Free More Like Her by Liza Palmer

from her in-box and puts her glasses on once again. I look like a “before” picture in mine and she looks like one of the women in Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” video. Awesome.
    “Good day, headmistress.”
    “Please close the door behind you, Ms. Reid,” Emma says, not looking up. I walk the ever-elongating expanse to Emma’s door, becoming more and more upset. I can feel it building in my shoulders. My throat. I . . . I have to say something about this conversation to show that I am an effective leader in even the most pressing circumstances. To prove that I am the perfect person for the head of department job, not that I’m an insolent debater who overthinks everything. Before I go out the door, I whip around and find Emma, head in hands, hunched over at her desk. Her fingers are raking through her hair. Violent. Aggressive. Brutal.
    I catch my breath and reach back for the door, hoping she hasn’t noticed me.
    Emma lifts up her head. And I see a demon. A possessed woman. A deeply furrowed brow bordering on satanic, laser red-rimmed eyes and a mouth set in a hard line. Within a millisecond it flashes from recognition to pain to cool and collected. I give her a quick nod and let myself out, closing the door behind me.
    “Is . . . uh . . . is everything good?” Harry asks.
    “Absolutely,” I say, donning an easy smile and choosing not to correct his grammar.
    “Oh . . . uh . . . ,” Harry says, looking around the office.
    “Come on, sweetie,” I say, motioning for him to exit this hellish vortex of an office before Emma thinks better of it. Harry doesn’t question me as he quickly stands and shuffles out of the anteroom.
    “Thank you for your hospitality,” I say to Dolores. Dolores doesn’t acknowledge or look up at me. The door shuts behind us as we walk down the hallway and toward the stairs. Harry trundles along, his hand holding the now dripping plastic bag of ice.
    “Sweetie, you’ve got to keep the ice on your eye. It’ll start to swell,” I say, stopping and reapplying the bag to his delicate face. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, nonchalant. Easy. No big deal. Sharing your feelings is, you know . . . whatever, dude.
    “Not really. Is that okay?” Harry asks, looking up at me through the overgrown brush of his blond bangs.
    “It’s more than okay,” I say, having a hard time not getting emotional.
    We are quiet.
    I continue. “So, Sean Stone, huh?” I say, walking down the hallway. A smile curls across Harry’s pale face.
    “ Kling akhlami buhfik , Ms. Reid,” Harry says in perfect Vulcan.
    “No, you’re right, Harry. Nobody is perfect,” I say at the base of the stairs.
    “Frannie?” I look up. The sun streams in through the double glass doors at the end of the hall. The hard hat held loosely in one hand and the scrolls of blueprints in the other.
    Sam.
    “Hiya,” I say, my mouth going dry. Harry looks past his plastic bag filled with now melting ice from Sam to me. I see Sam inventory Harry’s eye. Sam offers a warm smile, tucks the blueprints tight under his arm and extends his hand to Harry. In the millisecond Sam’s eyes flick to me, I see the tiniest of imperceptible acknowledgments that Harry’s eye will be handled with diplomacy.
    “Sam Earley,” he says, shaking the boy’s noodle arm with vigor.
    “Harry Sprague,” he says behind his plastic bag.
    “Nice to meet you, Harry,” Sam says, letting go of the boy’s tiny hand.
    “Sam, this is my star pupil, Master Harry Sprague,” I say. Harry and I have been working on introductions and how to greet people for years.
    “Nice to meet you, Harry,” Sam says.
    “Where are you from?” Harry asks . . . blurts really.
    “Tennessee,” Sam says, smiling.
    “You talk funny,” Harry says.
    “I know,” Sam says, looking from Harry to me. Smiling.
    “ Harry ,” I say gently.
    “Don’t you worry, Frannie,” Sam says with a quick wink to Harry.
    “The correct way to say it is ‘You speak