Karma’s Kiss

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

I’m in my element this morning. Our principal called an all-staff meeting before school so we all had to wake up at the crack of dawn to be here. My fellow teachers are dragging, but I’m not. I man the refreshment table—the one I voluntarily set up. I brought in a Starbucks carafe of coffee and a few dozen donuts. In the center of the spread, there’s a tray of intricately iced sugar cookies replete with swirling designs and hand-rendered illustrations of the Lindale Middle School mascot. Go Lizards!

“Wow, Audrey, you’ve really outdone yourself.”

I bask in the approval of my coworkers.

“Best cookies around,” another one says, taking a second cookie with a wink.

My smile feels permanent.

But then it slips right off my face.

Noah Peterson walks into the room, and I’m shocked his arrival isn’t accompanied by claps of thunder and billowing smoke. There should at least be some foreboding music.

He already has a thermos of coffee and a breakfast taco in hand. He has no reason to come over to my table. He should take a seat near the door and sit patiently for the meeting to start, but he just can’t help himself.

I turn and busy myself rearranging the napkins that were already layered in a neat fan.

He reaches me in no time at all because he’s gargantuan and his strides eat up the distance.

I look up at him, donning a perfectly bored expression as if to say, Oh, it’s just you. What a letdown.

“Morning, Noah. What’s in the thermos?” I wonder. “Diesel fuel? Battery acid? Human blood?”

Okay, apparently, I just can’t help myself either.

Every day I wake up and think, Good morning to everyone except Noah Peterson.

He points down at one of the sugar cookies.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

He knows what it’s supposed to be—I spent hours icing them to perfection—yet still, I find myself replying, “It’s a lizard.”

“Oh, gotcha.”

My eyes are narrowed little slits. “It’s…pretty obvious.”

He tilts his head to the left, squints, and pretends to study it harder. “It kind of looks like a snake.”

He picks one up and holds it out for another teacher so he can get a second opinion.

“Oh, cute snake,” the teacher says, innocently following Noah’s lead.

My hands are tight fists. “Okay, you don’t get any.”

There’s humor in his gaze now that he knows he’s won. “I thought they were for everyone.”

“Not you.”

“I already touched this one.”

I take it out of his hand and thunk it into the trashcan beside the table then walk away.

Just great.

Now I have to reset my mental Days Without Incident tally back to zero. I was at an all-time record: two.

Still, I don’t regret it. I didn’t bake those cookies for Noah. He doesn’t deserve to taste my delicious treats.

The meeting is due to start any minute, but the conference table is still relatively empty. Most of my coworkers choose to hover around the periphery of the room, lost in the masses so Principal O’Malley doesn’t call on them to answer any questions.

I take a seat and carefully lay out my pens and personalized notepad.

Property of Ms. Cohen.

I’m aware of Noah as he takes a seat on the opposite side of the table, a few chairs down.

Quickly, the seats fill around him.

He’s everything I’m not. Easygoing and adored by all.

His picture makes it into the yearbook every spring beside the superlative Lindale’s Coolest Teacher. I never win any superlatives, not even the lame ones.

Apparently, I’m a “try-hard”, as I once heard another teacher so lovingly put it when she didn’t realize I was still in the lounge nuking my Lean Cuisine. I’m the teacher who shows up obnoxiously early for meetings and volunteers to stay late for carpool. My classroom looks like the aftermath of a Michaels explosion. I have elaborate bulletin boards with layered decor, inspirational posters, reward charts. My students barely have room to sit.

When Noah first saw my classroom at the start of the school year, his eyebrows hit his hair.

“Wow…this is a lot even for you, and that’s not a compliment.”

I chose to ignore his mocking tone and instead smiled as if he’d just said the nicest thing ever. Something like: Audrey, you’re my hero. There’s no one smarter or cooler than you.

“Thank you.”

“How long did this take you?”

“I bought most everything.”

With that lie, I toed my trashcan further underneath my desk so he couldn’t see the empty glue sticks wrapper proclaiming, Now with 200 sticks! Then I tucked my hand behind my back to hide the Band-Aid I was wearing on my right thumb. Cricut injury.

“Is that a papier-maché replica of the Eiffel Tower?”

“Oh…yeah. You can find anything on Amazon these days.”

The Eiffel Tower took me a whole week. It fills an entire corner of the classroom. Children can sit underneath it and read on soft pillows and blankets.

What do other people do on their summer breaks?

Now, Principal O’Malley walks into the conference room with a cup of gas station coffee and a rattling key ring. He’s dressed in a faded gray suit and a patterned tie from the ’90s. He’s short and squat with a tire protruding from around his middle. The few wisps of hair left on the top of his head are desperately holding on for dear life.

When he calls an all-staff meeting, we know to buckle up for a long ride.

Like a drunk uncle given free rein of a mic at a wedding, Principal O’Malley knows how to fill time. He has the uncanny ability to stretch a brief announcement into an hour-long rambling speech.

I zone out for a minute when we’re discussing the efficiency of the lunch lines and find myself tuning in again to an entirely different topic.

“As you all go about your day, I want you to try to embody the acronym TEACHER. Terrific. Energetic. Awesome. Cheerful. Enthusiastic—”

“You missed H,” someone calls out.

Principal O’Malley stops and starts to backtrack, ticking off the letters on his meaty fingers.

Oh dear god…

“Doesn’t H stand for hardworking?” someone else asks.

“I thought it was helpful,” Noah chimes in, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

For ten minutes, the meeting gets derailed as Principal O’Malley takes a vote on whether we think H should stand for Helpful or Hardworking.

The tally comes out to an even split, and Vice Principal Trammell—the real brains behind the operation around here—steps in and politely suggests we move on to the next topic on the agenda.

“Ah yes.” Principal O’Malley clears his throat and affects a whole new solemn tone when he continues. “I have some horrible news to report. Our beloved Mrs. Mann was in a motorcycle accident yesterday.”

There’s a collective gasp from around the room, and then everyone wants details.

“Omg!”

“Poor Mrs. Mann!”

“She was struck by a motorcycle?!”

“She was riding on one,” Principal O’Malley clarifies.

Not possible.

Mrs. Mann is a sixty-year-old social studies teacher who weighs eighty pounds soaking wet. Her wardrobe is purchased from an Amish catalog. She shouts at students for running through the hallways yet chides them for being late. She once scolded me for not having better posture.

“She’s in a motorcycle club for ladies over sixty. Vests, patches—you name it. Anyway, yesterday, she had a little run-in with an ice cream truck and broke her wrist. Expecting a full recovery, but that means there’s been a shake-up with the Rome trip this summer.”

Every year Mrs. Mann and her husband—a history professor at the local college—voluntarily take a group of ten middle school students to Italy for a three-week study abroad program, and every year I think, Better them than me. Who in their right mind would volunteer to use part of their summer break chaperoning thirteen-year-olds in a foreign country?

“The students have already been selected for this summer’s trip, and you’ve probably seen them around the school, working hard to earn their fundraising dollars.” He claps his belly. “They got me one too many times with the chocolate bars, but I tell you what…they don’t call them World’s Finest Chocolate for nothing. I just can’t resist ’em.”

Having realized it might be best if she takes over, Vice Principal Trammell steps up, smiling politely. Without her, this place would unravel.

“We’re looking for two teacher volunteers to take the place of Mrs. Mann and her husband for the trip, which will span three weeks in July. Are there any takers?”

Crickets.

Vice Principal Trammell’s gaze sweeps the room, and we all look anywhere but her.

“Mrs. Vincent?” Vice Principal Trammell asks, sounding hopeful.

Mrs. Vincent is the Spanish teacher, but she’s one of those geniuses who speaks like eight languages, Italian being one of them.

She holds up her hands in defeat. “Oh man . I wish!” She doesn’t wish. “It sounds so fun. Rome in the heat of summer—sign me up.” She’s barely masking her sarcasm. “But I’m due to deliver my baby at the end of August, so I doubt my OB wants me traveling overseas that late into my pregnancy.”

Every pregnant teacher in the room breathes a heavy sigh of relief. What a perfect excuse.

If only I were pregnant.

Or married.

Or in a relationship of any kind.

My only commitment at the moment is with my dry cleaner. No one, and I mean no one gets chocolate stains out of fabric like he does.

Vice Principal Trammell purses her lips. “Right. Well, if any of you has a change of heart, please let me know. We need to fill the two spots by Friday or we’ll have to inform the students that the trip is canceled. It’ll really break their hearts.”

She’s digging deep with that one, trying to get us to bend.

For a moment, I start to give in. Maybe I should go. What a wonderful opportunity for these adolescents to explore the world and expand their minds.

Then I remember how Danny in my third period farted yesterday and the smell was so nauseating I was forced to evacuate my entire classroom until a custodian could come open the windows and air it out. I bet the scent will still be there today.

My heart turns cold as ice. If the trip is canceled, we’ll just wheel in an old TV on a cart and have the students watch a grainy documentary about Rome. They’ll be fine.

After the meeting, I stand and gather my things, neatly tearing off the top sheet of my notepad so I can trash it. Sensing early on that I wouldn’t need to take notes during the meeting, I doodled in the margins instead. Just idyllic little scenes of Noah getting struck by lightning. Falling into the lion enclosure at the zoo. Crying as his check engine light comes on.

All the teachers filter out, joking and talking with each other. I look up as Noah passes by on the opposite side of the conference table. He makes like he’s going to keep walking, then he suddenly stops midstride, rocks back on his heels, and looks over at me.

“Y’know, I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer to go to Rome,” he tells me. “ So unlike you.”

“I’m busy this summer.”

Not wanting to encourage him, I head over to the refreshment table so I can start to pack up my extra cookies. He rounds the table and meets me there.

“I’ll bet you are. Already planned your room decor for next year? I heard there’s a shortage on construction paper across the city.”

I go about my business as if I’m not the least bit bothered by him. It’s not as easy as it seems given his size. He’s six foot something. He should be gangly and awkward, but he’s not. He’s broad-shouldered and in my way.

I bat my eyelashes at him like I’m playing coy. “And what about you? What will you do all summer without children to terrorize?”

“My students love me.”

It’s true.

Noah is only one class over and we share a wall. I hear every time he makes his class laugh.

Still, for good show, I grunt in disbelief and tilt my head so I can look into his breathtakingly hideous brown eyes.

“They only laugh at your jokes because they feel bad for you.”

“I’m hilarious.”

“You mispronounced annoying.”

He doesn’t want to smile, but he almost does. I lean forward, wanting it. Then, realizing how close he is to giving me that pleasure, he restores his face to its factory setting.

After the meeting, I don’t expect to hear anything more about Rome.

I put it out of my head completely until I get an email about it later that night. I’m in my apartment, alone, making enough dinner for five and calculating how many days I can get away with eating leftover mushroom risotto without feeling physically ill at the thought. My phone pings and my heart leaps.

I want it to be a text from someone, anyone .

At twenty-seven, my single friends are starting to drop like flies. I can’t go to a family function without a well-meaning relative feeling sorry for me.

“Your time will come too, sweetie…”

Uh, thanks Aunt Marge, but I’m sort of just trying to eat my pumpkin pie in peace if that’s all right with you?

My friends are not only getting married, they’re starting to reproduce.

Fun boozy brunches have been replaced with playdates at the park and baby yoga classes. I participate as much as I can. I throw myself into being the best “auntie” ever, but at the end of the day, my friends’ lives are moving in a new direction and mine isn’t.

When I see the notification on my phone is just an email from work, I almost don’t read it. I already have a murder mystery cued up and a stack of assignments to grade, but the subject line catches my eye.

Bonus for Rome Chaperones!

Bonus!?

I open the email and groan at how long it is. There are details about the trip: dates, expectations, guidelines. Yada yada. I only care about one thing, and I find it way at the bottom.

Having conducted the trip every summer for the last fifteen years, Mr. and Mrs. Mann are very anxious to carry on the tradition and find two eager chaperones to fill their spots. Hearing that there was no initial interest, they have decided to generously establish an incentive fund. Each chaperone will be granted a $2,500 bonus on top of having their travel expenses covered.

If interested, please stop by Principal O’Malley’s office before May 20th.

Well now…that changes things.

I set down my phone and mull it over.

$2,500 is nothing to scoff at. That amount of money doesn’t regularly fall into my lap. My teacher salary affords me a one-bedroom apartment, meager living expenses, and a spare $100 a month to sock away into savings. I’m not exactly rolling in it.

At the same time, I’m not sure $2,500 is enough to convince me to spend three weeks abroad with a tagalong troop of middle schoolers.

Undecided, I take a bowl of risotto over to the couch and eat while I check my calendar.

Let’s see, in July, I have my dad’s birthday on the 6 th and a routine dental cleaning on the 13 th . There’s also an event on the 20 th titled Beach Weekend with Jeff , but Jeff and I broke up a year ago, so I’m not sure what that’s doing there.

I delete it and my month clears up even more.

Some people would find this deeply depressing.

I only find it mildly depressing.

Look at all the days with no obligations. I could literally fall through an open manhole and no one would report me missing for weeks!

I don’t even need to consult my friends or family to know what their advice would be.

My mom would tell me, Do it! Shake things up! Get out of your comfort zone!

My friends would say, Think of all the hot Italian men! You could find your soulmate!

My dad would say, Rome?! I just watched a History Channel docuseries on Mount Vesuvius and it’s bound to blow any minute. You’re better off staying in the States. Don’t want to end up like those poor people in Pompeii.

With a defeated sigh, I close my laptop.

It’s decided then. I’ll go to Principal O’Malley’s office first thing in the morning.

Apparently, I’m going to Rome.