by Annie Kelly
Mr. Weathersby gives me a tight smile. “He’s actually been suspended for the semester. So, you’ll have long completed your student teaching by the time he’s back in the building.”
“You can’t expel for that?” I ask. “Drug possession, I mean?”
He sighs. “No, not technically. Once he’s fulfilled any legal obligations, he’s as eligible for an education as anyone else.”
I shake my head. “Well, I appreciate the fact that I won’t have to teach him, despite the circumstances.”
“And you’re sure you feel comfortable finishing out the remainder of your time here?” Mr. Weathersby asks. He looks a little worried and I smile at him.
“I’m absolutely sure that I’m comfortable, sir.”
“Wonderful.” He stands then and reaches out a hand to shake mine. “I’m quite impressed with your resilience, Hyacinth, I have to say. Not many people would put up with the hijinks you’ve had to endure. You’re going to be an excellent educator.”
His compliment makes me almost glow and, considering the disappointment I’d seen on his face after the fight last week, I can’t help but revel in his positive attention now.
But I just shrug and smile, trying to look nonchalant.
“What can I say, Mr. Weathersby,” I quip. “I guess I just like a challenge.”
Chapter Nine
What Lies Beneath
“So, I was thinking you could spend detention today making yourself useful.”
I plunk a large stack of photocopied handouts in front of Smith, then set the three-hole punch on the desk next to him. He raises a tawny brow at me, but says nothing. I almost expected a little more pushback, but he’s quiet this afternoon. Frankly, I don’t know what to say to him anyway.
As he works, I settle back down at my desk and start grading. The silence is punctuated with the random creak of my desk chair when I move and Smith’s methodical press and release of the hole punch. I can almost lose myself in the mundaneness of this moment. I can almost forget about what happened this morning.
You should thank him. He might have saved you from something awful.
From under my lashes, I watch Smith shuffle the papers into neat stacks, then set them aside. I consider my words carefully before I actually say them.
“I wanted to tell you that I appreciate what you did this morning. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”
I shudder at the thought of J. D.’s hands on my face again.
Smith looks up at me, then shrugs.
“Right place, right time, I guess.”
I narrow my eyes. “How did you know I was there anyway?”
He shrugs again.
“I didn’t—I heard J. D. through the wall when I walked by, then saw those other two asshats bolt out the door. Like I said, right place, right time.”
“Right. Well, I just want you to know that I’m grateful.”
I push off my desk and walk toward the board, trying to focus on erasing my notes from third period. I feel like if I look back at him now, he’ll be able to see right through my gratitude, right through my shirt to my wildly beating heart, which lately seems to only have one speed around Smith—fast and hard.
That pounding pulse must be the reason I don’t hear him stand up or walk toward me. I don’t hear him at all, in fact, until he whispers, “I can take care of that” into my ear.
And then his hand slides up my bare arm, from my elbow to my wrist. Gently, he removes the eraser from my grip, holding my hand in his a beat too long before moving to take over. I let my eyes flutter shut for a second, then I force myself to step away from him.
He’s facing the chalkboard, so I can’t see his expression when he says, “I don’t want to think about what would have happened if I hadn’t been there this morning.”
I feel a little part of me slow down long enough to melt. I’m just hoping that part isn’t my heart.
I shuffle back over to my desk chair, then dive back into grading, but the words are blurring into meaningless gibberish. Instead, my peripheral vision focuses on Smith’s strong, tan arms as they arc and sweep the eraser over the rest of the board. When he moves closer, I can see the tendons beneath his skin. I squint a little at the tattoo peeking out from under his rolled-up shirtsleeve.
“Is that a Kerouac quote?”
Smith glances at his arm, then back at me.
“Yeah. It’s from On the Road.”
“‘There was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars,’” I say, half reading his tattoo and half reciting it from memory. Smith studies me then, and it’s my turn to shrug.
“It’s a personal favorite,” I say.
“Me, too. But my dad’s actually the one who picked it out for me.”
I glance back at the tattoo, then up into Smith’s eyes. They look far away, and a small smile plays at his lips.
“Are you close?”
“With my dad?”
I nod and he shrugs. “Not particularly. Not since he got locked up again.”
I blink at him. “Oh. Yeah. I guess that would change things.”
Smith scrubs a hand over his face, then shrugs. “It’s the same old story, you know? My mom has shitty taste in men and chose to have a son with someone who already had a record for assault and grand larceny.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow. So, he’s been in and out of jail my whole life. He’s doing a nickel now for breaking and entering. I haven’t seen him in two years.”
I chew on the interior of my bottom lip. “That sucks, Smith. I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs.
“It’s all right. You learn to be scrappy when you’ve got one parent locked up and the other one at the bar every night. I made do.”
“So, was it just you in the house? I mean, did you have siblings or anything?”
He nods. “A brother. He’s older. Got outta the house as soon as he could and I didn’t blame him one bit. I did the same thing the second I could.”
“Do you still live with your mom?”
Smith picks up a piece of chalk and turns it over in his hands. “Not really. I don’t see a whole lot of her anymore. She’s got her own life, I guess. I’ve got mine.”
I narrow my eyes a bit. “And your life includes being buddies with J. D. Fenton.”
He grins, then shrugs. “I mean, I just clocked him, so I dunno how great of friends we’ll be now. But, yeah. I met J. D. a while back when we were both stuck in a juvie program.”
His expression sobers then and he looks at me intently.
“Look, regardless of anything else, what he pulled today was bullshit and totally outta line. I know that you already know this but, to be clear, I’d never let anything like that happen to you. As long as I’ve got my finger on the pulse of this place, I can try to keep track of shit to make sure you don’t involved.”
For a long moment, I blink at him. Then I shake my head.
“It’s just an act, isn’t it?”
He frowns. “What’s an act?”
I sort of gesture at him, as though attempting to encompass all he is in one simple sweep of my hand.
“This—this person you’re pretending to be. I thought it was the sweet side of you that was all for show. That guy at the bar—the one who talked to me and teased me, the one who made me laugh and made sure I got home safe—I thought maybe that guy was a façade you’d managed to create to get women. But now I think it’s the opposite—I think that might actually be who you really are.”
Smith sort of shrugs, then gives me a self-deprecating smile. “I’m not perfect. I’ve had my own brushes with the law. I mean, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Brushes involving what?”
He shrugs. “Theft. Some B and E. Nothing violent.”
“Hmm.” I tilt my head to one side as I regard him. “I don’t know. I mean, sure, you made some mistakes. But you’re clearly learning from them. You’re clearly growing.”
>
Smith grins at that. “Maybe. Just don’t tell anyone—or you’ll ruin my rep.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but grin up at him. These moments with him, the ones when we’re looking into each other’s eyes, just seem frozen. Or, more accurately, I want to freeze them. To stop them in their tracks and keep them from disappearing.
And that’s when Jeremy Christopher comes charging into my room.
“Hiya—” He stops in the doorway and looks from me to Smith. “Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were holding detention.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. Come on in.”
His face is full of concern as he approaches my desk.
“I just heard about what happened this morning. Are you all right?”
My eyes flick up at Smith, who’s focused on erasing the board again. I give Jeremy what I hope is a reassuring smile.
“I’m fine. Never a dull moment around here, I guess.”
He’s wearing an incredulous expression. “I can’t believe it—I mean, we deal with rough stuff around here all the time, but that’s over the top.”
He leans a little closer to me and lowers his voice.
“Between you and me, I think that J. D. kid is a total thug. I’m glad he’s outta here for a while.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
Jeremy straightens then, letting his eyes land on Smith. “Well,” he says slowly, “if you need anything—anything at all, you know where to find me.”
“Thanks,” I say, nodding. “I really appreciate that. But, I promise I’m fine.” He rocks back on his heels a bit, like he’s trying to decide on his next move. After standing there a beat longer than necessary, he gives a little shrug.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, I guess.”
“Sure.” I smile up at him. “Thanks, Jeremy.”
He wanders back out of my classroom, leaving a little more slowly than he came. Once he’s past my door and out of sight, I look back down at my quizzes, feeling a little warm around my collar.
Smith clears his throat. When I look up at him, he’s got his arms crossed and he’s sort of smirking.
“What?”
He chuckles a little, then sets down the eraser and comes around to the front of my desk, pulling a nearby chair along behind him. When he sits down, it almost feels as though we’re sitting across a dinner table from each other. Almost as though we’re on a date.
“Someone has an admirer.”
I roll my eyes. “He was just being nice.”
“Bullshit.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you trying to annoy me or was there something you needed?”
“Maybe.” His smile widens. Man, he has great teeth.
“Can you get to it, then?”
“I want to know who your favorite author is.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Why?”
“Because I’m curious. And because you’re an English teacher, or you’re going to be. You’ve gotta inspire your students by showing them who inspires you.”
I lift a brow. “What is this—the Asher School for Meaningful Teaching?”
He shrugs.
“Something like that.” Then he winks. “The tests are hard, but I never give homework.”
I shake my head.
“Okay, well—I don’t think I can answer the favorite author question. Favorite book, though? That I can do.”
“Yeah?” He leans back in his chair, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Shoot.”
“Actually, I can do you one better.”
I reach down into my desk drawer and pull out my bag. Smith eyes me as I open the back zippered section and dig out a worn paperback. I set it down in front of him and he leans in to inspect it.
“Bram Stoker’s Dracula,” he reads aloud, then looks up at me. His gaze is a cross between surprised and impressed. “I never took you for one of those Twilight groupies.”
“Please.” I roll my eyes. “This isn’t about vampires—well, it’s not just about vampires. It’s about love and suspicion. It’s about not understanding things beyond our capacity for reason, then condemning them. It’s about humanity—being human—not the opposite.”
Smith presses a finger to his mouth and I have to force myself not to lick my lips. I don’t know if it’s a nervous response or if focusing on his mouth just gives my tongue ideas of its own.
“So, can I borrow it?” he asks.
I blink at him. “Borrow what?”
He chuckles. “The book—can I borrow the book?”
“Oh.” I bite my lip and look down at the paperback. “Um—sure. If you promise to return it.”
Then, before I can even blink, Smith reaches out and cups my chin. Gently, he uses his thumb to pull on the skin below my bottom lip.
“Don’t do that.”
His voice is gruff. I just stare at him.
“Do what?”
My voice is almost unrecognizable to my own ears—it’s breathy, but heavy, like I’ve been running for far too long and can barely manage to speak.
“Don’t bite your lip.” Smith’s eyes flash as he meets my gaze. “Unless you’re trying to torture me on purpose.”
I manage to maintain eye contact, even though it’s almost impossible to do. I take a long, slow breath, then shake my head.
“Smith, you’re making this really hard for me.”
I try to keep my tone even and firm.
“You’re in this class and we have to work together, but spending time alone with you—it’s clearly a bad idea. We should just say you’ve served your detentions and move on.”
He sighs and leans back in his chair.
“You’re right.”
I am? Is this him admitting he’s as rattled by me as I am by him?
“Okay, then. I’ll just tell Mr. Weathersby that you’ve served your time. Hey, speaking of time—where were you for class this morning? You missed all of act two.”
For a second, he looks caught off guard by the question.
“Oh—I had an appointment. Dentist,” he says.
“Okay, well, you should take a book home.”
I stand and walk over to the shelf to grab a copy of Hamlet. When I turn back around, I see my copy of Dracula still sitting on my desk. Impulsively, I grab it and hand both books to him. He looks down at my paperback, then back up at me.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” I shrug. “Don’t you think you should broaden your definition of vampire-themed literature?”
Smith chuckles and shakes his head, tucking both books under his arm. His eyes scan my face briefly. Without another word, he turns and saunters out of the room.
I take a deep breath.
Apparently, I’d forgotten to breathe in the last minute.
Again.
Why? Why am I still so affected by this man?
This whole situation is beyond frustrating. Not only am I crossing lines that I have no business to cross, but I’m also losing control of my own body. The heart pounding, the breath catching, the goose bumps, the blushing—all of those reflexes aren’t following the standard operating procedure for the Hyacinth Hendricks that I’ve always been. The girl I’ve always been? She’s rational. She’s reasonable. When it comes to boyfriends, she likes things simple. Comfortable. She likes to cuddle under a blanket and watch late-night talk shows. She likes cooking pasta dinners on Sundays. She likes the beautiful monotony of a long-term relationship.
Or, at least I thought she did. Now I’m not so sure. Now I’m wondering if the Hyacinth I’ve always been is the kind of girl who needs sparks. Who needs to speak her mind and feel comfortable enough to push back when she’s being challenged.
The kind of girl who turns banter into foreplay.
The kind of girl who wants tough love in all its forms.
The kind of girl who doesn’t take the easy way out.
***
On Thursday evening, I decide that I need something other than dry turkey a
nd cafeteria-style seating for dinner. Bridget is at the front desk when I get to Holly Fields, and she grins at me when I get through the door.
“Hey, stranger!” she says, coming around the side to wrap me in a big Bridget-style bear hug. Football linebackers have nothing on her.
“Listen, I want to spring Dad for dinner. Will that be a problem?”
Bridget walks back around to the other side of the desk. She glances over the night chart on the wall, then looks back at me.
“He’s had his night meds already, so he’s good to go. Just no alcohol, alright?”
“You got it.”
“Where are you gonna take him?”
I grin. “I was thinking Dino’s, unless you’ve got a better suggestion.”
Bridget snorts. “There is no better suggestion than Dino’s—it may be a little rough around the edges, but damn they can make a hamburger.”
“You got that right.”
I practically skip down the hall at the idea of a big fat juicy non-turkey burger.
“Hey, princess,” Dad says when I make it to his room. “Check it out!”
He’s staring up at the TV, watching some guy pull something enormous, terrifying, and covered in scales out of the ocean on one of those Discovery Channel shows. I make a face at him.
“That’s gross, Daddy. Turn it off and get yourself ready. We’re busting outta this place tonight.”
He frowns and smooths a pale hand over his jeans.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I say, leaning over to kiss his cheek, “that I am taking you to Dino’s for a real hamburger and fresh-cut fries and some hockey or basketball or whatever sports game is on right now in the bar.”
Dad seems genuinely excited about leaving Holly Fields, but I can read him well enough to see the nerves that are playing on the surface. Once I’ve gotten him settled in Carson’s passenger seat and I’ve packed up the wheelchair in the back, I turn to face him from the driver’s side.
“Daddy—it’s just dinner. We’ll only be ten minutes away. And you’ve already had your meds. I promise it’ll be okay.”
Once, when he still lived at home, my dad had admitted that his biggest fear was that he’d have another stroke, or a heart attack, or something else in front of me and that I’d have to deal with it on my own. It was one of the catalysts for him moving to Holly Fields, that fear of burdening me. I hate that he wants to protect me so fiercely—yet, I love it, too. It’s what makes him the Papa Bear he’s always been. My protector.