by Shey Stahl
She’s lost me. I have no idea what she’s talking about. “No, I guess I don’t.”
“The only reason you eventually started dating Austin was because Ridge left town.” She pauses and repeats, “The only reason.” Tori flips her menu open, her eyes scanning the menu. “And nothing is going to piss Austin off more than for him to know you’re fucking Ridge now.”
I flip the thought around in my head. I want to make Austin mad, don’t I? Maybe don’t answer that because it’s not about revenge, it’s not. The dream flashes in my head, so detailed, so entrancing I shift in my chair, crossing my legs.
Tori notices, dropping her menu. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
“About what?” I ask innocently, trying my best to actually look innocent.
She points at me. “Fucking Ridge.”
I shrug and then instinctively, I lean in, prying for details like I’ve always done with her. Tori lost her V card to Ridge when she was fourteen. Fucking fourteen! I was jealous, I was, but then again that was at the time when I rarely gave Ridge the time of day, so I can’t blame either one of them. “Was he good?”
“No. Not really. He had no fucking clue what he was doing, and neither did I. I literally kept my eyes shut the entire time, and he came within like a minute.”
The two of us laugh as the waiter approaches. And then my thoughts go directly back to Ridge as I assume they’re going to stay until he leaves. I can pinpoint when my logic left me. I really can. It happened sometime after the cocky grin he flashed when he said he’d fuck me behind the bleachers, and the dream. It makes me think revenge might be just what I need.
It’s only the second day of school, and I’m already sick. I can feel it. The scratchy throat, the watery eyes, and the snot-filled nose. I hate it, and when I get sick, I like sweets. Lots of them.
Arrow, the little girl who asked to bring cupcakes for her birthday, is digging through her lunch. She’s also the one who gave me the Twinkie yesterday.
She’s hanging her backpack up in her cubby when I ask, “Did your mom pack you a Twinkie?”
Arrow rolls her damn eyes at me. “No, and you said you don’t like vanilla.”
“I don’t like vanilla cupcakes. Twinkies are entirely different.”
She stands her ground and goes as far to put her hands on her hips. “How so?”
I put my fingers to my lips and smile, walking backward to my desk. “Shh. No talking during class.”
When I reach my desk, I sit down and Luna walks up. Did you meet her yesterday? She’s the one who sits on the other side of Cash and has the whitest hair I’ve ever seen. It’s almost as translucent as her skin.
“Are you married?” she asks, taking my hand to hold it up.
This kid scares me. Every time I look at her, I think of Caroline from the movie Poltergeist, and at any moment she’s going to say, “Mommy, where are you?” And then I shiver as the child with gray eyes stares at me. “No, why.”
“Asking for a friend.”
Look at her. She’s not asking for a friend. And then she goes on to tell me what she did last night, like I care what she did.
Have you ever listened to a child under ten tell you a story? I should rephrase that. Have you ever tried to understand a story a child under ten is telling you?
It’s damn near painful at times.
All I get from the story is that she has a pet pig and Draven told her poltergeists are real.
Are your eyes wide given what I just told you about her? I shit you not, she said that.
I motion for her to back up a foot because she doesn’t seem to understand personal space.
“He also said the stock market is going to crash soon.”
“Who did?”
“Draven.”
I sigh, out loud. “Well, he eats paper so I wouldn’t put too much weight on Draven’s theories on the stock market.” I can’t believe I’m actually talking about this with a child.
Two months ago I was working with mentally challenged kids with behavioral issues, getting stoned, and fucking nameless women while pretending to use my college education. Now look at me.
Luna goes back to her desk while I sneeze.
“One of you little germs gave me a cold.” I point to Brennan in the back row. “I’m lookin’ at you, B.”
He rubs his nose with the sleeve of his shirt right about then and smiles. “Sorry?”
“Don’t be. I’m tough, but. . . now you’ve gotta hear a story about how germs work that’ll make you wash your hands.” I point to the whiteboard behind me at a random photograph of fish on the wall. “Remember how we talked about parasites yesterday?”
They nod. This is probably not the best story to tell a bunch of second graders but fuck it. They need to know this because I can’t look at a fish the same way. “There’s this parasite called a cymothoa exigua. It’s also known as the tongue-eating louse.”
Brennan raises his hand. “Am I the parasite in this story?”
See? They’re starting to get my stories and teaching methods, and we’re only a few days into the school year. I’m doing something right. “Yep. You’re the tongue-eating parasite in this story so listen up you little freeloader.” The kids laugh and wiggle in their seats, all eyes on me. “All right, so we got the fish, right?” I grab a dry erase marker and draw a picture of what looks like a fish and then a bug beside it. “The parasite. . . I mean, Brennan. . . he enters the fish through the gills and attaches himself to the fish’s tongue. Like he did to me and gave me this stupid cold.”
“You can’t say stupid!” Arrow points out, correcting me.
“Yes, I can. I’m the teacher. I can say what I want. You can’t say stupid.” I don’t need to look at the little pigtailed brat to know she’s glaring at me. I look at the chalkboard instead and my art illustration of a fish and its parasite friend. “Where was I? Oh, right. So Brennan bores his way into the tongue, my tongue, and then drinks the fish’s blood until the tongue falls off. Once it does, Brennan becomes the fish’s tongue until the fish dies.”
I’m not sure about the twenty-two pairs of wide eyes staring back at me. The boys are fascinated. . . the girls. . . not so much. Do you think that story was appropriate for them?
Cash’s hand shoots up, and I’m happy he’s participating today. “Did Brennan take your tongue?”
I laugh. “Well, no, but the moral of this story is by just passing by Brennan, who hadn’t washed his hands all day yesterday.” I point at him. “Don’t think I didn’t see that, dude. But because of that, I got sick.”
Arrow raises her hand. Fuck me. “For one, it would take longer than a day for you to get sick. The average incubation period of the common cold is five days. . . and what does that story have to do with you getting a cold?”
You know, I hope Arrow’s parents show up at the parent-teacher conference next month so I can punch her dad in the face. “Actually you’re wrong, Arrow.” I love saying that. It’s so goddamn gratifying. Mostly because she didn’t bring me a Twinkie today. “The incubation period of a cold is twenty-four to seventy-two hours. And this story has nothing to do with my cold. But. . . we’re gonna study fish this week, and I just thought you needed to know the next time you eat fish, don’t eat the tongue. Could be a parasite in there.”
I guarantee you none of the girls in the class will ever eat fish again, and forgive me if I’m silently hoping Arrow has nightmares about her tongue falling off.
“Okay.” I clap my hands together. “Today we’re supposed to work on a family tree.”
At the time, I didn’t think anything of this particular project, but just wait, as with most things, it comes back to bite my ass. Or does it?
I hand out paper to all the kids, and they’re cutting out their trees when I notice Brennan’s paper. I glance at his paper that’s jumbled with letters that should be his name, and clearly aren’t. “That’s not how you spell your name, germs.”
Wide eyes meet mine. �
��I don’t know how to spell it.”
His name is Brennan Zimmerman. His parents should be ashamed of themselves giving him such a long name. His middle name is Nathaniel. Pretty sure this kid has the longest name in history.
Actually, he doesn’t. Hubert Blaine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff has the longest name. Don’t believe me?
Google it.
And if you ask me, that’s not a name. That’s a bunch of fucking letters thrown together.
“Why can’t you spell your name?”
Brennan shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I kneel. “Okay, let’s try this. Write your first name.”
He does, but instead of an N on the end, he leaves it off. I grin. “Nice to meet you, Brenna.”
He frowns. “That’s not my name.”
I point to the paper. “Then learn how to spell it because I’m calling you whatever’s on your paper.” Just before he appears to be in tears, I nudge him with my elbow. “Relax, B.” I point to his name tag on his desk. “Copy that for now and we’ll work on it every day.”
It’s then my attention is drawn to the front of the classroom where Grady had finished his family tree and Cash has ripped it up and is yelling at him, “That’s not your family anymore. We don’t have one!”
I rush to the front of the classroom to separate them, because the boys are actually throwing punches at one another. I see the tree, well, half of it, and Grady has written the name Brie in the corner next to his dad’s name.
Shit.
Yeah, I’d be pissed too, but it was an honest attempt on Grady’s part. He was just doing the assignment. I’d like to point out, this wasn’t my choice in assignments. I was given a lesson plan by Burke and told to follow it. Don’t blame me here.
Back to the boys. I look at both of them, both hurting, both angry at the circumstances they find themselves in, together. I want to tell them they need to stick together and not hit one another, but should I get involved? Would it even make a difference?
I glance at Cash, red-faced and breathing heavy. My chest hurts, a pain I recognize stabbing at me. I remember where this little boy’s mind is at. He’s hurting because he feels let down by his father. I took my anger out on my mother because she left, but with Cash, his fucking hero left him and his brother. He’s eight. He shouldn’t have to deal with any of this but he is, and he’s taking it out on paper and his brother.
I’ve been here in the same mindset he’s in. My relationship with my mother was irrevocably damaged after she cheated on my dad.
Separating the boys, the bell rings for their first recess, and I make them stay inside for a minute. Grady’s crying and Cash is angry, arms crossed over his chest. “I want to go outside,” he tells me, glaring.
Fuck, he looks just like Austin when he scowls. “I know you do, but not until you calm down and apologize to your brother.”
Grady drops his eyes to the floor. “He doesn’t have to.”
“Yes, he does.” I turn to Cash. “I get it. I know you’re angry that your parents aren’t together now. I totally understand the frustration and confusion you’re both experiencing, but we can’t go around displaying that anger at school.”
Cash doesn’t want to listen to me. Actually, he’s not. In his mind, no one can possibly understand what he’s going through. I thought that too. Grady, he just wants everyone to be happy.
I nod to Grady. “Grady, you can go out to recess.” He hesitates, looking to Cash, then me. I wave my hand. “Go. I need to talk to Cash, alone.”
Cash watches Grady leave the classroom and then snaps his raging blue eyes back to mine. The muscles in my arms ache, yearn to comfort him.
“I want to go outside,” he repeats.
“Why’d you do that to your brother’s tree?”
“Because he drew it wrong. She’s not our family. She’s my dad’s girlfriend. It doesn’t mean she’s part of our family!” he shouts, and then takes off running outside.
I don’t stop him.
After my parents divorced, I was forced to see a therapist. I went to two sessions and then never again. I didn’t want people telling me it was okay to be angry or that it wasn’t my fault that my parents divorced.
I knew it was okay to be angry.
And I certainly didn’t need anyone telling me that just because they wanted to make a difference in my life. What I needed was someone to understand that I was fucking pissed. I was angry they couldn’t get their shit together, and they brought me into it. I was angry they brought me into the fucking world in the first place.
I think that’s why I let Cash run outside. I can’t force him to understand any of this, but I can help understand it’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to lash out. I know that’s not what I should be saying as a teacher, but the only thing that made me feel any relief as a kid was being able to lash out as a kid.
You know who always took the brunt of it?
Aly. She listened and understood and never tried to control my outbursts that were unfortunately displayed in ways that essentially hurt her. God, I was a fucking dick back then.
Look at the bright side here, if there is one. I get to call Aly again. As far as I’m concerned, Cash can be as bad as he wants because I get to see his mother that way.
I should be upset my son is acting like a dick at school. But. . . I’m not. And I’ll tell you why.
He’s going through a hard time. Divorce is hard on children. I’m sure this isn’t an excuse parents should use. . . but, it’s a valid one. This isn’t me saying, oh, he’s eight. What’s the harm?
I know what allowing this behavior can turn into.
Take a look at Ridge. I’ll pause here for a moment because I know you’re probably thinking to yourself, Oh Aly, he’s a school teacher. . . how bad can Ridge really be?
All right. Since you clearly don’t believe me, let me tell you a story about this crazy fuck.
He once drove a car—whose? No clue—on the sidewalk through Calistoga. His mother owns half the town, so maybe that’s why he felt he could get away with it, but regardless, people let him, going about their business like they hadn’t seen him doing it.
I’d like to add he was fifteen at the time and didn’t have a damn driver’s license. Didn’t stop him. At times he was a sadistic delinquent, violent fuck no one messed with. And he liked me. Lucky me. Being friends with him was like emotional terrorism.
Now do you see why it’s so odd that he’s a teacher?
Thank you.
I’m called back to the school because this time Cash and Grady got into a fight in the classroom over what Ridge said was a family tree project. I can see where this would cause problems.
While Grady loves everyone and is welcoming of Brie, Cash holds a grudge and refuses to speak to Brie or acknowledge his mom’s best friend turned wannabe mommy into his life.
I love him for this, but I can’t exactly say that. In reality, I want to buy him whatever he wants.
So there I am, in the classroom after having lunch with Tori. The kids are outside at their lunch recess.
But let’s pause here before Ridge approaches me at the table in the classroom. You remember those guys from school, right? The ones who were hot shit and knew it. Then there were the ones who were just hot shit and didn't give a goddamn if anyone else knew it. That was Ridge Lucas. He didn't give a flying fuck what you thought about him or his lazy walk, and if you looked his way he’d probably knock you in the mouth for looking at him.
I stand when he comes closer. Ridge takes a step forward, his face so close to mine I see the crazy dancing in his black irises.
He grins. “Looking for trouble?” His lips are dangerously close to my ear. Warmth spreads over me, a delicious shiver running down my spine. To have him this close, it’s a reminder of what I gave up, of what could have been mine.
He’s referring to my shirt. I think. I might have changed into something a little more revealing. Might being the keyword here.
&nb
sp; “No. I’m not.” I sit down and cross my legs over one another. Fuck yeah, I’m looking for trouble. I haven’t had sex in six months. I need trouble! “So from one troublemaker to another, what do I do about Cash? Or I’ll probably be in this school every day.”
He chuckles, and I notice his voice sounds different and his eyes look glossed over. And then he sneezes into his bent arm. “Excuse me. These little shits gave me a cold.”
I laugh, and his eyes snap to mine as if the sound is appealing to him. We smile, both of us, and I remember him as a child for a brief moment. He was such a nice boy. . . until he wasn’t.
“While I certainly wouldn’t mind you being at the school every day, I think I can help with Cash,” he tells me, his face sincere.
“And how’s that?”
“Don’t pressure him. When he’s ready to accept it, he will.” And then he’s quiet again, just staring, the tension thick.
My gaze drifts to the window where the kids are playing outside. “What do I do about him acting out? He’s so mean to Grady sometimes, and poor Grady, he tries so hard to make him happy.”
Ridge’s brow knits together, his jaw tightening. He sighs, his words low and pushed out on his exhale. “Yeah, I see it. I can’t say I didn’t act that way,” he states casually, but I know that tone, and it’s anything but casual. “I. . .,” he begins, and pauses, swallowing over words I’m not sure he wants to admit. Shifting in his chair, he faces me and then glances at the clock behind him. “I’ll try to help with what I can, but I think it’s best to just try to redirect his anger, not force him to be a certain way.”
Now I see it. The emotion, the admittance he doesn’t want to give me just yet. I was Ridge’s redirection. It didn’t matter what he did or said to me, I stood up for him when my friends told me he was using me, and I lied to my parents when he needed me to talk him off the ledge in the middle of the night. All because I knew what Ridge had been going through was far more than he led on.
And now look at me, raising a son just as defiant and not knowing how to handle him. Underneath the stubble and the sharp jawline, Ridge is still that same boy struggling to find his place in the world, a world his mother ripped apart.