“Hmm, that does create a predicament.” Keiko takes a bite of her sandwich and thinks on it for a few seconds before perking up. “We could fashion an automatic bubble blower in the vents and blow explosive bubbles into his room.”
“Can’t we just buy those popper things, place them under the legs of his chair, and when he sits, they pop and scare the crap out of him?” Stella asks.
Keiko pauses and hums to herself. Her eyes flit back and forth as if she’s solving an equation in her head. When she’s done, she looks at Stella. “That could work. Less risk, still great reward. I shall note it.”
* * *
“There has to be a way,” Keiko says in distress.
I glance at the clock and realize we have five minutes left until lunch is over.
“I think what we have so far is great, Keeks.” Her head perks up at me using her nickname. I wait for her to mention it, but she doesn’t; instead, she fixates on the one thing she’s been fixating on for the last five minutes.
“We can’t possibly accumulate the proper conclusion to each prank without inserting a digital monitor inside on his person to audit pulse rate, blood pressure, dilation of the eyes—”
“Keeks, deep breath,” Stella says. “For this experiment, we’re going to have to fall back to classic observation.”
“Such courses of action are for peons.” She slams her fist on the table.
“Yes, but unless you have an invisibility cloak and invisible monitors, we’re going to have to go with observation.”
She sighs. “I’ll research the probability of the invisibility cloak.”
* * *
“Just a few more, hurry up,” I say to Stella, who is taking her damn time turning desks around.
When Keiko said we begin small, she meant it. She thought starting the plan too close to the argument would be obvious, so we decided to initiate phase one of a thirty-phase program—yeah, I’m not doing all thirty phases—on Friday, so we could gauge his reaction on a day that would bring him joy, then lead into a weekend.
Keiko wants to consider all factors when we move forward. It’s why I had to do some recon work and find his syllabus for the year, so we can see if any of his reactions are environmental. Honestly, the whole concept of conducting experiments on Arlo Turner had me giggling all week. Especially once Keiko showed me the spreadsheet she came up with to keep track of Arlo’s attitude. She complained once again about not being able to gauge his vitals and told me she wasn’t giving up on the invisibility cloak just yet. She’s bound and determined to gather the most conclusive evidence.
“Why do the desks have to be at a precise seventeen-degree angle?” Stella asks.
“I don’t know. Keiko said something about just enough of a turn to be noticed, but not enough to be obvious.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Don’t question her, just listen to the mastermind.”
“I still don’t understand why she’s not here.”
I shrug. “Something to do with not wanting to be caught in the act, even though this was her plan.”
“Behind-the-scenes villain. I feel her on that,” Stella says, measuring out seventeen degrees. I have to admit, the slight turn isn’t obvious. Just annoying. All the desks are turned just enough to face away from where Turner stands at the front of the class.
“Two more and then we’re—”
“What are you doing?”
Stella and I both snap to attention and turn toward the door, where Gunner Klein and Brock “Romeo” Romero stand, arms crossed over their bulky, well-built chests.
Crap.
Just from what Stella has told me, the two physical education teachers are good friends with Arlo. Finding us changing his desks doesn’t bode well for the plan.
Keiko is going to be so disappointed.
“Uh . . . sweeping,” I say, showing absolutely zero confidence in my answer.
“Sweeping?” Gunner asks, stepping into the room, Romeo close behind him. “You’re sweeping a carpeted floor?”
“Yes?”
“Without a broom?” He quirks a brow.
“Sweeping with my feet.” I start moving my foot back and forth, gathering no dirt whatsoever. Eyes on Stella, I encourage her to join me, but she betrays me and instead sits on a desk and lets out a long sigh. Great help she is. “You know, there’s nothing like a faux vacuum line to give the illusion of a clean classroom.”
“These carpets don’t leave vacuum lines,” Romeo says, his eyes following the swing of Stella’s legs.
“It’s . . . uh . . . the thought that counts?” I shrug, arms out.
Turning to Romeo, Gunner says, “You have to give her credit for sticking to her lie.”
“Unlike her friend over there who bailed quickly.”
Casual, Stella says, “Rather not make a fool of myself.”
“Thanks a lot, Stella,” I sarcastically say.
“What’s the use at this point? They already caught us, and now they’re going to go run to their overlord and tell him that we’re messing with his room. There’s no use.” She leans back on the table and sticks her breasts in the air.
What the hell is she doing over there?
“You really think we’re going to run to Arlo?” Romeo says, walking over to one of the desks and taking a seat.
Stella gives him a smooth once-over, taking her time by starting at his Adidas sneakers and working her way up his black athletic pants to his tight-fitting dri-fit shirt, and then lands on his handsome, carved face. “Yes . . . I do.”
“Then you don’t know us at all,” Romeo counters.
“You’re right, we don’t know you.” Stella directs her attention to Gunner and asks, “So, are you going to tell him?”
Walking farther into the room, Gunner says, “Depends. What are you two doing?”
“Vacuuming—”
“Messing with him because he was rude to Greer on her first day, and he needs to learn to loosen up,” Stella says. Where’s the girl’s loyalty?
“The music, stomping, and clapping,” Gunner says with a slow nod. “We heard all about it.”
“Seriously?” I ask. “He was complaining about it? God, he needs to get a life.”
“He does,” Romeo says with a smirk.
“So you’re fucking with his pristine classroom?” Gunner says, taking in the desks. “Well done, ladies.”
I perk up. “Well, thank you.”
“Subtle, just annoying enough to drive him crazy.”
“That’s what we were going for,” I say with pride, fixing the last two desks. “So, you’re not going to tell him?”
“Oh no.” Gunner shakes his head. “We’re going to tell him.”
“What?” I ask, as Stella scoffs and mutters something unintelligible under her breath. “What do you mean you’re going to tell him? I thought we were establishing some kind of rapport here.”
“You have to give us a reason not to tell him,” Romeo says with a smirk.
“Oh Christ,” Stella mumbles, pushing her hand through her hair. “You want us to play in that ridiculous teacher league, don’t you?”
“What teacher league?” I ask, looking between the two of them.
“We can’t have Esther Maximillian and her elderly cohort playing with us anymore—they can barely walk without a cane, let alone participate in the league.”
“I told you after what happened last year, never again.”
“What happened last year? What the hell are you talking about?”
Stepping in, Gunner says, “The teacher league is a once-a-year competition chosen by the winning school from the previous year. Right before winter break, we engage in an all-out ravenous brawl for the title of best faculty in the area. Depending on what the winning team picks, the sport could range from bowling, to basketball, to badminton . . . to a hot dog eating contest.” I wince. Ugh, not for me. “We convene for one sweaty weekend of competition, and the winner takes the pot of cash f
or their school.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Don’t fall for whatever steam they’re about to blow up your ass about helping out the kids and the school,” Stella says, clearly bitter. “Keeks and I competed last year, and, come to find out, these two idiots weren’t trying to win the money, but trying to beat their rival over at Marjorie Edith High. We were playing volleyball and, somehow, Romeo tripped while trying to hit the ball and used my shorts to try to break his fall, flashing my thong-clad ass to the entire teacher league.”
“I said I was sorry,” Romeo grumbles. “And I told you, you had a really nice ass. Everyone enjoyed the sight, me included.”
“And I told you to go drown in your own bodily fluids.” Stella pushes her hair behind her ears. “Keeks was positively horrified when she saw my bare ass. You short-circuited her.”
A snort pops out of me before I can stop it, drawing attention in my direction. I quickly wipe under my nose and ask, “So, what are you trying to say? If we join this league, you won’t tell Arlo?”
“Exactly,” Romeo says.
“I mean . . . I guess—”
“No way,” Stella says, standing up and coming to my side. “The league is a long commitment dealing with two narcissistic assholes who think they’re God’s gift to sports.”
“Because we are,” Romeo says with a smirk.
“Whoop-de-do, you knew how to throw a ball around a field. The glory days are over, move on.” Boy, is Stella spicy right now. There has to be more to this story about Romeo and her that I’m unaware of. “If we agree to do the league, then we have some terms.”
“Why do you have terms?” Gunner asks, going to Romeo’s side, all of us taking stances, ready to face off. “We’re the ones who are helping you out.”
“That’s what you’d like to think,” Stella says. “But we all know that’s not the case. Sure, whatever, Arlo finds out about the tables. He gets angry, what’s new? But if we don’t join your league, you’re stuck with Esther again.”
Romeo and Gunner both clench their jaws, and I know Stella has them. God, I love this girl.
“So, we’re going to play it like this,” Stella says. Motioning between us with two fingers, she states, “We’ll join the league—two division-one, full-ride athletes—as long as you don’t tell Arlo about the desks . . . or the rest of the pranks we have planned.” Their eyes widen with humor. “And you report back to us with his reaction to every single one of them.”
“You want us to spy on our friend?”
“Not necess—” I start.
“Yes,” Stella finishes. “We want to know how pissed he is, how annoyed, if he’s onto us. Every little detail you can muster up in those pea-sized brains of yours. And in exchange, we’ll play in your teacher league.”
Gunner turns to Romeo, making a show of it. “They drive a hard bargain.”
“Positively evil, if you ask me.” Romeo smirks. “But nothing would give me more pleasure than to watch Arlo squirm.”
I match his smile.
Turning toward us, the boys close the distance and hold out their hands. “Deal.”
As we shake their hands, Stella says, “And that’s how it’s done.”
Chapter Four
ARLO
“Stop fucking with me, was it you?” I ask Romeo, who can’t stop laughing as we walk into the Atomic Saloon, our bar of choice that’s far enough away from Brentwood University that we don’t have to worry about college students and is far too fancy for any high schoolers trying to jump in with fake IDs.
“Why on earth would I move your desks around? Dude, probably the cleaning staff.”
That was not the work of the cleaning staff.
That was the work of someone trying to fuck with me, and there are two people dumb enough to do that.
Romeo and Gunner.
“Cleaning staff doesn’t move desks mere inches, and all precisely, as well.”
“Is he still harping about the desks?” Gunner asks, coming up behind us.
“Yup. Shocking. Arlo can’t let it go,” Romeo says as we find a booth.
The swanky industrial style bar is dimly lit by low-hanging Eisenhower lights encased in glass globes, giving a warm hue to the room. Encased in deep-red exposed brick, the bar sits center stage, while navy blue leather booths flank the outer ring. In the back, sectioned off by plexiglass garage doors and black trim, are four pool tables with accompanying high-top tables. The space gives just enough room to those who want to be loud, those who want to watch the game, and those who just need to sit back and relax for a drink.
Still irritated by the desks—I know they were the culprits—I pick up the menu and search out a new drink. It was a long first week. Dealing with Greer and her music on the first day, then having to hear about how innovative Greer is from another English teacher, along with the desks, my advanced students who think they know everything—they don’t—and then add in my nagging sister, I’m ready for some strong liquid encouragement to start off the weekend.
The first week in a new semester is always hard. You’re trying to find your rhythm. Getting to know the students, seeing how far you can push them, how far they’re going to push you. The kids always think they’re being original in their pranks and smart-assery, but I’ve been teaching high schoolers for eight years now, so I’m rarely surprised. It’s hard not to feel that initial burst of excitement at the idea of molding young minds, believing you can make a difference. In the next few weeks, I expect to establish a solid routine full of expectations that will take us through the winter break. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for.
“Why are you looking at a menu?” Romeo asks, eyes on the TV that’s just off to the right. The Bobbies are playing the Pittsburgh Steel tonight, so I know we’ll be parked here for at least a few hours. “You always get the same thing.”
“Changing it up,” I answer, even though the whiskey is calling to me.
“Going to get one of those lady cocktails you’re always admiring?” Gunner asks, eyes on the TV as well.
Not to sound like a nagging partner that’s being ignored, but . . . looks like I’ll be spending the night with the sides of my friend’s faces.
“Knox has been on fire this year,” Gunner says. “His bat is fucking insane.”
“I’d be shocked if the Bobbies don’t take the World Series,” Romeo says. “When offense and defense are both clicking, you’re unstoppable.”
“Thinking about the lady bird drink,” I say, knowing neither of them are paying attention.
“Oh . . .” they both say and then high-five each other like a couple of barbarians. “Nothing gets past the middle infield,” Romeo says. “Carson and Knox are unstoppable.”
“Or maybe the camel milk cocktail.”
“Knox is easily in contention for another Golden Glove Award,” Gunner says. “What I wouldn’t give to have him and Carson behind me on the mound again.”
“Nah, I think I’m going to go with the diamonds are forever cocktail.”
“Dude, no one cares what you get,” Gunner says, surprising me. “Just shut up about it so I can hear the announcers.”
“Why are you here if you could have watched the game at home?” I ask, setting my menu down.
“Because you were crying about your desks, and I figured I’d try to lend some support,” Gunner says, turning toward me during a commercial.
“I wasn’t crying about the desks.”
“You haven’t stopped talking about it.”
“Because you did it,” I say. “Figured if I berate you enough, you won’t do it again.”
“Do you really think that’s going to work?” Romeo asks.
I sigh, knowing the outcome instantaneously. “No . . .”
“Then shut up about the desks,” Gunner says right as a waitress comes to our table.
“Good evening, gentlemen, what can I get for you?”
“Three house burgers, two lagers, and a lady finger for this one,” Gunner says, thumbing toward me.
Annoyed, I look up at her and say, “Whiskey, neat. Thank you.”
“Sure.”
Without writing anything down, she takes off. “So how are things with Lindsay and Dylan?” I ask when the waitress is out of earshot.
A few weeks ago, Gunner found out he’s the father of an eight-year-old. We ran into Lindsay Nelson, Knox Gentry’s wife’s best friend—did you follow that?—at a teachers’ conference before the school year started, and not only does she have a kid, but it’s Gunner’s. They have history that dates back to college. I don’t know much about it, all I know is Gunner isn’t going to let Lindsay slip through his fingers this time, especially since he’s the father of her child.
“Slow. Hence why I’m here and not hanging out with them on a Friday night. Trust me, I’d rather be at Lindsay’s place watching the game than here with you two.”
“I can really feel the love,” Romeo says, clutching his heart.
Gunner pushes his hand through his hair. “I wish Lindsay would move a little faster. Hell, Dylan doesn’t know I’m his dad yet, he just thinks I’m the cool guy his mom is dating.”
“At least he doesn’t consider you the douche his mom is dating,” I reply. “Like we do.”
“Good one.” Romeo chuckles.
Ignoring us, Gunner says, “I hate that they’re in that small apartment when I have a goddamn house by the lake. I have so much room for them.”
“Yeah, but one step at a time, man,” Romeo says, growing serious. “You can’t pressure her, and you can’t move fast with Dylan. You have to make sure you build those bonds first.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Let’s not talk about that shit right now, it’ll only depress me. Let’s talk about Arlo’s obvious attraction to Miss Gibson.”
“What?” I ask, just as our drinks are dropped off at our table. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“Dude, it’s obvious,” Romeo says.
See Me After Class Page 5