by Jan Freed
“I’ll sit somewhere else,” Elaine said hastily. “It’s no big deal. Really.” She backed away.
“Wait,” Sarah ordered. There was nothing to do but brave it out and protect Elaine as best she could. “There’s room at the table for both of us. It’ll be cool.”
They wove through the rectangular tables, each seating about twelve kids. Teens called out greetings to Jessica from all sides. Evidently she was very popular. Sarah hoped the girl was also kind. She glanced back and smiled encouragingly.
Shoulders slumped, her expression grim, Elaine walked as if headed to her execution.
Sarah kicked herself again for her stupidity. For not remembering that high school social hierarchy was as structured and inflexible as an Elizabethan royal court. Her guilt and dread increased as she neared what could only be “Wendy’s table.”
Eight girls picked at their lunches, too engrossed in looking Sarah over to eat. All were attractive, or downright beautiful. All were slim and fashionably dressed. But only one radiated the supreme confidence and charisma that proclaimed her queen of Roosevelt High.
The most popular girl in school was stunning, of course. Silver-blond hair and a porcelain complexion to match. Emerald green eyes and perfect symmetrical features. A body that, in a tight green sweater, was more womanly than girlish.
Wendy Johnson had the looks and bearing of someone much older than eighteen. Stopping in front of the royal table, Sarah resisted a devilish urge to curtsy.
Jessica put down her tray and turned. “Wendy, this is Sarina Davis. Sarina, Wendy Johnson.”
Sarah didn’t catch the seven other names. She was too busy holding a challenging green gaze and seeking the nature behind the beautiful mask.
“Tony told me what you did in Mr. Morgan’s class.” Wendy broke the silence first. “I’m impressed. I only wish I could have seen the bastard’s face.” Sarah stiffened. “Actually, I was out of line. He was pretty decent about the whole thing.”
Surprise flickered in shamrock eyes, followed by a gleam of annoyance. “The last thing you can call Mr. Morgan is decent. He should’ve been fired last semester.”
“Then why wasn’t he?”
Annoyance deepened into something nastier. “Because I was the only one who had the guts to tell the superintendent what kind of pervert he is.” Wendy’s gaze swept over her squirming table companions, then narrowed on Sarah. “You don’t believe me.”
A statement, not a question. The girl was perceptive. But then, people in power usually were. The trait helped them manipulate others.
“I believe that every story has two sides,” Sarah hedged. “And that this tray is getting really heavy.”
Several girls laughed.
Wendy offered a tight smile. “Jessica, move your tray over so Sarah can sit in front of me.”
Jessica obeyed, then glanced nervously behind Sarah.
Elaine!
Stepping back guiltily, Sarah nudged the blushing girl forward with her tray.
“I invited someone to eat with me since there’s enough room. Y’all know Elaine, don’t you?”
Incredulous glances were exchanged. A few snickers broke out.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” someone muttered.
“Sure, everybody knows Elaine The Brain,” another girl joked.
“Yeah, we know Pork Dork, don’t we, Wendy?” a third girl added, prompting giggles all around.
Smiling indulgently, Wendy caught Sarah’s gaze. “Eating at this table is by invitation only. Elaine understands—don’t you, Elaine?”
But Elaine had gone someplace deep within herself, a place Sarah knew well, where the pain of the moment couldn’t immediately cripple. No, that would come later. Her eyes glazed, the girl turned around and walked away.
“Don’t look so worried, Sarina. She’ll be fine,” Wendy insisted. “C’mon and sit.”
Sickened, Sarah looked at each girl one by one until all but a glittering green gaze had faltered, then dropped. “I don’t get it. Do you think hurting Elaine makes you smarter? Or more popular? Or makes this table more ‘special’ in any way? Are you that clueless?”
“Lighten up,” Wendy said, rolling her eyes. “Elaine’s a loser. We have a reputation to think about.”
“Yeah. For being callous and cruel.”
“Callous?” Wendy jeered. She glanced around at her sidekicks, obviously puzzled at their silence, then snorted. “Are you for real?”
Damn. “On the West Coast, everybody says ‘callous,”’ Sarah ad-libbed. “As in, ‘He dumped you? That’s so-o-o callous.’ It’ll probably get to Texas by next year.”
“Texas is so-o-o lame,” somebody muttered.
“Shut up, Pam,” Wendy snapped. “You’re such an airhead.”
Sarah tsk-tsked. “Now, see? There you go being callous again. Oops. You don’t like that word, do you? Hmm, let me think...I’ve got it!” Sarah’s triumphant smile faded into a stare as cold as her voice. “How does vicious bitch grab you?”
Right by the throat, if Wendy’s red face and choked sputters were any indication.
“Gee, it works for me,” Sarah said.
“Who the hell do you think you are, talking to me like that?” Wendy finally managed to sputter. “You’re pathetic and stupid. This table is special. You could’ve sat here and had it made the rest of the year, you loser.”
Sarah gentled her gaze. “But if I sat at this table, people would think I’m like all of you. I believe I’ll go sit with Elaine, instead.”
Turning, she paused and looked back over her shoulder. “I have a reputation to think about, you know.”
Walking away, Sarah knew she’d kissed off any chance of friendship with the most popular girl in the senior class, a fact that would have devastated her nine years ago. But hard-won knowledge and maturity put a whole new perspective on things.
Her smile started small and grew with every step. High school might not be so bad the second time around.
ARMS CROSSED, his back braced against the cafeteria wall, Jack watched Sarina impart a final word to eight prima donnas, then walk away. Expressions at the table she’d left behind ranged from stunned to ashamed to furious. But no one was indifferent.
Sarina Davis wasn’t a girl easily ignored or dismissed.
He’d completed that silly business with the rubber snake just as Jessica and Sarina had approached The Table Of The Chosen. The sight of Elaine dragging at their heels had snagged his attention, and he’d watched the action unfold. A riveting scene worthy of a D. W. Griffith silent film. High visual drama. Dastardly deeds and wrenching pathos. He hadn’t needed subtitles to interpret the dialogue.
Wendy’s table of vipers had struck at Elaine. And the transfer student from California had struck back! Amazing. Also extremely satisfying, after witnessing the dazed misery on Elaine’s face.
Studying Wendy’s expression now, Jack couldn’t recall her ever looking so insulted. Or venomous. Not even that disastrous evening after he’d unpeeled her arms from around his neck. The blond beauty could be a dangerous enemy. Especially to the unwarned.
Frowning, he located Sarina—and straightened away from the wall. Her smile was feral, her walk the sated glide of a cat leaving a fresh kill.
This fierce little female with the flamboyant hair was apparently more than a match for his nemesis. Who would’ve thought? He watched her pass by twenty yards ahead and continue on toward the opposite end of the cafeteria. Several seconds later, the charged tension humming through Jack’s body registered in his brain.
He wrenched his gaze away.
What was he doing, staring at the cup and release of crushed velvet against a curvy bottom? A student’s curvy bottom, for God’s sake, when the whole damn school—kids and faculty alike—still watched him as if he breathed heavily into phones for kicks. Their subtle suspicions hurt. And made him cautious in the extreme. He rarely smiled at female students any more. Never touched or hugged them. Never spent time alone with them fo
r any reason. Hell, he never even looked below their necks if he could help it... until now.
Groaning silently, Jack forced himself to lean back against the wall. He scanned the cafeteria for disapproving stares. The only eyes he met were Kate’s, who arched a speculative brow from a table near Wendy. Suppressing a blush, he looked pointedly at Bruce Logan, then back at her. Jack had been searching for an excuse to run off the rich bad boy, a womanizer he didn’t want near his sister.
Message received. Kate scowled and turned away. She’d made it clear his slightest attention in school was unwelcome. But if she wanted him to ignore the creep she chose to eat with, she’d keep her speculations to herself.
Muscle by muscle his body relaxed. He’d been lucky this time. There wouldn’t be a next time, he vowed grimly. With Kate still in high school, he couldn’t jeopardize his tenure. And despite being cleared of Wendy’s charges, Jack knew he walked a career tightrope until he regained everyone’s trust
The safety net he’d planned for the future currently sat—three weeks and counting—somewhere on Irving Greenbloom’s desk. Response time on unsolicited screenplays ran from six to twelve weeks, according to the agent’s secretary.
Unfolding his arms, Jack set out to patrol the cafeteria’s perimeter. He wasn’t naive. Even if the top agent in L.A. chose to represent him, the odds against Free Fall selling were astronomically high. He was prepared for rejection. What he hadn’t counted on was losing his joy in teaching. A joy he’d never realized brightened his days until recently, when only a feeble glimmer remained.
Across the room, a flurry of airborne potato chips erupted. He changed direction, then stopped. Tim Williams could damn well cover his assigned territory for once. Jack was tired of always being the bad guy.
Two tables to the left of the food fight, a flash of red-orange hair caught his eye. He didn’t at all like how his pulse reacted. Or the fact that he couldn’t seem to turn away. He chalked it up to concern for Elaine, and saw that the two girls sat facing each other, their profiles clearly visible from his angle.
They appeared to be deep into a conversation. At least, Sarina was conversing. Elaine was listening, her gaze suspiciously bright. She nodded, and to Jack’s dismay, a single tear broke loose and trailed down her plump cheek.
Speaking fast and earnestly, Sarina grabbed the other girl’s hands, every line of her body conveying, “Heed my words.” Elaine nodded again. Swiped at a second tear. Even managed a tremulous smile.
And then she laughed. Not a token effort, either, but the genuine light-up-your-face-with-happiness article.
Looking at Sarina’s brilliant answering smile, Jack felt something inside him...shift.
He turned abruptly and headed back toward his post against the wall. Only ten more minutes and he could eat his own lunch. Leftover pot roast, packed in a Tupperware container by his mother the night before. His mouth twisted. She needed to “do” for him, he’d learned, in order to feel useful.
But he would gladly cook and wash clothes for himself if only she’d spend more time with Kate. His sister needed a gentle guiding hand right now. His gaze wandered halfway back to Sarina before his mind caught up and yanked it forward.
Jack decided he would slip outside and eat his lunch in blessed peace and quiet. He needed some time to think. To examine his emotions. To remind himself of the inviolate code of ethics he’d accepted along with his teaching certificate. He needed to regain his composure and inscrutable expression.
And he needed to do it all by fifth period.
CHAPTER FOUR
SINCE HER RETURN to high school two weeks ago, Sarah had blamed her poor performance in home economics class on lack of previous training.
After all, her mother hadn’t needed, required or wanted her inept help with household chores. In college, she’d managed quite nicely with the aid of microwave dinners and—courtesy of Donna’s inheritance—a weekly maid. Sometime during those four years Sarah had become hooked on sparkling toilets she hadn’t scrubbed, a habit she gladly supported after graduation. What was skipping a few meals until her salary increased? A trivial inconvenience. Inconsequential compared with giving up Molly Maid.
But she wasn’t addicted, Sarah had assured herself then. She could stop the service any time and clean her own apartment. Or for that matter, learn to sew frilly curtains and bake chocolate chip cookies. The question was, why on earth would she when she had more important things to do? She was a career woman. She was a mover and shaker. She was a nineties kinda gal.
She was a domesticity-impaired convenience junkie, Sarah admitted now, forty minutes into Mrs. Dent’s home economics class.
The latest proof sat cooling before her on the red Formica countertop. Covertly, she scanned the other four kitchenette counters in the high-tech classroom. Vanilla sponge cake layers, perfect golden circles six to seven inches tall, destroyed her last faint hope. It was official. She’d screwed up the worst.
Poor Fred Adler, a fledgling home management computer software designer, no doubt wished he’d passed on taking home ec for research purposes. As the only other senior in a class full of freshmen “fish,” he’d been assigned Sarah as his kitchen partner.
“Let’s think positive, here,” she told him gamely. “It smells good, doesn’t it?”
“If you like the smell of burned toast.”
She’d grown quite fond of it over the years, actually. She tried again. “Maybe we can say it’s a new Cajun breakfast recipe. You know, blackened pancakes?”
“What’ll we call that?” He nodded toward a bowl of fudge frosting.
“Well...I hear Cajuns like their syrup re-e-ally thick.” Nothing. Not even a token smile. “Oh, c’mon, Fred. Lighten up. I’m sure it will taste good, even if it’s not pretty.”
He rolled his eyes—a startling sight behind Coke bottle lenses—then reached for a toothpick and stabbed one of the cakes. Wood splintered. “I’m just guessing, Sarina, but I think this is overcooked.”
“I followed the recipe.” A daunting task from scratch instead of out of a box.
“Well, you must’ve left something out.”
I must’ve been crazy to take this class.
“You should’ve let me measure the ingredients.”
I should’ve signed up for art.
“We’re going to get a bad grade.”
Sarah bristled. “You set the timer, bud.”
He pushed up his Buddy Holly glasses and glared. When the kid grew into his shoulders, hands and feet, he’d be a force to be reckoned with. “Hey, I got the pans out of the oven right on time. If the batter had risen, it wouldn’t have burned.”
Drooping, Sarah stared at the two pens hooked over his plaid shirt pocket. “I know, you’re right. I’m worthless. I’m dust on Paul Prudhomme’s blackened redfish. I’m bacteria on Julia Child’s cutting board. I’m mold in Martha Stewart’s food processor.” She peeked up through her lashes.
His dark blue eyes finally gleamed in amusement.
“I’ll tell Mrs. Dent this is all my fault,” Sarah promised.
The teacher would be back shortly from checking on the rest of the class next door. The computers there were Sarah’s friends. But the sewing machines were aliens yet to be faced and conquered.
“No, I should’ve paid attention to what you were doing instead of—well, I just should’ve helped you more, is all.” Flushing to the roots of his dark shaggy hair, he firmed his jaw.
A nice square jaw, in a much too serious—but very nice—face. Not that Kate Morgan, the reason for his lack of attention to the recipe, had noticed his longing glances.
Patting Fred’s bony shoulder, Sarah moved up to the stainless steel sink. “Why don’t you ice the cake while I wash the dishes?”
“Yeah, okay. Just make sure you don’t burn yourself.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” she said haughtily. But she grinned while sliding the bowl of frosting within his reach.
Staring down at the pans
and mixing bowls in the sink, she hitched up the sleeves of her lime green mock turtleneck. She could handle this. Her cleaning service in Dallas didn’t “do” pots and pans. As she and Fred worked in companionable silence, her thoughts drifted to the object of his unrequited crush.
Ever since realizing Kate was Jack’s little sister, Sarah had watched the girl closely, although they’d never exchanged a word. Kate seemed determined to break the rules her older brother held so dear. In the past two weeks alone, Mrs. Dent had sent Kate to the principal’s office twice. Once for visiting Internet chat rooms on a class computer instead of working on her family budget spreadsheet. A second time for arguing that she’d get the “no-brainer” assignment done, because she wasn’t “computer illiterate like her teacher.”
Sassy little snot, Sarah had thought at the time. Yet the more she observed Kate, the more her rebellious I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude didn’t ring true. Even the army surplus clothes she favored didn’t seem...natural. Sarah would bet the sloppy G. I. Jane look was a new one for Kate. It must drive Jack nuts, combined with her discipline problems. Donna had mentioned his mother deferred all parental responsibility to him.
Suppressing an unexpected twinge of sympathy, Sarah placed another mixing bowl on the drying rack. She glanced at Fred’s progress. He was icing the last bare section on the pitiful cake. She’d seen him hover over a keyboard with that same intensity. The quintessential computer nerd absorbed in his work.
One day, after he made the cover of Forbes as a featured software company mogul, Sarah suspected Kate would remember Fred Adler. Right now, she didn’t know he was alive. Maybe if he killed the geeky clothes and glasses, she would see his 4-H man potential.
“What’s so funny?” Fred asked.
Sarah’s affectionate smile vanished. “Urn, a joke I heard,” she bluffed.
“I could use a good laugh before Mrs. Dent sees this cake.”
Sarah’s mind scrambled, then stopped. “Okay, but you didn’t hear it from me.” She met his gaze impishly. “How does Wendy Johnson screw in a lightbulb?”