Chapter 8

On Friday the basketball teams and the cheerleaders wore their uniforms to school and there was an assembly at the end of the day where they and their coaches were introduced. The cheerleaders led cheers and the pep band played the fight song before everyone was dismissed after being urged to come to the games, and, the assistant-principal added, to behave themselves.

He went back to his room to pick up his work and there was Miss Collins. He had forgotten about her and her invitation. It was, his insides told him, a pleasant surprise. She was a smiling beauty in her stylish tweed suit. He returned her smile.

"Hi," she said. "You looked good up there with the boys. Kind of a mixed response, wasn't it? I think they miss the old coach some. They ready to play?"

"Hope so. Find out tomorrow. What, oh, I remember, beer. I'd plumb forgotten, sorry." How long had it been since he'd had a beer with a pretty girl? "Yeah, some of those guys don't like letting the girls have the gym." She did smell good.

"You didn't make other plans? We don't have to." She couldn't hide her disappointment.

"No, no. Just old age. If I don't write it down, it's forgotten." He packed his briefcase and smiled at her. "Let's go get a beer. Where do you want to go?" Something nearly forgotten stirred within him, something vaguely arousing.

"Not my bailiwick. I live across the river, Fairfax. So you lead and I'll follow." She smiled and melted his will, his doubts, his inhibitions. Funny, she had known him for almost two years, and never really looked at him, he wasn't handsome but he was attractive, sturdy perhaps, no, professorial. She almost laughed at herself.

"OK," he said as they stopped by the office to check for messages, "I know a couple of places. This town has dozens, maybe a hundred beer joints, pubs, bistros, and whatevers, watering holes." He knew the secretaries noticed and would discuss them. Let 'em, he deserved some fun, earned it. Long time since he went out with a young blonde. He was surprised how tall she was.

"I've heard." She hooked her arm into his, her big bag on a shoulder strap. He almost rejected her nearness, but caught himself, enjoying her warmth and her smell. It was, said a part of this brain, the odor that aroused him. He sought a word, pheromones?

"How's it going?" he asked as they left the campus and headed into the busy town. Her strides matched his, easy grace, long legs.

"Pretty good. Haven't had many complaints. Yet. Couple of parent calls. Kids have been great so far, with a few, you know, sour apples, and I didn't have to send out many warning notices." She chuckled. "One girl stood up, right in class, and called me a bitch. I caught her plagiarizing, obvious as icing, right out of World Book, chapter and verse, everything but page numbers." She shook her head. "Sometimes I'm sure they think we're awful dumb or we wouldn't be doing this job. Wonder what their parents say."

"I don't think you want to know. This is a very high priced neighborhood. You get tenure this year, don't you?" She felt good beside him, bouncing along, nearly in step.

"Um, that's right. But the principal's only been in to see me once." She held him back at an intersection, forcing a wait for the light to change with firm pressure on his arm.

"Suspect that's a good sign." He remembered his own tenure year and felt something odd, resentment, no, jealousy, maybe. She was so confident, so relaxed.

"How long have you been teaching?"

"Hm, eighteen years, almost. It does not get easier as you get older."

She laughed. "Something to look forward to."

They walked quietly to a small bistro on a side street that tried to look English or Irish, The Oaken Bucket it was called with an ornate wooden sign hanging out front. He led her to a table on the side of the faux-paneled room with its ornate coats of arms, and they sat and put down their work. "You have to fetch beer here, no waiters." He remembered his long-ago trip to England with his wife and their time in a smelly pub, a very misty memory.

"I'll get it," she said with a smile. "My idea; my treat."

She went to the bar and asked what they had on tap and then ordered a couple of mugs. He watched and admired her lithe grace, her bobbling curls. She put down a five, and the bartender set the foaming beers before her and took the money.

She brought the drinks to the table and sat. A busboy had put a plastic basket of pretzels and a small dish of salted peanuts on the table. They smiled at each other and raised their glasses.

"Thanks," the teacher said, tasting his frosted mug and licking his lips. "Um, good." He drank some more, wiped his mouth with his hand and smiled at her. "This was a good idea, awful good. Might have do it more often. And I like this place because there's no music, you can actually converse without yelling." Damn, she was a pretty girl, no, woman, can't call them girls any more, get sued or something.

"Thank you sir. Are your teams ready?" She studied him, his face, his poorly shaved cheek, the deeply engraved worry lines.

"Hope so. Find out tomorrow. Girls are playing tonight." Terrible, can't drink a beer without getting excited like a damn teen-ager. He tried to remember how long it had been, the release, the shuddering.

"Maybe we ought to go see them. I know several of the younger players, the JV ones. One's taller than I am, and she's fifteen." Regrets filtered through her consciousness, not a lost love, a discarded one. Water gone where, over the dam, under the bridge?

'Good idea. Have supper with me?" Damn, where did that come from?

"Thought you'd never ask. Sure, if we go dutch." She smiled warmly, feeling pleased, glad he asked.

"Now there's an old expression. Haven't heard that for I don't know how long."

She smiled. Nothing wrong with him, not a thing, just a bit long in the tooth. What did that matter? Well, it might.

"I don't know your name. Mine's Bob, Robert." He stuck out his hand and she took it. He held her hand a couple of beats too long and felt a blush rising. She had a good grip, firm, warm.

"Margaret, Meg. Good to meet you, Bob." They smiled at each other, both aware that something was going on.

"When are you getting married?" he asked, leaning back, studying her. "I remember when you announced your engagement back in September. We all cheered." She made an odd face and blinked at him.

"Called it off," she said, looking down, a bit embarrassed. "Hadn't, well, we decided we had made a mistake, mutual, no tears or recriminations." That was a lie, but an easy one.