All That Glitters

by Kate Sherwood

  “Come for dinner. Six o’clock.”

  Liam tried to find the trap. “Yeah?”

  “You haven’t turned vegan or gone gluten-free or anything?”

  “No….”

  “Good. I’ll grill some steaks. Bring a nice red wine.”

  “Anything else? To go with the steaks?”

  “What, are you all city-fancy now? You can’t just have a steak and be glad of it?”

  “You’ll make garlic potatoes,” Liam said. He was beginning to remember who he was dealing with. “And something green. You honestly won’t worry about it other than that—could be spinach or asparagus or beans or lime Jell-O as long as it’s green. And I’m not complaining about that. But you tend to want something sweet as well. Should I pick up dessert somewhere?”

  “I prefer homemade.”

  “Do you like apples?” Liam forced himself away from a Good Will Hunting reference he didn’t think he could pull off. “Because I’m not currently at my home, so if you want anything fancier than apples—”

  “Are you saying you have homemade apples? Apples you made in your home, in New York City? Yes, please. Bring me some of those. And the wine. Probably two bottles. At least.”

  Liam should have engaged more. But how? He could have explained that his apples wouldn’t be homegrown, which Calvin clearly knew. What a waste of breath. Why the hell had he thought it would be good to spend more time with this maddening, juvenile pain in the ass?

  “Bring some scotch too,” Calvin said, and Liam immediately found himself thinking much more favorably about his plans for the evening. “And something warm to wear, so we can sit by the fire. Well, you probably don’t have anything like that with you. But I have some of Ben’s other castoffs stored away somewhere. I can dig them up for you.”

  Liam let himself take the hit. Had Ben cast him off? Technically, yes. In the eyes of a doting—well, no, doting wasn’t the right word—in the eyes of an affectionate uncle, had Ben been the one to end their relationship? Yes.

  And Liam would accept that. He’d let himself be painted as the victim rather than the villain. Here, in North Falls, he’d let that happen. Nowhere but here.

  So he didn’t argue with Calvin’s “castoffs” comment. What Liam had done to make Ben cast him off? Well, it was nothing he and Uncle Calvin needed to discuss.

  “Six o’clock,” he confirmed, then left. The B&B, the liquor store, and maybe a bakery or something. He could hit the little department store next to the bank and get a pair of sweatpants to sleep in, maybe some clean underwear.

  Hell, he had lots of time. He could drive over to Monticello and do his shopping there, or even find a motel to stay in. B&Bs were unnatural and wrong.

  But he found himself reluctant to leave North Falls. It wasn’t logical, but he felt like he’d set something—he had no idea what—in motion, and he needed to stick around until it was resolved. Somehow. He’d stumbled into Brigadoon, and if he left now, he’d never be able to find it again.

  Yeah, that was some excellent decision making. Very wise of him to not be back in the city putting his life in order; totally logical that he was hanging around in North Falls instead, preparing himself for dinner with Ben’s uncle. Ben’s uncle.

  Maybe it was nothing to do with Ben. Maybe… maybe Liam’s subconscious was helping him out. New York was a big city, but the architecture world was pretty small. Word of Liam’s departure would be circulating by now, creating a stir. Enterprising firms would be recognizing the possibilities.

  In a couple days, Liam would be able to make some calls and be greeted with “We were hoping you’d think of us” with no need for awkward explanations.

  He was playing hard to get, building up anticipation and demand—something like that. Yeah, it made sense. He was wise to be staying in North Falls for a couple days.

  No, wait. For one day. Not a couple. One day in North Falls. Then back to the city where he belonged.

  Chapter Six

  BEN SQUINTED at the sheet of paper lying on his desk, covered with barely legible pencil scratches, then turned to look at the boy standing by his elbow. Cole was a great kid and had a good mind, as long as he was able to respond verbally or physically. If he had to actually write something down? Chaos ensued.

  “Tell me what’s going on here,” Ben suggested. “Walk me through it.”

  But Cole hadn’t even started talking when a commotion arose in the far corner of the classroom. An overturned chair, a desk skidding noisily across the floor— “Peyton and Ty,” Ben said. Well, possibly he yelled, but only because he needed to be heard, not because he was on his last nerve with these two. “You will not start that nonsense again. There is no fighting in this classroom. Not in this whole school. And you both know it.”

  “He called me a slut!” Peyton responded. Ah, yes, the charming innocence of fifth grade. And Peyton was nice and loud, of course, so every kid could go home and tell their parents about the kind of language Ben allowed in his classroom.

  “Totally unacceptable,” Ben said firmly. “But you respond with words or you come get me for help. You do not get physical.” Of course, that wasn’t enough. Cole would have to wait to get help with his work. “Both of you. Hallway. Now.”

  They exchanged glares but did as they were told. That was a bit of a victory, at least.

  In the hallway, he positioned himself so he could still see the classroom but the classroom couldn’t see Peyton or Ty. An audience was never a good thing when working with misbehaving kids. “Ty, did you really call her that?”

  “It’s just the truth. You know what she—”

  “No,” Ben said. “That’s not any of my business or any of your business so we’re not going to talk about it.” Although Ben would try to make it his business later, or maybe ask one of his female colleagues to intervene. Hopefully Ty just meant Peyton had held hands with two boys in the same week, but it could be something much more serious. “We don’t call people names, Ty. You know that.”

  “He’s been saying that stuff about me all year,” Peyton said. She was crying now, not even trying to hide the tears. Damn, what would it be like to show emotion so plainly, so fearlessly? “And my mom said I don’t have to take it. She said he can’t talk to me like that.”

  “She’s totally right. You don’t have to take it.” Ben caught himself before he asked the but did she tell you to start a fight with him in the middle of the classroom question, because knowing Peyton’s mom it was totally possible she had. “But there are different ways of stopping him. Using your words, and if your words don’t work, asking for help. You know I wouldn’t let him call you that, not if I knew it was happening. Right?”

  Peyton glared. “I can handle it myself! I don’t need to go running to some teacher for help.”

  “You can’t handle it with violence. Not in my classroom.”

  “So if someone called you a fag, you’d just take it?” she retorted.

  This wasn’t going well. Ben could practically hear the mother’s words in Peyton’s voice; this was a discussion that had been well rehearsed at home. He needed a new strategy. “Ty, go back inside and sit at the desk next to mine. Start writing. Explain to me why it’s inappropriate to call classmates names. If you do a good enough job, I’ll be able to tell your parents you seem to understand the problem. If you do a bad job, I’ll have to tell them you don’t have a good grasp of appropriate behavior and will be spending your recesses with me, talking it through, until you do understand.”

  “You’re going to call my parents?”

  Good, that was still a consequence that meant something. “I am. What I tell them when I call? Well, some of that is up to you. Get writing.”

  Ty returned to the classroom, chastened at least temporarily. Ben turned back to Peyton. “If you’d told me he was using that language, he’d be in trouble and you’d be back in the class with your friends. But you didn’t tell me, and you lost your cool. It’s okay to be angry, Peyton, and that
language is absolutely something worth getting angry about. But as soon as you get physical, as soon as you start a fight, especially with a kid who’s about six inches shorter than you are, you lose the moral high ground.”

  “And if someone called you a fag, what would you do?”

  “You’re presenting it like it’s a hypothetical… if someone did that, what would I do. But, Peyton, I’ve been called that name lots of times. And sometimes I get mad when it happens, sure.” He leaned into the classroom and announced, “I’m just outside the door. Stay focused on your work, please.” Then he looked back at Peyton. “But other people aren’t in charge of me. They can’t control me like that. They say a word and I have to start a fight? No way. I’m in charge of me. Nobody else.”

  “Like it’s so easy.”

  “You know all the exercises we do in class? You know they have a purpose, right? They’re not just a fun way to get out of doing work for a few minutes. They’re designed to help us be in charge of ourselves, so our emotions don’t take us over. And I don’t just make you guys do them. I do them myself. They work for me, and that’s why I encourage you guys to try.”

  “Ty calls me a slut and I’m supposed to do deep breathing?”

  “If you can use the deep breathing or anything else to keep yourself under control, fine. If you can’t, you tell me and I help you out. But he’s saying mean things to get you upset. You know that. So as soon as you get upset, you’ve given him what he wants. He’s won. Do you really want Ty to win this?”

  She’d stopped crying, at least, and she was listening. But they’d had similar conversations in the past and she’d seemed to listen to them, too, so Ben wasn’t expecting any miracle cures.

  “I don’t want him to win,” she admitted. “But my mom says emotions are good. We’re supposed to have emotions.”

  “It’s about controlling them, not deleting them. You might even say I experience my emotions more than some other people because I can recognize them and appreciate them as they occur.”

  “You can appreciate being mad because someone calls you a—”

  “Wait. I let you use the word a few times because it seemed like part of a larger point you were making, but you’ve used it enough now. It’s not a word that’s allowed in this school, and you know it.”

  “My mom says—”

  “Let’s have a meeting. You, your mom, and me. I’ll call her today and see what we can set up.” He looked back into the classroom. “I have to get back in there before someone sets fire to the curtains. But this isn’t over. This conversation? It’s going to keep going. I promise. In the meantime, though, stay cool. It is not okay for you to get physical, no matter what words someone uses. Clear?”

  “My mom says—”

  “I’ll hear from your mom when we have our meeting. But this isn’t her classroom, it’s mine. No violence.”

  He’d let his student repeat hateful slurs, interrupted her multiple times, and essentially issued a challenge to her mother. Great work. His Teacher of the Year award was probably waiting in his mailbox at home.

  Still, the kids calmed down and made it through the rest of the day without anything serious happening. He made his phone calls, got mortification and promises of retribution from Ty’s mom and vitriol from Peyton’s, and packed up his regular banker’s box of journals, workbooks, and miscellaneous projects. He had an exciting weekend of marking and lesson planning ahead of him.

  Behind the wheel of his battered Toyota, he headed out toward Main Street. He walked to work whenever he could, but he always seemed to be lugging too much stuff. Maybe he could get some sort of—not a baby stroller, not a wagon, not a damn shopping cart, but some sort of contraption that would let him carry more stuff. That would be good. A good example to the kids too—

  He stopped at the Main Street stop sign, looked both ways, then pulled out into the intersection, turning right as the car from the other side of the intersection waited to turn left. The car—the Mercedes sports car—with Liam Marshall behind the wheel.

  Liam Marshall.

  Liam Marshall.

  A horn blared and Ben jerked the wheel, but he was too late. A jolt he felt in his whole body, the screech of metal against metal, and he wasn’t sure if his car stopped because he’d slammed on the brakes or because it was hopelessly entangled with the front panel of the—

  Oh shit. Entangled with the front panel of the police car he’d just sideswiped.

  Everything stood still for a moment, and then Liam—Liam Marshall!—appeared at the hood of Ben’s car, peering in through the front windshield, eyes wide. “Are you okay?” he yelled.

  Ben tried to figure out an answer to the question. He must be fine—he hadn’t been going more than ten or fifteen miles an hour, and he was pretty sure the police car had been stationary.

  On the other hand, he’d just run into a stationary police car, so “okay” didn’t really seem like the right word to describe his state.

  “I’m uninjured,” he said, but not very loudly.

  “What?” Liam yelled back at him.

  Liam. Liam Marshall was standing outside Ben’s car, yelling at him.

  “I may have bumped my head,” he said, louder this time. Because it made more sense for all of this to be some sort of hallucination than for Liam to be back in town. Didn’t it?

  The police officer was out of the car, now. She must have slid across the front seat and exited from the passenger side, since the driver door was still jammed up against Ben’s.

  Laura Doncaster. Damn. There weren’t that many North Falls police officers to choose from, but any of the others would have been better than Laura Doncaster.

  “Sir,” she said now, as loud and officious as if she were teaching a “how to intimidate civilians” course at the police academy. “Please get out of the car. Now.”

  Well, that was a reasonable request. But his driver side door was jammed and the passenger seat was piled high with the box of schoolwork, his lunch containers, the snow pants he’d worn on yard duty all winter and was planning to take to the cleaners’ when he got around to it, a variety of fabric shopping bags, some of which might have stuff in them—

  He hit the button to lower his windows, and miraculously, they worked. “It’ll take me a minute,” he called through the new opening. And then, because the officer was scowling as if she was about to pull out her gun and fill him with lead, he added, “Sorry, Laura. I’m sure this isn’t exactly—”

  “Sir. Get out of the car immediately.”

  “Laura?” Liam said from outside the car. He sounded pleasantly surprised, even charmed. “Laura Doncaster? Wow, it’s you!”

  “Liam?” she replied. And it became clear that his reaction hadn’t been because he was charmed, it had been because he was charming. Laura dimpled like a little girl staring at her first crush. “Holy smokes, Liam, it’s really good to see you!”

  “You too,” he gushed. And behind his back so only Ben could see he made a frantic sort of hand gesture that clearly meant hurry up and get out of there before I run out of ways to be interested in Laura Doncaster. “You look great—and you’re a police officer! That’s fantastic! You always were a leader, so it’s a great career for you. Are you enjoying it?”

  Ben was temporarily distracted by trying to figure out any way Laura had ever led anything but her little clique of mean girls, but he managed to call himself back to the job of maneuvering around the pile of crap in his front seat. Some of it he jammed into the back, but the banker’s box would probably be harder to move than to just slither over—or so he believed until he found himself stuck partway across, his back arched as he braced against the headrest and tried to figure out what his jacket was caught on, how he could get his left foot up and over the gearshift, whether it was too late to reach down and slide the seat back to give himself more room….

  Then the passenger door opened, and someone—no, not someone, Liam—eased the banker’s box out from beneath him, and s
uddenly everything got five times easier. Still not exactly simple, because Ben was tall and the car was small and he really hadn’t planned things out too smoothly, but definitely a lot better than before.

  “I have no idea how else to help,” Liam said, and it was the amusement in his voice that pushed Ben over the edge.

  “You’ve done enough already,” he snapped. “More than enough. What the hell are you even doing here?”

  “Have you been drinking, sir?” Laura demanded.

  “Oh my God, Laura, enough with the sir! We went to school together for fourteen years! I used to take piano lessons from your mom and you hit me with a baseball bat in third grade—you knocked out two of my teeth!”

  “They were baby teeth. And none of that answers my question about drinking. Sir.”

  “No, I haven’t been drinking! I was at work. Yeah, at the same school you and I spent so much time at together. I teach in the old eighth-grade classroom, the room where you and that blonde girl who was only here for a couple years—what was her name?”

  “Stacey Martin?” Liam suggested.

  “The room where you and Stacey Martin got caught drinking wine coolers before the spring dance. But, no, I don’t drink in that classroom. That’s not my trick.”

  “Sir,” Laura started, and there was enough chill in her voice that Ben knew he needed to stop or he was going to end up in handcuffs. Not because he deserved it, just because he was dealing with Laura Doncaster. Well, also because he’d just sideswiped a police car for no good reason.

  Except there had been a good reason. Liam Marshall.

  Liam fucking Marshall.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded of Liam. At least he managed to squirm the rest of the way out of the car as he said it.