Esprit de Corps

I tap my pen on the clipboard and let my eyes slip shut. Not him, not for this.

“So, has everyone signed up for a booth?” A check of the screen projected on the turquoise floor-to-ceiling drapes revealed two names in black. A click of Mrs Johnson’s mouse greys out Linc’s name, a cell above mine. Only one other glares back at me.

Dr. Noroña raises a hand, charms jingling my fate.“Miss Wilson? Dr. Griffiths? I guess you’ll make our last pairing for the Dunk Tank.”

Zoe nudges my arm, and I quirk up my grimace. Whistles and cheers ripple through the staff.

Ms. Johnson holds up a finger that silences the hubbub.“This is gonna be great. Get together with your partners, so you can request materials you’ll need. March is right around the corner!”

I cover a groan with a cough and pass the sign-in forward. Hushed conversations reanimate into an eruption.

I slide the folded agenda into my planner. Zoe grabs the handle of my water bottle. “How long are you staying tonight?”

“For a while. Tests to grade. Gotta enter my plans for next week.”

“Just ice?” I give Zoe a thumbs up. Meg grabs my water bottle with a side-hug, her crochet tote of art supplies bumping my hip.

“I’ve got some strawberry lemon tea in my fridge.” Zoe pushes a dark chocolate protein bar into my palm. “Are you here for our Maren?”

Dr. Griffiths slides his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses back over his nose and juts out his chin.“Wouldn’t you like to know, Miss Miley.”

Zoe blinks, then presses her lips together. She and Meg scamper away toward the refreshments cart in front of the circulation desk.

“Miss Wilson?"

“Hello sir.” I take his outstretched hand and drop it after one pump. HIs smile reminds me of the dentist Carly and I saw who always warned us about plaque by pointing to a pair of worn-down dentures on the exam room counter.

Griffiths tugs on the end of his red polka bowtie.”I suppose you’ve never been dunked, in your former career at the Bee.”

“I can’t say that I have, but I guess you’re old hat at this. But I’m not sure what there is to do, other than keep track of kids and take tickets.” I tuck my planner and meeting notes under my arm.

“Not much more than that, but there’s always something we forget.” He stares at a point over my shoulder, probably the biography section, where most of his nonfiction-averse Honor students spend their time.

A crack of thunder sends gasps through the remaining staff. “Well, if that isn’t a hint.”

Zoe raises a brow as she slides my refilled bottle on the table. “Don’t stay too late, it’s just Wednesday."

Halfway through my plans for Fahrenheit 451 when my phone buzzes. How was it?

What do you mean?

You talked to G? How much of an ass was he today?

Not yet, but we'll see. ttyl 🫰

I reconnect my Bluetooth and get back to work.

***

The following Tuesday finds me with a pair of iced teas in a cardboard carrier. I knock on a quote-covered door three rooms down. “How are you, sir? Is our meeting still on?”

Dr. Griffiths waves from the tall mahogany bookshelf, lined with paperbacks and hardcover professional texts. “I have some time.”

Battered student desks bracket a teal and gold lectern. Fluorescent beams glint off an array of busts, one of whom resembles William Shakespeare.

I settle into a brown high-backed chair, then place the drinks within reach. “I’ve heard the Dunk booth is usually the most popular with the kids. I guess we got lucky.’

Dr. Griffiths shifts in his chair. He slides the notebook across the table. “I suppose we should begin. And, thank you for the tea, though I’m more of a coffee drinker.”

“Oh.” I take another sip. A few drops of liquid splash onto the table. He clears his throat. I follow his gaze to the tiny puddle, inches from his page.

He lays a tissue on my agenda. I flip the page in my book, fluttering the paper onto the black and gold rug. When he looks down, I steeple my fingers.

“We’ll need to make a note of everything,” Griffiths holds up the notebook, but I don’t move.

“I’m not your assistant.”

I hold his gaze. The notebook clatters. “We have to create a sign, to entice the students. And we’ll need a list of willing staff…”

A vacuum whines across the hall. I nod and take another sip of my hibiscus & honey.

At five minutes before 6, Griffiths slides the page of notes to me. “If you’ll sign here, so there's a record of your attendance, for Admin.”

He drops the empty styrofoam in the wastebasket, to which I add the tissue.“Are you always this way?” I cap my pen, which I stick inside my bag.

Griffiths folds his arms. “I’m sorry?”

“This whole hour, you’ve looked at me twice.” My chair scrapes the floor, which may not cover the growls my stomach makes. “I may not be who you’d prefer to work with, but I am capable of helping with these plans.”

He tugs on the sleeve of his dark grey cardigan.“And what exactly would you like to do?”

“Can’t we try something, I don’t know, exciting, that the kids might actually like?” I carry my half-full beverage to the door. “Maybe next time you’d like to hear a few of my ideas.”

He turns to pull a book from the shelf. “I suppose that’s something to look forward to. Have a good evening, Miss Wilson.”

“Good night, sir.” I bite my lip and click the door closed. A glance through the glass window frames Griffiths, aquiline nose upturned as he restacks hardcovers against a gold bookend.

Are you still there? I pocket my buzzing phone and stay another 90 minutes before I respond to Zoe’s message.

***

The next few weeks are a blur of assessments and meetings. At our planning session in the third-floor LGI, Zoe sidles up to me, a packet of protein bars in a striped pink tote.

“I know you skipped breakfast.” She thrusts a peanut butter honey into my hand,

My thumb punches the air.“I’ve got Carly’s leftovers in the fridge for later.”

***

At 12:45, halfway through one of three basil and bacon ravioli, Carly’s specialty, Mr. Griffiths enters the staff room, slate blue tumbler in one, a thermos cradled in the crook of his elbow.

“Aw!” He jerks a wad of paper towels to stem the liquid trickling onto the extra chair.

I set an alarm for later and pop a blue cheese-topped cherry tomato between my lips.

“Do you have some more of that?” Griffiths drops the paper trash in the recycling bin.

“I’m sorry?” I rub the back of my neck.

I shrug, and he strolls back to the damp chair. “It seems I’ve spilled my entire meal. I wondered if you’d share some of your leftovers with me.”

“I’ve been here less than ten minutes.”

He shakes his head, lips twitching upward. “You’re on your phone. I guess I was wrong to assume you had your fill.” A button at his collar hovers below his throat, not unlike an untethered ball.

I slide the Tupperware short of his reach, then shove in another bite of arugula.

“I appreciate this, Miss Wilson.” The microwave beeps to life. He nods, and I pick up my device again. He’s eating my lunch. Can I come raid your snacks later? M

Griffiths carries his mug to the table, steam rising from the blend that they serve at the coffeehouse near the office where I sometimes lunched, or wrote when I needed a change.

He tucks into the second ravioli, tomato sauce smeared against his chin. “You’re an amazing cook. Been quite some time since I’ve had a homemade meal.”

“Why isn’t that shocking?” I ignore the buzz in my pocket, as I dump a few overripe pieces into a napkin. “Just know my sister won’t care, but enjoy every bite of the only meal I've had today. Have the afternoon you deserve.”

Griffiths waves a fork in the air, eyes widened as I take an Ozarka from the fridge of drinks provided by PO.

At my door, Zoe holds out a ziploc of protein bars and a misshapen Snickers. “I won’t ask, but come back if you need more.”

Just before 5th period, Griffiths reappears, Carly’s container scrubbed of tomato sauce and dried, in hand. “Thank you again for lunch.” The dish thuds against the bottom of the trash can just before the first of my students arrive.

***

After a quick change into sweats and half a protein bar, I follow Zoe and Meg to the girls’gym for Event Prep.

“You gave him your lunch?” Meg raises a brow, a flattened Hula Hoop slipping off her slim shoulder.

“Lillian brought me a bag of kettle corn right before the bell. I told the kids they could eat during the last 15 minutes if they finished MOY essays today.” I roll down the wrapper of my lavender honey crunch bar and chomp another piece. “Quiet as a mouse.”

“Told you she was a big old softie, like a kinder marm in a middle school teacher’s body.” Zoe elbows Meg. I shift the bag of towels to my other wrist.

Teachers rifle through boxes, rolls of tape adorning their forearms. Others count horseshoes, roll and test out sleds, arrange bowling pins.

Griffiths is holding a tattered bullseye, and a young woman in black jeans and a sky-blue beret affixes tape to my sign.

“What’s going on here?” Zoe pats my arm, and she and Meg stroll toward their corner near the locker room entrance.

“I thought Maria could help us.” Griffiths emerges from the pile of prizes overflowing a clear bin. “She’s on break this week.”

I twitch up the corners of my mouth. “Hello, how are you?” Before she can add another piece of masking tape, I reach for the banner. “This needs to stay rolled until the last minute.”

Griffiths grasps the bottom end of the sign. “We just wanted to see how bi—”

I drag my end, flush against my chest. “It’s gonna be more than enough, for tomorrow.” I’m itching to brush away the sweat along my hairline.

“Dad, I can come Friday, more than happy to help.” Maria inches toward the booth, eyes saucer-wide, lips quivering.

“Of course, but Miss Wilson will be busy. She’s the lead.” He eases the other side of the sign off the floor. I tug on my side, the middle taut.

“This is my work!” I snatch the corner. The paper rips. Heads turn. Griffiths’ daughter covers her mouth.

Griffiths kneels and wields an oversized roll of clear tape. “So let us help you get it ready. For the kids.” They flip the paper, and another teacher rushes to Maria’s side, a pair of scissors at the ready.

I lean against the wall. They repair the mess in 8 minutes flat. Alma, the science teacher from the other wing, pockets her silver-tipped Fiskars and lays a warm hand on mine. “Maren, it’s OK to ask for help. You’re doing great, and everyone knows it.”

“You’re just saying that. He doesn’t think so.” I drop my head into my palms.

Alma squats to meet my gaze. “You’re wrong. He’s never helped with any of this, ever.”

I rub my throbbing forehead and sit lotus-style on a mat. A bluetooth speaker blares a disco hit, as the groups transform the space into a festive playplace.

“Taking a break?” Linc kneels and hands me a tiny bottle of tea.

“I guess. Thanks for this.” I roll the bottle against my forehead. “I wish it had been you.”

He smiles and bumps my shoulder. “Maybe next time, we will.”

A few minutes later. I open my eyes. Linc waves from the bowling station. Maria drops tickets into a box. Dr. Griffiths admires our sign, then turns to me.

I tap two fingers to my temple. “Just right.”