Crowned and Moldering

They no longer used individual desks in this room, but utilitarian rectangular tables designed to seat two students. These were arranged in three rows that curved around the front of the room. The curve gave it all a friendly touch, but the plastic chairs looked too small and too hard to be comfortable.

The classroom floor was made up of multicolored linoleum squares that I was certain hadn’t been updated in the more than ten years I’d been gone.

The windows would’ve been more cheerful if they hadn’t been covered in old, industrial-strength venetian blinds. I would ask to have them opened once the sun was no longer glaring down on this side of the building.

“Thank you for that scathing review, Ms. Hammer,” I muttered to myself. What was I expecting? The Ritz-Carlton? Ignoring the room’s decor, I pulled my bullet-point list of topics out of my purse and studied it for a few minutes, until the door opened and a woman wearing a dark orange blazer over black pants and a black-and-white-striped top walked in. She was about forty and wore her brown hair in a chic ponytail. Her brown eyes were bright and focused, and I would bet she didn’t miss much of anything in her classroom.

“You’re our Career Day speaker.” She set her briefcase down and reached out to shake my hand. “I’m Judy Cummings.”

“Sha

“You’re the contractor,” she said, studying me. “What a fascinating job. And you’re so lucky, you’re allowed to hit things with hammers all day and get rid of all your frustrations, right? You must be very well adjusted.”

I laughed. “I can loan you a hammer, if you think it’ll help. For pounding nails, I mean.”

She laughed along with me. “Oh, believe me, I’m beyond help.”

As I positioned my laptop on Mrs. Cummings’s desk to use for my PowerPoint presentation a little later, the door flew open and a dozen noisy, laughing teenagers poured into the room at once. They stared openly at me as they made their way to their seats. Over the next two minutes, ten more kids walked in.

“Don’t let them see your fear,” Judy whispered.

I chuckled. “I carry a hammer, remember?”

The bell rang and we got started. I began the usual way, with the story of how I got started working in construction. After my mom died, my dad began bringing my sister and me to his construction sites because he didn’t want us being raised by babysitters. The guys on the crew took us under their wings, bought us pink hard hats, pink tools, and little pink tool belts of our very own with which to play and build fun stuff, like boxes and a doghouse and a wagon.

When I took over my father’s business five years ago after he suffered a mild heart attack, Dad bought me a celebratory gift of a rolling pink tool cabinet, along with a full set of pink Craftsman tools. They were just as well made and effective as regular tools, but since they were pink, the guys on my crew didn’t walk away with them.

The girls in class enjoyed that detail.

I talked about a few specific jobs and showed a cool PowerPoint slide show of the evolution of my friend Jane’s new bed-and-breakfast, which slowly changed from a rodent-infested nightmare to an elegant showcase. I told them that while it was hard work, there were both immediate and long-lasting rewards.

My talk was impressive, if I did say so myself.

The boys always enjoyed hearing about construction work in general, but I liked to think I won the girls over with the pink tools and the comment that pounding nails and hauling lumber was a great way to tone one’s upper arms. That line usually prompted one of the boys to shout out, “Show us your muscles.”

“Sign up for a summer job with my crew and you’ll see them every day.”

If all that wasn’t enough to sway them to give it a shot, I always added a line at the end that the money was good, too.

*   *   *

I’d given three hour-long presentations and still had a small group of teenagers surrounding me, asking more questions, when Judy a

I smiled at the kids. “Okay, that’s it. But if you have any more questions, take one of my business cards and send me an e-mail.”

Most of them grabbed a card, and they slowly dispersed. Once they were out of sight, I let my shoulders sag.

“They suck the wind right out of you sometimes,” Judy said. “But I haven’t seen them so enthusiastic in weeks, so it’s all good.”

“Thanks.” I knelt down and returned my tools to their proper drawers in the tool chest, then slid my business cards into the pocket of my briefcase. “You’re going to lock the classroom, right?”

“Absolutely,” she assured me. “Your tools and laptop will be safe.”

“Thanks.” I stood and grabbed my purse. “Okay, I’m off.”

“Enjoy,” she said, walking me to the door. “I’ve got to run a quick errand, so I’ll meet you back here in about forty-five minutes.”

“It’s a deal.” I took off down the hall, headed for the cafeteria to grab a sandwich.

“Is it really Sha

I whirled around to see who was talking. “Mr. Jones!”

“No, it’s Brad.”

We both laughed and I gave him a hug. How could I not? He was still the cutest teacher in school, even after all these years. “How are you?”

“I’m harried and hungry,” he said. “You?”

“About the same.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you to the cafeteria.”

Bradford Jones had been my absolute favorite teacher back in high school. I wasn’t alone; Mr. Jones was everyone’s favorite, and not just because he was by far the best-looking teacher on the faculty. He was also the nicest, most thoughtful man. All of my friends had huge crushes on him. He taught biology, and there was always a waiting list to get into his classes.

Nowadays the two of us were friendly because he and his wife, Denise, had hired my construction company to remodel their kitchen a few years ago. During the job, he insisted that I call him Brad, but I just couldn’t. Instead I continued to call him Mr. Jones, and we always had a good laugh about it.

“How’s Career Day going?” he asked.

“I love it. I always have a good time.”

“That’s a great attitude. I’ve got Dr. Kersey talking to my classes.”

“He’s my doctor,” I said as we walked toward the lunchroom.

“Denise’s, too. He’s a great doctor and a good guy, but his presentation is a little too intellectual for some of the kids.”

“They don’t seem to have that problem with me,” I said, and was pleased to hear him laugh again.

If I hadn’t been watching him, I wouldn’t have seen the minuscule change in his expression from cheer to dismay. At least, I thought that’s what I saw. A half second later, the unhappy look was gone and he wore a bland smile, and I wondered what had happened.

“Hi, Brad!”

Ugh. Now I knew what had changed Mr. Jones’s mood. It was Whitney Reid Gallagher, my oldest, worst enemy from high school. She and her posse of rich, snotty girls had taken great pleasure in tormenting me about my wild hair, my clothing, my construction-worker fingernails, and anything else they could harp on.

“What’s she doing here?” Whitney said, looking me up and down as her face wrinkled in disgust. It wasn’t a good look for her, even though I had to admit that Whitney was a very pretty woman. At least she had that one thing going for her. Two things, if you counted her luck at being married to Tommy.

I turned to Mr. Jones. “What’s she doing here?”

He refused to make eye contact and it sounded as if he was choking on a laugh.

“I happen to work here,” Whitney said.

Working? “I know you can’t be teaching,” I said. “So what’re you doing?”

“If it’s any of your business, I coach the cheerleading squad twice a week.”

“Oh.” That actually made sense, since she’d been a cheerleader during our senior year. “That must be fun. Good for you.”