Getting Schooled Page 15

  Her mouth twists. "Simone's a freak--have you seen her? She tries too hard to get attention--to get noticed. So, we gave her what she wanted . . . we noticed her."

  "That's genius!" someone in the back--I don't even know who--calls out.

  David Burke's not laughing, but he's the only one. Even DJ joins the party--they sneer and giggle--a room full of pitiless little monsters.

  I slam the side of my fist on the desk. "That's enough!"

  The chatter cuts off quick when they see I'm pissed, when they realize this is not fucking okay with me. They go wide-eyed and silent.

  "I have never been more disappointed in you than I am right now." I shake my head. "All of you."

  They're supposed to be better than us. More accepting, more open, more understanding--a green generation, with hands reaching across the world, and love that always wins. They have more advantages, more resources and benefits than any who've come before them--and they still put so much energy into tearing each other to shreds.

  Sometimes it feels pointless--like we're trying to hold up a dam that's crumbling beneath our fingers. Because kids are kids--no matter the century. They'll always be so young. Too young to know what matters, what's important, and how fast it all goes. Too young to not be selfish and stupid and sometimes just straight-up mean. They haven't lived long enough to know how to be anything else.

  But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying. Trying to make them better--everything I know they could be. By any means necessary.

  So, I bring the hammer down.

  "Research paper."

  And they groan.

  "The topic is, propaganda and the 'othering' of groups in the lead-up to World War II. Five pages--minimum."

  "Nice fucking job, Nancy." Dugan, a flannel-wearing, long-haired member of the skater crowd, throws a balled-up piece of paper at her.

  "Knock it off," I tell him.

  Then I up the ante. "And I want you to write it by hand."

  Skylar Mayberry's arm rises like a rocket.

  "I don't understand. What does that mean?"

  I pick up a pen and a piece of notebook paper and demonstrate. "I want you to write . . . a research paper . . . by hand."

  She squints at me. "Why?"

  "Because I want you to actually think about what you're writing. The words and ideas you're putting down."

  David Burke's hand goes up next. "They didn't teach script in my elementary school."

  "Me neither," Brad Reefer joins in.

  "You can print." I point at them. "And use white-out or a pencil. If you hand me an assignment that's filled with scribbles, I'll give it back and make you write ten pages."

  They moan in agony again.

  And it's music to my ears. Growth is painful; change is hard. So, if they're unhappy--it means I'm doing my job right.

  ~

  During the weekend, on Sunday, Callie and I hit the grocery store together--because even something as boring as grocery shopping is better if I can look at Callie's ass while doing it.

  "Pork rinds?" I ask as she puts a massive bag in the cart.

  "My dad loves them. Colleen and I have been rationing them, hiding the bag, or he'll eat them until his stomach pops."

  She looks especially hot today, with her hair pulled up into a high ponytail, a touch of pink shine on her lips, wearing snug black jeans and a royal-blue sweater that highlights her creamy skin and hugs her round tits perfectly.

  I come up behind her when she bends over the cart, rubbing my ever-hardening dick against her ass. "I've got some pork for your rind right here, baby."

  And I'm only half-kidding.

  She turns, her face scrunching, and pushes me away. "Ew . . . you're disgusting."

  I grab her hips and pull her flush against me.

  "You know you like it."

  She peers up at me, biting her bottom lip.

  "Yeah . . . maybe I do."

  She reaches up and pecks my lips--and I taste the promise of more to come. If we ever finish fucking grocery shopping.

  I move to the back of the cart so we can get on that, and almost crash into another cart.

  A cart that's being pushed by Tara Benedict.

  Tara looks back and forth between us. "Hey, Garrett. And . . . Callie . . . hi . . ."

  "Hey, Tara."

  "Tara . . . hey. How's it going?" Callie smiles.

  And because Tara's cool, there's only a hint of awkwardness.

  "It's good. I heard you were back in town. Welcome home."

  A dark-haired little boy comes up behind her, Joshua, holding the hand of a light-brown-haired guy with glasses.

  Tara gestures to the man beside her. "Matt, this is Garrett and Callie--old friends from high school."

  I shake Matt's hand and the four of us talk for a few minutes about nothing in particular. Eventually we say goodbye and Callie and I walk over to the next aisle.

  "So . . ." Callie says, walking next to me, "you and Tara Benedict, huh?"

  I toss a box of corn flakes into the cart. "It was a casual thing. Not serious."

  "Right."

  "Was it that obvious?"

  She shrugs. "A woman looks at a guy that she's slept with in a certain way. I could tell."

  I slide my hand into the back of her jeans, giving her plump, pretty ass a squeeze.

  "You jealous, Callaway?"

  She takes a second to think about it. Then she shakes her head.

  "You know what . . . I'm not. Lakeside's a small town, we were bound to run into someone you've dated--probably won't be the last time. Whatever happened through the years, it brought us both here. And I like here." She takes my hand out of her pocket and holds it in her smaller one. "Here is good."

  I lean down and kiss her, softer, longer this time.

  "Here is very, very good."

  Callie smiles, then resumes pushing the cart. After a minute, she laughs. "Besides, it's not like you hooked up with Becca Saber or something."

  Becca Saber . . .

  The back of my neck goes itchy and hot.

  Becca is Coach Saber's daughter--she was in the same grade as us, and the splinter under Callie's fingernail all through high school. She was on my dick like white on rice, and not subtle about it. She'd drop by the locker room after practice, always making sure I knew she was available and up for anything. She got off on doing it in front of Callie. I told her to cut it out, that I wasn't remotely interested, but that didn't stop her from trying over and over.

  And Callie . . . pretty much just sucked it up, let it go, ignored it, and kept her mouth shut. For me.

  To not cause problems between me and the football coach I idolized, who thought his daughter was an angel straight from heaven.

  "That would be a different story." Callie shrugs, still smiling.

  I open my mouth to tell her, because--like I've said before--a guy gets to a point in his life when he knows that straight-up, brutal honesty is simpler. The best way to go.

  Except . . . when it's not.

  I look over at Callie again--and she's so happy--gazing at me with the perfect combination of playfulness, tenderness, and heat.

  Here, where we are now, really is good. And it could all go away at the end of the year when Callie goes back to San Diego. Distance was the reason we ended the first time . . . one of the reasons anyway. And if history is bound to repeat itself . . . well, fuck . . . this could be all the time I get with her. The only time I get.

  I think about what I tell my kids every Friday . . . "Don't be idiots." And I take my own advice. Because only an idiot would waste a minute--a second--with Callie explaining and rehashing shit that happened years ago. That shouldn't affect us at all here, now, in this moment.

  So I nod. "Yeah, totally different story."

  Then I put my arm around her, kiss the top of her head, and we head off together to the frozen food section.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Garrett

  Mrs. Carpenter, with Colleen and
Callie's help, has decided to cook up an epic spread for Thanksgiving. Callie's friends from San Diego, Bruce and Cheryl, are coming to Lakeside for the holiday. The day before Thanksgiving, I drive Callie to Newark to pick them up from the airport.

  We're waiting near the baggage claim when a piercing war cry rings out and a blur of beige sweater and dark-red hair comes streaking around the corner--all but tackling Callie.

  "Girlfriend!" The blur squeals. "I've missed you! Damn, you look great--the Jersey air agrees with you."

  This must be Cheryl. Callie's told me about her--the loud, quirky bookkeeper of the theater company Callie will be returning to at the end of the year.

  She bounces with delight in her tall friend's arms, hugging her back. Then she introduces me to Cheryl and I get a hug slammed into me too--knocking me back a step. Cheryl would've made a great lineman.

  Then the redhead pumps my arm in a vigorous handshake. "It's so great to finally meet you, Garrett! Callie's been telling me all about you." She does a double-take. "Wow, you really are handsome, aren't you? Hello, Mr. Adonis."

  I like Cheryl already.

  Bruce the Deuce, on the other hand--the tall, blond guy in the navy sport coat and beige ascot, who walks up beside Cheryl . . . not so much. I admit it--I'm not as mature about Callie's dating history as she seems to be about mine. I'm a guy--it's my god damn prerogative to want to rip the dick off of any other man that's come within striking distance of my girl.

  Callie and Bruce hug--a calmer, gentler hug than the smack-downs Cheryl's giving out. According to Callie, Bruce is an actor--and yeah, it bugs the shit out of me, in a totally unreasonable way, that they share a common love of the theater. Callie said they dated briefly, but didn't have sex--so I guess I'll let him live. I'll even be nice to him, for Cal's sake--but I won't ever fucking like him.

  Cheryl brings Callie's attention back to her. "So, before we get the bags, I have news!"

  She claps her hands, vibrating in her black boots.

  "What's up?" Callie asks.

  Cheryl holds out her left hand--the one with a big, sparkly diamond on the ring finger.

  "We're engaged!"

  And it's like Callie's brain short-circuits. Confusion mars her pretty features as her eyes dance between her two smiling friends.

  "Engaged to who?"

  Bruce laughs and loops his arm around Cheryl's broad shoulders.

  "Each other."

  "Wait . . . whaaat?" Callie points her finger at them. "You and Bruce? Cheryl and you?"

  The happy couple nods in unison.

  "Do you guys even like each other?"

  Bruce grins. "Turns out my penis loves her vagina and the feeling is mutual. Once those crazy kids got together, our hearts went along for the ride."

  "Wow. I am . . ." She runs her hands through her hair, pushing it back. ". . . so confused. When did this happen?"

  "It happened while we were boxing up your stuff to ship here," Cheryl says. "One minute we were arguing about whether to use Bubble Wrap or newspaper to pack your shoes . . . and the next minute we were tearing each other's clothes off. And it was glorious--just like a romance novel!"

  Bruce picks up the story. "It was so good, we kept meeting up to do it, every day. For weeks."

  Callie's eyes widen. "In my apartment?"

  "Yeah." Cheryl's head toddles apologetically. "You may want to get a new couch when you come home."

  I laugh--Cheryl's kind of awesome.

  "Why didn't either of you say something to me?"

  The last few months have been a tornado for Callie time-wise, but I know she's been touching base with her friends a couple times a week.

  "It was so new in the beginning, we barely talked about it to each other. And there was something exciting about keeping it on the down-low. Clandestine." Bruce wiggles his eyebrows. "Like we were doing something wrong that felt oh-so right."

  "And then, last week, Bruce put his balls on the table and let it all hang out."

  Callie grimaces. "Which table?"

  Cheryl waves her hand. "I mean, figuratively." She turns to Bruce, her voice going mushy and mesmerized. "He told me he loved me and asked me to marry him."

  "And she said yes." Bruce stares at Cheryl, brushing a hair back from her face, the very picture of total and complete pussywhippedism. Infatuation and devotion practically ooze from his eyeballs.

  And I get that--respect it--it speaks to me. It's how I picture myself in my head, every time I look at Callie Carpenter.

  Okay . . . maybe I'll end up liking Bruce. A little.

  They both turn their heads to Callie.

  "And here we are," Bruce says.

  "We want the wedding to be in the spring, so . . . since you're going to still be here, you're gonna have to up your data plan because I'm going to need help with flowers and a dress . . . and everything." Then, slightly hesitantly, because Callie's opinion obviously matters to her, Cheryl asks, "What do you think, Callie?"

  Callie's eyes drift back and forth between them. And then she flings her arms around them, hugging them both at the same time. "I think it's amazing! I'm so happy for you!"

  After the hugs and congratulations settle down, we grab Bruce and Cheryl's bags and head back to Callie's parents' house. Dean's band is playing at Chubby's that night--an unusual mid-school-year performance for him--so the four of us go there for drinks.

  The next day, I eat Thanksgiving dinner at the Carpenters'--Callie's dad hobbles around but still manages to slice up a mean turkey. Bruce and Cheryl are comfortable with Callie's parents and her sister and brother-in-law, so after dinner, she leaves them at the house and stops by my parents' place with me for dessert. We split the holiday between our families . . . the way couples do.

  ~

  The Lakeside Lions finish their season with an 8-4 record. It's not states, and it's not anywhere close to how I envisioned the season playing out--but all things considered, it's not bad. I'm damn proud of my boys and I make sure to let them know it.

  On the first Tuesday in December, I'm in my office, after school, going over tapes from the last game. On the desk, a text message pops up from Callie on my phone.

  Callie: Come to the auditorium. I want to show you something.

  I rise from my desk and text her back as I walk.

  Me: A naked something?

  Callie: Lol, no. Come through the side to the stage left loft--be stealthy.

  Ah, the stage left loft. The legendary student body makeout spot. Our own little slice of seven minutes in heaven--Callie gave me our first blow job there. Though you never would've guessed it was her first time--even back then the girl had skills that could blow my frigging head off.

  Me: Good times in that loft--we going for a redo?

  I know she knows exactly what I'm referring to, when she texts back.

  Callie: Not tonight . . . but maybe another time ;) Are you coming?

  Me: Not at the moment--hopefully soon. But only after you come first.

  I imagine that sweet blush rising on her cheeks, as she shakes her head at her phone.

  Callie: You have a one-track mind.

  Me: No, I have a three-track mind. Your mouth, your ass, and that pretty, pretty pussy--are always on it.

  I walk down the side hallway, outside the theater, and quietly go through the side door that leads backstage. The overhead lights are on and there's some student chatter happening out front. I climb the black, metal ladder to the loft, where Callie is waiting.

  She offers her hand as I climb the last of the way up, smiling softly.

  "Hey."

  She's wearing a black formfitting turtleneck today, sleek black skirt, and high black boots--gorgeous.

  "What's up?" I whisper.

  There's a black sofa along the back wall of the loft. The concrete walls are also painted black, with tons of graffiti left by students through the years, in chalk and white marker. It's a quiet, private space--with probably more body fluid on that old couch than I ever w
ant to fucking contemplate.

  Callie leads me by the hand to the railing that overlooks the stage below.

  "David and Layla are working on their big song. They've been practicing so hard."

  In the last few weeks, Callie's really hit her stride teaching-wise. She's a natural, and I'm so proud of her.

  Soft piano notes float up around us, and she turns her eyes to the stage below.

  David and Layla are center stage. He starts first, singing as Seymour, offering Layla his hand and telling her to wipe off her mascara--singing about how things were bad, but now everything is going to be okay. Layla gazes up at him, like he's her hero, and the music climbs and her stunning voice rises. They sound good together--stronger and softer, complementing voices.

  "Look at them, Garrett. Aren't they amazing?"

  But all I can look at is her. The way her hair shines and her face glows in the halo of the stage lights, her pink lips parted and her eyes wide and full of wonder and awe.

  She takes my breath away.

  I slide my hand across her back, covering her hip, tucking her against me.

  "They're amazing, Callie . . . because that's what you are. You made them that way."

  She lets out a little sigh, wraps her arms around my waist, and rests her head on my bicep, and we watch her students sing.

  Some guys would worry that they could be falling too hard and fast for a woman they've technically only been dating a few months. But not me. Because I know the irrefutable truth.

  It's too late--I already fell, a long time ago.

  ~

  Callie can't come over to my place that night--her mom is hell-bent on bringing all the holiday decorations up from the basement and getting the house set for Christmas. It shouldn't be a big deal--but tonight, I'm antsy about it. Just . . . hungry for her. Maybe it's the realization that she's just across town, so close, when for so many years, I'd think of her but she was far out of my reach. Or maybe it's the last, cute text she sends about decorating:

  Callie: Looks like I'm the elf for the night.

  And doesn't that get me thinking hot, deviant thoughts about sexy, Christmas themed outfits--thigh-high white stockings, red velvet thongs, silk bows, and fur-trimmed handcuffs . . . these are a few of my favorite things.

  Just before midnight, I'm sitting on my couch, still all charged up--rock hard with thoughts of her.

  I look over at Snoopy. He stares back at me.