Page 40 of Tangled

“You’ve got this. Just have fun. Make some new friends. Don’t drink too much, because you don’t want to be that co-worker—the one who can’t handle her liquor and gets overly friendly. Before you know it, you’re walking around blind-folded trying to play pin the tail on the cock…”

“Dear lord, please tell me you’re not speaking from experience?”

Dead silence echoes on the other end of the phone.

“Clara! You did not!”

“Ha! Oh no, not me. Sorry, my phone cut out. No, some slutty secretary at my office lost her marbles at the Christmas party last year. Security had to usher her out.”

I’m dying of laughter. “Oh, Jesus. Okay, not too much to drink. Got it.”

“Go get ‘em, Liv.”

“Love ya!”

“Love ya, too!”

I end the call and gather my phone and lip gloss, depositing both items in the pocket of my new Calvin Klein coat I snatched up for dirt cheap at Marshall’s. I shouldn’t need a purse or I.D. This is a house party, not a bar or concert I’m walking in to.

Setting the alarm on my car, I head for the house, the chill of the fall air hitting my nose and ears, causing them to instantly freeze. The temperatures have already dropped below freezing a few times this year, which is normal for Oregon. Pretty soon there will be snow days and the holidays will be here.

The sound of chatter and laughter filters out from beneath the garage door that has been cracked. The front of the house is supremely lit with solar lights and hanging lanterns from the stucco. A giant red door is the only thing standing between me and a night of social anxiety. It’s not so much the other people I’m anxious about seeing and meeting.

It’s just one person in particular.

I don’t bother knocking, knowing the chance of someone hearing it would be slim, so I turn the handle and push open the large barn door into a comforting home, charmingly decorated and open, the living room being the first thing you see. A giant brown sectional sofa curves around the room, facing a large flat screen anchored to the wall. Candles are lit on top of various surfaces and pictures frames filled with memories of Drew and Tammy’s life adorn the walls. Looking around the room, you see the evidence of a life well-lived, a life joining two people who care deeply about one another.

Melancholy swallows me whole as I remember I am no closer to finding that myself. Hell, especially with all the drama surrounding my sexcapades with Kane, I’d say I’m three steps behind right now.

“Olivia! You’re here!” An overenthusiastic and slightly drunk Tammy greets me, emerging from a hallway that must lead to the garage where the party is clearly gathered.

“I told you I would be here. Thanks for having me,” I pull her into a hug where she almost takes me down to the floor in her excitement.

“Oops. Sorry,” she laughs, righting herself as we both adjust our clothing from the close fall. “Come, come! Did you bring anything to drink?”

I shake my head, unaware this was a bring your own beverage type of party.

“No worries. We have beer and wine in the fridge in the garage. Typically, people bring their preferred drink of choice, but we always make sure to have stuff that anyone would like.”

“Sounds great. I love wine,” I answer, following closely behind Tammy as she escorts me out to the garage.

Filtering through the door, I’m surrounded by a room full of Emerson Falls High School staff. Many faces I recognize, some I’ve never seen, but I’d bet I only know a handful of names. When you’re encased in your own four walls at school, it’s hard to break free, let alone have time to mingle. Hence, the point of this party, I presume.

“Hey, everyone!” Tammy shouts over the low-playing music and cacophony of chatter. “This is Oliva Walsh, our new math teacher! Olivia, this is everyone!”

A collective “Hi!” rings out right before everyone resumes their conversations, a few people taking a moment to walk over and introduce themselves.

There’s Harriet Tilman, our art teacher. She’s a wiry old lady with long grey hair and turtle shell glasses, whose wardrobe looks like it’s stuck in the sixties. But I know from the students that they love her, and after speaking with her, I can see why. She’s so carefree and in tune with her surrounding energy… she’d make me want to take art and I can’t draw a stick figure to save my life.

Sally Betts, one of the English teachers, comes up next to introduce herself. She’s known for dressing up in a costume of the characters from whatever novel or play her classes are reading. I’ve heard she’s channeled her inner Robin Williams and stood on her desk to recite lines before. The animation she uses when she talks definitely solidifies how charismatic of teacher she must be.

The other members of the math department stride up to me at various points to say hello as well. I know most of them now from the two meetings we’ve had since I arrived. It’s always nice to have a group of people who get you. Few other people on the planet share a passion for math like I do, and physically, I definitely don’t fit the stereotype. Math teachers have a bad rap for being middle-aged white men with receding hairlines and calculators in their pockets. Last time I checked, that wasn’t me.

“So you’re the newbie, huh?” I turn around, coming face to face with Mrs. Waterman, or what some other teachers have referred to as ‘the succubus.’

“Uh, yes. Hi, I’m Olivia. It’s nice to meet you,” I offer while extending my hand. She inspects my palm before barely placing her fingers in mine, half-heartedly shaking my hand in reciprocation.

God, I can’t stand it when people can’t give a proper handshake. Didn’t anyone teach them how important a strong greeting is? How pivotal that first impression can be?

---