The Madeleines of Contention

The students scatter, as they always do, as soon as the bell screams. Within seconds, Sophia is a tiny, isolated island in the middle of the Pacific. Brad was absent; she gazes longingly at the empty school chair, tapping a pen on a book, biting a lower lip. She wonders if his absence has something to do with last Saturday; she's still haunted by that nameless feeling of having talked too much for her own good.

Like the cliché, Sophia loves her students, she loves teaching, but the job, in dark honesty, is not all about inspiring young minds to aspire for lofty ambitions. The brochure says that, and the brochure lies. Often, like any other job, the drudgery blots out the sun. Some colleagues and co-teachers make things more difficult than they should be. Carol Smith had darkened the classroom's doorstep that morning. It was fleeting—Carol was just passing by to check her out—but she caught a gleam of what she suspects was animosity.

Lunch-hour noise at the school canteen is the white noise of an old TV with bad reception. The freshmen boys talk about anime, the sophomores bleat card games, the girls straddling childhood and adolescence talk in a kind of spoken shriek. She passes by a group of senior girls at a small round table and she perceives a whiff of words that sound like "Brad Silverstone." One of the girls catches her eye and pouts.

Lunch is ham sandwich, chopped greens, and a box of fruit juice. She has always spurned the "gourmet" dishes prepared for the faculty. Sophia joins the teacher's table at the right-most corner of the dining hall. As soon as she arrives, the chatter dies down and sideward glances are flung at her like shuriken. As usual, the charming Guy Mendes has saved a seat for her. Guy teaches music. He's one of those people who can command a cutesy dimple to appear on his cheek when the need arises, and usually that's when Sophia is around. Secretly, Sophia is excited by the attention—she has fantasized about Guy a couple of times when making love with Derek—but that's it. No crossing of boundaries among colleagues. In real life, Guy could take off his clothes and roll in the mud and Sophia would still ignore him.

But that has not stopped Guy from trying. "You look really nice today."

She takes the ball—"I had a nice, relaxing weekend, thank you"—and tosses it back—"You're looking good, too, Guy."

Guy responds by making his cheek dimple appear. "You don't say!"

The others on the table continue their chatter, talking with food in their mouth. She's grateful to find that Mr. Frome occupies the farthest seat away from her. She couldn't stand the way he licks the sauce off his spoon, his white-pink tongue glistening, while staring at her. The man's a creep, but he also has the ear of almost everyone on this table, and Sophia knows the world of good it gives her to keep things civil between her and Spoon Licker.

"So. How was your weekend?" Guy stabs a piece of pork and puts it in his mouth.

"Actually, I was tutoring one of my students." Sophia shovels her chopped greens.

"Oh. That's good. Extra work."

A figure clad in black appears in the distant hallway. "Yeah. But it's still sort of work when I could be in the Bahamas getting some tan."

Guy's face lights up. "You know what, we can go to the beach some time. I'm free most weekends, anyway."

Does this qualify as open flirting? Seriously? In front of all these people? "Maybe. Let me ask my husband first." She smiles to mitigate the effect.

Figure in black grows and comes nearer. "Oh, my God!" A bomb of voice explodes in their midst. "Teaching that brat how to swim is such a pain in the ass! Pardon my French!"

Everybody looks up to see Carol Smith standing there, a tray of food in her hands, playing the staring game of Who Will Give Up His Seat For Me. Naturally, Mr. Frome, eager to please, stands up and pulls out his chair. "Please, Carol."

Carol is newly anointed royalty commandeering her throne. "Thank you, Mr. Frome."

Mr. Frome takes another chair from a fat kid in another table, who scowls at the teacher's back. He squeezes in between Mrs. Cruz and Mr. Pope. He does not let go a favor so easily. "Tell us about it, Carol. The competition's a few months away. I'm sure you'll both be super awesome!"

"I know, right? And there we were, trying to flap our fins together like a couple of constipated dolphins. I told him we have to step this up. But I don't know." She rolls her eyes. "But mind you. That boy looks really good in his swimming trunks."

The other female teachers make their little conspiratorial laugh, as if they were high school girls doing something illegal. "You are so lucky to be working with him in such a state of undress," Mrs. Cruz, all sixty-three years of her, giggles.

Sophia realizes they're speaking of Brad Silverstone. Suddenly she feels like she could not eat the ham sandwich, anymore. It reminds her of the roasted turkey, which she's sure Carol would bring up next in her agenda. If there's a hole in the ground she will cockroach to it and disappear forever. But now, Carol has noticed her and as she slowly pokes a fork into her steak, she begins addressing the slab of meat. "So what were you doing last Saturday, anyway?"

"Oh, all I did was shop for groceries," Mr. Frome chirps.

Carol giveth, and Carol taketh away. "I'm actually asking Miss Masterson here." Mr. Frome's face falls like a stack of cards. "Saw her at the Silverstone place over the weekend. That was an interesting dilemma with the turkey, Sophia."

Sophia finds a single pepper in her chopped greens, for which she devotes all her focus to retrieve from the tangle of lettuce and tomatoes.

Carol, refusing to let go, addresses her loyal subjects. "Funny thing, guys. Sophia also happened to be there wrestling—wrestling!—with a roasted turkey! Can you believe that?"

This inspires a tsunami of questioning looks crashing in Sophia's direction at the other end of the long table. Mr. Pope says, "Wrestling a what?" Guy Mendes, summoning what could be his cheek's dimple's best appearance ever, whispers, "What's that about?"

"Well, uhh..." Sophia looks up to find the judge and the jury with their jaws dropped. "That was an accident, really."

"What were you doing with the turkey?" One of the voices shrieks.

Damage control, but do not appear so desperate. "I was not doing anything with the turkey, OK?"

Mr. Frome leans with his elbows on the table. "Then why are you at Brad's house, too?"

"It's actually a sprawling villa," a voice says.

"With a standing army of guards and servants," chimes in another.

"And its own helipad," adds Mrs. Cruz.

"Nevertheless," Carol says. "She's at the Silverstone place romancing a turkey." Carol's laughter is classic Disney villain.

Sophia's brain spends the next few seconds trying to resolve how in hell do these people get their information. She's sure she didn't see any helipad. And, anyway, why are they talking about this?

"It was an accident. I was famished. I was there to tutor Brad with his academics."

"And the turkey?" Carol is now stooping so low just to rub it in. "Come on, girl, tell us all about it."

"Alright," Sophia glares at them. "I was hungry. I was trying to eat it."

Laughter explodes. Even Guy Mendes forgets his dimple and guffaws. With tears in his eyes, he elbows Sophia. "You're something, aren't you? But come on, seriously, what's up with that turkey?"

Sophia stares at him; she realizes they all think this is some kind of joke, that "turkey" must be a code word for something, and not an actual turkey she tried to eat. At the other end of the table, Carol realizes it, too, and is rapping the table with her knuckles. The judge with her gavel. They all stop only when a deep baritone voice slips in. "I'm sure Mister Silverstone regrets leaving Miss Sophia in that weird situation."

Heads turn and eyeballs plant on Dolph Lundgren's face. In his immaculate white uniform, he's carrying a big wooden box in his arms. His perfect toothpaste ad smile and blonde hair strike a stunning contrast with his deeply tanned face. Some of the female teachers have turned into zombies, gazing at him slack-jawed.

Carol is quick on the defense. "Who are you?"

"I'm here for Miss Masterson," Dolph Lundgren says, whose name is probably not actually that. He turns to Sophia and presents the wooden box. "Mister Silverstone ordered me to give this to you as a token of appreciation."

"What's that?"

For some reason, Mr. Frome takes it upon himself to go and receive the box on Sophia's behalf, who sits there still finding a hard time to take this all in. Mr. Frome shoves away the clutter on the table and places the box solemnly. Then they all stand there watching it, expecting it to do magical things.

Mr. Frome breaks the awkward silence. "Why don't you open the box, Sophia?"

"I don't know. Should I?"

Dolph Lundgren's slight, professional smile says go ahead.

The wooden box, on which is intricately carved the word "Silverstone," feels heavy and important. Sophia lifts off the lid, and gasps of admiration flutter in the air.

"The famous Silverstone Madeleines," Dolph Lundgren helpfully explains for the benefit of those who do not know anything about gourmet chocolates, which means everybody else in that room. "The world's most expensive chocolate. The cornerstone of the Silverstone business empire, invented by Lucius Silverstone in 1840."

One of the high school kids, who have begun to mill around the spectacle out of curiosity, exclaimed, "I saw that on Gordon Ramsay's show!"

"You watch Gordon Ramsay, you fag," somebody from behind yells, answered by another at the far end of the room with, "I suck Gordon's raw, uncooked balls!"

The kids laugh. The teachers, so used to such adolescent mischief, decide that Mr. Frome's perfunctory "Shut up, kids!" is enough reprimand. They ogle the box-full of gourmet sweets, ready to grab one upon Sophia's say-so.

Sophia stares at the chocolates, nestled in their respective little cubbyholes, unable to decide what to do or how to take this in.

"They look extraordinary!" Mr. Frome's voice is octaves higher than normal.

"Yeah," Sophia says.

"I'm sure they taste so nice," Mr. Frome wets his lips.

"I'm sure," Sophia says.

"They look like they will melt in the mouth and give you mouth-gasms!" Mr. Frome's almost delirious in excitement. Sophia watches him and finally gets it—they're begging for it.

"Sure. Go ahead, you guys."

The teachers happily help themselves to a Silverstone Madeleine, nibbling it solemnly like professional chocolate testers, moaning in pleasure. Carol stays in her seat, putting up walls of pretense, trying hard to convince everybody that this is so beneath her.

"Uhh, excuse me," Guy clears his throat, a Madeleine in his hand. "By 'world's most expensive', how much exactly do you mean?"

Dolph Lundgren is the image model of matters of fact. "That box of Madeleines is worth fifteen grand, sir,"

Everyone freezes in mid-bite and regards their piece of chocolate with renewed interest. Even Carol turns and gasps.

"I'm eating candy that's more expensive than my earrings," Mrs. Cruz titters.

"Ehrmahgherd!" a high school girl from the back exclaims, followed by explosive laughter.

Sophia is suddenly confused. "Then why did Brad send me this?"

Dolph Lundgren is duty personified. "Mr. Silverstone—Brad Silverstone—is just so happy for your effort in showing him the finer aspects of literature, Miss Masterson. He's generous like that. He would have given this to you personally, but he had to be on a jet last night. An urgent business meeting in Switzerland with his father. He hopes you'll understand." He fishes out a bright red-and-gold envelope and presents it to her. "He would also love you to be at the opening of his new exclusive bar, the Fastidio."

Stunned, Sophia holds the invite as if it would crumble at anything more than a whisper.

"Hey!" Everyone turns to see Carol, clutching her fork and pointing it menacingly at the chauffeur. "I also tutored Brad. I'm sure he's also sending me a box of watchamacallit!"

"And who would you be, ma'am?"

Every inch of surface area on Carol Smith's face quivers with defiance as she says her name.

Dolph Lundgren hesitates. "May I speak with you in private, Mrs. Smith?"

"I'm single!" Carol fumes. "And you can say here whatever you need to say, in front of these people!"

"I'm very sorry, Miss Smith." Dolph Lundgren stands so erect—his own way of maintaining a sense of dignity in his job as bearer of not-so-glad tidings. "But Mister Silverstone says he's canceling the swimming lessons. He's no longer interested in taking part in the competition."

Carol's mouth falls open.

"He'd also like to ask you to please stop texting him and sending him forwarded emails of a romantic nature. You will be compensated well for last Saturday's session, and the payment should appear in your next salary. Mister Silverstone expresses his gratitude for your effort."

"That's it?" Carol's face is beet red. "That's fucking it?"

The audience of co-teachers gasps at the forbidden, unmentionable word. Carol realizes this, glares at everyone and stomps out in a huff.

"She must be under so much stress," Mr. Frome offers. Everyone readily agrees.

"Will you be attending, ma'am?" Brad Silverstone's chauffeur/butler/in-house action star asks.

"Well," Sophia's mind is a messy tangle of ribboned thoughts. She would like to sleep on it, she says. And as Dolph Lundgren nods and leaves, Sophia knows in her heart this invitation is a lot more tempting than a whole box of obscenely priced chocolates. She will not be able to resist it.