“The key to controlling your class, is figuring out what each kid wants or needs and giving it to them. But at the same time, letting them know, depending on the choices they make, you have the power to take it away. For some kids it’s grades—that’s easy. For others it’s attention or approval—knowing that you give a shit, that you’re watching them. For others, it’s being a listener, an authority figure who’s safe, someone they know they can go to if they’ve really fucked up. And some of them will.”
“It sounds like you’re talking about being a therapist.”
He tilts his head. “I’ve been doing this for thirteen years, Callie. All teachers are therapists . . . and social workers, friends, wardens . . . confessors. Just depends on the day.”
“I don’t remember being this high maintenance when we were in high school. Teachers were teachers—some of them were barely checked into the job.”
Garrett shakes his head. “These kids aren’t us; they’ll never be us. They’re more like . . . young Lex Luthors. They’ve never known a world without the internet. Email. Text messaging. Social media. Likes and views are king, bullying dickheads are inescapable, and genuine social interaction can be almost completely avoided. It makes them really fucking smart technologically and really fucking stupid emotionally.”
“Jesus, when you put it like that, I feel bad for them.” I sigh. “Even for Bradley Baker, and he looked me in the face yesterday and told me to go fuck a goat.”
“Bradley’s a dipshit, a showoff. And it’s okay to feel bad for them—Christ, I wouldn’t change places with a single one of them for anything. Even if it meant I could play football again.” Then his voice goes firmer, more insistent. “But don’t feel too bad, don’t let them walk on you. Our job isn’t to protect them from their own dumb choices; it’s to teach them to make better ones. Teach them how not to be a screw-up in a screwed up world.”
I gaze at the fire, letting the stark, logical truth of his words sink deep into my mind. Then I take another sip of wine and glance over at the man beside me. In the glow of the flame, Garrett’s brown eyes are glittering, gorgeous warm brandy and his face is a sculpture of handsome.
“You know, that’s really deep, Garrett. Grown-up you is deep.”
He grins wickedly. “It turns you on, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not gonna lie . . . it’s pretty hot.”
He stretches his arms above his head, flexing all those muscles. “Yeah, I know.”
And that’s how it goes for the next few hours. We tease and laugh, about teaching and about life.
“How do I make the kids think I’m the bomb-dot-com?”
“Never saying ‘the bomb-dot-com’ would be a good start.”
I think back, remembering how I would roll my eyes every time my parents said “hip” or “far out” or “psychedelic.” How ancient it made them seem. My face screws up as I try to guess the current teenage lingo.
“Rad?”
“Nope.”
“Totally tubular?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Bitchin’?”
Garrett cringes. “Jesus, no.”
I laugh. “Okay, then what’s the new cool word for ‘cool’?”
He leans forward, legs spread, resting his elbows. “‘Cool’ is still cool. And if you really want to take it up a notch, throw in a ‘dank.’”
I squint at him. “Dank doesn’t sound cool.”
“Don’t overanalyze it . . . just trust me. Dank is cool.”
I take a sip of wine and lean forward too—until our arms are just inches apart.
“What else?”
“Thick,” Garrett says confidently.
“Thick is good?”
He nods. “Thick is very good. Try it in a sentence.”
I tap into my inner dirty Dr. Seuss. “Garrett’s dick is thick.”
He gives me the thumbs-up.
“I approve of this message.”
And we both laugh.
A little while later, Garrett asks, “Why aren’t you married, yet?”
I snort, giving him the bitch-brow. “My sister’s gotten to you, hasn’t she?”
A chuckle rumbles in Garrett’s throat.
I turn the tables back on him. “Why aren’t you married yet?
“No hard and fast reason.” He shrugs easily, the way he always did. “I just haven’t met someone I wanted to marry. Or who wanted to marry me.”
“Same.”
“So, no serious relationships?”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “I’ve had relationships. I don’t know if I’d call them serious.”
“So . . . you’re saying you still like me most of all? I’m still the number one boyfriend?”
“This matters to you?”
“You’ve known me since I was fifteen years old. When has being number one not mattered to me, Callie?”
I roll my eyes, evading the question. Because Garrett’s cocky enough . . . and yes, he’s still number one in my book.
~ ~ ~
And then, even later, we sit in our chairs, facing each other. The air is quieter and so are our voices. Snoopy sleeps on the ground between us as I pet him in long, slow strokes.
Garrett lifts his hand, drawing his thumb across my top lip, over the small white scar above it.