See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  “How so?” I challenge him.

  “Uh . . . the way you look at her.”

  “That’s a generalization and not true. I look at her like anyone else would. I also haven’t spoken to her since Monday, so how would you observe my interaction with her? Plus, I’m fucking over this conversation. It’s like we’re on a goddamn hamster wheel.”

  “Jesus,” Gunner says, blowing out a long breath. “Chill, dude. From that reaction right there, it’s clear you have a crush on her.”

  “When did you two become so immature?”

  Romeo lifts his beer to his lips. “Always have been immature, you’re probably just realizing it now.”

  “Unfortunate for me.”

  “You put in the time building a friendship without putting in adequate research before befriending us. Very unlike you, Turner.” Gunner smirks.

  “It was you two or Kelvin Thimble, and I’m not really into Dungeons and Dragons.”

  “Thimble is a stand-up guy,” Romeo says. “He has a thing for Keiko.”

  “Everyone knows that,” Gunner says. “He practically writes Mr. Keiko Seymour on all of his notepads.”

  Taking a sip of my drink, I say, “Never said he wasn’t a good guy, just not into all of that cosplay stuff.”

  “But you’d look adorable all dressed up,” Gunner teases while tickling me under my chin.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I say, pushing his hand away just as I sense two people walk up to our table.

  Before I can turn to look, I watch a large grin spread across Romeo’s face as he says, “Well, well, well. What brought you ladies here?”

  There can only be one reason for that grin.

  I look to the side and find Stella Garcia standing next to us, Greer Gibson right behind her. They must be fresh from practice because both of them have their hair pulled up, Greer’s in a long ponytail, Stella’s in a bun. They’re both wearing Forest Heights Volleyball shirts and black leggings with tennis shoes.

  The outfit does nothing for me.

  Now the blouse and skirt Greer wore the other day . . .

  Folding her arms, Stella says, “Needed a beer after a long, torturous practice.” She nods toward the TV. “Watching the game?”

  “Always, want to join?” Romeo pats the seat next to him and Stella takes it—and his drink—without a blink. And then, just like that, Greer is left to awkwardly stand at the foot of our table while Gunner, Romeo, and Stella all turn to watch the game.

  Christ.

  I look up at Greer, who doesn’t look like she knows what to do.

  Neither do I.

  I’m not in the mood to keep someone company, but it doesn’t seem like our friends are going to be talking much tonight.

  “All right, three burgers,” the waitress says, coming up behind Greer and shifting around her so she can set the plates down.

  “Thanks,” Stella says, taking my plate. Uh, what the actual fuck? “I’m starving.”

  She pops a fry in her mouth while the waitress asks if we need anything else. “We’re good, thanks,” Romeo says, waving her off.

  Growing irritated, I twist my cup on the table and say, “What the hell is going on?”

  Romeo glances up and smiles. “Think I ordered that burger for you?”

  “Jesus.” I stand from the table with my drink in hand, push past Greer, and go to an empty corner at the bar. I expect Greer to take my empty seat, so I’m surprised when I see the bar-height chair next to me pull out. “Not in the mood,” I say, drowning the rest of my drink in one gulp.

  “That’s obvious,” Greer says. “But I’m not about to sit there and listen to the stat brothers talk through the entire game.”

  “So you think sitting next to me is better?”

  “Only marginally. Jury is still out. I might go take a seat by myself.”

  “Might be a good idea.”

  I feel her tense next to me and I prepare for an onslaught of “what the hell is your problem” and “why do you hate me” questions. But she doesn’t say anything. Instead, when the bartender comes over to us, she orders a simple Blue Moon and a quesadilla. I order another burger and a second drink.

  And then we sit in silence.

  She pulls out her phone, and she sets it on the bar, tapping away on it.

  I stare down at my refreshed drink, turning the glass every so often and then taking a sip.

  Our food is delivered and we eat in silence. I admit to myself that her quesadilla looks really good. I even consider saying it out loud but then think better of it. The last thing I want to do is lead her to think I care enough to make the comment.

  Because I don’t.

  Once I’m finished with this burger, I’m out.

  But for some reason, I slow down as I eat. From the corner of my eyes, I watch as she spreads salsa over a triangle of quesadilla and then slowly lifts it up to her mouth. Her lips wrap around the food as she bites down, and then her eyes close while she chews, as if she’s performing the most erotic act and trying to win an Academy Award for it.

  Hell, the way her tongue peeks out to swipe away at the salsa, I’d vote for her. That single movement could easily win awards.

  And then, just like that, my mind turns on in the worst way possible.

  What would she be like in bed?

  Fuck . . . it doesn’t matter.

  She’s young.

  She’s a subordinate.

  She’s not your type . . .

  Okay, that last one is a goddamn lie. I don’t have a type, but I have fucking eyes, and this woman is gorgeous. An innocent face with dangerously seductive eyes. Long, lithe legs that could easily wrap around any man’s waist. Beautiful lips, full on the bottom, just a tad thinner on top, but curved and plush, a distraction I could easily see myself getting lost in.

  And that’s why it’s a good idea I’m keeping my distance, because I don’t need to get mixed up in some kind of co-worker relationship, especially with a woman whose teaching tactics don’t even fall close to my standards. I can’t deny her . . . intelligence, given she graduated from UCLA. I won’t let a physical attraction derail my purpose of ensuring Forest Heights keeps its academic preeminence. There. Done.

  Head down, I spend the next few moments focusing on my burger, and once I push the plate away, and take one more sip of my drink, I’m ready to bounce, when Greer turns to me in her seat.

  “Was that enough silence for you?”

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  “Did I shut up enough for you? Is that how you treat your students in the classroom as well?”

  What the hell?

  She hops off her chair and pulls on my arm, forcing me to get off my chair as well.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “We’re playing pool.”

  I glance over at the empty game section. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m going home.”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head and pulls on my arm, trying to force me to budge. I’ll hand it to her, she’s strong . . . but not stronger than me. “Jesus, it’s not like I’m taking you into lava.”

  “No, you’re just taking me to play pool when I want to go home.”

  Letting up, she looks me in the eyes and says, “Why are you so crabby all the time? Do you even know what a good time is?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Do you really believe reverse psychology is going to work on me?”

  She glances to the side, her teeth pulling on her bottom lip. My eyes immediately fixate on that little movement. Her white ivories tugging carefully, rolling, enticing me . . .

  “I was kind of hoping that it would. Hoping that maybe you know English but not other things.”

  “I know everything.”

  “Yeah, sure. Bet you don’t know how to play pool,” she says, egging me on.

  “Told you that wasn’t going to work.”

  “Yeah, you don’t know how to play. Instead of
using the pool cue, you like to stick it up your ass to make sure you stay uptight at all times.”

  My eyes narrow.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” She nods toward me. “There’s one up there right now.”

  “Are you always this childish?”

  “Are you always this soul-sucking?” she counters, crossing her arms over her chest.

  I contemplate leaving, not giving her the pleasure of goading me, but then I think about how good it’ll feel to destroy her on the pool table. Especially an overly confident athlete like her, now that would be soul-sucking.

  Without a word, I push past her and head to the empty pool tables. I can practically feel her “winning” grin behind me. She thinks she bested me. She didn’t. I’m just back here to teach her a lesson.

  Catching up to me, she asks, “So . . . are you any good?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are?”

  When we reach the pool cues, I hand her one and grab one myself, then chalk the tip. “Yes.” I rack the balls, place the cue ball in the head spot and say, “You break.”

  “You know, you don’t have to snap orders at me. You can be pleasant.”

  “I know.”

  Her eyes flatten into small slits. “But you choose not to be.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Well . . . aren’t you a ball of fun?”

  She finishes chalking her cue and then walks around the pool table, her manicured fingers dragging along the siderails. Even though I don’t care for her unflattering shirt, when she leans over the table, I catch a small glimpse of her ass in those leggings and, hell . . . that’s not a bad view.

  Her arm cocks back and she pushes the cue into the cue ball, sending it straight into the racked triangle with enough power to scatter the balls across the table, immediately sending a striped ball into the left corner pocket.

  When she looks up at me and smiles, she says, “My dad taught me how to play.”

  “Doesn’t mean you’re better than me.”

  “Aren’t you acting a little too cocky?”

  “I thought you were an athlete; didn’t know you couldn’t take it.”

  Her eyes narrow again. “I can take it.” I shrug and wait my turn. “God, you’re infuriating.”

  She moves around the table and angles herself for another shot. She sinks two more balls before missing on the right-side pocket.

  I observe the placement of the solids taking in the angles, where I could possibly shoot them. And after a few short minutes, I move to the cue ball and get to work. I feel her eyes trained on me when I lean down, my hand stabilizing the cue as I push it through the cue ball, sending ball after ball into their respective pockets. She doesn’t move, only observes, and every time I walk past her, I move closer and closer until my shoulder lightly brushes against hers and I catch her quick intake of breath. I bend in front of her, look over my shoulder and say, “A little room.”

  She backs up, and I call the eight ball in the corner pocket, before sending it careening inside. Standing straight, I turn toward her and say, “Are you good? Or do you need to play more?”

  Her lips twist to the side in consternation. “You’re a prick.”

  I hold back my chuckle. “I had you pegged for a sore loser.”

  “I’m not a sore loser.”

  “You just called me a prick after I beat you in pool.”

  “I called you a prick because you’re acting like an arrogant asshole. I’d have been more than happy to accept defeat and praise you on your obvious ability to play pool, but not when you showboat and—”

  “How did I showboat?”

  She points to the corner of my lip. “Your smug smirk.”

  “A smirk, that’s showboating?” I grip the back of my neck and glance around. “Hell, and I thought showboating would be me flapping my arms around, trying to get the entire bar involved in a chant that praises me and makes you look like a fool. I passed up that idea, trying to save you the humiliation.”

  Her jaw tightens, and before I know what’s happening, she’s pushing at my chest. “What is wrong with you?” She pushes me again, but I go nowhere. She might be strong, but not strong enough. Giving up, she tosses the cue stick on the table and says, “God, you’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met and we’ve barely shared six words. She grips the edge of the pool table, anger rolling off her in almost visible waves. “Four interactions to be precise—my interview, the party, first day of school, and today. Four interactions and I already hate you. Despise you, actually. What does that say for you?”

  When her eyes land on mine, I give her one smooth once-over and then bring my cue stick to the rack where the others are kept. Turning toward her, I say, “It shows that I was right. You won’t be the right hire for Forest Heights. If one game of pool tips you over the edge, what the hell are you going to do when you lose control of your classroom? Drill your fist through the wall and call it a day?”

  She sucks in a sharp breath and stands tall. “I never lose my composure in the classroom.”

  “How do you know that? This is your first teaching job.”

  “I was a student teacher.”

  “Where you weren’t fully in charge,” I point out, stepping in close to her.

  “I had control of the classroom.” She lifts her chin.

  “I’m not saying you didn’t have control; I’m saying you were in charge for a short amount of time. What happens when you’re elbow deep in a semester and everything you’ve been teaching goes in one ear out the other, the papers you’re correcting have nothing to do with what you’ve taught during class, and instead of learning, the kids rely on you to teach them Tik Tok dances like the first day of class rather than actually learn?”

  She glares.

  She seethes.

  She moves closer, leaving only a few inches between us. “That will never happen, because unlike you, I know how to relate to my students.”

  “You don’t need to relate to them, Gibson. You need to educate them.”

  With that, I push past her and walk by Gunner and Romeo’s booth as they all high-five each other, not paying me a bit of attention. I quickly lay some money on the bar for my meal, and for Greer’s, and then, deciding to wait outside, I exit the bar and order an Uber.

  The doors to the bar burst open behind me and I glance over my shoulder, where I see Greer standing, her chest heaving, her eyes narrowed, her fists clenched at her side.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she looks like she’s about to punch me.

  “As teachers, we’re not just here to shove Shakespearean quotes down their throats and talk about the damn green light in The Great Gatsby and what it represents. We’re here to uplift them, to help them understand the life ahead of them. Do you really think they’re going to look back one day and say, ‘You know, that Mr. Turner, the way he’d wax poetic about F. Scott Fitzgerald really changed my life’?” She shakes her head, moving closer with every word she says. “No”—she pokes me in the chest—“they’re going to look back at high school and think, ‘Mr. Turner was an asshole who didn’t care about me as a person. He just cared about me as a student. As a number. As a grade.’”

  How little she fucking knows me.

  I move my jaw back and forth, not letting the crazy sweet smell of her perfume distract me, or the way her passionate eyes flare disarm me, or the press of her finger into my right pec confuse me.

  Standing strong, unwavering, I say, “And you think your free-for-all handling of the curriculum is going to change lives?”

  “It’s not a free-for-all.”

  I scoff. “Pairing the movie with classic literature, asking them to read the CliffsNotes—”

  “That’s so they gain a better understanding.”

  “You’re diminishing their ability to read and translate by filling their minds with the cop-out version.” I reach out and pinch her chin, now so close I can feel her breath on me. “You want to make a difference? Tea
ch them.”

  I let go just as a silver Camry pulls up to the sidewalk.

  “I do teach them,” she calls after me, her eyes less passionate, slightly unsure.

  “Try doing it without the fanfare.” I reach for the door and open it. “If they learn from you by proper instruction, then you’re a teacher. Until then . . . in my eyes . . .” I look her up and down. I want to tell her that she’s no better than a glorified babysitter. But I can’t. Not as her superior. “You need to prove your worth, Miss Gibson. You’re there to teach, not babysit.”

  Chapter Five

  GREER

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “What did I say over the weekend?” I ask. My eyes burn with exhaustion as I cut off the heads of a pack of matches.

  “You said full steam ahead.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what we’re doing. Full steam ahead.”

  “Yeah . . .” Stella drags out carefully. “But before, when you wanted to do the pranks, you didn’t have this crazy look in your eyes.”

  “Lack of sleep,” I snap. “Where’s the ammonia?”

  “Keeks is getting it.” Stella pulls on my shoulder so I’m facing her. “Hey, can you settle down for a second and talk to me?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Turner is an asshole and he’s going to get stink-bombed.”

  “You know there’s nothing more I want than to see Turner being turned out of his classroom because you dropped a stink bomb in there, but something must have happened Friday night that you’re not telling me. You have a vengeful look on your face.”

  “I don’t remember swiping on ‘vengeful’ when I was doing my makeup this morning.”

  Stella nudges me. “I’m being serious, Greer. Talk to me. What did he say to you?”

  Sighing, I sit on one of the desks in my classroom. School starts in forty-five minutes. “What didn’t he say, is the question. Not only did he start off the interaction by completely ignoring me, as if I wasn’t good enough to even be in his presence, he then proceeded to school me in pool, which was a shot to my competitive heart.”

  “You’re upset because he beat you in pool?”

  “No, I’m upset about what he said to me after pool.”