,” she said, already sounding a little doubtful. “I know it’s last minute, but Kyle’s going out tomorrow, and the boys have a sleepover, so I’m on my own again, if you’re…”
She left it there, more of a vague hope than an invitation. I felt that familiar reflex kicking in—just say no and be left alone—but I ignored it. I was tired of being left alone.
“Sure,” I said. “That would be great.”
“Really?” She didn’t try to hide her surprise. “Wow… okay… you want to come here? Seven thirty?”
“That’s fine.”
“You can bring a bathing suit if you want. In case we feel like going in the sauna. No pressure, though. Only if you feel comfortable.”
“No worries,” I said. “I’ll bring a suit.”
I actually had to go out on Saturday afternoon and buy a new one. My Speedo tank was fifteen years old, a relic from a time when I’d injured my knee and needed to take a break from running. I swam laps at the Y three or four mornings a week for six months and hated every minute of it. The suit still fit, but it was saggy in some places and threadbare in others, not the impression I wanted to make.
I felt weirdly optimistic all day, excited by the break in my routine, relief from the February tedium. I could hear my mother’s voice echoing in my head: See, honey. It’s not that hard. You just have to get out of your comfort zone. That feeling lasted all through the day and into the evening, right up to the moment when I pulled into the driveway, next to Kyle’s big red Tesla, and realized that I’d made a mistake.
You don’t belong here.
It was a moonless night, and that ridiculous house was glowing like some kind of alien space station—there were multiple spotlights shining on it from the front yard—and I couldn’t imagine what Marissa and I would talk about for the next two hours, or however long it would take for me to extricate myself without seeming rude. I considered the possibility of backing out, texting her that I wasn’t feeling well, but just then the front door opened and Kyle emerged, wearing an unbuttoned overcoat and a long striped scarf. He squinted in my direction, then raised his hand in a tentative greeting. I had no choice but to get out of the car and meet him on the curving slate path that connected the driveway to the house.
“Tracy,” he said, releasing me from an unexpected and slightly awkward hug. “I’m so bummed I can’t hang out with you tonight. I’ve got this annoying dinner thing.”
“That’s okay. Maybe some other time.”
“I hope so.” His face brightened. “By the way, I went to Royal Trophy last week, and they did a beautiful job with the plaques. They look just like the ones in Cooperstown, especially Vito’s. Quality work. All that’s left is the engraving, so we’re right on schedule for the ceremony.”
“That’s a relief.”
He nodded in satisfaction, and gave me a brotherly pat on the shoulder.
“You know what?” he said. “We might just pull this thing off.”
Kyle Dorfman
I thought it would just be me and Buzz at the Casa de Pamplona, so I was surprised to see that Ricky Pizzoli and Charisse Turner had also been invited.
“I didn’t realize it was a Board meeting,” I said, sliding into the leatherette booth next to Charisse. “Are Kitty and Andrea coming too?”
“It’s not an official meeting,” Buzz assured me. “Just a friendly little gathering.”
I glanced at my colleagues, expecting to see amusement on their faces—Ricky and Charisse were about as friendly with each other as I was with Buzz—but they were both nodding in solemn agreement, as if a profound truth had been spoken.
Tracy Flick
Marissa greeted me at the door with a bulky white box in her arms. It had a piece of paper taped to the front that read TRACY—PLEASE REMEMBER! The words were written in blue marker, underlined in black, and circled in red.
“This is your humidifier,” she told me. “I’m just gonna leave it here by the door so we don’t forget.” She set the box on the floor. “We’re not gonna forget, right?”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s really kind of you.”
“No big deal.” She straightened up and gave me a quick hug, brushing her cheek against mine. “Is it cold out? Your face is cold.”
“Little chilly. Not too bad.”
She took my coat and I gave her the bottle of wine I’d bought on the way over, a Barolo she said was an inspired choice, because she actually preferred Italian wine to French or Californian, not that she was any kind of connoisseur, though Kyle had gone through a short-lived oenophile phase, one of the many hobbies he’d embraced and discarded over the past few years, along with fencing, electronic music, and the history of Brazil.