Dunkin and Donuts (16 page)

Chapter Forty-Six

Three weeks after Gabe’s father’s funeral, Dunkin and I are spooning in my bed on a Friday night about to drift off to sleep when I hear the strumming of a guitar. Who would be playing the guitar at 10:00 p.m., in my suburban neighborhood? I recognize the song “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel from way back when, a 1980s throwback and timeless classic that I’ve heard more times than I can count. Then, whoever the mysterious guitar player is begins to sing and I get that plummeting feeling in my gut as I recognize the voice as Gabe’s.

Shit! He’s serenading me outside my window. It is high school all over again. I picture Ms. Peg looking out her window and judging me as a hussy. She probably knows I’ve got one man inside and now another is on my front stoop crooning up at me about the light and the heat in my eyes. This can’t be happening.

“What is that?” Dunkin asks, referring to the music outside.

“It’s Gabe, that old boyfriend from high school I told you about who used to sing outside my bedroom window because he saw the movie
Say Anything
one too many times and thought it was romantic.”

“And he’s outside now serenading you because?” Dunkin looks confused.

“Because he thinks he’s still in love with me.” I flop back on the bed melodramatically, the longsuffering beloved, and bury my face in my pillow. Now, who’s seen too many movies?

Dunkin laughs. “Well, coming from a man who knows just how incredible you are, I don’t blame him. Still… I probably ought to set the record straight.”

Dunkin walks over to the bedroom window, opens it wide, and sticks his head out. “Hey!” he shouts down. “Watcha doing?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gabe shouts, taken aback. “I thought Shayla Ross lived here. We’re in love. I came to see her.”

Dunkin looks back into the room at me and raises an eyebrow.

“We’re not in love,” I groan. “We never were. I saw him at his dad’s funeral and now I guess he wants to be with me.”

Dunkin turns his attention back to Gabe. “Hey, listen, man—”

“Do you know where she might’ve moved to? I
really
want to see her.”

“Um… She’s here.”

“Oh, great!” Gabe says not understanding that the presence of another man in my bedroom at 10:00 on a Friday night does not bode well for him.

“Shayla and I are together, dude,” Dunkin says.

Dude? When did he start using the word dude? What’s that about? And how does Gabe warrant dude-ing? Shouldn’t my
boyfriend
be jealous of another man encroaching on his territory? What’s wrong with me? Why would I want to make Dunkin jealous? It’s twisted, but I realize that half of me is hoping the two men will come to blows over me. Sick, right? It took an entire two weeks for Dunkin’s last black eye to heal, and now here I am wishing another violent episode on the man I love. I have this idiotic fantasy of two madly in-love men fighting over me as I look on horrified and futilely beg them to stop. I decide that I’ve seen
Bridget Jones’ Diary
one too many times.

“Listen, Gabe is it?” Dunkin is saying, “Shayla and I are incredibly in love and I don’t see that ever changing. You’ve gotta move on, get over her, find someone who loves you back.”

I imagine Gabe’s dejected expression, his downcast gaze. But, instead of walking away as expected, his response surprises me.

“I don’t believe you,” he declares. “I need to hear it from Shayla.”

I come to the window. “Gabe, you’ve heard it from me 100 times. I’m just not interested. You’re a great guy, but I’ve moved on.”

“But, my dad just died.”

It strikes me as an insane thing to say. Does he expect me to declare my undying love for him simply because his dad had a heart attack? Am I obligated to run into his open arms because his dad’s no longer with us? I don’t think there’s such a thing as cosmic equilibrium although one of my favorite
Seinfeld
episodes is the one in which Jerry continually breaks even. Come to think of it, I’m already even. I’m in love with a man who loves me back.

“Gabe, I’m sorry, but I don’t love you and no amount of trying to wear me down is going to make me love you. I’m happy and I’m in love with someone else.”

He turns and walks away, looking dejected. I feel badly for him. But, what can I do?

“I’m sorry about your dad!” I shout after him.

Gabe turns to look up at me. His face is full of some emotion I cannot identify. He’s finally seeing it. I don’t want him. Now, he’ll let go of being in love with me and we can hit the reset button. I’m hopeful that now we can be friends, and that he’ll let go of this insanity and we can just be old childhood friends. I smile down at him, eager to embrace our burgeoning new—or is it old?—friendship. It would be nice to have another bosom buddy, especially one from childhood. He can be my new Carlo. Carlo and I used to date a long time ago, but the attraction is long-gone and now it’s just nice to have him in my life. I’m about to open my mouth to invite Gabe inside for a late-night cup of coffee, but it looks as if he’s about to say something, maybe extend an olive branch of his own.

“Fuck you, Shayla!” Gabe screams at me just as I am thinking that there might be hope for a friendship. “You broke my heart.”

I’m too stunned to say anything back. Dunkin shuts the window, terminating the conversation.

It takes me a moment to recuperate after Gabe’s hurtful outburst and, I suppose, I misdirect some of my hurt on the hapless Dunkin.

“You weren’t jealous.” I pout.

“Did you want me to be?”

“I’d be jealous if some woman showed up on your doorstep at 10:00 p.m. and started serenading you.”

Dunkin pulls me close to him, presses his body against mine “I’ll be jealous if and when there’s something to be jealous about. The way I see it, though, he’s not a threat.”

“Oh no?” I’ve never been good at arousing jealousy or suspicion in men, mainly because I am a serial monogamist, as incapable of infidelity as I would be of polygamy. I’m loyal to a fault.

“Yeah,” Dunkin smiles. “I’m pretty sure I keep my woman satisfied.”

“Oh you do, do you?”

“Yes. In fact, let me show you…”

Chapter Forty-Seven

After my boob-popping out fiasco during my last failed yoga experiment, I can’t believe I’ve agreed to do Yoga on the Steps with my friend Liza. But I have. It’s for a noble cause and, especially considering my mother’s cancer scare, I feel a special sort of empathy for women with breast cancer and am here to champion their cause!

Wiping my hot yoga humiliation from my mind, I give myself a little pep talk.

I am a woman-warrior, a yoga goddess, a saint. I will do yoga and help save lives along with the other thousands of Philadelphians who gather each year on the steps of the Philly Art Museum to “flow” for the cause.

“Snap out of it, Mother Teresa,” Liza says.

I hadn’t realized I was mumbling some of my thoughts out loud. Oops!

“We’re gonna be late. Move your ass,” she barks.

I speed up my pace as we hurry from the cars toward the registration desk. We drove separately, me following her because, even in Philly, I have a habit of getting lost. We’re parked forever away as it seems like everybody and their mother has come out for this event.

I am dragging my yoga mat and hurrying along when Liza shouts back, “We’re nearly there.”

Breathless, I reply with one syllable because it’s all my exhausted lungs are capable of. “Ya.”

We arrive at the registration desk. Liza checks in effortlessly. She’s already pre-paid on line. When it’s my turn to sign in, I realize that I’ve forgotten my wallet in the car.

“Shit!” I tell the volunteer who is signing people in. “I forgot my wallet. Can I mail a check?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Did she really just ma’am me? She’s older than I am! “Paid participants only.”

I walk away without my pink bracelet, embarrassingly devoid of my complimentary Kind Bar. Liza glowers at me.

“My wallet’s in my car and there’s no way I can make it all the way back there to get it and then get back here and register in time for yoga,” I say.

“C’mon. We’ll sneak you in and you can just mail them a check when you get home.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s Yoga on the Steps. You really think they’re gonna enforce security? These people are the essence of Zen.”

As it turns out, they are not. Liza sneaks me in behind her pretty effortlessly. No one says a word. And we set up our mats near the stage, ready to move our bodies for the cause. I am minding my own business, pretending to look like I know what I’m doing, stretching and moving my body before the official start of the guided yoga class and attempting to blend in to the crowd when I see the volunteer from registration pointing in my direction. I look away.

“Quick, pretend you know me,” I say to Liza.

“I do know you.”

“Pretend we’re talking.”

“We
are
talking.”

“Pretend I belong here and I didn’t sneak in because I was too lazy and too out of shape to go back to my car for my wallet.”

She smiles. “Oh, Shayla, stop worrying,” Liza starts to say, but stops herself as a uniformed police officer appears, towering over us and addresses me in a booming baritone.

“Miss, where is your bracelet?”

Apparently, I am no longer a ma’am, but a Miss. And why am I thinking about salutations when my mind could be occupied with trying to find a plausible excuse for my naked wrist?

“Um… I lost it,” I say lamely.

“Is that true?”

“No,” I admit stupidly.

“Let’s go,” he says, escorting me down the Art Museum steps.

“Want me to come?” Lisa shouts after me.

“No. Have fun. I’m just gonna go home. Text me later. Bye,” I yell back as legitimate yogis look agape at the intruder in their midst.

As I am led away, I notice the channel seven news van outside covering the event and think how nice it is that Yoga on the Steps is getting some publicity.

Chapter Forty-Eight

“I can’t believe my own daughter would make a mockery of cancer!”

“What? Excuse me?”

“Tina Madras saw you on the six o’clock news being dragged away from Yoga on the Steps in handcuffs. Who gets arrested at a fundraiser for breast cancer?”

“Mother,” I sigh exasperatedly. “I was not arrested. I didn’t do anything wrong,” not technically true, but morally accurate. I
was
going to mail in my check after all. Inwardly, I kick myself for picking up the phone.

“Turn on channel seven,” she orders. “Tina said they’re running the story again at eight o’clock.”

I hang up without bothering to say goodbye and turn on my TV as ordered. It is 7:56 p.m. A few minutes later, I watch an embarrassed-looking me being led down the steps as a newscaster I do not recognize says, “Yoga on the Steps, a time-honored Philadelphia event, was infiltrated today by a woman who made a mockery of this charitable event. Can you imagine? This woman, whose identity remains unknown, snuck in to a breast cancer fundraiser. Some people have no shame. Luckily, she was caught and escorted out before the official start of the yoga, but, still… Let’s go to Meredith on the street as she interviews the volunteer who served an integral role in apprehending this yoga intruder.”

On the screen is an overly made up woman clad in an expensive-looking suit interviewing the bitchy female volunteer who tattled on me and got me kicked out.

“Well,” the volunteer is saying, “I’ve been doing this for a long time now, and I know a suspicious character when I see one.”

The camera pans to the footage of me, ostensibly the “suspicious character” being escorted out of the area. When I turn off the TV, I feel slightly sick but I tell myself that no one I know watches the news so it won’t really matter. Will it?

Chapter Forty-Nine

Principal Hane is sitting in my classroom on Monday morning, waiting for me. She looks as exhausted as I feel. I guess she must’ve been up all night thinking about reprimanding me just as I’ve been up all night worrying about being reprimanded.

Principal Hane cocks a finger at me then beckons me over to her.

“When Ronnie gets here, leave the class with her and come to my office.” It is an order, not a request, and, ten minutes later, I obey—shuffling dejectedly down the hallway to the principal’s office as if I’m an unruly student about to be given detention.

But, Principal Hane’s punishment is much worse than that.

“Shayla.” She leans back in her desk chair and looks at me appraisingly. “I’m sure you know what this is about.”

I say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“Several of our parents saw the news and recognized you. I received emails.”

“Can I explain?” I ask.

“Frankly, no explanation will suffice. Shayla, you are an extremely gifted teacher and the students all love you. That said, your lack of professionalism and propensity to embarrass yourself make you a poor fit for this school. While we would love for you to finish out the remainder of this year, I have offered your position to another candidate for next year. Your services will not be required in the fall.”

I can feel my lower lip beginning to quiver, but I refuse to give Principal Hard Ass the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Instead, I plaster on my bravest smile.

“Thank you for the opportunity to teach here,” I say. “I’ve really enjoyed my work.”

“Should you require a letter of recommendation, we’ll be happy to furnish one. Have a good day Ms. Ross.”

And, with that, I am dismissed. Principal Hane stands, letting me know I’ve exhausted my welcome. We shake hands. Eyes downcast, awash in self-pity, I make the trek back to my classroom where Ronnie is teaching the kids about gravity. When I enter, she looks at me guiltily and I know with certainty that she is the teacher who will be replacing me in the fall. But, for once, I have the good sense to keep my mouth closed.