In fifth-period Woodshop, a message on the blackboard greeted him. Students Not Allowed on Machines — Liability Issues/Movie or Study Hall. Abel found the DVD on the desk. The playback deck was coated in a layer of sawdust, but thankfully it worked. The jacket cover description promised extreme surfing action.
“I’ve seen this before,” someone called out in a nasal drawl. “The soundtrack shreds.”
This back-row endorsement seemed to be shared by most of the class, and Abel immediately sensed the spirit of cooperation that had been sorely lacking in second period. These kids might actually stay in their seats and not try to run anyone’s hand through a belt sander.
The class buzzed with chatter about a cold front moving into the area. The system would move out by tomorrow night, but for a brief time the gulf would have waves. He’d seen an item in today’s paper about an early spring storm fouling airport traffic in the Southeast. The only time the gulf had surf was when it sucked for someone else. Like the Labor Day when Katrina clobbered New Orleans. He had tried not to think about the Big Easy going under as he boogie boarded on some of the best waves he’d ever seen in the area.
Abel made a quick tour of the shop, sidestepping lumber strips, lathes, and table saws. Cabinets labeled Student Projects were locked. He inspected the craftsmanship on an unvarnished Adirondack chair before venturing back to the classroom section and sat near a tanned, flannel-clad freshman. Power chords accompanied surfers hopping up on their boards and gliding into huge barrels.
“Hey, Mr. Sub,” the boy said, “I like your shirt.”
A Hawaiian print his wife had given him on his birthday. He liked its baggy comfort, plus, he had to admit, the busy pattern could camouflage food stains.
“You surf?”
The question unexpectedly lifted his mood. This was more like the vibe he usually got from the Gulf Beaches High surf crowd. He was tempted to fib, but why spoil a gift?
“I boogie board,” Abel said. “I thought about checking things out after school.”
“Cool. It’ll probably be blown out, tomorrow might be better.” Then the boy asked, “Do you think I could borrow a dollar?”
Ah, the joys of this job. Did a day ever go by without a kid hitting you up for money or saying you smelled? Abel put a pause in their little chitchat and got up to stretch his legs.
Subbing was his way of testing the waters of a second career. The television production company he’d worked at for eight years had folded a few months ago and he was still adjusting to his new freelance status. From what he’d gathered, competition was steep in the market. But he’d told his wife that money was put away for times like these. The problem was, as his current checking balance bore out, he’d damn near exhausted the rainy day funds.
Tucked in the corner of the shop, he saw a surfboard and a skim board, both apparently in the middle of some refurbishing. Perched on a couple of saw horses next to them was a stand-up paddle board in the early stages of construction. A tableau of surfing hierarchy — surfers, paddle boarders, skim boarders. Boogie boarders, or spongers, were at the bottom of this food chain. He’d never stood up on a surfboard, never mastered the arm push-off with synchronized knee-tuck, then the pop-up that took one from the prone to pouncing position. He caught his waves lying down.
Back at the instructor’s desk, he noticed some referral forms under a cabinet-making manual. The Disrespectful or Discourteous box seemed a little light for Cody’s morning performance and there wasn’t much room in the teacher comments section either. He’d have to choose his words carefully to adequately describe what went down during second period. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been looking for these earlier in the other classrooms he’d been in. Word was that teachers here hid the forms from subs in an effort to cut down on the inevitable infractions. He’d also be lying if he didn’t think there was more to Cody’s performance than his report card. That prom dress business seemed like the type of mean-spirited prank that was right up his alley. Maybe Cody got wind that they’d be talking about it during the morning announcements and wanted to make it look like he had a good reason to bolt before anyone in class started pointing a finger at him. Abel decided to just stick to the facts: Student said substitute smelled like a bad burrito and walked out of class.
The movie’s closing credits scrolled. A dull ache began to run up the base of his skull. As if a small act of kindness might blunt his headache, he chipped off a buck to the kid who had sucked up to him earlier and asked him to take Cody’s referral to the office.
Abel’s horror stories from subbing had led his wife to suggest they pull Emma from their zoned elementary and put her in private school. The luau was the first function his family would take part in at St. Cyprian’s. He was keenly aware of the importance of getting off to a good start. Subbing was all about the first five minutes. A bad takeoff on a wave could be brutal. For Tori and Emma’s sake, he wanted their coming-out party to go well.
At home after school, Abel let Emma watch the Disney Channel when she’d finished her math and spelling. Tori was at the gym. Tonight was his turn to fix dinner. She’d be home a little after five and liked eating before six.
She and Emma seemed so happy with Emma’s new school surroundings. A welcome change to his wife’s glumness over the holidays; Tori had turned forty in November and didn’t seem too happy about it. With her uptick in mood, she seemed to be putting in more time working out and was quite proud of the ten pounds she’d shed since the first of the year.
Abel flipped a switch and the ceiling fan in the kitchen clicked on, its loud droning motor yet another reminder of something else he couldn’t afford to fix right now. He pulled out a package of chicken breasts and gave it a smell test. It was past the due date. Iffy at best; he set it on the counter.
In the back of the freezer he found a box of fish filets and considered other instant options. He glanced over at the bad chicken. There was always the chance Emma or Tori could come down with some bug and they’d have to miss the luau. He’d gladly eat the tickets.
Emma busted Miley Cyrus moves in front of the television. Did he actually just think that? He tossed the chicken out. A whiff of something foul escaped from the garbage can. Tori entered the house from the attached garage. Above the strains of “Party in the U.S.A.,” she cried, “What smells in here? Did someone forget to Febreze?”
Part of their new dinner routine since switching schools was Emma leading them in prayer.
“From-thy-bounty-through-Christ-our-Lord, amen,” they mumbled in rapid-fire unison.
Abel had traded in his knee pads some time ago but was dusting them off tonight, asking that the calls he’d made to every business contact he could think of would bear some fruit.
“Daddy,” Emma said, “on announcements they told us they’re still looking for donations. Me and Lita laughed at that. We said it sounded like they were looking for donuts.”
“Donuts.” He hoped they didn’t detect his unease. “Cute.”
He sensed his wife’s disappointment with dinner, but complaining when he’d gone through the trouble of fixing something wasn’t her style. She pushed back from her plate and declared that she had a surprise in her car. She took Emma’s hand and led her into the garage.
“Tell your daddy to close his eyes.”
In a few minutes the two appeared back at the dining table in matching outfits. Hawaiian shirts knotted at the waist. Tori looked great in her white denim shorts, which were shorter and tighter than Emma’s. She twirled for inspection.