I turn my head and Garrett Daniels is right there. So close, our noses almost touch. And there's the familiar, thrilling sensation of falling, hard and fast. There's not a cell in my body that doesn't remember feeling this way, whenever he was near.
"Thanks."
He gazes at me, eyes drifting from my neck to my chin, settling on my mouth.
"You're welcome, Callie."
Then the moment is broken.
Because Merkle and Jerry go at it again.
"Breasts are not sexual objects, Evan," Merkle says.
Jerry snorts. "The fact that you believe that is exactly your problem."
"You're such a pig."
"I'd rather be a pig than miserable."
"No. Miserable would describe the women who've had the misfortune of going out with you."
"Don't knock it till you've tried it." Jerry winks.
Dean groans. "Jesus, would you two put us out of our misery and just bang already?! I hear the janitor's closet is nice--there's probably still lube in there from last year's senior lock-in."
Miss McCarthy yells, "There is no lube in the janitor's closet, Dean! That's a vicious rumor!"
"There's definitely lube in the janitor's closet," someone says. "Ray the maintenance guy hangs out in there way too long not to be whacking it."
Then the whole auditorium erupts in a debate over whether or not there is lube hidden in the janitor's closet. Then the conversation quickly turns to the mystery of the still unclaimed dildo that was apparently found in the teacher's lounge after sixth period last May.
Amidst the chaos, Miss McCarthy throws up her hands and talks to herself.
"Every year. Every fucking year with these shitheads."
Wow.
In fifth grade, my school gave us "the talk"--the birds and bees, where babies come from, biology talk. My mother had already given me the rundown, so I wasn't surprised--unlike some of my poor classmates, who looked like they were being scarred for life.
What was surprising was my epic realization . . . that my teachers had, at some point in their lives, had sex. Old Mrs. Mundy, the librarian, whose husband was the school gardener, had had sex. Young, handsome Mr. Clark, who taught social studies and who eighth-grade girls--and a few of the boys--majorly crushed on, had had sex. Cheery, energetic Mrs. O'Grady, who had seven children . . . she'd had a whole bunch of sex.
It blew my mind.
Because it was the first moment I comprehended that my teachers . . . were human.
They ate, they drank, they had sex, they went to the bathroom, fought, probably cursed--just like real people. Like my parents. Like anyone.
Teachers were people too.
And looking around the room now, I feel another realization coming on. Were my teachers also this crazy? I don't know if it's a question I want answered.
So instead, as the arguing and insults continue, I lean closer to Garrett. "Is it always like this?"
"No, it's a lot calmer this year." He glances at the Poland Spring bottle in his hand. "I wonder if McCarthy spiked the water bottles with chamomile."
Again . . . wow.
Garrett looks over to me, smirking. "Is this what your theater company's meetings are like?"
All I can do is chuckle.
"Ah . . . no."
Chapter Seven
Garrett
The doors open for the first day of school at Lakeside High, and the students surge, filling the hallways. There's a rush of sound, shuffling feet, the metallic clang of opening and closing lockers, a clamor of chatter. It's how I imagine hell sounds when it receives an influx of souls through its gates--the sounds of the damned, who don't want to be there, groaning and crying for release.
I don't know who thought starting the school year off on a Friday was a good idea, but they're a fucking idiot. Probably the same genius who thinks suspension is an actual punishment. Moron.
The first day of school always has a Groundhog Day vibe to it--you've been here before, you know how this goes, you could swear you were just here yesterday.
Freshmen resemble tourists wandering through the big, dangerous city, trying desperately not to look like tourists. Sophomores are unkempt, stressed out, and borderline depressed. Juniors congregate en masse in the halls--laughing with their friends, kissing their boyfriends and girlfriends, making plans about where they'll hang out that night. Seniors are like the old, wise lifers--everything bores them, they've seen it all. Some of them may take a scared, vulnerable freshman under their wing, pass the torch, show them the ways of the force . . . but most of them just want to fucking leave.
I held an early team workout in the weight room before first period, because games aren't just won on the field. Afterwards, I didn't see Callie in The Cave--aka the teachers' lounge because they don't give us windows--to wish her luck on her first day.
But if the look on her face at yesterday's meeting was any indication, she's going to need it.
~
My first two periods are average, uneventful, and then third arrives--my sweet spot. It's not unlike The Breakfast Club--a movie before its time. The kids file in and take their seats. We've got Skylar Mayberry--your basic overachiever, type-A, academic club brainiac.
Then there's Nancy Paradigm.
Nancy's a Queen B kind of popular, a pretty brunette at the upper end of the social status food chain, who's obsessed with the latest trends in makeup, hair, music, and clothes.
"Hey, Big D. Welcome back." She smiles as she passes my desk.
The Big D. As far as teacher nicknames go, it's not bad, but it's important to keep the lines between friendly-student-teacher and messed-up inappropriate clearly drawn.
If not, you're just asking for a shit-ton of problems.
"Let's keep it Coach D or Mr. Daniels for the year, okay, Nance?"
She bats her lashes. "That's what all the girls call you behind your back, you know."
"Yeah, let's keep it that way."
Nancy shrugs and slides into a desk.
DJ King, my starting wide receiver, moseys in next.
"S'up, Coach."
I just saw him two hours ago in the weight room, but we bump fists. Damon John reminds me of me--good family, long-term girlfriend, Rhonda, and a good head on his shoulders. He's gonna do okay.
After the final late bell, I shut the door and start class, talking to them about their summer, laying out how grading works, and explaining the Billy Joel assignment.
And ten minutes later, David Burke breezes in. Low-slung, saggy jeans, flannel shirt, oversized dark-gray trench coat--he's the rebel, the disaffected youth whose extracurricular activities include petty theft, dealing pot, and occasional vandalism.
I saw from her roster that Callie has him in fifth-period theater class.
"Sorry I'm late, Coach D." He presses a hand to his stomach. "I shouldn't have eaten that burrito for breakfast, you know?"
"You're so gross," Nancy hisses, her face twisting from her front row seat.
David winks at her, unabashed. Because girls still go for the bad-boy--that hasn't changed. But the weird thing about kids today? Their cliques are less defined, the parameters permeable. A goth can be a hard-core jock, a dork can be prom king, a druggie could be president of the French Club, a pretty cheerleader can be a criminal.
David's smart--really smart--he could be in honors classes if he wanted to be. Instead, he uses his intelligence to figure out the minimum amount of work he has to do to not get kicked out of school, and no more.
"Sit down," I tell him. "Don't be late again. It's disrespectful."
He salutes me and takes a seat in the back of the class. I continue my lecture. Until Brad Reefer--in the back corner seat, glances out the window and announces, "Runner! We've got a runner!"
And the whole class moves to the windows for a better look. Some of the students grab their phones, filling the room with the sound of snapping digital shutters and the ping of recording cameras. They point their devices at the ski
nny, light-haired boy--likely a freshman--dashing across the school lawn towards the Dunkin' Donuts across the street and doing a piss-poor job of it. Stealth is not this kid's friend.
He glances behind him.
Bad move. When running, always keep your eyes on the prize--where you want to go. Unless you want to go backwards, don't fucking look there.
The runner misses the police officer who steps out from behind a tree, raises his arm, and clotheslines the kid across his throat, knocking him on his ass.
"Damn."
"Ouch!"
When I was a student here, we had security guards, basically mall-cop-level enforcement. But today it's the real deal. Armed officers patrol the grounds and halls--if you get into it with them, you're looking at a charge for assaulting an officer--minimum. And there are all different kinds of cops. Level-headed, calm realists, like my brother Ryan. And aggressive, power-high live wires, like Officer John Tearney, who's currently hauling the runner up by the back of his shirt, cuffing him, and dragging him back into the building.
Remember my theory about the soul? How it doesn't change after high school? Tearney is Exhibit A. He was a grade above me in high school--he was a prick then, and he's a prick with a badge now.
"All right, guys," I tell my class. "Show's over. Back in your seats."
Midway through the period, my door opens and Jerry Dorfman, school guidance counselor and assistant coach, lumbers through.
"What's up, Jerry?"
He hands me a slip of paper.
"I need David Burke."
"I didn't do it." David holds up his hands in surrender and the class laughs.
From what I hear, David lives with his grandmother. His mom's out of the picture, his dad's still around, but the situation is not good.
"On your feet, Burke!" Jerry barks. "I didn't ask for your lip. Move it, monkey, move it!"
Jerry's big and rules with the tough love he learned from his marine days. He's a hardass--but he's not a dick. I wouldn't let him coach my team if he were.
With a final compulsory eye roll, David stands up and walks out of the room with Jerry.
Twenty minutes later, the bell rings and the mad, Hunger Games-worthy fight for the door ensues. I give them the same send-off I do every Friday.
"Have a good weekend. Don't be idiots."
You'd be amazed at the amount of bullshit you can save yourself by following those three simple words.