Free Mystic Summer by Hannah McKinnon Page A

time. I have felt the weight of their sympathetic glances when two of the new hirees brandished engagement rings this spring. The veteran teachers are my “other mothers”: well-meaning alpha leaders whose expectations are both sweet and hugely suffocating. Which is why I have kept Evan largely to myself when within these school walls, rather than risk inciting the social chairperson to whip out the bridal shower decorations.
    â€œHe’s a sport for subjecting himself to this crew,” Sharon whispers, just before I elbow her gently. Janice Lavender, the librarian, has tilted a curious ear in our direction.

    By Saturday evening, when our cab pulls up at the Plaza, none of this is concerning me. The night is warm, my dress issleek, and we’ve already had a glass of champagne at my place. Evan leaps out and holds the door. Walking into the Plaza, I feel very much like we’re in some kind of storybook ball. As we step through the double doors into the Oval Room, Evan stops to look up at the muted mural of sky and cloud on the ceiling.
    â€œI know,” I whisper, taking his hand, and leading him across the dance floor. “I felt the same way at my first Darby Gala.”
    Evan lets out a low whistle. “Makes you wonder if the school would’ve made more money by just donating whatever it cost to reserve this place.”
    â€œWait until you see the auction list.” One of the school secretaries had whispered that it included a weekend stay at Sting’s London flat and a ten-day stint on a yacht in St. Barts.
    We get drinks and mingle. My colleagues and friends surround us, their inquisitiveness heightened by the pre-dinner cocktails. But Evan handles it all good-naturedly, and the late nights without him these past few weeks begin to slip away.
    â€œYou guys aren’t at my table,” Sharon groans in my ear.
    I scan the seating to see which parents we’re assigned to sit by. On the one hand, we are professionals handling the most valuable asset in these peoples’ lives: their kids. Hour for hour, we log more time with their own children than they do. We hear personal anecdotes, sometimes involving shower curtains or curse words, that they probably would prefer we did not. We hold their children’s hands, whether it be through a divorce or a deceased hamster. We cheer for them to write that first sentence as hard as we do to stand up to a bully in the hallway. Most of us love these kids with a genuineness that would cause us to place ourselves between their child andimminent danger without a second thought; we’ve seen it evidenced on the news too much in recent years. But even among the most reasonable parents and most competent teachers, there’s nothing like a social function, fraught with alcohol and high heels, to bring all the cream to the top, whether it be whipped or spoiled.
    While I look longingly over at Sharon and her husband seated in the southern sphere of the room, Evan wastes no time in introducing himself around our table. There are the Curtises, seated to the left of us; I teach their son, Will, who is a bright, sweet kid. Next to them is David Artrek, with a suspiciously young date, whose son is a fourth-grade piano prodigy. Across from us are the Merrills, who both work in Boston’s theater district, he as a playwright, and she as a producer. It’s a lively bunch, and they seem to have started early on the drink orders. I’m grateful that Marion Tolles, our art teacher, is also seated with us. She winks at me when David Artrek’s date asks our server for a chocolate milk.
    â€œSo, what kind of work are you in?” Glen Curtis asks Evan.
    â€œI’m working on a new crime show for NBC. Maybe you’ve heard of it? First Watch .”
    â€œAn actor,” David says, appraising Evan over the top of his wineglass. His chocolate-milk-drinking date pipes up, “Like, seriously?”
    David Artrek frowns but