After Tonight

by Annie Kelly

  At least, I’m glad until the principal calls me into his office after the weekly faculty meeting.

  If I were still in high school, I would never be sitting across from the principal, trying to read into his stern expression. I’d only be picking up another honor roll certificate or academic achievement letter.

  Or a trophy.

  There was always a trophy.

  But, on Thursday afternoon, when I sit down across from Principal Weathersby, I’m swallowing hard against a lump of nerves lodged in my throat. Somehow, it doesn’t matter that we’re both professional adults—I feel something like trepidation as I force myself to smile at my boss.

  “How are you doing, Miss Hendricks? Are the students giving you a hard time?”

  Mr. Weathersby doesn’t say the word yet, but it’s implied. Since I’m fairly new at the Franklin School, he’s probably required to bring me in and coddle me a bit. Make sure I’m not letting the seniors railroad me, since, despite the fact that I’m approaching my late twenties, I look about fifteen years old. I also have the unfortunate tendency of talking like Minnie Mouse when I’m nervous.

  “I’m doing just fine, sir. Thank you.”

  “Your mentor teacher, Mrs. Jenks—is she providing you with all the necessary lesson plans?”

  “Um—yes. Absolutely.”

  Mr. Weathersby sort of shifts in his chair, his large body making the whole desk rattle.

  “I know our school has a reputation for being a bit difficult,” he says, clearing his throat. “Obviously our students can be a little less traditional than what you’d expect.”

  I continue to smile at him, albeit weakly. I know what he’s trying to say—the Franklin School is an alternative school, known around Baltimore for being a rough institution with students who’ve been in and out of juvenile detention and social service programs. Even before I took this position, I’d heard it called the “Juvie Junkyard” more often than not. I guess it’s not a complete misnomer—most of the students have been incarcerated at least once, and many of them aren’t even close to graduating, despite being two or three years older than the average high school senior.

  “It’s been fine,” I say, hoping my expression is serene—placid and docile, like a cow. Like a happy, peaceful cow who hasn’t been called “hot slice” or “fresh meat” while walking down the hallway earlier this week. I’ve been doing my best to play down my younger features—today, for example, I’m in a knee-length black dress with a red cardigan sweater. My face is really too round to pull off a good updo; despite that, I’m rocking a bun or a ponytail on a nearly daily basis. Still, when the average age of the adults in this building seems to hover around fifty, I guess I should expect at least a little interest from the male population.

  Mr. Weathersby gives me the “I don’t believe you, but nice try” look.

  “Most of our pupils have been in unfortunate situations before coming to us, but we’re required to admit everyone—regardless of their current predicaments.”

  He’s saying that because of the meeting we just had—Officer Rains, the school resource officer assigned to Franklin, told us about some students who’d recently returned from a Department of Justice program that requires them to wear ankle bracelets that monitor their location at all times.

  “Which is why I think it’s important that I discuss this with you,” Mr. Weathersby continues, adjusting his striped tie. “You are close to the same age as some of our most troubled attendees. I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or as though you can’t assert your influence as their instructor. Just because you are an intern doesn’t make you any less of an authority figure.”

  I nod my head.

  “I understood the situation when I accepted the position here. I promise you, I can handle anything that’s thrown my way.”

  This is my MO. I’m a rock star. An overachiever. I’ve excelled at everything I’ve done. Honor roll every year, valedictorian of my high school, and magna cum laude when I graduated from college. But now? Well, I’m a little tired of acing every test and winning every game. The truth is that anything that’s considered too difficult is exactly what I should be doing right now.

  “Was there anything else, sir?” I ask, trying to sound polite. I’m going to be late to see Dad and I know he’ll worry. I never miss our Thursday night dinners.

  Mr. Weathersby clears his throat and gives me a tight smile.

  “Actually, yes. This is a bit unorthodox, but I’ve brought you in for a preliminary introduction to a new member of your first-period class. He’ll be starting with you tomorrow and I felt it important that you meet beforehand.”

  “Oh. Okay—great.”

  I paste on my “teacher smile.” I’ve perfected it—friendly without being too open. Caring without being condescending. It’s like my student-resistant shield. Keep your distance while maintaining authority—that’s how you make them respect you, even if they might be old enough to drink. Definitely old enough to buy cigarettes. And porn.

  “Mr. Asher, you can join us,” Mr. Weathersby calls out.

  The door opens behind me, and I try to decide whether I should stand up. I wonder why the private meeting is necessary—maybe it’s someone who has a history of violent episodes in the classroom.

  Shit, maybe he killed his last English teacher, so Mr. Weathersby is trying to give me a fighting chance to live . . .

  Stop it, Cyn.

  But, when I turn and smile, I forget all about violent offenders and parole violations. Because I know the student who just walked through the door.

  Like, know him, know him.

  In fact, the last time I saw him, I was half naked and covered in body paint, pressing up against him in a dark stairwell and begging for him to touch me.

  Same golden brown hair, cropped military short, that had me wanting to drop and give him twenty. Same intricately scripted tattoo crawling down his muscular forearm. Same sexy half smirk attached to a set of full lips that, last Friday, made me swoon.

  Fuck.

  I am in hell.

  I am in a horrible, horrific, fiery version of hell especially made for me.

  If I were alone, I’d put my head between my knees and try not to hyperventilate. But here I am, frozen in this chair and absolutely mortified. I mean, I’ve only been a student teacher for a couple of months. You’d think I’d make it through without attempting to seduce a student.

  I think I’d make it through without attempting to seduce a student.

  Apparently, we’d both be wrong.

  I stare up at Smith, who is staring right back at me. His eyes are wide, like mine must be, but my stupid, sex-starved brain still sees his eyes and thinks about him touching me.

  Oh my God. What if he reports me? I’ll lose my job here. I can’t believe I could be this stupid!

  “Miss Hendricks, this is Smith Asher. He’s just enrolled with us, and one of his required classes is senior English, your first-period class.”

  I swallow and nod. Mostly because if I don’t, I’m going to throw up or cry. Swallowing and nodding feels like a slightly better option.

  “I’m introducing you to Mr. Asher early because his situation is a specific one. Since he’s transferring from the social services in-home program, he will be entering your class well into the term, so I’d like you to exempt him from earlier assignments. His seat time and participation from here on out are all that are required in order for him to receive his diploma this spring.”

  Mr. Weathersby tents his hands in front of his face and looks from me, still sitting, to Smith, who is now standing to my left, leaning one hip against the chair next to me. I lick my lips and force myself not to look up at his face.

  Instead, I focus on the principal—the principal, who could end any chance of me keeping my student teaching position if he knew how much of this student’s student body I’ve actually seen.

  I hear a rustle of fabric—Smith must have changed his mind about sitting down after
all. As he drops into the seat next to me, I get an immediate whiff of his aftershave. I can remember how it smelled, earthy and crisp, when I’d been pressed up against him.

  “As I said, Mr. Asher’s presence and class participation is of the utmost importance,” Mr. Weathersby continues. His eyes are almost blank as he rattles off the details. “He needs to have a ninety percent attendance record to receive his diploma, so your data on his attendance is vital. I don’t think I need to stress to you, Miss Hendricks, how seriously we take our students’ futures.”

  “No, sir—of course not.”

  My voice is breathy—annoyingly breathy. I feel a flush crawl up my neck, and I want to close my eyes. Instead, I manage to stare straight ahead at a cluster of pictures on the desk.

  Smith coughs. “Listen, Mr. Weathersby. This is really unnecessary.”

  Hearing his voice again is like a lightning bolt through every nerve in my body. I almost pop up out of my chair, and I have to cross and uncross my legs quickly so that I don’t look like some spastic freak jerking around all over the place.

  “Miss—um—Hendricks won’t have any problems with me.”

  My gaze slides over to Smith, whose arms are crossed over his chest in a defensive pose.

  The principal raises an eyebrow. “I hope you’re right about that.”

  There’s a knock at the door and one of the school secretaries comes rushing in.

  “Mr. Weathersby,” she said, a little breathless, “Kyle Dorman’s probation officer is demanding to see you—apparently he failed to show up this afternoon. And one of the metal detectors is malfunctioning. Again.”

  The principal shakes his head and raises his eyes heavenward, then looks back at me.

  “I appreciate you coming in, Miss Hendricks. Mr. Asher, please check in with me tomorrow morning before going to class and I’ll get you your official schedule.”

  I stand up slowly, forcing myself not to bolt from the room.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I swallow and turn to Smith. I don’t look him in the eye as I hold out a hand.

  “It’s very nice to meet you. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable.”

  When Smith doesn’t shake my hand, I can’t help but look up and meet his gaze. Those eyes—they’re still emanating a constant heat that has to be directly related to testosterone or something. He just oozes it—confidence and lust—right out of his pores. In my memories of him, I assumed it was just the lights in the club or the effect of the alcohol. Now I realize that Smith is just as potent as I remembered, regardless if it’s day or night.

  “Thank you, Miss Hendricks.” His voice is low. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I can use your assistance.” I blink a few times, then force a smile—my teacher smile, no less—and let it take over my face.

  “Okay, great.” My voice has risen an octave, but I manage to stand my ground as he finally reaches out to shake my hand.

  The moment his hand touches mine, I feel like one of those inflatable punching bags with sand in the bottom, the kind kids have in their basements or backyards. I’m already sort of wobbly by nature, but the sensation of Smith’s skin against mine hits me harder than a TKO. It’s a revelation—a warm, inviting, spark-fueled revelation. And he doesn’t even shake my hand—he just holds it for a moment, then squeezes and lets go. Even after he’s backed away, I still feel his proximity like an extra layer of clothing.

  What was I saying before?

  That I love a challenge?

  Please remind me to shut the hell up next time I’m making a blanket statement like that. It’s like saying “be right back” during a horror movie or “things couldn’t get much worse” during a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week.

  Kind of like this one is shaping up to be.

  Mr. Weathersby scoots his chair out, and the screeching scrape travels up my spine like a shock. I have got to get the hell out of here.

  “Have a great evening,” I choke out in the principal’s direction.

  Then, I bum-rush the door and bolt through the main office, smoothing a hand over my dress as though I can brush off the mixture of horror tinged with mortification. I’m all the way down the hall before I start breathing again. When I actually reach my classroom, I shut the door behind me and collapse against it.

  Fuck.

  For the last several days, I’ve tried to forget Friday night. I made an ass of myself by the end of the evening and I’ve been attempting to pretend it never happened. But, here, standing with my back against my classroom door, all five of my senses seem to be reignited by Smith’s presence. And all I can do is remember how he touched me.

  I have to find a way to forget it again—starting with getting the hell out of the Franklin School.

  Chapter Five

  Damage Control

  For a good minute or two, the only thing keeping me upright is the door behind me. I take in sips of air so as not to start heaving in panicked breaths. I need to get my bearings and consider the facts. Once I feel confident enough in my walking abilities, I move slowly over to my desk and sit down, then let my head fall forward until my forehead meets the cool surface.

  I’m going to have to quit—that’s all there is to it. I’ll make an excuse to Mr. Weathersby and I’ll ask to be reassigned. Hell, I’ll move my ass to kindergarten if that’s what it takes to get away from this disaster.

  I try to take a few deep breaths, try to focus hard on the flecks of the linoleum or the porous surface of the cinder-block walls—anything but my rising panic. Sure, I might have said that being challenged was a good thing for me, that maybe I didn’t need to be so perfect. But, shit, that was all bullshit and bluster. I never would have taken this job had I not thought I’d ace it as much as anything else. I can’t imagine failing at anything, but especially this. And, yeah, maybe quitting is a drastic step. But . . . I mean, there’s a part of me that would rather quit at something quietly than fail at it spectacularly.

  God. Just hearing myself acknowledge that makes me feel like the biggest pussy ever.

  It takes a minute for me to notice that there’s an insistent buzzing coming from my desk drawer. Sighing, I pull out my purse and dig through it for my phone. There are three unanswered texts. Two are from my dad.

  Are you coming today?

  Hello?

  And one from Carson.

  You up 4 wine-a-ritas 2nite? Let’s head to La Tolteca & get our drink on! Thirsty Thursday, baby! 1 more day till the weekend!

  No, I’m really not up for wine-a-ritas tonight, though they are delicious. I need to get over to Holly Fields so that I can eat dinner with Dad, then I need to attempt to figure out this mess. Which, of course, I have absolutely no idea how to do.

  As I head out the main doors toward the staff parking lot, my phone vibrates again—this time with a call. I glance down at it and I want to sigh, but I force myself to swallow it as I slide my thumb across the screen and put the phone to my ear.

  “Hey, Daddy—I’m on my way.” Dad coughs for a second, then clears his throat. “Hey, princess—I’m sorry for bugging you.”

  “No, it’s fine—I got pulled into a meeting. But I’m leaving school now.”

  “A meeting already? You’ve only been working that job for a month. I suppose that’s bureaucracy for ya.”

  I smile. Dad’s “Damn the Man” attitude is nothing new.

  “It’s not technically a job, Dad. I don’t get paid or anything. It’s supposed to help me get a job once I graduate with my master’s.”

  “And you said you’re down at the Franklin School, right?”

  “Right,” I say, steeling myself for the lecture.

  “You know I don’t like you in that part of town.”

  “Well, I want to teach high school, and this was the position that was available,” I say.

  Although I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.

  “Alright. Well, you said you’re com
ing now?”

  “Yep. I’ll be there by”—I pull the phone from my ear to look at the time—“five thirty.”

  “Okay, well, you know where to find me.” He coughs again and I hear the phone sort of clatter against something—his nightstand, maybe—before the line goes dead.

  I toss my phone into my purse as I reach my car, then start digging through the front pocket for my keys. I guess I don’t notice the footsteps behind me, which is why I jump a foot when I hear the voice so close.

  “So, you’re a teacher.”

  I whirl around. Smith is standing there, hands in his pockets, a half smile tugging his lips up on one side. His short-sleeved blue T-shirt is almost like a second skin the way it stretches over his muscular frame, not to mention how much it brings out his eyes, which flicker over me in a way that feels all too familiar. I step backward until my butt hits my car door.

  “I’m not exactly a teacher,” I say slowly. “Yet.” My hands have found my keys now and they’re clenched around them hard enough that I worry I might draw blood.

  He lifts an eyebrow and pulls his hands from his pockets to cross his arms over his chest. I try not to think of the Superman emblem.

  “Doesn’t look that way to me,” he says.

  “Well, it is that way.” I practically spit the words. “I’m a student teacher.”

  “Ah.” He gives a curt nod. “So, then, I guess this shouldn’t be quite as awkward.”

  I snort a laugh because, really, could this be any more awkward?

  “You want to explain to me how you’re twenty-one and still in high school?” I ask, crossing my arms to match his stance. He shrugs.

  “It’s a long story. Starting with the fact that I’m not twenty-one.” Oh, shit.

  Please don’t be a minor, please don’t be a minor, please don’t be the oldest-looking minor ever to walk the planet, aside from LeBron James, who looked forty when he was seventeen . . .

  “I’m twenty,” he supplies, rocking back on his heels. His grin is annoying. Like he knows I was worried.