Getting Schooled Read online

  I tilt my head back, cursing the sky and hating the words "rebuilding year" with a passion hot enough to melt steel.

  But when I open my eyes, across the field, I see a small, scrawny kid step back and throw a sweet pass to his receiver. It was short, only a few yards, but it was nice, and his form wasn't half-bad.

  "Who's that?" I point.

  Jerry follows my finger with his eyes.

  "Parker Thompson. Second string, a young freshman, good kid, but kind of the runt of the litter--hasn't hit his growth spurt and don't know if he'll have one. His brother was already a monster his freshman year."

  Thompson, Thompson . . . Thompson.

  "James Thompson's little brother?"

  James Thompson was a player of mine six, seven years ago. He went on to be the quarterback for Notre Dame until he was sidelined by multiple concussions.

  "One of them, yeah."

  "I thought Mary wouldn't let the other boys play after James was injured?"

  Jeffrey shrugs. "Guess she changed her mind for Parker. He's the youngest."

  You can't underestimate the power of genetics--the natural athletic gift that's impossible to duplicate through training alone. And desperate times call for working with what you've fucking got.

  I watch the kid throw another pass. And another. Then I watch him for the next fifteen minutes--his feet are decent, his attitude is good--he's scrappy, quick, and it's obvious he loves the game. I can work with him.

  Jeffrey calls Parker over.

  He's even shorter up close--a kind-looking boy--with gentle bone structure, intelligent eyes, and light-brown hair.

  When I tell him I want him to be my starting varsity quarterback for our first game two weeks from today, his lips go gray, and his face, cloud white.

  "I'm not . . . I'm not my brother, Coach Daniels."

  "You don't have to be. You just have to do what I say. The greatest skill the best athletes in the world possess is their ability to listen. I'll work with you. If you listen to me, Parker . . . I'll take care of the rest. Okay?"

  He thinks it over, then he nods jerkily. "O-okay."

  I put my hand on his shoulder and try to sound enthusiastic.

  "You're gonna do great. I believe in you."

  He nods again, forcing a smile.

  And then he bends over . . . and pukes all over my shoes.

  ~

  After cleaning off my shoes, I walk out of the faculty bathroom in The Cave and spot Callie coming down the hallway. And she looks . . . a lot like Parker Thompson before he upchucked. Shell-shocked, drained, the curls at the end of her long blond hair limp and defeated on her shoulders.

  "Cal?" I ask tentatively. "You okay?"

  Her mouth opens and closes. "I . . . they . . ."

  Her chest rises and falls quickly and a barky hiccup bursts from her lips. "They were so mean, Garrett. I didn't think kids could be that mean."

  "Yeah. Sorry." I grimace. "High school kids are kind of assholes. Somebody should've told you."

  She shakes her head, covering her sweet face with one hand. "They were--they were total assholes! They knew where I went to grammar school, what roles I played in the high school plays--they had pictures! That really awkward one from fourth grade when my mom permed my hair and I looked like an electrocuted poodle! They passed it around. And they had one from my friend Sheridan's divorce party--of me kissing a sex doll! They called me a degenerate!"

  Huh--that's a picture I'd like to see.

  I put my arm around her, patting her shoulder.

  "Social media's evil. You need to slash and burn your accounts if you want to survive."

  Dean's voice called out from midway down the empty D-wing hallway. "Yes! We have tears--pay up, Merkle."

  "God damn it," Donna Merkle curses next to him, then slaps a bill in his hand. She shakes her head at Callie. "I believed in you, Carpenter. And you let the team down."

  Merkle walks away, and Callie narrows her eyes at Dean. "You bet on me? You bet on how bad my first day would be?"

  "Sure did."

  "You . . . dick."

  He holds up the folded bill between his fingers, grinning. "Easiest fifty I ever made."

  "That's not cool, Dean," I say, like I'm lecturing one of the kids.

  He rolls his eyes, then makes a whipping motion with his hand--sound effects included. "Wapsshh. I don't even know you anymore."

  He wiggles his eyebrows at Callie. "If you quit the first week, Evan has to cough up a cool hundred."

  And my chest tightens, way more than it should.

  "She's not fucking quitting." I look down at her. "You're not quitting. You got this, Callie."

  She shakes her head, and the fist squeezing my heart loosens its grip.

  Dean may have a point about my whipped status. Shit.

  "I'm not quitting. But I could really use a drink."

  I nod. "We all could. Chubby's does a special every year . . . if you show your teacher's ID, you get half off."

  ~

  There's a lot of bars in Lakeside, but Chubby's is the favorite among old-timers and locals looking for a beer after work. It's dim, windowless, quiet except for the old jukebox in the corner and the one, small television above the bar that's only ever been tuned to ESPN. My brother Ryan used to bartend here in the summers when he was home from college--and because we were cool about it, he'd slip me and my friends beers. Callie's old theater friend, Sydney, owns the place now. She's divorced with two kids and gorgeous--a far cry from the granny-glasses-wearing, frizzy-haired shy girl she used to be.

  None of my current students would be caught dead here--they prefer to try their fake IDs at the newer, younger, more New York club-like Colosseum, down the highway.

  Me, Callie, Dean, Merkle, Jerry, Evan, and Alison Bellinger head to Chubby's and commiserate over a few pitchers of beer at a table in the back corner.

  "Two weeks . . . I don't smile for the first two weeks of school."

  Alison Bellinger is one of the nicest, happiest people I know. If you told me she shits rainbows and pisses sunshine, I'd believe you. Apparently, she's also quite the actress.

  "They all think I'm a grade-A bitch," she tells Callie, wiping foam off her upper lip with her sleeve. "Mean, nasty, stone cold and heartless."

  You wouldn't know it to look at her, but little Alison can also chug like a fucking champ. I've seen her drink guys twice her size under the table without missing a beat. It's impressive.

  "But it's what I have to do--scare them. I'm young, small, if I'm nice right off the bat, they think they can get away with murder. My first year teaching, nobody did classwork, no one brought pens to class--it was bathroom passes and trips to the nurse all period long. Chaos."

  She shakes her head, remembering. "If they're afraid of me, they respect me, or at least pretend that they do. Then, as the year progresses, I can slowly relax--let them get to know the real me. But the respect sticks."

  Callie draws her finger across the side of her frosty mug.

  "I think I need to be taught how to teach." She snorts, maybe only half-jokingly. "You guys know any available tutors?"

  No less than three awesome, tutor-and-the-naughty-student fantasies spring into my head at once, and every one stars me, Callie . . . and her old Catholic school uniform.

  I lean forward, and go for it.

  "Come to my house tomorrow night. I'll make you dinner and tell you everything I know about teaching. I'm awesome at it--ask anyone. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be awesome too."

  Alison's eyes dart from me to Callie above her beer.

  Callie's smile is shy and her voice is just a little bit breathless. Good sign. And then . . . she shoots me down.

  "I would love to . . . but my parents . . . I can't leave them."

  I hold out my hand. "Give me your phone."

  Callie watches as I pull up her sister's number.

  "Colleen, hey, it's Garrett Daniels. I'm good, thanks. Listen, I need to borrow your siste
r tomorrow night. Can you cover for her with your parents?"

  Colleen starts to give me shit about how she already has daytime parent duty and how her kid has basketball practice Saturday nights.

  "Okay, I get all that, but she needs a night off once in a while. You want her to snap?"

  Callie's green eyes shine at me, making my heart rate run faster, harder . . . because she's so damn pretty. And I can't remember the last time I wanted to hang out with someone so much--just talking, laughing, listening, looking at them. Probably not since high school.

  Not since her.

  "Give her Saturday nights and I'll give your kids driving lessons, free of charge. Emily's only a few years away from her permit, right? It's a good deal for you, Col."

  She thinks about it for a second . . . and then she agrees. Because even over the phone, no one can resist this face.

  "Awesome. Great, thanks."

  I hang up and slide the phone back over to Callie.

  "You're free. I'll pick you up at your parents at six."

  A bright, beautiful smile stretches across her face--a face I've dreamed of more times than I can remember.

  Her eyes darken and her voice is sweet. "It's a date."

  I have a date with Callie Carpenter. Fuckin-A right I do.

  I wink. "Yeah, it is."

  Chapter Eight

  Callie

  I really like my boobs.

  Every woman has that one body part she's especially proud of. Colleen always said she'd make a great foot model, because her toes are stunning. For me, it's my boobs--nice, full C-cups--firm, perky . . . happy-looking breasts.

  I turn sideways in the hallway bathroom mirror and smooth down the plain white T-shirt over my dark jeans. I work out a few times a week, try to sleep enough, eat right, drink plenty of water. I use moisturizer and under-eye cream--after I hit the big 3-0, it was a must--but I've been lucky in the complexion department.

  I lean in closer and pull the skin back at my temples. Then I do the same to my cheeks, erasing the laugh lines around my mouth . . . making me look like a demented, hungry fish.

  I think I've held up pretty well through the years. But, I wonder . . . does Garrett think so too?

  I bang my head against lime-green-tiled wall, trying to knock out the frustration.

  "Stop it." I scowl at myself in the mirror. "It doesn't matter what Garrett thinks. That's not what tonight is about."

  He agreed it was a date. He winked, Bad Callie whispers.

  I roll my eyes and mirror Smart Callie does the same.

  "Garrett's a flirt, charming--he doesn't know how to be anything else."

  Garrett's single, I'm single . . . we could be deliciously, dirtily single together. The boy's got moves . . . you remember. I bet his man moves are spectacular.

  Smart Callie shakes her head. "I can't complicate this. I'm here for ten months and then it's back to real life. The seals--remember the seals!"

  Ten months is a long time. And did you see him with his students . . . with his players on the field? Admit it--you spontaneously ovulated on sight!

  "My dream job is waiting for me on the other side of the country. Garrett's going to give me some pointers so I don't get fired or go crazy."

  "Pointers" really isn't what I was hoping Garrett would be giving me tonight.

  "We'll be coworkers," Smart Callie insists, like the practical girl she is. "Friends . . . good friends."

  With benefits. We both know Garrett's benefits "package" is in a class all. Its. Own.

  Damn, Bad Callie is persuasive.

  I hear a knock at the front door, and my brother-in-law lets Garrett in--the steady rumble of their small talk drifting through the walls. His voice is clearer when he walks into the living room, where my parents are playing Dance-Dance Revolution, '70s edition, from their hospital bed.

  "Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter."

  "Garrett! It's so good to see you." My mother's smoky voice is high with excitement. She always loved him.

  "How are you guys feeling?"

  "Not so bad," my dad joins in. "Where's a three-legged race when you need one? We'd be champs."

  "I'm happy you're spending time with Callie tonight," my mother says. "She's been very tense lately. You were always good--"

  I'm out the bathroom door and down the hall, faster than Flash Gordon.

  "Hey!"

  Garrett turns and meets my gaze with an amused smirk. His body fills the entryway and he's wearing a light-blue button-down shirt and worn, relaxed jeans that hug his taught, fantastic ass perfectly. My mouth goes dry and my breath races from my lungs.

  "Ready?"

  His eyes drag over me, pausing briefly on my boobs. They were always Garrett's favorite too.

  "Sure." He leans in, voice dropping, smelling like man and awesome outside sex on a fall day. "You look great, Cal."

  "Thanks."

  My mother waves her long, red fingernails at us. "Have fun, you two!"

  Out on the lawn, Garrett puts his hand on my lower back, guiding me towards his Jeep. And the deja vu strikes again.

  It was a different time and a different Jeep . . . but Garrett and I made a lot of memories in one just like this. We were young and wild and couldn't get enough of each other. To be climbing into the passenger seat with him at the wheel is as familiar as it is exhilarating.

  "How long do your parents have to stay in that bed?" he asks. "They remind me of the grandparents in Willy Wonka."

  I laugh. "Not much longer. The doctors want them to start getting up and out to prevent pneumonia or bed sores. That'll be interesting."

  ~

  We pull up to Garrett's house across town about ten minutes later, just after the sun has set and the sky is a soft, dove gray. It's beautiful here on the lake--quiet, except for the gentle chorus of crickets and buzzing dragonflies.

  I stand in the gravel driveway and look up at the stately redbrick house. It fits Garrett, reminds me of him--simple, handsome, solid, and sturdy.

  "Wow," I breathe out, teasing. "The north side of the lake, huh? When did you become Mr. Fancy-schmancy?"

  Growing up around here, if you lived on the north side, everyone thought you were rich.

  Garrett gazes up at the house too. "Signing the mortgage for this place was one of the scariest days of my life. Even with the extra from coaching and driving lessons on the side, I gave new meaning to the term house-poor. But . . . it worked out."

  "Yeah, it did." Affection and warmth climb up my throat and pepper my words. "I'm happy for you, Garrett. You have everything you always wanted."

  His eyes drift from his house to me, lingering.

  "Not everything." Then he shrugs, grinning. "But it is a great fucking house."

  Inside, it's easy to tell a man lives here alone. It's clean, comfortable--with neutral-color walls and well-used furniture and a Ping-Pong table where a dining table should be. There are curtains that I'd bet my left boob Mrs. Daniels bought and hung for him. There are a few framed family pictures on the walls and in a glass case in the corner of the living room, the dozens of football trophies and awards Garrett earned through the years--first as a player, and then as a coach.

  A barking ball of white fur comes leaping off the recliner at us, his nose sniffing and tail wagging at about a hundred miles per hour.

  "Snoopy!" I gasp. "Oh my God . . . is this Snoopy?"

  I reach down and pet his sweet little head, his familiar floppy ears. He whines excitedly and fidgets and twists like he can't get close enough.

  There's a smile in Garrett's voice--joy.

  "Damn straight he's Snoopy. Still going strong."

  Snoopy pees on the floor a little--the highest compliment an excited dog can give.

  "The last time I saw you, you were a puppy," I coo. "And look at you now, you handsome silver fox." I look up at Garrett, as Snoopy's happy whining serenade reaches a crescendo. "I think he remembers me."

  "Of course he remembers you," Garrett says roughly. "Yo
u named him."

  I remember that day, how it looked, smelled . . . what it felt like. Garrett, showing up at my house with a ball of fluff wrapped in his T-shirt. Taking him to the walk-in pet clinic, buying supplies at the pet store, bathing him together, and then, that night, cuddling him between us in the middle of Garrett's bed like he was our baby.

  I continue rubbing my hands all over his soft fur. My smile stretches so wide, it brings tears to my eyes and Snoopy licks them away.

  "I've missed you, good boy."

  And for the first time I can remember, I realize with a deep stab of longing . . . that there are many things around here that I've missed.

  ~

  "Do you want wine?" Garrett asks from the island in his kitchen where he's seasoning two T-bone steaks. I'm trimming the asparagus that will be wrapped in foil with a little butter and parmesan cheese, then put on the grill.

  "Sure."

  Garrett goes to the small wine rack beside the fridge, his movements smooth and graceful. "Red or white?"

  "White, please."

  When he sets the half-filled wineglass next to me, I snort out a laugh--can't help it.

  "What?" Garrett asks.

  "Nothing, it's just . . . funny. It feels like yesterday you were bringing me beer in a plastic cup and the most romantic thing I thought you could do was cook me a bowl of ramen. And then, boom, here we are." I hold my glass up to the light. "You have actual wineglasses and you're all . . . Rico Suave. How did we get here?"

  Garrett lifts one broad shoulder. "We grew up."

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  "Although"--Garrett opens a cabinet door, the second shelf stacked with the familiar orange and white packages--"I still make a kick-ass bowl of ramen."

  I laugh.

  "It's all about adding the extra spices."

  He moves back to the counter, picking up the tray and giving me the dirtiest of smiles.

  "But that's nothing compared to my steaks. Once you taste my meat, baby, it's the only thing you'll want in your mouth."

  ~

  "So . . . why history? Teaching? How did that happen, exactly?"

  We eat in the backyard, at a small table with a dim lantern between us and strings of bare-bulb lights hanging above the fence, framing the yard. The lake is stunning at night, still as glass, shining like a pool of moonlight.

  "That's an interesting story."