Getting Warmer Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  epilogue

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2007 by Carol Snow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please to not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / January 2007

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Snow, Carol, 1965-

  Getting warmer / Carol Snow.—Berkley trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-21354-4

  1. Women teachers—Fiction. 2. High school teachers—Fiction. 3. Adult children living with parents—

  Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Truthfulness and falsehood—Fiction. 6. Scottsdale

  (Ariz.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.N66G48 2007

  813’.6—dc22

  2006025801

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my parents,

  Tom and Peggy Snow

  acknowledgments

  The transformation from manuscript to book is a long and mysterious process and one I won’t even pretend to understand. For working their magic once again, I thank the talented team at Berkley, especially my editor, Cindy Hwang. Big thanks, also, to my too-wonderful-for-words agent, Stephanie Kip Rostan.

  I am lucky to have so many friends who not only support my work but also cajole their neighbors, relatives, and neighbors’ relatives into buying my books as well. An extra large thank-you goes to Holly Wert and Charlotte Bischel for sharing their time and considerable talents. Thank you, too, to Carrie Hosozawa for making valuable connections and for teaching me a thing or two about eye makeup. I had to learn sometime.

  Melissa Karl Lam was kind enough to supply me with a wealth of school psychologist lingo for this book, while Kim Rueben provided enough early inspiration to fill several volumes. Just for the record, she is not really from Saturn. Perhaps most importantly, Maurine Tobin gave me an education in education back when I thought I might be something other than a writer. Make no mistake: teaching is a far more important job and about a million times more difficult.

  Thanks to Kim Snow, as always, for her first-reader feedback, to Susy Sullivan for her stealth merchandising, and to Andrew Tod-hunter for pretty much everything else. And to Lucy and Philip: thanks for just being you.

  prologue

  It was Friday at the Happy Cactus, and we had a big decision to make. “Happy Cactus Hour” would end in five minutes and along with it our chance to order the two-for-one margaritas. As the cardboard cactus signs plastered around the room informed us, Happy Cactus Hour ended at 6:00 sharp. They meant it, too. A few days before, we’d placed an order at 6:03, only to be charged full price. We’d downed an extra basket of complimentary tortilla chips as a way of exacting revenge.

  “I’m done,” I said. “Gotta drive.” I picked up my curvy glass and sucked on the straw, only to be rewarded with slightly sweet melted ice.

  “But I’m getting another, so yours would be free. Besides, they’re really weak.” My friend outweighed me by a good sixty pounds. She wasn’t fat so much as big-boned, not pretty so much as striking. In heels, she approached six feet tall. She could drink me under the table.

  The waitress glanced around the mostly empty room, checking for impatient customers. In case you’d missed the spiky plants, lunar landscape and inhuman temperature outside, the restaurant décor let you know that you weren’t in Kansas anymore—or in Spokane or Cleveland or wherever you had flown in from. Indian blankets and pastel canyon scenes covered the stucco walls. The waitstaff wore silver bolo ties shaped like geckos. Every few minutes, a blender whined loudly enough to drown out conversation. Welcome to Arizona.

  Another customer waved, trying to call the waitress over. She held up her pen to let him know she’d seen him. “Should I just bring the check?” she chirped, tapping her pen on her pad.

  “I’m done,” I said.

  “No, wait,” my friend interrupted. “We can’t go yet. It’s a hundred and twelve degrees in the parking lot. In here, it’s what?” She looked at the waitress. “Seventy?”

  “I can ask the bartender to turn the AC down if you’re cold. But right now I’ve really got to—”

  “Maybe I can help you ladies out.”

  Here, then, was our knight in shining armor: mid-to-late thirties, average height, a rounded belly matched with incongruously skinny legs, a chubby face flushed from too much sun or alcohol or, most likely, both. His khaki shorts had a reddish stain in the middle of one thigh: salsa, probably. His white T-shirt read HOT, HOT, HOT.

  “I couldn’t help but hear you ladies talking. I was just thinking about ordering a margarita myself, and so . . .” He gestured with his beer bottle as he talked.

  Once the margaritas had been successfully ordered, our new friend motioned to a chair at the empty table next to us. “You mind?”

  He dragged the chair o
ver and plopped himself down. “Wheeew,” he said. “All that talk about ‘It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. ’ What a load of bull! If you ladies will pardon my French.” He took a draw on his beer. His eyes darted back and forth between us. Neither of us is beautiful, but I knew what he was thinking: blond or brunette? Big or small? Like he was choosing between a burger and a chicken salad, coleslaw or fries.

  He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and continued. “This morning I burned my hand getting into my rental car—like touching a hot iron.” He held up his palm (which didn’t look any redder than the rest of him), holding his beer bottle between his thumb and index finger. He took another swig of the beer before switching the bottle to his left hand and holding out his right. “I’m Darren, by the way.”

  “Pandora,” I said, shaking his damp hand.

  “Jo,” said my friend, wisely choosing a finger wave over a soggy handshake.

  “I’m in from Saint Louis for the fireplace convention. You hear about the fireplace convention? I’m with Bilco—you’ve probably heard of us, we make freestanding gas stoves, gas fireplaces and gas inserts.” He drained his beer.

  “You’re in sales?” Jo asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Second biggest producer in the Midwest region this quarter.”

  “Does the first biggest producer get to come to Arizona in January instead of August?” I asked. Darren ignored me.

  “And what do you ladies do for a living?” he asked, directing his attention now to Jo. “Professional models, perhaps?” He raised his eyebrows slightly, anticipating girlish giggles.

  At this, the waitress showed up with the margaritas. “The bill,” I mouthed. She nodded, understanding, and left to get our slip.

  Jo left her full margarita glass on the table and poked idly at it with the straw. At the rate she was going, we’d be here all night.

  “I’m a health care assistant,” I said. I reached into my purse and pulled out a white pill. I put it on the table and slid it over to Jo. “You told me to remind you.”

  She held my gaze for a minute before giving in. She picked up the pill and downed it with a sip of margarita.

  “You got a headache or something?” Darren asked.

  “A headache? Oh, no.” She stared off into the distance.

  He giggled. It was not attractive. “Is that, like, speed, or something?”

  I shifted in my chair, tilted up my chin. “We do not take illegal drugs.”

  “Oh, sorry, I—”

  “This is strictly prescription-only.”

  “Antidepressants?” he guessed.

  “Hardly,” Jo said with a toss of her blond mane. “I have nothing to be depressed about. Not anymore.”

  “They’re her . . . you know.” I looked at Darren. He didn’t know. “Her hormones.” I checked his face: still confused. “Jo is a . . . you know.”

  Jo sipped her drink and gazed at the ceiling fans spinning lazily above us.

  “I don’t know,” Darren said finally.

  “A man!” I said. “At least for now.” And then, turning to Jo: “Joseph, you’re starting to pass!”

  “It’s Josephine now,” Jo assured Darren in a voice that suddenly seemed lower. “Or, it will be once I get the papers filed. I’m counting down the days until the operation. Perhaps we can get together then?”

  After Darren left—well, fled—Jo sat in silence for a while, grimly munching on slightly stale tortilla chips. “What?” I finally asked.

  “Nobody would ever believe you’re a man,” she grumbled.

  I shrugged. “You never know. People generally assume you’re telling the truth.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a little plastic box. “Tic Tac?”

  one

  Okay, before you jump to any conclusions—that I am a pathological liar, or an identity thief, or a nut—let me explain. My name is not Pandora, and I am not a healthcare assistant. My name is Natalie Quackenbush, but I can go days without being called Natalie. People call me Miss Quackenbush, Ms. Quackenbush, or Mrs. Quackenbush—no matter how many times I tell them that Mrs. Quackenbush is my mother. When they think I can’t hear them, they call me The Quack or Quackers or, simply, The Duck. I teach English at Agave High School in Scottsdale, Arizona. Go, Roadrunners!

  Here are some of the things I don’t do: I don’t shoplift, cheat on my taxes or sleep with married men. I don’t pirate software or run red lights. I don’t sneak thirteen items into the express lane at the grocery store.

  So I lie a little. It’s not like anyone gets hurt.

  Besides, I don’t lie during the day. During the day, I am a model of virtue. I watch my language. I wear knee-length skirts and high-necked shirts. I stick to my allotted thirty-five minutes for lunch (assuming I am not on lunch duty; on those days, I don’t even get thirty-five minutes).

  The day after the incident in the bar (just one of many incidents I’ve had in bars with “Jo” in the last six months or so; Jo’s real name is Jill, by the way), I greeted the morning the way I always do: by hitting the snooze button three times more than is prudent. School starts at 7:30 A.M., even though every study that’s ever been done says that teenagers need to sleep later than such a schedule allows. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that most adults need more sleep, too, especially if they’ve been flitting around bars pretending to dispense hormones the night before.

  I gave myself a quick, cool rinse in the double-headed marble shower before yanking on a simple blue skirt and a simple blue shirt that would look better if I ironed them but would have to do. I accessorized with a new pair of dangly silver earrings and a luxurious silk scarf. These touches were unusual for me; I had a blind date after work, and while my hopes were low, I hadn’t given up on miracles.

  I waited till the last minute to put on my sandals. The house’s Saltillo tiles felt cool and soothing on my feet. The effect was temporary. I’d start sweating during the drive to work; my Civic’s AC just couldn’t compete with Arizona in August, even this early in the morning. Downstairs in the kitchen, I opened the stainless steel refrigerator and grabbed a yogurt, an apple and a bottled Starbuck’s frapuccino to drink in the car. I gazed out longingly at the boulder-rimmed Pebble Tec pool and spa in the backyard. If my date ended early enough, I’d take a dip, I silently vowed.

  Oh, yeah, in case you haven’t already concluded that I’m a total loser, here’s another nugget: I live with my parents.

  I got to my classroom at 7:31, a minute after the first bell had rung. It’s a good thing the school custodians unlocked the classrooms at 7:15; otherwise I’d have had packs of students conspicuously waiting in the hallway at least once a week. Today the students were variously slumped in their seats or leaning on their friends’ desks. “Seats, please,” I said, clearing my throat. I did a quick scan of the room, praying that they were all on time, that I wouldn’t have to choose between rule-bending and hypocrisy.

  Rule-bending won. Robert Baumgartner strolled in four minutes after the bell. The yellow late slips sat prominently on my enormous brown laminate desk. It had been a mere two days since Agave High’s faculty meeting had focused on the problem of tardiness and consistency. “We must declare our solidarity in this issue,” intoned the principal, Dr. Florenzia White. “If a portion of the faculty looks the other way when students are tardy, the entire school suffers.” She was right, of course. Dr. White was always right. “Final warning, Robert,” I said with as much authority as I could muster. “Next time you get a slip.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Quackenbush,” he said, batting absurdly long eyelashes. “I had car trouble. It won’t happen again, I swear.” He settled his long, languid body in his chair. The girls in the class shot him worshipful looks.

  “Mrs. Quackenbush is my mother,” I said. “But let’s move on. How many of you did the homework last night?” A scattering of hands rose in the air. I heard one voice say, “We had homework?”

  Mistake number two: I had asked about the homework as if doing it had
been an option. I should have said, “I assume you did the homework last night.” Or, better yet, “Please pull out your homework.” But this was twelfth grade “Adventures in English,” otherwise known as, “The Slow Class.” The first time I heard the “Adventures” moniker, I envisioned a bunch of cape-clad adolescents soaring over the desert, Superman-style. A week and a half into the school year, I could tell that there would be very little soaring going on in this group. I had worried about behavior problems, but the fact was, there was almost no behavior at all.

  Most of the kids weren’t even slow. Some, like Robert, were of average or superior intelligence but afflicted with learning disabilities. Others spoke English as a second language (the first being Spanish, mostly). Still others just didn’t give a damn. I mean a darn.

  The one thing they had in common seemed to be a complete inability to grasp anything I taught them. When the bell rang, forty-three minutes later, it was clear that not one of the eighteen students knew how to use quotation marks.

  Robert smiled at me on the way out. “I’ll do my homework tonight. I promise.”

  “I’ll remember you said that.” I tried to sound like I believed him. Robert would probably end up in prison some day, which saddened me because I was already quite fond of him.

  “You look nice today, Mrs. Quackenbush,” he said. “I like the scarf.”

  “Why, thank you, Robert!”

  “It’s a nice change from your usual Secret Service look.” And then he was gone.

  At lunchtime, I went to the front office to find Jill. Jill is the school psychologist, a testament to the widely held belief that all shrinks are crazy. She was leaning over the tall counter that separates the secretaries from the students—ironic, considering that both secretaries had been students at Agave just a few years before. Dawna (“Mrs. Johnson”) was twenty years old, already fat and married to a former Agave student with a baby named Chenille at home.