by Annie Kelly
“How did you get into the club?”
“Fake ID. Besides, I know the owner, remember?”
“Oh.” I swallow, unsure of what to say to that. Instead, I just shake my head. “Look, this is a huge mess, so all I ask is that you give me a chance to talk to Mr. Weathersby before I quit.”
He frowns.
“Why would you quit?”
I stare at him. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.”
He takes a step forward and I stiffen. The car is still at my back and I can’t move any further away as he gets closer to me.
“Nothing really happened, Hyacinth,” Smith says, his voice low.
I laugh out loud. Hard. Hard enough that I snort.
Lovely.
“You seem to be forgetting how we were attached at the mouth on Friday.”
“Trust me.” His jaw flexes and I think he’s clenching his teeth. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Yeah. Me, neither. That’s the problem.
“Still, that was before,” he argues. “Before you were my teacher and I was your student.”
I swallow, hating how that sounds coming from his mouth and hating that I hate how it sounds.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he continues. “We met outside of school, we had a good time that really didn’t break any rules—certainly not any laws.”
A lump of emotion presses at the back of my throat. He doesn’t understand.
“Besides, it’s only for a few months,” Smith counters. “When June rolls around, I’ll have graduated and I’ll be out of your life.”
I swallow. When June rolls around, I’ll be done at this school, too. But I don’t tell him that.
Instead, I say, “I don’t know. I really think I should just cut my losses and quit.”
Smith steps back then and surveys me, eyebrows raised.
“I think the truth is that you find me attractive,” he says, smirking. “And that you don’t trust yourself not to do anything about it.”
I open my mouth. I close it. I clench both of my hands into fists so I don’t smack him because, if I hit a student, I would definitely get in trouble.
“You’re wrong,” I manage to say through my gritted teeth. He shrugs and steps away.
“Okay. Whatever you say.” He starts to walk over to where I now see a large black Ram truck parked.
“You didn’t leave your number,” I blurt out. He turns and stares at me.
“What?”
“Last weekend.” I swallow hard, feeling my cheeks begin to redden. “You didn’t leave your number.”
Smith tilts his chin up and meets my gaze. I have to force myself not to look away.
“Well, all things considered, Miss Hendricks, I think it’s probably better that I didn’t.”
I guess I can’t argue that point, no matter how much I want to.
“Look, Hyacinth . . .” Smith trails off, then scrubs a hand over his head. “Seriously, I’m not going to tell anyone about what happened at the bar. Or after. I swear to you.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Then, I climb into my car, start the engine, and shift into drive, all while trying my hardest to ignore the biggest mistake I’ve ever made as he watches me pull out of the parking lot.
***
I guess someone wheeled Dad to the cafeteria, because he’s already eating by the time I arrive.
“Hi, Daddy.” I lean down and kiss my father’s cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
I flop down in the chair next to him, then glance down at his tray.
“Meatloaf again?”
“Yup.” He chews, swallows, takes another bite. “What can I say? It’s delicious.”
“I’m glad,” I say, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m going to go grab a sandwich, okay?”
“Sure, princess.”
I hang my coat and bag on a hook by the door before getting in line at the food bar. Mr. Anderson, one of the older residents, is in front of me in line, and he gives me a warm smile when I grab a tray.
“Hey, Cyn—how’s student teaching going?”
The last thing I want to talk about is my job, but I give him the most sincere smile I can muster. He really is a sweet old man, and I know he doesn’t mean any harm.
“Great! Thanks, Mr. A.”
“Glad to hear it, honey,” he says, smiling back at me.
As we move forward, Laverna, one of the cafeteria servers, hands me my turkey sandwich and apple. She’s a resident, too, but she loves to cook, so the management lets her work the dinner shift a few nights a week.
“Here you are, dear.” Her voice is a little raspy today and I give her a concerned look.
“Are you using your nebulizer, Miss Laverna? You don’t sound too good.” She shrugs, giving me a guilty smile. “I might not have used it last night. I fell asleep early.”
I shake my head and cluck my tongue. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to start coming down here every night and make sure you use it.”
She chuckles and waves me down the line.
“You act like that’s a threat. Your daddy would love it if you were here that often. So would the rest of us.”
I hold in my sigh. “Yeah. I know.” There are a lot of things about Holly Fields that I’m grateful for. Dad gets great care here. The nurses are wonderful and he’s made a bunch of friends. Of course, he’s lost a few along the way, too—part of the collateral damage of living in a place like this.
The truth is that I never wanted Dad to have to live here. For a long time after his car accident, I was able to manage—he’d lost the ability to use his legs, but he was still completely alert and capable. He collected disability and we managed.
But when the strokes started, in the middle of my freshman year of college, he needed constant care. After the second one, his face slacked to one side and never really returned to its former glory. He’s still able to feed himself most of the time, and he can usually dress himself on his own. But there’s no tying shoes or driving vehicles or opening jars in his world. No two-handed tasks, not without a nurse. Or me.
Still, he’s the one who insisted on Holly Fields. I was adamant that I could take care of him and go to school. I was on scholarship, so tuition was covered. We could make it work. Then, about a year ago, I got home on a random Tuesday and he was sitting in the kitchen, in his wheelchair, with his bag packed.
I don’t think I’ve cried that hard before or since that day. And I know I’ve never felt so much like a failure. Irrational? Maybe. But, since my mom disappeared when I was still in diapers, I’ve been the only constant in Dad’s life. The only woman in his life, too. At least since he started getting sick. And, likewise, he’s my guiding compass. My North Star. In the end, I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of leaving Dad on his own or if the reverse was more terrifying.
Now, though, I try to push that thought out of my mind as I make it back to Dad’s table. He’s flanked on both sides by his two closest friends here—Rocky and Wyatt. Holly Fields is the kind of facility that houses people of all ages and all states of health. My father made quick friends with two guys who, like him, were a lot younger than one would expect a person to be who’s in an assisted living facility.
“Gentlemen,” I say, grinning at them. “Am I interrupting or can I join you?”
“Of course, Cyn. You’re the only reason I eat with this bum anyway,” Rocky says, nudging my dad with his elbow.
Rocky has been here for a year or two longer than Dad, and he’s sort of like the Holly Fields mascot. Everyone loves him. His diagnosis—ALS—is a scary one, but every time I see him, he couldn’t look happier or more pleased with life. He prides himself on being “on the right side of fifty with a full head of hair,” and he’s always asking me to bring my friends with me when I visit. I have a feeling he was quite the ladies’ man back in his prime.
Wyatt, on the other hand, is much more quiet, much more reserved than Rocky, despite being decades younger. H
e turned twenty-six last month, and he hasn’t been here long. The accident that caused his injuries happened only six months ago, and he was in a coma for about two months after that. Dad says he’s heard the doctors say that he’s recovering nicely.
“Hey, Hyacinth,” Wyatt says, smiling up at me. His dark brown curls have really filled in over the last few weeks—I can hardly see the scar from his operation, which usually crests, angry and red, over his left ear like a cursive letter C. Brain surgery is about as complex as it gets, and Wyatt was lucky to survive his injuries at all, let alone the surgery that came after.
Now, he scoots his wheelchair over to the side so I can slide my chair in.
“Turkey sandwich again?”
“You know it.”
He manages a jerky nod and I give his shoulder a squeeze. There’s still a remarkable amount of muscle tone in his body, and both his arms are a riot of colorful tattoos. Dad told me he was a pretty successful musician before his accident—a drummer, I think. Then again, most of the men and women in Holly Fields were something great before they got here.
As we begin to eat, I make myself focus on my sandwich and not on the men around me, all of whom tend to struggle at mealtime. Sometimes, it’s hard to block out the obvious—my father feeding himself with one hand, his other lying lamely in his lap; Rocky’s hand trembling as he tries to hold a spoon or a cup; and Wyatt, who will sometimes stare down at his food as though willing it to rise up and feed itself to him. I know he is trying to get his body to work on command—he’s just not quite there yet.
“Do you need help?” I ask him quietly. But he shakes his head, giving me a rueful smile.
“Tell me a story instead,” he suggests. “How is your teaching going?”
I glance up at the ceiling, then back down. “Honestly?”
“Sure.”
I look at Dad, who is stirring his potatoes with his fork and biting his bottom lip in concentration. “I think I screwed up. I’m not sure what to do about it.”
Wyatt, who finally manages to place a hand on the table next to his tray, stops to look over at me.
“I have a hard time believing that, Cyn,” he says softly. His gray eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I shake my head.
“There’s someone at the school who I—I know from before. I’m not sure he saw me in the best light. I’m thinking it might make more sense for me to transfer to a different school.”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything at first. He’s too focused on trying to pick up his fork, and I have to literally hold my hands in my lap to stop myself from helping him.
“Do you like the school you’re at?” he asks, finally managing to get a hold of the fork. I watch him spear a cooked carrot and slowly bring it to his mouth.
“I do—I mean, Dad would rather I wasn’t at Franklin. He thinks it’s not safe. But when I knew I wanted to teach high school and that I had to student teach, I always wanted it to be there. I don’t want to just camp out at a cushy private school with a bunch of privileged kids with trust funds. I want to be useful.”
Wyatt nods, chewing his carrot. “Yeah. I get that.”
I look down at my tray, then pick up my sandwich and start eating it. Dad is watching me now, and I don’t want him to think I’m upset.
“What’s wrong, princess?” he asks. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”
I force myself to shake my head and smile.
“I’m fine, Daddy. Just tired. And I can’t stay for long tonight.” I glance at Wyatt, then back at my dad. “I’m starting my Hamlet unit tomorrow and I want to make sure I’m prepared.”
“To be or not to be,” Rocky quips, taking a gulp of his milk. “What was Hamlet’s fatal flaw again? Ambition?”
“Indecision,” I say, practically choking on the word.
Man, what is it about literature that always seems to mirror real life?
Apparently, I’m going to teach Hamlet tomorrow to a room full of teenagers who couldn’t care less.
Oh, and one man who’s seen me almost naked.
Fucking hell.
I wonder if it’s too late to call in sick.
Chapter Six
Class Warfare
Deep breaths.
You can do this.
Deep breaths.
It’s only an hour.
Nervously, I touch my hand to my dark curls, which I’ve pulled back into a ponytail. When the bell rings, I jump a good three inches at least.
Christ, Cyn. Get a grip already.
Taking a deep breath, I head to the door of my classroom and step out into the hall. I run my sweaty palms over my skirt. Technically, it’s casual Friday and we’re allowed to wear jeans, but I felt like I needed to stay a little more formal today. Of course, a skirt shows my legs and I didn’t really consider that until I was already at school. But my blouse is modest and my flats are boring and, overall, I’m just really hoping I look dismissible. Like every other teacher. Like the opposite of “fresh meat.”
Mrs. Hardy and Mr. Christopher, two of the science teachers, are standing at their morning duty location next to the hallway metal detectors. Mrs. Hardy is going on her thirtieth year as a high school teacher, and she talks about her upcoming retirement every chance she gets. In fact, by the glazed-eye expression on Mr. Christopher’s face, I’m pretty sure she’s doing that at this very moment.
“Good morning,” I say, walking a little closer. Mr. Christopher gives me a grateful little smile. He’s fairly young, too, and I think he’s on his second year here at Franklin.
“So, any big plans for the weekend?” he asks me, cutting off Mrs. Hardy’s rant about retiree benefits. “Did you do anything fun?”
I shrug, leaning back against the wall behind me.
“Does grading papers count?”
He laughs, then shoves a hand back through his dark hair. “I’ve gotta say no—sorry.”
I shrug at him, smiling again. “Well, once I’ve finished student teaching, I’ll try to find something you approve of, Mr. Christopher.”
He snorts. “Please, call me Jeremy.”
Jeremy is actually sort of handsome, in his own way—his features are dark and, like me, he looks young for his age.
Sort of the opposite of a certain student whose first day of classes are today.
“Motherfucker!”
I spin around just in time to see a tall boy wearing a Yankees hat launch himself at another guy—a stocky, Vin Diesel–type. It takes me a second to recognize him as J. D. Fenton; he’s in my first-period class, although you wouldn’t know it by how little he’s shown up. When he actually does grace us with his presence, he pretty much sleeps from bell to bell. I’d actually decided to confront him about it, and had told as much to my mentor teacher, when I got an impromptu visit from Officer Rains, the school resource officer assigned by Baltimore City. He suggested that it might be safer if I just left J. D. Fenton alone.
Safer.
Yeah. I can see why now.
Neither guy waits for his opponent to hit the floor before attacking the other. J. D. anchors one hand on the linoleum tile as he levers back and launches rapid punches into the tall guy’s face.
“Hey!” Jeremy is off like a shot, running directly into the fray and pulling back on J. D.’s arms with both hands. A few feet away, another teacher is already on the red emergency phone next to the fire extinguisher. It’s mere seconds later that there’s a flurry of activity coming from one end of the hall and Officer Rains comes barreling forward. When he reaches the two students, he yanks the kid in the hat up by the straps of his backpack.
“Peterson. I shoulda known.” He drags him over to the metal detectors. “Walk through it.”
“Fuck you,” Peterson sneers, crossing his arms and jutting out his chin.
“No, but thanks.” Rains gives him a grim smile, then pushes him hard through the detector’s entryway. The beeping is immediate and Rains shakes his head.
“You gonna empty your
pockets or you want me to strip-search you?” Peterson glares at Rains, making no move to give up whatever he’s got hidden. Rains forces him up against the nearest wall, then starts patting him down. When he reaches his waist, he yanks up Peterson’s shirt and pulls out something black.
It’s a gun.
My entire body freezes—blood, heartbeat, everything goes both cold and still.
“How’d you get this through the detectors this morning?” Rains asks him, still peering at the weapon. Peterson shrugs, but doesn’t speak. Rains sighs. He pops open the chamber, then rolls his eyes.
“You’re damn lucky it isn’t loaded, kid. They might actually let you come back here next year.”
He tucks the gun into his belt, then grasps Peterson’s arm and leads him away.
There’s a few seconds of silence, then the roar of a typical high school hallway returns in full force. I stare at Jeremy, who’s still holding J. D. back by both arms.
“I think you can let me go now, Mr. Christopher,” he drawls. “Unless of course you’re trying to cuddle or something.”
“Very funny, Fenton,” Jeremy snorts. “Get to class, will you?”
J. D. smirks and gives a salute before sauntering toward my classroom. I open my mouth to protest, then close it. At my high school, all students were suspended for fights. At Franklin, if you’re not bleeding, you’re reading. Not to mention the fact that the state mandates that students are only suspended under very specific conditions. Like murder. Or arson. Or murder by arson.
“Just another Friday morning,” Jeremy says as he shakes his head.
“In what world?” I mutter.
He gives me a shrug, then grins before starting in the direction of his room.
I walk back into my classroom behind a handful of male students. Man, every time I see a flash of baggy jeans or a glimpse of golden brown hair, I feel a sinking flutter in my stomach. It’s like butterflies, but made of lead. And dying. Yep, it’s like dying, lead butterflies are attempting to survive in my stomach as I work up the courage to face Smith with a smile when he walks through my door.
Except that he doesn’t. Walk through my door, I mean. The final bell rings and I blink up at the hall clock.