Page 22 of The Falcon and the Foe

The worst part was that despite all my frustration and anger, I couldn’t stop thinking about how damn good he looked in his uniform. It hugged all the right muscles and all the right curves. I couldn’t stop thinking about how he licked his plump bottom lip when he was getting into demonstrating his First Aid shit or how his face lit up—practically glowed—when Josh successfully bandaged Quentin’s leg. It was like no matter what I was feeling, my brain had a horny mode it couldn’t shut off—a definite side effect of abstaining from sex for the past nine years.

I didn’t know how I was supposed to get through a whole year of Falcons meetings with Russ. Imbibing copious amounts of alcohol was off the table—the whole kids thing.

And like clockwork from a vindictive universe, his PTA henchwoman Kimber Ashton strolled down my aisle, in full makeup with blonde hair immaculately coiffed. She shot me a smile as tight as her Lululemon pants.

“Cal.”

“Kimber.” I gave her the slightest nod of recognition while her eyes of judgment raked over my uniform.

“You’re out of flaxseed. Can you get me another from the back? I hope you don’t mind me asking, but since youworkhere...”

“I’ll check on that.” I turned on my heel.

“And Cal.”

I spun back around, my punishment not yet over. “Yes?”

Her clacking heels echoed on the floor as she strode closer, only her cart standing between us. “I noticed you didn’t prepare anything for the back-to-school class party.”

“I sent Josh to school with a bag of Fritos.”

“A bag.” Each word dripped with disdain. “All parents were asked to bring in something homemade for the event. Those who did send their children to school with store-bought contributions also provided them with a bowl or serving dish.”

Event? Serving dishes? It was a little party during the final hour of class last Friday to celebrate the new school year. From how Josh described it, a table was set up in the corner of the classroom with snacks, and their teacher put up streamers. But I could see how Kimber and her coven of PTA witches would confuse it for dinner with the Queen of England.

“I’m sorry about that, Kimber. I’ll remember for next time.”

“You should try to be more involved. I think it would benefit Josh, help him from being like...the weird kid in the corner.”

I shot her the coldest smile I could muster. I hoped she choked on her flaxseed. “What did Russ bring in?”

Why was I doing this to myself?

“He baked a pinata cake,” she said, practically gushing. “When you cut into it, M&M’s spilled out. It was a big hit.” She probably masturbated to Russ’s cake. The blatant crushes the other class moms had on him were pathetic.

I, on the other hand, didn’t have a crush. I merely admired his physical presence and occasionally wondered what he looked like naked.

We stood there in awkward silence until she said: “Still waiting on that flaxseed.”

“Right. Yes.”

I was not proud of what I did next. But she started it when she called my son weird. I found an extra bag of flaxseed in the stock room, and I might have stuck it down my pants and rubbed it around all my swampiest parts for a few seconds. She didn’t seem to notice when she snatched it from my grip. I chuckled to myself intermittently throughout the remainder of my shift.

* * *

For the next Falcons meeting,I made sure to switch around my schedule at the market for an earlier shift. I got out with enough time to make it to the Bea Arthur center twenty-five minutes early—five minutes earlier than Russ had requested. I was sure I would beat him there, and I couldn’t wait to see the look of abject shock on his face.

I drove home, picked up Josh from Edith’s, and made us a quick dinner in the microwave. While the organic chicken nuggets heated up (perks of a work discount), I raced upstairs to put on my Falcons uniform. I made sure to tuck in my shirt and watched an online video for tying the kerchief correctly. Again, I wasn’t doing this for Russ. I was doing it to spite him, for that look of shock slapped on his stupid, pretty face.

The microwave dinged.

“Josh, dinner’s ready!” I called from my bedroom as I stumbled into the hall, hands smoothing out my uniform. “Are you dr—”

Josh pulled the nuggets from the microwave. His uniform was crisply ironed, his kerchief tied right and adjusted perfectly over his shirt. He could’ve been on the cover of a Falcons brochure.

“I was going to help you with your…” I could only tug at the kerchief rather than continuing to speak. “How did you get your uniform pressed?”

He pulled two dinosaur-shaped plates from the cabinet using a footstool I’d gotten him last Christmas. “I ironed them.”

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