last night’s tip jar and her white envelope from the Rosellis. Not even close. And she didn’t dare sell her aunt’s latest gift. The purse would be expected to make an appearance at their weekly luncheon, its presence debatably more important than hers. “How about those raisin oatmeal bars Laura taught me how to bake?”
“So you have money for groceries and—” he gestured to her rumpled outfit “—going out all night, but nothing for Trotsky, eh?”
Perspiration beaded her brow as she remembered her wretched evening capped off by a surprisingly nice end. She’d opened up to a warmhearted barkeep, a man who’d listened to her rattle on for an embarrassingly long time.
She wished she was back at the White Horse, making a fool of herself in front of the overworked man who’d made time for her. Now, there was no more charming her landlord. If she confided she’d lost her second job and was in danger of losing her first, too, he’d probably evict her on the spot. Not that she could blame him. He was running a business, not a charity. And she never wanted to be considered that.
“When my paycheck comes on Friday, I’ll sign it over to you. So sorry for the delay.”
How many more paychecks would she get? If the board denied her tenure, she’d have to leave at the end of the school year and then where would she go? Tenure meant a permanent position. It safeguarded against arbitrary firing. She could stay on and hope they’d grant it to her in year four, but typically educators were either “counseled out,” meaning convinced to resign, or fired before another vote was ever taken. A chill finger-walked up her spine and she shivered.
Mr. Trotsky’s mouth twisted to the side and his narrow eyes studied her. After a long, breathless moment, he nodded, his teeth appearing in a beaver’s smile.
“You’ve always been a good renter, Rebecca. And I’ll have that check, and the cookies, by Friday. Good day.”
With a sharp turn on polished dress shoes, he disappeared in a cloud of Old Spice.
She sagged against her wrought iron railing. Phew. That at least settled the potential homelessness problem...for now. But how would she pay the rest of her bills or eat for the next two weeks if she didn’t find another job, stat? As if on cue, her stomach rumbled.
A scratch at her door and a low, wheezing woof had her scrambling for her key. Poor Freud. Eating would have to wait until she took care of her pug’s needs.
Minutes later she was out in the morning sunlight, its pale gold gilding the brick, pre-war era buildings on her cobblestone SoHo street. A stream of chatting customers flowed in and out of JavaHut, she noticed, her grip tightening on Freud’s lead. The aroma of hazelnut and cinnamon buns floated across the street and Freud began to pull, his nails scrabbling on the pavement.
“No more banana walnut muffins for you.” She gazed down at her pet’s wet, bulging black eyes and felt the familiar heart tug that’d made her snap him up at a pet-shelter street fair last year. “The doctor says you need to lose a few pounds anyway, though I think beauty comes in all sizes,” she added then clamped her mouth shut when a passing couple looked from her to her pet, agog. Oops. When would she learn to muzzle herself around her pug in public? At least she’d be with kids soon...no judging there.
And an hour later that’s where she found herself, in the middle of a group hug as students streamed through Washington Irving High’s front door after their week off.
“Ms. Day, what’s up?”
“Look, I got braces, Ms. D.”
“I went to band camp and almost drowned.”
“Do you have more Skittles?”
The bell shrilled and she herded the group inside, promising to set up this week’s lunch group visits and her candy jar right away. How good it was to be here. She felt warmed to her toes, her heart full. She was accepted. Loved even. She hoped, as a school psychologist, that she gave back a fraction of the happiness the children gave her. She could not lose this job.
This was what she’d wanted last night when she’d stumbled into the pub and lingered, reluctant to leave such an understanding listener. If Rebecca had waited, she would have found the understanding she needed right here at school.
Of course, then she would have missed out on a surreal encounter with a man whose hazel eyes had hijacked her thoughts all morning... Her disorientation on waking earlier had turned to horror when she realized she’d passed out at the bar and slept in the pub owner’s apartment. Luckily, it’d been an early enough hour to escape without running into anyone.
Her principal’s unmistakable heel clack sounded in the now empty hall ten minutes later. The diminutive woman, whose teased brown updo strategically added a few inches, appeared. “Rebecca, I know this is early, but we have a readmit hearing in five minutes. Can you pull Connor Walsh’s file and join us in the conference room?” Mrs. Carpenter made a face, her bright red lips twisting. “The superintendent’s already here,” she whispered in warning, then clattered back down the hall before Rebecca could request a meeting about her tenure.
Whoa. So much for easing back into her routine after working double shifts this break. Rebecca hustled to her office, breathed in the clean scents of freshly waxed floors and polished counters, and crossed to her file cabinet. Connor Walsh...he’d caused trouble the day before their break. A fight, if she recalled...
She’d been working with the bright loner on his impulse control and anger issues for a few weeks prior to the incident. When he’d failed to make progress with the other school psychologist, Mr. Miller, they’d transferred Connor to her. Despite it tipping her strained relationship with the traditional-minded, senior therapist into cold war status, she’d been proud and excited to see what she could do with the boy.
In three weeks...not much. Not yet, anyway.
Some of the teachers tossed Connor out of class at the first sign of trouble, but she liked the kid. Saw some of herself in him, especially when he’d admitted to being on his own a lot at home, his guardian mostly absorbed in his job. Since the man had evaded her recent attempts to meet with her, claiming work obligations, she imagined him to be some career-obsessed suit. Definitely not a fatherly type. She already couldn’t stand him.
She scooped up a mug of coffee she’d made earlier in the teacher’s lounge and gulped. Not bad. Not latte. But it was better than supporting JavaHut. As for Connor, he deserved better, too. If the school didn’t grant readmission, she wouldn’t be able to help him with his disruptive behavior and make him discover his self-worth the way she had.
In fact, she and fellow area psychologists had designed an innovative intervention program that’d be perfect for him and other students with behavioral issues—if only he’d have the chance to take part. She wished she had time to peek in his file and familiarize herself again with his background specifics, having met with him only a few times prior to his fight. But with the superintendent already here, Rebecca had to rush.
She grabbed his folder, tucked it under her arm and speed-walked as fast as her narrow heels allowed. “It’s nice to see you, Rebecca. How was your vacation?” boomed the superintendent, Mr. Williams, as she took her seat at the conference table. He smoothed his red tie over a trimmer waistline than she remembered, his gray goatee also new.
The narrow room overflowed with staff members, paperwork and coffee cups. To her left sat Connor’s guidance counselor who advised on academic rather than behavioral issues. To her right sat Mr. Anderson,
