The Unlikely Courtship of Jenni Purchase

It was shortly after five and the last of our players had been picked up outside the gym. The other soccer coach and I strolled down the long corridor back towards our classrooms. It was back-to-school night and Dave, a fellow teacher, and I had just enough time to run up the road to Burger King, grab something to eat, and change out of sweatpants. Between teaching middle school and coaching soccer, it had already been a full day and six periods of talking to parents lay ahead. Granted a Whopper might not be nutritious or intellectually interesting, but it represented my down time in an otherwise busy day. As we headed out to the parking lot, we ran into the newest English teacher. She too had been at school since the final bell and was hungry. We invited her to join us.

I was looking forward to eating in peace, but as soon as we got in the car, our new English teacher took over the conversation. She went to Brown. She played college softball. She would not shut up. By the time we sat down, she had worked her way back to high school athletics. Apparently, her soccer team was so good she could barely get on the field as a defender. Was she serious? Did she think we needed her resume? In less than thirty minutes, I was going to have to talk middle school curriculum for the rest of the evening. Instead of recharging my batteries, I was was learning the names of the starting lineup of some Catholic school soccer team. I nodded a lot and don’t remember saying much. This girl irritated me.

That was the first meal I ever shared with my future wife.

Jenni Purchase came to our middle school in Monmouth Junction, NJ with a great deal of hype. She was from Southern California (exotic), Ivy League educated (intelligent), and just out of college (young). The administration hired her on the spot and in the spring before the next academic year– demonstrating their desire and commitment. This wasn’t a desperate add right before Labor Day; this was making a splash by landing a top recruit on National Signing Day.

Even with all the hype, the new English teacher wasn’t on my radar, professionally or romantically. Along with tales of Bishop Montgomery soccer, Jenni Purchase would tell you early and often that she had a boyfriend. When she introduced herself, it was always, “I’m Jenni Purchase and I have a boyfriend.” While Jenni did, in fact, have a boyfriend; she said it as if she was trying to convince herself it was true. It wasn’t until midway through the first semester that realized “and I have a boyfriend” wasn’t her last name.

Regardless of her situation, I was no good for anyone at that time. I was going through a stretch so unencumbered with companionship that local monasteries started mailing me solicitations. In the late nineties, I was good for one date a year–annually in late July. Every summer, I taught a session at a local prep school with the prospects of hopefully dating another one of teachers there. For three years, the summer school plan worked and it culminated in meeting the Wawa Sandwich Girl. (Wawa is an East Coast convenience store chain.) Every day, we’d split a Wawa shorti and talk over coffee. Unfortunately, turkey and swiss was the only thing was shared.

The next fall, fate would intervene and my classroom was moved from one end of the school to the other. I landed right across the hall from second-year teacher, Jenni Purchase. We spent our mornings standing parallel posts outside our classrooms monitoring the hallway. With increased exposure, I could see Ms. Purchase was good for kids and a mutual professional respect began to grow. Slowly, Jenni moved from annoying to tolerable. It got to the point where she was someone I actually enjoyed seeing at staff meetings and happy hours. When Jenni saved me a seat at a professional development class, I remember making a mental note that she had become one of the gang. From there, things only got more complicated.

Boyfriend still in place, Jenni started making overtures of a somewhat flirtatious nature. All of a sudden, I was invited to take on jobs that should have clearly fell within the boyfriend’s purview. Once, she asked me to help her go shopping for a new stereo. Another time, just the two of us wound up going to see Monsters, Inc together. I appreciated Pixar animation as much as the next guy, but that’s clearly a date, especially if you go to dinner afterwards! When our girls basketball team needed a female chaperone because both coaches were men, who volunteered for the job? Jenni will tell you it’s because she knew girls on the team and loved sports, but I believe she had ulterior motives. You could say we were non-dating dating.

I fully admit I was complicit in this charade. I said “yes” to things I never should have or would have if our status was truly “just friends.” For example, there was the one spring break when Jenni’s parents came to visit. Jenni mentioned that her Dad was a big history buff and wanted to see some Civil War or Revolutionary War battlefields. Standing at the staff room copier, I casually but deliberately dropped in that “I’ve been many battlefields” and that “I would be happy to play tour guide.” I’m not sure what constitutes many battlefields, but I assure you I had very little value in this arena. I was trying to get in good with a girl’s parents. Still, the idea was floated that we’d all take a day trip to Valley Forge or to Gettysburg. On the predetermined date, I sat by my stick of butter sized Qualcomm cell phone, ready for adventure. I waited, but no phone call. The Purchases toured Monmouth and took pictures of important trees. I sat on the couch drinking Bud Ice and watched a MTV Real World marathon.

I was in trouble. Intellectually I knew I liked Jenni, but I was terrified to put myself in a position of being rejected. I enacted what I called the “No Egg on the Face” policy. The goal would be to avoid public humiliation by maintaining the status quo without risking any awkward disclosure of feelings. Unfortunately, while this policy was sound, it was poorly executed. Jenni held an annual Mardi Gras party highlighted by eating crawfish and running to the kitchen every time you heard House of Pain’s “Jump Around.” (Probably played on the stereo I helped pick out.) One year, I found myself the last guest at the party and being the good “friend,” I volunteered to help clean up. I’ve deeply repressed exactly what happened next, but mistakes were made. Feelings were revealed. The next morning, I called a mutual friend to grimly report, “I have egg on my face.”

After that Mardi Gras party, I tried to get out of the flirting with Jenni Purchase business. We still saw each other all the time, but it was obviously not meant to be. One morning before the bell, Jenni mentioned that her sign-language class was doing a sign-language concert and it would be cool if I stopped by. I responded that we had a late basketball game, but I would try to make it. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt like an idiot. Sign-language concert? She’s made it clear she doesn’t like you and you’re going to watch her perform sign language to background music?

Our basketball game did run late. I got into my car and started the habitual, mindless commute home. At a stop light, it dawned on me that I had something to do, like stop at the dry cleaners or grocery store. When I remembered what the actual errand was, I was conflicted. Head in hand, I sat at the intersection and thought long and hard about which way to go. Overcoming the strong urge return home, I made a faithful U-turn back around Major Road towards the community center. Finding a seat across from Jenni’s “Sex and the City” viewing party crew, they smiled knowing smiles back at me. They knew what I was doing there, even if I didn’t. Yet, there I was, watching seven women dressed in black, standing stoically like a Greek chorus. As I watched Jenni sign “How Do I Live” in community room B, I realized that that was woman I wanted, even if she didn’t feel the same way. What can I tell you–some love stories involve courageous acts or noble speeches; other involve enduring suburban women silently butchering LeAnn Rimes with their novice American Sign Language.

It was yet another American pop classic that represented a significant milestone in our relationship. By the time Jenni and I sang “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” karaoke at the National Middle School Convention, I think everyone knew what she and I didn’t: that us getting together was inevitable. About that time, the boyfriend also became a thing of the past and Jenni and I circled each other strategically. In the words of Kramer, “Oh I pursued and she withdrew, then she pursued and I withdrew, and so we danced.” Finally, after a Christmas Party, we once again found ourselves alone at Jenni’s apartment. In a very Steve sort of way, I provided Jenni with lots of specific feedback on our courtship right before our first kiss. For some reason, I felt the need tell her that you don’t invite someone stereo shopping or to your sign language concert without clearer intentions. Dumb, I know. Really dumb. I guarantee you I “talked the moment away” and told Jenni way more than she needed to hear. But in my defense, I was still trying to get equal conversation time after the night at Burger King.