Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (15 page)

“Fine.” But she won’t be if my twin doesn’t stop issuing Sam dinner invitations. He’s been a regular at our kitchen table for the past four Friday nights and I’m still struggling with a guilty conscience. Though I’ve got to admit, having Sam around definitely makes life interesting. He’s smart, well-read and keeps us entertained. I love hearing his stories about all the traveling he did while working for an international accounting firm. His tale last week about the London hotel with the faulty door lock on his ground-level basement bedroom and him climbing through the window only to end up stuck halfway in had the three of us in hysterics over the low-cal pasta dish Priscilla had served.

But I don’t care how funny Sam is or how nice a guy he is. No more tours of the house for him. No more repeats of that incident in the basement. I’ve caught him watching me over the dinner table. Why doesn’t he keep his eyes to himself? I’m doing my part. I’m trying not to think about him. Or his soft little moustache. Or the taste of his mouth hard on my own.

Well, I don’t think about him much. Better that I sample Priscilla’s lasagna than another of his kisses. He’s not the man for me. Doesn’t he know how tight his shirt collar is? Someone needs to help him pick out clothes that fit. And I hate, hate, HATE myself for noticing, but surely Sam must have noticed it, too. He has the beginning of a double chin.

The last thing I need is an overweight boyfriend. How am I supposed to help him when I can barely help myself?

I’m tired of nibbling on carrot sticks. I’m bored eating fruit instead of cookies. I gag over steamed broccoli. I miss it drenched in rich, buttery sauce. Being at school only makes things harder. It’s already October and I’m dreading the thought of Halloween. My fifth graders will be on a sugar high for days.

Given my track record, so will I.

“I’m sorry, Ruth. I don’t mean to be such a grouch. It’s this stupid diet Priscilla has me on. It’s not working.”

“Give it some time,” she says with a patient smile.

“Time. I wish,” I mumble. Just like I wish this stupid skirt fit. I never should have worn it today. It pinches around the waist like it did when I bought it weeks ago. Another extravagance I couldn’t afford, but something wacky in my brain urged me on, convincing me a too-tight skirt would be wonderful motivation for losing weight.

Wishful thinking… the story of my life. If a person could
think
themselves into being thin, my entire wardrobe would fit.

“You’re being too hard on yourself, dear. You look fine.”

Much as I admire and respect her, Ruth has no idea what she’s talking about. She’s tall, slim and has no clue what it’s like to be sitting minding your own business, only to suddenly hear the refrigerator or a bag of cookies calling out your name.

“Ladies? Mind if I join you?”

I fight down the impulse to tug my skirt as Nick strolls over. How can one man be so attractive, attentive, and available at the same time? No calories when it comes to romance. Maybe I need to concentrate more on Nick and less on food.

“You’ve been a stranger lately.” Ruth throws him a smile. “Where have you been keeping yourself all week? We’ve missed you at lunchtime.”

More than during lunch. Nick’s barely around except for school hours. Personally, I’d like to know where he’s been hanging out but I don’t have the guts to ask. I don’t want him thinking I’m nosy. Plus I might not like the answer.

“Amy mentioned cheesecake.” He glances at Ruth’s empty plate, then at me. “Did you finish it off?”

“Who, me? I never even had one piece.” The last thing I want him thinking is that I’ve got no control when it comes to food… even if it is true.

And since when has he started chatting with Amy? I thought he didn’t like her.

“There’s more in the refrigerator.” Ruth nods. “Help yourself.”

Nick grabs the chair next to me and attacks a generous wedge of cheesecake. “This is great. Guess I forgot to eat lunch.”

How can anyone forget to eat? Food is on my mind twenty-four seven. I open my mouth, then think better of it. I pick up my pen and another test.

“You’re quite the mystery man lately,” Ruth says. “Are you getting tired of all the female chatter around the lunchroom table?”

“Bored with you ladies? Never.” Nick shoots us a lazy smile that makes my toes curl. “I was up at the high school. Basketball starts soon. The coaches had a staff meeting today. Coaching will keep me busy from now on.”

“But it’s only the middle of October,” I say.

“Our team starts practice November first. That gives us two weeks to get things in place.”

“How hard can it be to get a team together?”

He shoots me a quick grin. “Obviously you never played basketball.”

Me, with my body, play sports? He’s kidding, right? Or maybe he isn’t. I eye him carefully. Did he mean that as a personal slam to me? Maybe a slam dunk? No, Nick isn’t like that. Sarcasm is more Amy’s style. “I don’t know much about basketball,” I admit, “or coaching, either.”

“It eats up lots of time.” He licks a finger and dabs the last few crumbs of cheesecake off his plate. “Prepping for tryouts comes first. Then once the team is in place, you set up the position strategies involved. Chart the offense, figure out the defense.”

“It sounds very complicated.” And piled on top of a teaching schedule? This is Nick’s first year teaching. How in the world is the poor guy going to find the time? I don’t think he realizes how much is involved. First year is the worst. Lesson plans to figure out, tests to make up, learning what classroom methods work the best, maneuvering the ins and outs of the politics involved in teaching.

“It’s not that bad.” He shoves his plate aside. “I hope you’re a big basketball fan. I’m counting on you to make all our games.”

Basketball? Just the word brings a bunch of bad memories bouncing around in my brain. A hot noisy gym, crowded bleachers, and me part of the school band, waiting for half time when our pathetic little clarinet section—me and one pimply faced boy half my size— squeaked out six measures of a feeble duet. But that wasn’t the worst. That prize went to the itchy wool band uniform I was forced to wear. Talk about humiliation. I was too big to squeeze into any of the girls’ uniforms, so the band director stuffed me into a men’s extra-large. Too long in the legs, too tight in the hips.
Fatty Patty
. Unlike the band uniform, the name fit perfect.

“I don’t know, Nick. Sports aren’t exactly my—”

“I’m not taking
no
for an answer. I want you there, Patty.”

He wants me? I fight down a thrill of pleasure and force myself to breathe. It’s not like he asked me out on a date. We’re talking basketball. I hate basketball.

“You don’t know how it feels,” he continues, “playing to an empty gym. We need someone in the crowd rooting for us.”

“I thought that’s what cheerleaders were for.” I’ve never been the cheerleader type. That would qualify as one of Amy’s specialties. She was captain of our cheerleading squad in high school. They pranced around at half time doing pyramids and splits in cute little outfits with short flouncy skirts. No itchy wool band uniform for Amy.

“Not anymore,” he says. “Cheerleading is a competitive sport. Some games, the cheerleaders don’t even show up. They’re out on the road at their own meets.” Nick shoves his plate aside and looks at me like I’m the best thing that’s come along since cheesecake was created. “Come on, Patty, I need you at those games cheering on our team.”

He wants me? He needs me? If I wasn’t sitting down, I’d leap in the air and try some practice splits right now. “I suppose I could make a few.”

You bet I’ll make those games. I might even volunteer as head cheerleader.

Nick stretches back in his chair, eyes the window. Sheets of rain beat against the glass. “Doesn’t the sun ever shine around here? I should have stayed in Arizona.”

“If you think this is bad, just wait till December,” I say. Northern Michigan summers are paradise, but the winters can be hell.

“Why did you move to Michigan?” Ruth asks.

“One of my sisters has a friend who teaches at a high school not far from here. She knew I was looking for a job. When she heard about the coaching position, she called my sister and bingo—here I am.” He shrugs, grins. “With the economy the way it is, I couldn’t say no. Guess I’m lucky to have a job, right?”

“Pretty lucky.” But Nick’s got it all wrong. We’re lucky to have him. I love having this guy around. I cup my chin in my hand, hope to God he doesn’t catch me openly admiring him. “So you went into teaching and ended up coaching, too?”

He drums his fingers against the table, playing harmony with the rain pelting against the window. “Actually it was the other way around. I never planned on being a teacher. I grew up in Arizona next door to a golf course. I had big plans to play the pro circuit.”

There’s a gleam in his eyes that I’ve never seen before, even when he’s talking basketball. Never would I have taken Nick to be a golf nut. He seems so normal.

“So why aren’t you out on the golf course?” Ruth asks.

He nods at the window. “It’s raining, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“That’s not what I meant. Why teaching, instead of golf?”

“I blew out my knee senior year of high school skiing in Lake Tahoe.” The rain clouds outside are no match for the instant scowl covering his face. “One wrong twist and there went my hopes of playing the pro circuit.”

Poor Nick. One fall on an icy ski hill and a promising golf career ends up in a sand trap. I’d be bitter, too.

“Surely there must have been something the doctors could have done?” Ruth and I trade sympathetic glances. “Arthroscopic surgery?”

“I had the surgery,” he says bitterly. “Lots of surgeries, lots of physical therapy. None of it helped. The knee is shot.” He slumps back in his chair. “I could have made the big time but that dream is dead. Talk about a raw deal.”

It
is
a raw deal. Anyone in his position has a right to feel like he does. My dreams came true. I always wanted to teach and now I’ve got a classroom filled with kids. Even if some hideous accident occurred and I ended up paralyzed, I’d still be able to teach. I’d do it sitting down.

“You don’t even limp.” I try and make it sound like a compliment. Nick’s in a foul mood and not looking for sympathy.

“My knee’s strong enough to get around, even shoot a round or two of golf. But it’s not good enough to make the pros.”

“Wasn’t there a way you could have stayed with the game? Maybe given private golf lessons?” Ruth suggests.

“You mean, stick around taking hack shots at a country club? Be some lackey for a guy who never would have been as good as I could have been? No thanks. Not interested.”

I wince at the icy stare he shoots Ruth. If Nick ever looked at me like that, I’d duck straight into that half-eaten bag of coconut macaroons hidden in my desk.

“If you’d told me five years ago I’d be stuck in Northern Michigan teaching fifth grade, I would have laughed in your face. But a guy’s got to make a living, right?” He shrugs. “Being a teacher seemed the best option. It’s easy work… best of all, I get the summers off.”

Easy work? That’s not true.

“I always wanted to be a teacher,” I say. “When we were growing up, my sister and I had a big playroom with a blackboard on one wall and we loved playing school. Priscilla—that’s my sister—was always the student and I was the teacher.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” A wry smile tugs at Nick’s mouth and I feel a tiny glow of happiness inside, knowing I’m the one who put it there. He had a setback. Anyone would feel bitter, given his history. “I played a little basketball in high school. The knee surgeries kept me on the bench my senior year. Coach put me to work keeping score and tracking defense. That got me interested in strategy. I started coaching part time after college.”

“Why aren’t you teaching up at the high school?” Ruth asks.

“Good question. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? But there weren’t any openings.” Nick shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. At least I’ve got a job. Besides, kids are kids, no matter how old they are. High school, grade school, they’re all the same.”

Where did he come up with that idea? From my experience, every student is unique and should be treated that way or you don’t get anywhere. I might not know much about golf or life, but I do know kids. And the other thing I know is that no matter how old they are, kids aren’t stupid. They know when you’re faking.

Does Nick fake it in the classroom?

Then again, maybe high school kids are different. Maybe teenage boys are different. How would I know? I didn’t have any brothers, and very few boyfriends. Maybe that’s why I ended up stuck in fifth grade. Maybe I’m not grown up enough or qualified enough to handle high school boys.

Or men, either.

“Funny how life turns out. I always wanted to be a lawyer and argue cases in a courtroom.” Ruth smiles softly. “Instead, I ended up in front of a classroom trying to make a case for reading and math.”

I stare at her over my tests. Ruth, a past honoree as Teacher of the Year, never planned to go into teaching? But she’s the best teacher I’ve ever met.

“What stopped you?” Nick asks.

“Money,” she says ruefully. “My parents helped out with my undergrad studies but there was no way they could afford to put me through law school. And since my grades weren’t good enough to pull a full scholarship, I made the decision to go into education. Looking back, I can’t say I’m sorry. I enjoy teaching and my students. Well, most of them, anyway.” She throws us an easy smile. “And I’m a firm believer that things turn out the way they were meant to be. Hopefully I’ve been able to make a difference in some of their lives. A few of my students have even gone on to become lawyers.”

“For heaven’s sake, what are all of you doing sitting around in here?” Amy flounces into the teacher’s lounge. “Don’t you have class or something?”

“My fifth graders have music this hour.” Not that it’s any of her business. Amy probably couldn’t sing a true note if she tried.

Ruth stands and pushes in her chair. “I suppose I should head back. I’ve got a few things to finish before my students come back from gym.”