Every Minute

by C J Burright

  “If the shoe fits.”

  “Adara—”

  “It’s a sprained ankle, not a death wound.” She jerked free of her down comforter, swung her legs over the bed and grabbed the closest crutch. “You’ve done your part. See ya. Door’s around the corner.”

  He stood and handed her the other crutch. “Speaking of, you need to lock your door. Crime happens in small towns too, and under your doormat is the worst possible hiding spot for a spare key. I found it in two seconds. It has a new spot, under the pavestone next to the azalea.”

  “Thanks for the home-improvement tip.” She swiped the crutch from his hand and glared. “With you slinking around, I’ll be sure to deadbolt too.”

  His mouth twitched, not the sullen expression she’d hoped for at all. He was clearly trying not to smile, the uncooperative jerk.

  “Ambrose, you have two seconds to get out of my house before I pummel you with the pointy end of this crutch.”

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he made a show of examining the crutch. “I don’t see any pointy parts.”

  “It’ll be pointy after I crack it in half over your head.” She added a snarl to her tone.

  He danced out of reach and had the nerve to laugh. “Fine. I can take a hint.”

  She snorted.

  “I have someplace to be, anyway. Text me if you need anything.” He talked over her growl. “Or if you fall and can’t get up.” He ducked into the hallway, out of sight as she chucked one crutch at him. “Looking forward to Monday!” His footsteps tapped away and the door snapped shut, leaving her in silence.

  She groaned and collapsed on the bed, her ankle throbbing. Monday, the first of her three-month torture term with the music mentor and he was already slithering beneath her skin after a few days, her shield useless. Insufferable man.

  The bacon lured her with its irresistible aroma and her stomach gurgled again. She snagged a crispy bacon strip, ripped off a bite and moaned. The last time her kitchen had been used beyond the microwave was toast a week ago. A musician and a culinary artist… So unfair. How did he win the skills jackpot?

  She chewed slowly, savoring. This was intolerable—invading her kitchen, whipping up delectable grub and violating her personal space with noise and homey happenings. Settling the plate on her lap, she grabbed the fork and dug into the eggs. Garret wouldn’t know whether or not she ate his peace offering. Besides, she’d need the strength for Monday and dismantling his infuriatingly unstoppable smile.

  * * * *

  Monday morning passed by in the usual routine. Tatum chased Zachary and got a trip to the Chair of Consequences. What she’d silently dubbed the Triple Terror—a girl-clique of Ava, Dalaynee and Haley—had two boys crying ten minutes after recess, and one kid had thrown up on the classroom pet plant. And now she had to deal with Garret.

  She stared at his too-long hair in its neat ponytail to prevent a forbidden classroom eye roll as he paced in front of her desk, boring students with an introduction lecture. She could tell him to drop the words and go with the hands-on goods, but she was merely here to observe, not to help him.

  Maybe finally figuring out that the class was getting antsy, he hefted the gigantic duffel bag he’d dropped beside her desk earlier. “Since we’re starting out, today will only be about fun,” he said, unzipping the bag. “Come on up and pick out an instrument.”

  She hid a snort and kept her teacher mask on tight while kids mobbed him. Rookie mistake, asking kids to pick something out. There’d be at least five scuffles guaranteed, an opportunity she couldn’t resist.

  “Looks like you’ve got things under control, Mr. Ambrose.” She twisted in her chair and nabbed her crutches leaning against the chalkboard. “I’ll be in the breakroom.” He may or may not have heard her over the litany of ‘I want the bell’ and ‘Is there a pink one?’ Not my problem. A cheap coffee was calling her name.

  She hobbled out of the classroom and into the hallway. The second the door clicked shut behind her, she let her evil smirk fly free. So far, she’d managed to match his sunshine with icy professionalism and rebuff his apologies with cool disdain. He’d turn his attention on someone else soon enough, find another inspiration.

  As it should be.

  The breakroom was an easy jaunt away, with or without crutches, and despite the fact it wasn’t break time for most of the staff, voices floated to her.

  “I hate to say it, but maybe it’s for the best.” Carl, the PE teacher, his deep voice unmistakable. “Kids pick up on everything, and if a teacher loses their spark”—the snap of fingers followed—“the effects show up in the students. I’d prefer the larger class sizes.”

  Adara’s stomach twisted but she didn’t slow down or turn around. She had a good idea which teacher he referred to.

  “Stick to pushups and running and leave psychology behind.” Olivia’s backup loosened the knot in her stomach. She could just imagine the older woman pointing her crochet needle at Carl. “Anyone with one eye can see her switch is ready to flip. She won’t stay in the dark much longer. Mark me.”

  Approaching the breakroom door, she sighed and lifted her chin. Time for another awkward conversation interruption.

  “And if you ask me,” Olivia continued, her crochet needles creating a smooth, steady beat, “that music mentor will do more than flip her switch.”

  “It’s funny how voices carry when students are tucked away in their classrooms.” Adara paused in the doorway and leveled both teachers with a cool stare. “I could’ve sworn you two were discussing lightbulbs.”

  “Yep, those gym lightbulbs. Always burning out.” Carl nodded, too jerky to be believable.

  Olivia snorted and resumed crocheting the hat she worked on. She was always crocheting something for cancer patients, the homeless or people who preferred to wear black. “We were talking about you.”

  That was new. Usually, no one acknowledged she was the topic of conversation, let alone owned up to it. Adara lurched into the chair beside Olivia and propped her crutches against the counter behind her, within easy reach of the coffee pot. “Do tell.”

  She never stopped crocheting, the needles tapping together. “Carl thinks the kids would be better off without you.” She ignored Carl’s splutter. “I disagree. I know you’ve had a rough year, but winter always ends.”

  “Metaphor much?” Adara twisted in her chair and poured some coffee into a disposable cup. Adding enough creamer to disguise the bitterness of cheap grounds, she swung back to face her coworkers. “And thanks for the vote of confidence, Carl. Appreciate it.”

  “And my point is proven.” Olivia kept her gaze on the orange lines forming into a hat, click by click. “Just last week, your best response would have been an uncaring shrug.” She lowered her crochet and leaned forward. “Your switch is simply waiting for the right fingers to flip it.”

  Adara sipped her coffee before answering, the warmth steadying her. If she showed too much emotion, it would merely set Olivia off. If she didn’t respond at all, Carl would go back to believing she wasn’t teacher material. She might not be fit for most things, but teaching kids was one of them.

  “Let me get this straight.” She set her cup down and gave Olivia her best find-another-hobby stare. “You think my switch only responds to violin fingers.”

  Olivia grinned and went back to her project. “That’s one way of saying it.”

  “I thought I made it clear that I have no interest in my switch being touched—by anyone. That includes music mentors.”

  Carl leaned back and crossed his arms, a funny look on his face.

  Adara glared at him. “You have something to add?”

  He shook his head and scooted his chair back, scraping the tile loud enough to rattle eardrums. “Gotta go. Dodgeball today.” And he was gone.

  “See what I mean?” Olivia pursed her lips, the needles tick-ticking a slow torture rhythm. “Even Carl recognizes it.”

  “Seriously. I don’t care if you talk about my teachi
ng methods or my spark or lack thereof, but leave Garret out of it. Please. I don’t need the drama.”

  The needles stopped, and Olivia arched one thin eyebrow. “Garret?”

  Adara gritted her teeth. “Mr. Ambrose.”

  “Oh, him.” Olivia packed the needles and hat in her flowery yarn bag and stood. “Babies. Think about it.”

  “I already have twenty-five babies waiting in my classroom, thank you.”

  “And if I’m not mistaken,” Olivia said, shuffling from the breakroom and wisely out of reach, “they’re all with Garret, aren’t they? Ta-ta.”

  The second Olivia was out of sight, Adara slouched. With Garret around, school was no longer a safe haven. Three months. All she had to do was ride it out, then things would return to her version of normal.

  She chugged the last of the poor excuse for coffee and limped into the hallway. An odd sound drifted from farther down, completely out of place during instruction hours. Musical clangs or squeaks would’ve been expected, but this? This was a muffled roar.

  Hurrying, she swung-hopped to her classroom and flung open the door. Cacophony was a better description of the utter chaos taking over her once systematic classroom. The noise was deafening, caused by screaming, running, laughing children and the instruments they carried. Garret scrambled after Ava, who held a recorder out like a baton, which was nabbed by Dalaynee. When Garret closed in, Dalaynee threw it to Haley. The girl shrieked like a bird of prey and dove beneath a desk.

  Adara blew out a slow breath. The Triple Terror played keep away from Garret while the rest of the kids did whatever they wanted. Zero control. Clearly, leaving him to his own devices had been a mistake, which meant that when he was here, she’d have to be here too. This day gets better and better. She limped farther into the room and stood by her desk, still as an ice sculpture.

  Zachary was the first to lock gazes with her. The boy paled and dropped the two erasers he’d been using to chalk Tatum. He scurried to his seat and the chain reaction began. Mid-chase, Tatum noticed her and followed Zachary’s lead. The Triple Terror were the last ones to surrender their fun. Haley tossed the recorder at Garret and scrambled to her desk. In less than thirty seconds, all her students sat silently, stiffly, fearfully in their seats. Garret stood dead center, huffing, his hair escaping the queue at his nape, his collar askew. He looked a little scared himself.

  “Starting with Ava and going down the row,” she said in a clear, crisp disappointed teacher voice, “you will stand up, walk to Mr. Ambrose, shake his hand and apologize for being disrespectful.”

  One by one, the students slouched to Garret and muttered their apologies while he looked utterly uncomfortable, obviously wanting to but deciding not to defy her. Smart man.

  At last, the apologies were over. She swept them all with a death stare. “In complete silence, you will replace every rubber band, pencil and paper to their proper place. If I hear a single word from anyone, the rest of the day will be spent on math problems. No recess. Understood?”

  Every head bobbed, even Garret’s.

  As the students trudged to their tasks in sullen quiet, Adara fixed her narrowed gaze on him. “Mr. Ambrose, a minute in the hall?”

  A deeper hush fell across the room and eyes widened. Everyone knew hall-time was Big Trouble. Except, apparently, for Garret. He wore a relieved smile.

  Adara kept the door ajar, unwilling to give the kids an edge, and she glared up at him. “What was that?”

  His smile widened. “They’re really excited about music.”

  “And exploiting weakness.” She shook her head. “Haven’t you ever dealt with kids?”

  “Of course.” He lifted his chin, a look of offense. “I babysat Tatum and Bryan once or twice before going on tour. We got along great.”

  She closed her eyes and slumped on her crutches. She’d envisioned her days with him in separate rooms, her as far away as possible, checking in every so often. Plans, meet flames. “You can’t let them walk all over you, Garret. They’ll eat you alive.”

  He tucked his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, his smile returning. “They won’t if I have you as backup, and it warms my heart, truly, that you care.”

  “That care extends to my kids, not you.”

  He continued smiling like an imbecile.

  “Vocabulary lesson of the day, Ambrose.” She leaned slightly forward. “Inept. Look it up.”

  “Out of the box, Miss Dumont. Big difference.” His black eyes glittered, and she had the odd impression he’d just won a contest she didn’t know about. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled back into the room, humming.

  She had no idea if he was some kind of mad genius or seriously disillusioned. Either way, it looked like she was stuck with him. Three months of hell. She’d better sharpen her pitchfork.

  Chapter Eleven

  Friday afternoon Garret slipped into Adara’s classroom a few minutes early. He offered her a quick smile, not letting her disinterested expression affect him, and tiptoed to the back of the room while she finished up her lesson on American presidents. Again.

  He made a quick survey of the crowd. The slack faces and glazed eyes made him want to yawn. A black-haired boy in the back corner—Sam, maybe—doodled on his paper rather than take notes next to the president pictures. And the knobby-kneed girl two seats ahead who had yet to meet his gaze blinked slowly, ready for an afternoon nap. He might not have the inhuman control over kids that Adara possessed, but he could inspire any president lesson with music.

  “Quiz on Monday,” Adara announced, shutting her book with a purposeful thud. “I expect studying on your own this weekend.” Amid a chorus of groans, she met Garret’s gaze and handed a stack of study guides to Tatum to pass out. “Sorry, but with music, we don’t have as much in-class time to study.”

  Garret widened his smile, not missing the miffed flash in her gray eyes. Ben-zonna, he loved it when she reacted to him.

  “Get a drink, then Mr. Ambrose is up.” Adara grabbed a pen as the students scrambled from their seats and thundered to the water cooler in a pack, giving Garret a chance to get close. He leaned near her chair.

  “I have an idea,” he said beside her ear, drawing a coconut-laced breath. He’d never see macaroons the same way.

  “Scary thought.” She made a show of studying his navy-blue V-neck sweater. “Feeling okay? Sweater, jeans with no rips, tennis shoes? I didn’t know you could do Average Joe.”

  He had no intention of disclosing he’d worn his tennis shoes to break them in more. Adara on crutches for weeks was an advantage he’d jumped on. Next time she found him on the running trails, he wouldn’t represent creampuffs everywhere. “It’s not nice to stereotype, Miss Dumont.”

  “Never mind.” She returned her attention to the neat stack of papers on her desk. “The ungodly number of silver rings ruined your disguise.”

  “So glad you noticed, and your plaid skirt is ravishing. The black checks match your black sweater and your black hair.” He resisted asking if her underwear was black too. The mere thought made him twitch in awkward places. Truth be told, black complimented her pale beauty, but if she wore red? He might develop control issues.

  “You’re here to harass kids, not me.” She scribbled a word in the margin and flipped the paper to the bottom of the stack.

  “I completely underestimated the fun I’d have as a music mentor.” He lowered his voice. “Bantering with the adorable teacher is an unexpected benefit.”

  “Wrong answer.” She sniffed and jotted an angry red slash on some unlucky kid’s homework. “Annoyed, not adorable.”

  “Both. But I’m working on undermining the former.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed. “Be warned, Miss Dumont. Once I make a decision, I don’t surrender.”

  “Some battles can’t be won.”

  “A motto for the defeated.” He turned his attention to the kids trickling back to their seats. “Grab a
n instrument from the bin. I don’t care which one.” As boys and girls raced for the container stashed at the back of the room, he quickly added, “And no pushing or elbowing!”

  “A glimmer of hope for the music mentor.” Adara shifted her booted foot and her mouth tightened.

  “Ankle getting better?” he asked, killing any sign of humor. When it came to the fact she couldn’t run to burn off steam, she was downright cranky, especially since she obviously still blamed him.

  She shrugged, the friendliest response he’d received since offering her breakfast Sunday morning. A glimmer of hope, indeed.

  He faced the class. “Whatever instrument you’re holding, find the others who have the same instrument and stand together, so I know who has what.” He wasn’t surprised at all to find Tatum had nabbed a kazoo, the same as Zachary. The trio of girls who’d in a few years run a terrorist group had all chosen recorders. The black-haired boy held tight to a bongo and the shy girl studied the triangle in her hands, which had probably been the last instrument in the tub. She seemed willing to take whatever was left over.

  “Since music is invading learning time, I figure we can do both.” A few students exchanged skeptical glances but he strolled to the girls with the recorders. “Who is America’s first president?”

  Tatum huffed and cocked her hip. “Washington, duh.”

  “Mr. Ambrose isn’t your uncle in my classroom, Tatum,” Adara said from her desk, without bite. “Show him proper respect.”

  “Sorry.” Tatum slouched, her expression grumpy.

  If only Adara extended that courtesy rule beyond the school walls… Then again, it might not be as fun. “I bet you didn’t know that Washington loved dogs.” Some eyes brightened at that. “And while we don’t have any dog whistles in our orchestra, the recorders are the closest we have. Give me a note, girls. Any note.”

  The screech of three different notes pierced the classroom. He refused to wince. “Good.” The notes kept going. “You can stop now.” No luck. “Girls!”