by Annie Kelly
All I know is this: I need to do something. My brain isn’t really clear, so I don’t know exactly what that something is. I decide to take a walk through the building. Maybe the chance to move around will let me think things through.
But once I’m wandering through the deserted hallways, I don’t feel any closer to a solution. A big part of me wants to book it straight to my principal and tell him the truth—tell him who Smith is in relation to me and that he needs to be transferred. But a bigger part of me is fighting that entire notion. I mean, sure—yes. We hooked up at a bar when I didn’t know he was a student. But why should that back me into this corner? Why should it make me feel so incredibly terrified and ready to run?
Not to mention the incident earlier this week when Mr. Weathersby basically reprimanded me in front of my entire class. Christ, the last thing I need to do is make myself look anything less than capable in front of my boss. I look down the hallway and see Caroline’s classroom door open and decide to pay her a visit. If nothing else, maybe I can glean some insight from an older, more experienced teacher who, I’m sure, has dealt with her share of fuckups.
Caroline is one of those career teachers who has sort of settled into the role with a comfort that’s enviable. Her classroom looks cozy and friendly. When I walk through the door, she has a handful of students sitting in the back of the room, working on yearbook layouts. I’d forgotten she’s the publications advisor, too.
“Hyacinth.” Her eyes crinkle with her smile and she stands up to greet me. “How is everything?”
“Good,” I say, nodding. When I get closer, she reaches out to squeeze my arm.
“I’ve been meaning to drop you an e-mail. That incident in your classroom the other day was unfortunate. I hope Mr. Weathersby wasn’t too hard on you.”
I shake my head.
“No, it’s fine—although, that’s actually part of the reason I’m here.”
“Oh, really?” She walks back around her desk and sits in a well-padded chair. “How can I help you?”
My eyes flick to the students in the back, then I step a little closer.
“I find my first-period class quite . . . challenging,” I say quietly. “I remember you saying you have planning at that time, and I was wondering if you could come observe the class for me. See if there’s anything I could do better. Or differently.”
“Of course. Which day where you thinking?”
I clear my throat, then clench my hands together in front of me.
“Um—every day, actually.”
Caroline leans back and her chair makes a loud squeak. Her smile is sort of placating and I feel a pit of dread in my stomach. I can see her no before she even says it.
“I think,” she begins, pushing her glasses back into her auburn curls, “that you need to let yourself feel confident in your abilities, Hyacinth. I was in your classroom that first two weeks, remember? And you did just fine.”
I swallow. “But, after Friday—”
She shakes her head. “Friday was unfortunate, but it isn’t typical—even here, where we have so many students in negative situations outside of the classroom.”
She stands then and motions for me to come closer.
“The kids back there,” she whispers, gesturing to the students in the back of her room, “they all have had challenges that you and I can’t possibly understand. At least half of them have a relative in jail. A third of them don’t know their fathers. One of them was picked up for solicitation last year.”
I feel a surge of nausea. “That’s terrible.”
She nods. “It is. So, when the students are hard on you—when they make you ‘pay your dues,’ so to speak, they’re really trying to avoid bonding with someone who will inevitably leave them. So many of them don’t know how to form healthy relationships.”
“I just—I just want to make sure I’m doing this right.”
Caroline smiles at me, then pats my shoulder. “Honey, teaching is always trial and error. Some lessons work, some completely bomb. Some classes are wonderfully behaved and some are duds. You just need to understand that you are the only constant in that classroom—maintain your authority, but show that you care.”
Easier said than done, I want to say. But I just nod.
“Right. Okay.”
“I’ll try to come by one day next week,” she says, “I have a handful of students doing SAT prep in my classroom three days a week, and I’m using a lot of my planning time to help pull the yearbook together, so it’ll be a little dicey.”
“I know you’re busy,” I say regretfully. “I’m not trying to impose.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” She shakes her head. “All I’m trying to say is that I trust you enough to take care of your class—I could drop all those things and come to observe you if I was really worried about what happens in your classroom. But I trust you, Hyacinth. You need to trust yourself.”
I stare back at her, then nod, but I just want to howl with frustration.
Trust myself?
Now?
I don’t think anything could feel more impossible—or more risky—than that does right now. But, somehow, that leaves me feeling a little more sure than I did before I spoke with Caroline. She’s not the only person who has suggested I move forward, that I face the world and all of its issues with a confident face plastered on over my actual face—Carson certainly suggested it. So has my dad. And so has Smith.
I move on autopilot as I head back to my classroom, get my jacket and purse, power down my computer, and walk back out down the hall. I barely see the door as I push through it or the sidewalk as I follow it to the parking lot. I just feel sort of numb, like all the emotions I had swirling only an hour ago have fizzled into a subspace that I can’t access. I’m reminded of Novocain—a really strong, psychological Novocain that makes me feel nothing, yet still be able to function.
I’m halfway across the parking lot when I notice a large group of people standing a next to the tennis courts—and a few feet away from my car. Kent Pharris, who is in my last class of the day, is hanging off the chain-link fence that borders the court. He’s tall enough to be on the varsity basketball team, but his grades aren’t even close to meeting the GPA requirement. Another senior, Lyle Merrick, hardly ever attends and is best known for the time he got caught getting head in the boys’ bathroom a few weeks ago. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him in school since last month.
Then there’s the infamous J. D. Fenton, looking wide awake and smiling lazily at two girls who are clearly hanging on his every word.
And, standing between Lyle and J. D. is Smith.
I swallow hard as I watch him. He isn’t saying much—just standing back and watching as Kent performs some kind of fence-spawned acrobatics. In one hand, he holds a lit cigarette.
Really, Smith? On school property?
There’s a big part of me that wants to stomp over there, put it out, and give him what for. I almost do, until I watch a girl sidle up to him.
Cherry Morgan.
She’s one of those girls who’s got all kinds of curves wrapped in skintight clothes, topped off with thick, dark curls and heavy makeup. I really want to turn away as she presses up against Smith’s side, takes the cigarette from his fingers, and sucks in a long drag.
But I can’t.
I can’t stop watching her leaning against him.
And I can’t stop watching as he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her even closer.
The pain in my belly is immediate and sharp, like a stabbing sensation that makes me both furious and devastated. Jealousy has never felt this physical. But looking at Cherry tucked comfortably into Smith’s embrace, I want to claw her eyes out.
And my own, so I don’t have to see it anymore.
Then Kent jumps down from the fence and I realize what he was doing up there in the first place. Up near the top, attached to the links, are at least a dozen pairs of women’s underwear.
The boys
below break into snickers, pointing up at the panties like they’re in middle school. I roll my eyes and start walking in their direction. No one notices me until I’ve clicked the unlock button on my key fob and my car gives a simultaneous click and light blink.
“Miss Hendricks.”
Smith says it with a smirk in his voice. I’m not looking at him to see it, but I know it’s there regardless. I slide past him and the rest of his crew until I reach the driver’s side door.
“You want to make a donation?” he asks.
Despite my better judgment, I look at him. He’s staring up at the rows of thongs and boy shorts. Behind him, J. D. whispers something to Kent and they both start laughing.
“I’m talking about your panties,” Smith says, loud enough for his friends to hear him. “We’re accepting donations if you’re interested.”
I can feel my cheeks flame and I clench my fist over my keys. His lifted eyebrow says it all—he’s testing me.
“That’s entirely inappropriate, Mr. Asher,” I say, my voice low. “I wouldn’t suggest saying something like that again, unless you’d like to spend a few weeks on suspension for sexual harassment of a teacher.”
He cocks an eyebrow and sidles closer toward me. When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.
“I can remember a time where you weren’t complaining about my attention—sexual or otherwise.”
I narrow my eyes.
“And I can remember a time you lied about your age to try and get laid,” I practically hiss. “Is it that impossible to find a girl who likes you for you?”
There’s a flash of shock on his face, but he covers it up with a smirk.
“Please. The last thing I need is to do is lie to get pussy. I may tell chicks what they want to hear to get them horizontal, but they know exactly who they’re dealing with when they spread their legs.”
I suck in my breath, blinking at him. Then, without another word, I climb into the driver’s side of my car and slam the door. Dammit, I want to nail this guy to the wall. And not in a good way. I grab my phone and punch in the number to the school. When the answering service clicks on, I select “staff directory” until I hear Officer Rains’s extension number read by the automated female voice.
I practically stab my phone screen as I input the numbers, then wait for the extension to ring through.
“Hi, Officer Rains—this is Hyacinth Hendricks.” I try to keep my voice steady and confident as I stare straight ahead at the dash. “I just wanted to let you know that there are a handful of students loitering in the parking lot and they’ve elected to . . . um”— I clear my throat— “decorate the tennis court fence with female undergarments. I just thought I should let you know in case it was considered . . . um . . . graffiti . . .”
I manage a hasty good-bye before hanging up, but my blood is still boiling about Smith’s remarks. I can’t believe there was a time I found this guy charming and sweet. His attitude at the bar has completely disappeared in the depths of this cocky, crude version of himself. He’s clearly nothing but an imposter, and I’m the idiot who couldn’t see past gorgeous blue eyes and a smile I’m a sucker for.
I breathe deep and force myself to focus before backing out of my parking space. It isn’t until then that I let myself look at Smith again. He’s walked back toward his friends, and Cherry’s rewrapped herself around his body like a winter scarf, but his eyes are trained on mine, even through the car window. When he winks, I look away and press harder on the accelerator than is necessary.
I’ve been uncomfortable. I’ve been scared. I’ve been a lot of things. But right now? Now, I’m just mad.
No, not mad.
I’m furious.
How in the actual fuck does he think he can talk to me that way? And in front of other students? Like I really need anything else impacting my authority—or lack thereof—when it comes to the student population of Franklin.
I swing into the closest gas station, still trying to slow my breathing, and pull up next to a pump. I climb out and slam my car door shut behind me. I need to figure out a way to school my expression and tamp down my emotions. Kicking something really, really hard, no matter how badly I want to do it, isn’t going to help anyone.
The pump has just begun making its methodical chug as it fills my tank, when a vehicle pulls in behind me. I glance over and feel my hackles rise. Smith is staring at me out of the windshield, wearing a grin that I’m just dying to slap right off his smug face.
Instead, I whirl around toward the attached convenience store and stomp inside. I start heading toward the back, not really even sure what I’m looking for. Beer, I decide. It’ll be good to get wasted after this kind of complete emotional upheaval.
I yank open the door of a refrigerator case and feel a hand on my arm.
“Hyacinth.”
I pull back as though his touch has burned me and turn to glare at him. His eyes are wide and almost teasing.
“What do you want?” I practically spit.
“I like it when you’re feisty. It’s pretty fucking sexy.”
I ignore that—ignore the blush that’s beginning to climb up my neck, too—and reach into the fridge for a six-pack of Sam Adams.
“Leave me alone, Smith.”
“Why?”
He leans up against the glass door next to me and crosses his arms. The space around us is so narrow that, even if I wanted to get around him, I’d have to touch him in some capacity. Right now, I don’t think I can handle that kind of contact—not without slugging him. Or doing something completely different, something less violent and more lustful.
“Now do you understand what I was trying to tell you?” Smith asks then. I meet his gaze and scowl.
“Trying to tell me about what?”
“About standing up for yourself.” He nods his head vaguely in the direction of the door. “You’ve gotta make them respect you. It’s the only chance you’ve got to get any kind of hold on them—to make them listen to you.”
The flush that’s coasting over my skin now has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with fury. Or at least that’s what I tell myself, as I shove the beer back into the case and shut the door before planting both hands on my hips and glaring at Smith.
“Listen to me,” I say in the most even, measured tone I can muster. “I don’t need your help or your advice. You don’t know me or what I’ve been through. You don’t know who I am. And since we’re off school property, I feel completely comfortable telling you this.”
I take one step even closer and narrow my eyes, but I never stop meeting his gaze.
“Back the fuck off.”
For a second, we both stand there, staring at each other. I’m breathing hard, my anger coursing through me like a freight train, and I feel my chest rise and fall with every breath I take. Smith’s nostrils are flaring and his eyes are wide.
When I move to push past him, his hand grips my upper arm.
“Get off me,” I practically growl.
I open my mouth to protest more, but something in Smith’s expression stops me. Then, a moment later, I’m silenced completely as he swiftly turns me with my back to the beer case and presses me up against the cool glass.
“Woman, you make me out-of-my-mind crazy,” he says in a low voice. One hand is still on my arm, holding me still, while the other anchors itself at the back of my neck and directs my face up toward his.
“Every day I want you more, and every day I can have you less,” he murmurs. I feel his breath against my lips and I have to force myself not to close my eyes.
“You still want me to get off of you?” he asks.
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
But it’s a weak response and he knows I’m lying. He ducks down and presses his lips against my jaw, then skates them up to my ear.
“Liar.”
When his teeth scrape lightly along my earlobe, my body bows back from the glass and into the hard, muscular planes of Smith’s torso. He
takes the opportunity to slip an arm behind me. His hot skin on my cool back feels like the best kind of contradiction.
“Every time I see you, I want to get you alone. Tell me you don’t feel that, too.”
I shake my head, but I’m not saying no—not to his question, anyway. Just no to my impulses. And either Smith knows that or he’s willing to take the risk because, before I can stop him, his mouth crashes down on mine.
Kissing Smith was hot the first time. Kissing him the second time is downright scorching. His tongue slides into my mouth without any pretense, and the groan that leaves mine is unstoppable, too. His hands slip down my back and pull my belt loops upward, effectively notching his erection between my legs in a way that makes me weak in the knees.
“Let me have you, Hyacinth.”
His mouth coasts down to my neck and I grip his shirt in both of my fists. I close my eyes, forgetting where we are and why this is a bad idea. Forgetting everything about how this feels and how much I want it.
“Ahem.”
The cleared throat is like a slap across my face or a bucket of ice dumped over my head. I jump away from Smith to see an older lady with wooly white hair and a knowing smile standing next to the case of milk.
“Excuse me,” she says in a slightly wobbly voice. Smith and I watch as she pulls out a carton of 2 percent milk. When she turns to walk away, she gives an exaggerated wink.
I blink rapidly and the rush of reality hits me square in the chest. What the fuck am I doing right now? Am I insane?
Before Smith can prevent me from moving, I push back from his embrace and head through the narrow aisles and out the front door of the store. I don’t look back, don’t look anywhere but at my car and the gas pump as I remove it and replace it in its holder. I’m not sure if Smith is behind me when I climb back into the driver’s seat and start the engine. I just can’t get out of there fast enough, and the last thing I want to see is Smith’s face reminding me of what we just did.
Accidentally hooking up with a student is one thing. Hooking up with a student when you know he’s a student—that’s a whole other problem.