Getting Warmer Read online

  “It’s funny,” I said, not telling her the cardinal rule of bar lies: the story has to be at least minimally credible. “But I won’t be able to make it. I’ve got a date.” I tried not to look too smug, but when Nicolette asked for details, I simply told her the truth: “He’s thirty-three, never married, runs his own business and owns a house.” She gawked. Clearly, I’d found a man who was registry-worthy.

  “We’ve only just met,” I said, as casually as I could manage. “Who knows what will happen.”

  “Have you Googled him yet?” Nicolette asked.

  “What? Of course not.”

  “I always Google my dates,” Nicolette said. “One time, I went out with this guy who looked exactly like this other guy who was on America’s Most Wanted.”

  “Was it the same guy?” Jill asked.

  “No. But he did have two kids he’d forgotten to mention.”

  “You found that out online?” I asked.

  “No, I found it out when I went to his apartment without calling first and there were two kids there. But I never would have checked up on him like that if I hadn’t Googled him first and come across that picture.”

  The frightening thing about Nicolette is that she thinks she makes sense.

  Jill checked the clock on the wall. “We don’t have time now, but how about we meet in the Media Center at noon? We can Google Jonathan together.”

  “Okay!” Nicolette chirped. “See you then!” She left the room before I had a chance to answer.

  I glared at Jill. “Jonathan has nothing to hide.”

  “You’re probably right,” she said. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t Google you.”

  The Media Center—what we used to call “the library” in the old days—was a large room in the middle of the school that was brightly but unflatteringly lit by fluorescents. One half—the empty half—held dusty books and outdated periodicals. Clearly, taxpayer dollars had all been spent on the other part of the room, which was filled by three rows of computers that were perpetually occupied by at least one and usually more like three students per monitor, most of whom had far superior machines at home. Parents, school boards and educators alike were committed to the importance of computer literacy. History teachers told their students to close their books and head down the hall to learn research skills. Math students took time off from pen-and-paper algebra to master Excel. The irony, of course, was that most of these kids knew how to navigate a computer long before they could read a book. They could create professional-looking report covers and bypass the most elaborate parental controls. So what if they never mastered punctuation and long division.

  Jill and Nicolette were already waiting for me at the teachers’ computer, which was located behind the librarian’s desk. It was the only machine in the school without parental controls. As such, everyone joked about teachers using it to look at porn.

  “What’s his last name?” Nicolette asked. She had already typed “Johnathan” into the computer.

  “There’s no ‘h’ in Jonathan,” I said.

  “But Johnathan Garubo in the tenth grade spells it that way.”

  “That’s just because his parents can’t spell. His sister is named Gennifer with a ‘G.’ Let me do it.” I took over the swivel chair. Nicolette leaned over me, her blond hair blocking the computer. She wore too much perfume, something flowery. I typed, “Jonathan Pomeroy,” took a deep breath, and hit Enter.

  “There,” I said. I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding my breath until I saw a heading marked “Pomeroy Restaurant Supply” and exhaled with relief. “He’s just who he said he is.”

  “How do we know it’s the same guy?” Nicolette asked, still holding out hope that Jonathan might be a fraud. She leaned over me, her bleached hair brushing my face and feeling like cobwebs. She clicked on the Web site, and sure enough, Jonathan was the company president, just as he’d said, and the company was located in Phoenix, just as he’d said. “What did you say he was? Thirty-three?” Nicolette asked, looking at Jonathan’s picture on the home page. “He looks older.”

  “He’s cuter in person. Guess I won’t be joining you on Saturday,” I said more nastily than I’d intended. Nicolette didn’t seem to notice. She was clicking away at various other Google listings, squinting at descriptions of heating tables and pots before closing out and hitting another entry.

  “What’s this?” she asked, stopping at a news article. It detailed a recent charity function at the Arizona Biltmore.

  “That’s Jonathan in a tux,” I said, leaning closer to admire him. “See? He is handsome.”

  “Yeah, but who’s the babe standing next to him?” She was your basic blonde with big boobs, dressed in a sparkly gown with a plunging neckline. Her attire would have been more appropriate for the Oscars than for the Parkinson’s Society benefit. She looked more or less the way Nicolette would in twenty years if Nicolette married well.

  “Just some random bimbo,” I said.

  Nicolette double-clicked on the picture, and we all peered at the caption beneath: “Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Pomeroy were among the many prominent businesspeople to show their support for stem cell research.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Quackenbush.” I jerked my head up. It was Robert, leaning over the librarian’s desk. He laughed. “Man, you guys are really into something. Is it true that the teachers use that computer to look at porn?”

  four

  Scottsdale has resorts the way Venice has gondolas. Actually, if you know where to look, you can even find gondolas at some of Scottsdale’s splashier resorts. The pricey places have pricey drinks, however, so we went instead to the hotel bar at one of those cut-rate places that always looks so nice over the Internet. It was close to the Hyatt, which meant we could pop over for a gondola ride later.

  I’d finally agreed to go out with Nicolette on the condition that she serve as designated driver. She wasn’t pleased (“But I’ve only been twenty-one for two months! It’s a big deal for me to use a real ID!”) but we told her she was allowed one drink, which we’d pay for, and that next time she could get really sloshed. Besides, she thought that gondola rides sounded “awesome,” and we convinced her that the experience would be “even more awesome” if she were sober.

  Jill, Nicolette and I got to the bar a half hour before Jonathan was due to arrive. We’d already worked out that Jill was to be the prison warden and Nicolette a prisoner who had just completed her sentence for passing bad checks. I wasn’t sure a half hour was enough time to get me buzzed enough to pull this off, but the alternative—to slink off feeling deceived and humiliated—was unthinkable. If anyone was going to be deceived and humiliated, it would be Jonathan.

  Jill and I wore strappy sundresses. These were not sexy fashion statements, necessarily, but simply the type of garment that allowed for maximum airflow. Nicolette wore a low-cut, hot pink tank top that outlined her big boobies just so, a low-slung denim miniskirt that allowed glimpses of her thong (also pink) every time she bent over, and the kind of high-heeled sandals that keep podiatrists, chiropractors and orthopedists in business.

  We’d barely made it through the door when a muscular guy with spiky hair appeared at Nicolette’s side. And when I say muscular, I don’t mean, “works out.” I mean, “would have to pay a friend to pee in a cup if he ever wanted to compete in the Olympics.”

  “You’re a breath of spring air,” he said, his eyes flicking back and forth between Nicolette’s eyes and breasts. She giggled. I inhaled and almost choked when I got a hit of his cologne. Nicolette tossed her hair, emitting her own dose of artificial pheromones with heavy floral tones and probably triggering allergy attacks as far away as Flagstaff.

  “Can I buy you ladies a drink?” He glanced briefly at Jill and me before returning his attention to Nicolette. Jill and I declined, but Nicolette gushed, “Oh, I’ve been dying for a piña colada! Do you think they make them here?”

  “Didn’t you tell her the rule?” I whispered to Jill. The rule was: Never let a
man buy you a drink unless he has already yapped about himself for at least twenty minutes, at which point he owes you.

  Jill shrugged. “At least we don’t have to buy it.” She had a point.

  Jill and I staked out a table. Really, I had no desire to play games with strangers, and I hoped Nicolette and Mr. Universe would find a place of their own. But after a quick trip to the bar, they popped over, Nicolette cradling an enormous frothy drink between her manicured hands. Once she’d settled it on the table, she pulled out the cherry and ate it in one bite, leaving a spot of piña colada by her lips. Her new friend took a cocktail napkin to blot away the mess. “Oh! Thank you!” she trilled.

  This was excruciating.

  The waitress came by. She wore a Hawaiian print sundress and sported a polyester hibiscus in her upswept brown hair. A tented card on the table tempted us to “Get Lei’d Every Tuesday,” with half-price tropical drinks and free leis available from four till six. This being Friday, Jill and I ordered our usual margaritas, hers on the rocks, mine a frozen prickly pear.

  “I’m Rodney,” the muscle man said, holding out a thick hand. His grip was surprisingly weak. I’ve really got to start carrying some of that Purell stuff in my purse. “I just moved here from Denver. I’m in pool construction.” He nodded approvingly at our surroundings. “Nice place, huh?” The bar had been done in a tropical theme, complete with Hawaiian florals and rattan furniture. Apparently, if you drank enough mai tais, you could forget that the nearest ocean was five hundred miles away.

  “I’m Donatella,” Jill said.

  “I’m Hope,” I said, ironically.

  “And I’ve already met Chartreuse,” Rodney said, smiling at Nicolette, who was sucking down the piña colada at an alarming pace. “You all tourists?”

  Nicolette stopped sucking and leaned forward, her boobs a good two inches from popping out of her shirt. She held a finger up to her lips. “Shhh! You have to promise not to tell! But I was just abducted . . . by aliens!”

  “I’m going to check on my drink,” I said, standing up, heading for the bar, and probably ruining Nicolette’s credibility.

  “I’ll come, too,” Jill said.

  “What happened to forgery?” I said, once we had settled on stools. “To prison? If she tells Jonathan I’m a UFO expert, I’ll kill her.”

  “Actually, I’m the UFO expert,” Jill said. “You’re the alien.”

  Rodney appeared at the bar and ordered another piña colada. Jill and I hadn’t even gotten our margaritas yet.

  “That for you?” Jill asked. Rodney shook his head and grinned with unbearable enthusiasm.

  “Chartreuse is supposed to stop at one drink,” I said. “She’s still adjusting to the earth’s atmosphere.”

  He winked at me. “I’ll make sure things don’t get out of hand.” He threw some bills on the bar, took the glass (which could double as a vase for a large bouquet) and left.

  “I hate winkers,” I said.

  Jill waved at the bartender. He had unnaturally blond, spiky hair and the kind of tan you’re not supposed to get anymore. “We ordered a couple of margaritas? From the waitress?”

  He looked around, his mouth slightly open, and finally spotted the waitress delivering drinks to some businessmen on the far side of the room. “Yeah. She’ll probably bring them soon.” He picked up a glass and rubbed it with a white towel.

  “So you’ve made the margaritas?” Jill asked.

  He thought for a moment, then shook his head.

  “Okay.” Jill took a deep breath. “Can you just make us a couple, then?”

  He scrunched up his orangey face (so maybe the tan wasn’t natural) and shook his head. “I can’t make your drinks till the waitress gives me the ticket.”

  Jonathan was early. He spotted me immediately, and he got this great big smile on his face that made his eyes crinkly. I smiled back and felt happy and sad and angry at the same time. At least I’d Googled him. Finding out about his wife would have been much worse later.

  He was better dressed than last time: his polo shirt was a dusty green rather than that awful yellow, and his khakis were cut more stylishly. His cowboy boots, black this time, seemed dashing now that I knew he was from Arizona. I wondered if his wife had a matching pair. He leaned over to kiss me, and I jerked backward. He stepped away and blinked with alarm until he spotted Jill and softened, probably assuming I was uncomfortable showing affection in front of my colleague.

  “Hi, I’m Jonathan.” He held out his hand to Jill.

  “Donatella,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. “I’m the warden at the prison where Natalie so selflessly shines the light of literacy.” Jill made a pretty convincing women’s prison warden, though I knew better than to tell her that.

  “Wow,” Jonathan said. “And I thought my job was stressful.”

  “Prison work has its rewards,” Jill said. “As when rehabilitation is successful and you help steer a wayward soul back on the proper path. Take our little Chartreuse over there.” She pointed to Nicolette, who was snuggled up to Rodney, her piña colada glass empty on the table in front of her. “You’d never guess it, but twenty-four hours ago, she was wearing a jumpsuit.”

  “I don’t think she’ll ever wear stripes again,” I said somberly.

  Jonathan studied Nicolette, then turned back to us. “Prostitution?” he whispered.

  I tried not to laugh. I failed. “No, no. Just a little forgery. Passing bad checks.”

  “But she’s not going to do it anymore,” Jill said.

  “She promised,” I added.

  The bartender came over to take Jonathan’s drink order. Jonathan turned to us. “Ladies?”

  “They’ve got drinks coming,” the bartender said.

  “I’m not so sure,” Jill said.

  “The waitress is on her way over.” Sure enough, she was headed in our general direction.

  “I’ll take a Sam Adams,” Jonathan said. The bartender headed off to get the beer. The waitress breezed past us.

  “Miss? Miss!” I used my sternest teacher voice, but it didn’t stop her. I scurried off my stool and chased her to the other end of the bar. “My friend and I ordered margaritas,” I told her.

  She squinted at me. “Were you sitting at the table over there? Where that couple is?”

  I was about to say no when I realized she meant Nicolette and Rodney, who did, in fact, look on the verge of coupling. “Right,” I said.

  “Oh. I thought you left.”

  “We didn’t,” I said as pleasantly as I could manage. “So you can just bring our drinks to the bar.”

  “If you’re sitting at the bar, you have to order your drinks from the bartender.”

  When I rejoined Jonathan and Jill, his bottle of beer had arrived. The bartender was nowhere to be seen.

  “Darn it!” I said. “Why is it so hard to get a drink in this place?” My eyes filled with hot tears, and my throat ached with the effort to withhold a sob.

  Jonathan’s eye’s widened. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded and started to speak but stopped because I was afraid my voice would crack. I took a couple of deep breaths and swallowed before I finally managed to squeak, “It’s been a rough day.”

  It had been, too. Every time I turned my back on Jared, he made farting noises until I finally sent him down to Dr. White’s office. My victory was short-lived. Eyes downcast, Jared told Dr. White that he was having “stomach problems” and that I had “totally embarrassed” him in front of the class. She decided not to punish him on the outside chance he was telling her the truth. Next, my Adventures Class had uniformly failed their commas test. And a kid in one of my college prep classes told me that Catcher in the Rye was “boring.” That’s me: the teacher who made Salinger dull.

  “A prisoner escaped,” Jill said evenly. “One of Natalie’s favorites. We really thought she had changed.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward Jonathan. “And then when Natalie went home after work, her mother didn’t re
cognize her.”

  “She thought I was the dog,” I said, feeling marginally better.

  “They had a dog when Natalie was growing up,” Jill said. “It was quite large, almost Natalie’s size, in fact.”

  “A golden retriever,” I said sadly. “We called her Bucky.”

  “Wow,” Jonathan said, gazing at me with sympathy. “You really do need a drink.”

  “I don’t know who you have to know to get one in this place, though,” Jill said, relating our margarita quest.

  When she finished the story, Jonathan looked up, caught the bartender’s eye and motioned him over. I expected him to order the margaritas successfully. I braced myself to feel simultaneously annoyed that Jonathan would command more authority simply by being a man and relieved to be able to sit back and let him take over.

  To my surprise, he said, “Hey, is Teresa here?”

  “Teresa Levesque?” the bartender asked with complete and nervous attention.

  “Yeah, we go way back.” Jonathan smiled easily. “And what was your name?” He leaned forward to read the name tag pinned to the waiter’s Hawaiian shirt. “Travis?”

  “Travis. Right.”

  “Well, Travis.” He looked at Jill and me, then back at the bartender. “My friends can’t seem to get their drinks. I’ll have to razz Teresa about that next time I see her.”

  The bartender’s nostrils flared with fear, and he would have turned pale if his “tan” hadn’t been applied so thickly. “Hey man, I’m really sorry about that. It was just, like, a misunderstanding. I’ll get them right now. On the house.” He scurried away out of earshot. We could see him pulling out a couple of chunky, blue-rimmed margarita glasses.

  Jill stared at Jonathan with newfound respect. He took a long drink from his beer bottle and tried to look casual before he shot us side glances and broke into a grin.

  “Who’s Teresa?” Jill asked.