Getting Schooled Read online

  "Hey!"

  I turn at the sound of Garrett's voice. His furious voice. He's standing in the hallway, a few feet away, with a group of students behind him.

  "Watch your mouth, Tearney."

  A rumble of whispers, a few giggles, and one "Oh shit" come from the teenagers behind him.

  "Garrett, it's fine."

  He shakes his head, jaw clenched and eyes on fire.

  "Nope, not fine. Not even a little."

  "Do we have a problem?" Tearney asks, puffing out his chest like a meathead monkey.

  Oh, for Christ sakes.

  "Yeah--you talking to her like that is a major problem for me."

  And out come the kids' phones. A cacophony of clicking shutters and pinging recording buttons echo through the hall. It's possible we're on Facebook Live.

  "Stop it." I glare at them. "Put your phones away!"

  Tearney steps towards Garrett. "I don't like your tone. You threatening a police officer?"

  Garrett doesn't have it in him to back down--it's not how he's made. "Only if you want to hide behind your badge. Otherwise . . . I'm just threatening you."

  "What in the holy hell is happening around here?" Miss McCarthy yells, marching up to us, slicing through the tension with her presence alone.

  Tearney steps back from Garrett, his shoulders falling just a bit.

  "I want to question David Burke about the Baygrove Park fire. Miss Carpenter is taking issue with me pulling him out of her class."

  "He doesn't have a warrant," I explain. "He doesn't have permission from David's guardian."

  Miss McCarthy nods. "I'll bring David to my office. We'll talk there." She looks hard at Tearney. "All of us."

  "But, Miss McCarthy--"

  "Callie," she cuts me off. "In all the years you've known me, have I ever given you the impression that I'm a pushover?"

  "No. No, you haven't."

  "Do you honestly think I would let one of my kids be mistreated? By anyone?" Her gaze drifts around the hallway, then comes back to me. "These little shitheads are my whole life."

  I take a breath and let it out slowly. "Okay."

  I open the auditorium door and the group of us walk down the aisle. I scan up and down the seats.

  "Where's David?"

  Layla's eyes are wide and worried.

  "He . . . he left."

  ~

  And so begins the manhunt for David Burke--Lakeside's very own Billy the Kid. Parents are called, a search warrant is issued for David's grandmother's house, even though he doesn't live there anymore. More officers show up at the school, pulling David's friends down to the office to question them. Rumors flare, and spread and grow--like the fire itself.

  There's posts on social media that say David was spotted in New York City, pretending to be a homeless man. Another says he killed someone in the park and started the fire to burn the body. There are subtweets and retweets, suspicion about police stakeouts and undercover cops infiltrating the school. But for days . . . there's no David.

  The following Saturday, I stay over at Garrett's and in the morning we go to breakfast at his parents' house. All three of Garrett's brothers are there.

  "Have you heard anything, Callie? David's in your class, right--do you know where he is?" Ryan asks me across the kitchen table.

  "She hasn't heard anything," Garrett answers for me.

  "Callie?" Ryan nudges--seeming less like Garrett's older brother at the moment and more like a cop than ever before.

  Ryan's wife, Angela, feels it too. "You're not on the clock, babe."

  "Leave her alone, Ry," Garrett answers again, holding my hand under the table. "She cares about the kid. She's upset."

  "If she cares about him, she needs to tell me where he is," Ryan shoots back. "This is serious shit. The whole street could've burned down . . . homes . . . people could've gotten hurt."

  "I don't know where he is, Ryan," I tell him simply, because it's the truth. "I haven't heard anything."

  Ryan takes a bite of his bagel and turns his brown eyes on Garrett. "Do your players know where he's at?"

  Garrett shrugs. "Probably. But I'm not going to ask them."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'm not going to make them lie to me."

  Garrett leans forward over the table. "You can't be that old Ryan--you have to remember what it was like in high school. It's them against us. Deny until death, teenage honor code. I guarantee you every kid in that school knows where David Burke is right now . . . and I can also guarantee not a single one of them is going to tell us. Period."

  ~

  That night, after my parents have gone to bed and the dishes are done, around ten o'clock, I get a text. I'd given all the kids my cell, because they're my performers--I told them to text me if something came up, if they couldn't make rehearsals or needed a ride.

  It's David. I'm in the backyard. Come outside?

  I'm not shocked that he knows my parents' address. I've been back long enough to remember that everyone knows where everyone lives in small towns. I go out the sliding glass doors, onto the patio, and David emerges from the darkness of the bushes that line the yard. He looks tired, his dirty-blond hair lying limp and too much tension for someone his age tightening his eyes.

  "David . . ." I sigh. "Are you all right?"

  He shrugs, forcing a smile. "I'm all right. But listen, I need a favor. I can't trust my friends . . . they're morons. But, I'm gonna be gone for a while . . . so . . . can I leave my hedgehog with you? Will you take care of her for me?"

  David lifts the carrier in his hand--a hamster cage--and sets it on the patio table. I spot the telltale ball of black and beige quills in the corner, peeking out from the pile of shredded newspaper bedding.

  "Her name's Pisser."

  "Pisser?" I ask.

  David lifts one shoulder. "It seemed right. She pisses on me every time I hold her."

  "Oh." I nod. "Okay. Yes, of course I'll take of her for you." I sit down in the chair and gesture for him to sit next to me. "Do you want something to eat?"

  "Nah, I'm good."

  "Where . . . where are you going?"

  "Where they can't find me. North Carolina maybe or--"

  "No. No, listen to me, you don't have to do that. I'll stay with you, okay? We'll go together and we'll explain to the police that you didn't do this. We'll make them understand."

  David looks at me, and the floodlight above him gives his face a pale, ethereal glow, making him seem even more fragile. Childlike.

  "But I did do it, Miss Carpenter," he confesses softly. "I set the fire."

  And it feels like I've been punched in the stomach. Because . . . that never occurred to me. I was so sure they had it wrong, just rounding up the usual suspects. The David I've come to know is kind and talented--protective of his friends. I can't imagine him being so . . . destructive.

  "Oh." I shake my head. "David, why?"

  He looks down, kicking a pebble with the tip of his sneaker, looking small and lost.

  "I don't know. I wish I didn't. I don't know why I do the things I do sometimes."

  And I just want to hug him. Keep him safe, tell him it will all be okay and not have it be a lie.

  He rises. "I gotta go, now."

  I dart out of my chair. "No--wait--listen to me. David, there will an after . . . an after this. This will pass. But the choices you make right now will affect the rest of your life." I hold out my hand to him, begging. "Please, trust me. We can get you a public defender or a pro bono attorney--that means they'll work for free. I can help you. Let me help you."

  "They're going to send me to jail, Miss Carpenter."

  "I know you're scared, but you can't run. You can't run away. That will only make it worse."

  He shakes his head. "Miss Carpenter--"

  "There's so much you can be, David. So much you can do with your life. It's not too late, I swear. Please don't throw that away. The other kids look up to you--I saw it the very first day. They believe
in you . . . and I believe in you too."

  His eyes jump to mine. And I wonder if anyone in his life has ever said those words to him. Did anyone stick with him, support him, or did they all just cut and run?

  "You do?"

  I nod. And my voice is firm, insistent . . . willing him to believe it too.

  "I do. I think you are capable of doing wonderful things. Some incredible things with your life. You just have to . . . wait, take a breath . . . and make the right choice. To do better. And I'll be there to help you."

  "Do you promise?" David asks hesitantly. Hopefully.

  I take his hand. "I promise."

  David comes inside after that. I make us sandwiches and tea, and we talk. And then an hour later, I call Garrett. He comes to pick us up, and together we drive to the police station.

  ~

  Garrett calls his brother and Ryan meets us in the lobby of the police station. Before Ryan takes him in the back, David turns to me.

  "Miss Carpenter?"

  "Yes?"

  "I just want you to know . . . you're a really good teacher."

  There's a pressure in my chest that makes my bones bow, like I could break open at any moment.

  I hug him, wishing I could do more. "Thank you, David."

  "Watch out for Layla, okay?" he says against my shoulder. "She gets sad sometimes."

  I nod. "I will."

  Then we part. Garrett puts his hand on David's shoulder, squeezing. "You're doing the right thing, David, and I know it's not easy. I'm proud of you."

  David nods, his face tight.

  Ryan smacks his brother's shoulder and Garrett nods. "I'll talk to you soon."

  I take a step towards Ryan, dropping my voice so only he can hear. "You make sure he's okay."

  His eyes are kind, understanding. "I'll do everything I can for him."

  Then he turns around, takes David by the arm, and guides him through the door.

  I stare at the spot where David just stood and my vision goes blurry. Garrett is right behind me--I feel the heat of his chest, his presence . . . his strength.

  "Callie?"

  "I didn't think it would be like this." My throat is closing, my voice raspy and strangled.

  "Like what?" Garrett asks gently.

  "I thought teaching would just be a job. I'd do the year and go back to California. Simple." My chest tightens, crushing me. "I didn't think I'd care about them so much."

  Garrett holds my hand, threading our fingers together. "Kids sneak up on you. They have the uncanny ability to be amazing . . . when you least expect it. They're easy to care about."

  The tears come then, scalding and heavy behind my eyelids. And my lungs swell with too much feeling. Because David's not a bad kid, not even a little. He's a good kid . . . who did a really bad thing. And he doesn't even know why.

  And that's so much harder. So much sadder.

  "I didn't . . . I didn't think they'd break my heart."

  And I sob, the grief of all that's happened breaking loose and flowing from me.

  Garrett pulls me against him, pressing my face against his shoulder, rubbing my back and kissing my hair.

  "Yeah. Yeah, they'll do that too."

  ~

  The next morning I walk into the auditorium and am met by thirty somber, dejected faces. The news about David turning himself in, that he's sitting in a jail cell at this very moment, has already torn its way through the school. I put my bag down on a chair in the front row, and my rib cage is filled with concrete.

  "We have to finish blocking today. Turn to scene seventeen in your scripts."

  For a moment, none of them move. They just look at me.

  "That's it?" Michael asks quietly. "That's all you're gonna say?"

  I clear my throat, fumbling with the pages of the script in my hands. "Um . . . Bradley, you're the understudy for Seymour. You need to start learning those lines. I'll have to pick someone from one of the other theater classes to play the dentist."

  "No." Layla stands up, her voice unusually firm. "I'm not doing this with him. I'm not kissing him."

  Bradley scoffs. "I don't want to swap spit with you either, loser."

  "Shut up, dickface!"

  "Screw you!"

  "Stop it!" I slap the script down on the chair. "Don't do this."

  "What about David?" Simone asks softly. "Don't you care about him at all?"

  The quiet question slices me to the bone. And all the sorrow that I locked down, locked up tight last night, crests, threatening to spill over.

  "The show must go on." I look at each of their sad little faces. "Have you ever heard that expression? It's true--in theater and in life. The show is bigger than any of us--bigger than you or me . . . or David. He can't be a part of this anymore, but we'll go on and do it without him."

  Toby stares like he's never seen me before. "That's cold, Miss Carpenter."

  "Life is cold, Toby."

  And I try, I try so hard to be cold--to be strong. But my eyes burn and my heart aches.

  "Life is going to knock you down, every one of you. Some way, at some time, something unexpected is going to come and hit you right in the knees. Knock the wind out of you."

  Memories of me and Garrett wash through me, saturate me--submerge me in the remembered feeling of my whole world being turned upside down and shaken out.

  "And I wish I could protect you from it." My voice cracks. "I would do that for you--for each of you if I could." I shake my head. "But I can't."

  I wipe at the moisture filling my eyes, breathing deeply. "So, if I teach you nothing else this year--let it be this: the show goes on. You have to go on, because life goes on. Even when you're hurting, even when it's hard--you have to pick yourself up, lean on the people around you . . . and go on."

  They're still and subdued for several long moments after that. Absorbing the words.

  "I'll do it." Michael raises his hand. "I can do David's part. I already know the blocking and lines." He shrugs, smiling self-deprecatingly, adjusting his glasses. "I'm practically the real-life Seymour anyway."

  My smile to Michael is grateful . . . and proud. I glance at Layla. "Are you okay with that?"

  She looks at Michael, and then her eyes rise to me. "Yeah. Yeah, that works for me."

  "Good." I nod. "Okay . . . scene seventeen."

  And together . . . we go on.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Garrett

  "What the hell do you mean you didn't put up a tree?"

  We'd gone to Foster's cut-down-your-own-tree Tree Farm this afternoon and spotted a nice eight-foot Douglas fir for Callie's parents' house. Then Callie kissed me next to it, one thing led to another--and later we walked out of there with the tree and soaked jackets and pine needles in our hair from getting busy in the new-fallen snow.

  Now we're strolling down Main Street, checking out the tables of baked goods and crafts at the annual Lakeside Christmas Bazaar--talking about her holidays in San Diego. She glances sideways at me from beneath her red knit hat--the tip of her nose all cute and pink from the cold. Makes me want to bite it.

  "Well, it was just me--seemed like a lot of work for one person. I put out a table tree."

  "A table tree?" I'm disgusted. "What a sad little life you had. Thank God you've got me now to rescue you from it."

  She rolls her eyes. Then tugs me over to a table of graphic novels based on the classics. She buys The Count of Monte Cristo and a few others for David. I'm taking Callie down to visit him tomorrow--three days before Christmas--at the Jamesburg Home for Boys. She's talked to him on the phone a few times and he seems like he's doing okay--sitting tight while his public defender negotiates a plea deal for him.

  "Hi, Coach D; hey, Miss Carpenter!"

  "Hey, guys."

  "S'up, Coach Daniels! Looking good, Miss Carpenter!"

  "Hi, kids."

  It happens every few minutes--we're spotted and greeted by gaggles of our students as we thread our way through the crowd. It's an occ
upational hazard--as is being cornered by an overeager parent and subjected to an impromptu conference.

  "Darpenter forever!" a faceless voice calls from behind us. And Callie and I both laugh.

  She stops on the sidewalk for a moment, threading her arm through mine, leaning against me, gazing down the street. The wreath-laden street lamps and strings of twinkling white lights make stars in her eyes.

  "I forgot about this," she says softly, watching coat-and hat-covered families--pretty much the whole town--bustling around, talking and laughing, drinking spiked eggnog and hot chocolate. "I forgot how this feels. Being home for Christmas."

  There's something different, warmer, about Christmas in a small, old town. It makes you feel like Norman Rockwell's paintings and It's a Wonderful Life are real--like you're living inside them.

  "It's magical." Callie sighs.

  And she looks so pretty, I have to fucking kiss her. I press my mouth against hers, tasting winter on her lips. Then I whisper wickedly in her ear, "Come back to my house tonight, and I'll give magical a whole new meaning."

  She giggles . . . and later, comes back to my house where I make hot, sweaty good on that promise.

  ~

  Over winter break, Callie spends the day with her parents, then switches off with her sister and spends most of her nights with me. The Thursday night before Christmas, we're at Chubby's. "Dancing Queen" by ABBA is on the jukebox, and Callie's leaning over the bar, singing along with Sydney, her old theater friend. They've been talking again, rekindling their friendship, and I'm not going to lie--I'm glad. Because there's been a voice, buzzing around my head for the last few weeks, that says the longer Callie's here, the more roots she revives . . . the more likely she is to stay.

  For now, I shake my head, kicking those thoughts away--focusing on the here and now and what's in front of me.

  And what's in front of me . . . is Callie's perfect ass. Round and bitable in snug jeans. The things I can do with that ass--I take a long drag on my beer--can't wait to get her back to my place tonight.

  The ABBA song ends, and "Should've Been a Cowboy" by Toby Keith takes its place. Callie comes back to our table, carrying another round for herself and me and Dean. She plants herself on my lap, singing with Dean about California, women, whiskey, and gold. She's smiling, laughing, and it all feels so damn good.

  Until it all goes straight to shit.

  And Becca Saber approaches our table, her blue eyes trained right on me. And I swear to Christ she sounds exactly like Maleficent, from that Disney movie I watched with my niece Frankie a couple weeks ago.