I lay my napkin on the table as I stand, and I’m surprised when Mrs. Wilson grabs me in a hug. She’s little and soft like Erin. Though they look absolutely nothing alike, and her hair smells like coconut instead of flowers, this is what it might be like to hug Erin’s mom. What a weird thought. I pat her on the back and Headmaster Wilson clears his throat.
“I’ll walk you back to Ford, son.”
“That’s all right, sir, no need for you to go out in the cold.”
It’s March but the chill’s lingered, paying us back for an overly warm fall, I guess.
“I could use a stroll, walk off some of that pot roast.”
His hand on my shoulder tells me not to argue. Instead, we head down the stone front steps and into the dark.
His spit-shined oxfords clomp along the path next to my scuffed ones, which need to be replaced. Are we going to walk the whole way in silence? That would suit me fine, but the not knowing freaks me out. I’m racking my brain for something innocuous to talk about when he interrupts my thoughts.
“In case you were worried, we heard from Mr. Chase. Ms. Brewster is going to be fine.”
I swallow hard and stare straight ahead, clenching my hands in pockets. “That’s good. I’m glad.”
I know he’s staring at me, those laser eyes of inquisition boring into my brain, searching for the truth. “We got interrupted before. What were you doing in Sullivan anyway?”
Every muscle in my body is tensed. I could lie, say I needed to ask a question I’d forgotten to in class, or I was dropping off a book I’d borrowed from one of the guys who lives there. But in my almost four years on the Hill, I’ve never lied to Headmaster Wilson and I have far too much respect for him to start.
“In class. She looked sick. I went…to make sure she was okay.” I’m breathing like I just finished running a dozen suicides by the time I’ve gotten it all out. I’m ready to bolt if he shows any sign of being pissed. But when he raises his hand, it’s not in an about-to-strike way. I’ve been in enough neighborhood scuffles and hockey riots to know. No, it comes to rest on the back of my collar at the junction of neck and shoulder. His voice is strained when he says, “You’re a good man, Mr. Shepherd. We’re lucky to have you.”
I close my eyes for longer than a blink. “Thank you, sir.”
Chapter 7
Erin
The baby is gone. The baby is gone and Will’s been cheating on me. My money’s on Lana Davis, but it could be someone else. It doesn’t matter. No matter how you slice it, this is awful. I grip the wheel of my Civic in the parking lot of the hospital. They’d looked me over this morning before discharging me, but it looks like the miscarriage was complete so I shouldn’t have any more gut-wrenching pain. I’m to call my midwife if I have more than cramps or if the bleeding is “excessive.”
I throw the plastic bag of my ruined clothes over the bloodstain on the passenger seat of my car. Excessive indeed.
I’m not sure what to do. I don’t want to go back to school. Will is going to be there and sympathetic faculty members who will make me want to put an eye out. At least the boys are gone. Poor Shep is probably traumatized for life. It might be awful and selfish of me, but I’m glad he was there. It was a bright spot in the otherwise grey horridness of the past twenty-four hours.
I don’t want to go home but I can’t stay here. I start up my car, a smile slipping across my face as I remember Shep cursing up a blue streak because my car’s an automatic. He must be able to drive a stick shift. I never learned. I wonder if he would teach me? God, Erin, how Say Anything of you. Shep may be John Cusack but I’m no Ione Skye.
I guide my car down the back roads toward school. Shep took Route 2 here, which would be faster but it’s always made me nervous. I’m so distracted by self-pity and malaise it would be a bad idea. I learned to drive around here—my grandfather taught me the summer after I turned sixteen—but I still think Massholes are out of control.
Pulling into my spot behind Sullivan, I hope against hope Will will be gone. I don’t want to see his face, hear any more wild accusations. I’m tired and numb. I want to lie down and not get up for a very long time.
I trudge up the stairs, overwhelmed by how exhausted I am. Thank goodness it’s spring break. I’ll have two weeks to get my head on straight before we have to finish out the semester. The boys deserve my best, especially the seniors I’m prepping for their APs, and I’m in no condition to give it to them at the moment. Hopefully this will wear off before allergies hit. Every spring finds me sniffly and watery-eyed, no matter what meds I take.
I slip my key in the well-worn lock and it turns, letting me into my small, oddly shaped apartment. Correction: not my, our. The person who makes me a “we” is sitting on the couch.
“Erin—”
“Save it, Will. I’m tired.”
He’s on his feet, blocking the hall to our bedroom. I’m too worn out to push past him so I stand there, wishing he would move, tears surging to the surface but not quite brimming over.
“Erin, angel, look at me, please.”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice to stay steady. No, I will not look at you. I will not do anything you say. You’ve never earned it, and I’m going to take it back.
His hands come to my biceps and I stiffen, wanting to scream. Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me. But instead I close my eyes and sniff. He takes it as a cue to pull me into his arms. Because I’m too destroyed to do anything else, I drop my bag and cry. His body goes stiff and awkward. He pats my back like he’d seen it in a movie. This is what you do when women cry, yes?
“I’m so sorry, Erin. It won’t ever happen again, I swear. I was angry at you and I shouldn’t have done it. I should’ve talked to you instead of running to someone else. She’s easier to be with because we don’t have real problems. But I was an ass. I swear, Erin, I swear, it won’t happen again.”
He eases me away from him and I scrub a fist over my face, angry I’m letting him see me in tears. What else is he going to take from me?
“Angel, I got something for you. For us. I want you to know how serious I am about this. Maybe I never fully committed to this marriage, but I have now. This thing with Lana, it’s over. I know you lost the baby, but we can make another baby. Later, when we’re ready. You’re so beautiful, Erin, and we both love it here. I want this to work, I do. So I got this, to tell you so.”
He pulls out a box from his pocket. When he opens it, my eyes almost fall out of my head. It’s a ring with a not-small diamond. How did he—
“That’s what I did, right after I left you yesterday. We’ll have to get it sized, obviously, it’s not going to fit, but it’s for you. I got it for you. Here.”
His tone is strained, a frantic used-car salesman trying to land a whale. Or wring any sale he can out of whatever desperate, gullible fool walked onto his lot. He takes my limp hand and slides the ring on my finger. It’s too big. Of course it’s too big. My hands are tiny and the diamond looks enormous and gaudy.
“Will, I…” I don’t want to be married to you. We gave it the old college try and it hasn’t worked out. It wouldn’t have worked out even if it were for the baby, and now we have no excuse to try to make it work. Please, stop. “I need to lie down.”
“Of course you do. Come on.”
He walks me back to the bedroom and stands in the doorway while I slide off my shoes and climb into bed, pulling the covers over myself. The ring, weighty on my hand, drops into my palm when I tilt my fingers and I discard it on the bedside table. I roll away from him and huddle under the blanket. He leans over me to kiss my cheek.
“We’ll talk when you wake up. I love you, Erin.”
I shut my eyes and try to block out his words, preferring to lull myself to sleep with the sensation memory of Shep’s hand in my hair.
I hate spring. Or should I say, sbrigh. Because that’s how it sounds through my horrible allergies. This is the first year I’m thankful for my allergies. At least my
stuffy nose, runny eyes, and clogged sinuses can be blamed on something other than heartbreak. I spent the two weeks of spring break—even the one I was supposed to be on my honeymoon—mostly huddled in my bedroom, binge-reading romance novels to restore my faith in humanity.
That and thinking about Shep. I hadn’t heard from him, hadn’t expected to, but hoped I would. But what would he say? Drop me an email? Dear Ms. Brewster, Hope you’re feeling better after I watched you lose a baby. XOXO Shep? Leave a voice mail with his typical terse words: Ms. Brewster. It’s Shep. I was thinking of you. I hope you’re okay.
All so inappropriate.
In the meantime, Will has been attempting to court me; bringing me flowers and takeout. The flowers are roses, flowers you’d give anyone because you don’t know any better to get them what they’d actually like. They’re bloodred, the color of passion and love. I’d lain in bed, staring at them, wishing they were pink or, better, lilies. I love lilies. He’ll learn, right? Will will learn. I hope he can be taught. To pay attention, to care. That it’s not the grand gesture of a diamond ring, but showing up every day and learning your partner’s minor chords that says love, devotion.
The boys coming back has provided a distraction from the emptiness in my belly, the void in my heart. I’ve given away my one precious life to poor choices and bad fortune and I’m stuck. At least I can be on the Hill, the real love of my life. I let the strong grip of routine and the hum of other people’s lives comfort me as I sniff myself to sleep at night, hoping Will won’t notice because I can’t stand the thought of him comforting me.
Shep
Fort Lauderdale is hot. Hot and sticky. I try to enjoy it after the torture that was being home for a week. I’d worked as much as I could while I was there. They’re always glad to have me because I’m fast and accurate. My boss was pissed I’d only be there for the week, but he’d taken what he could get.
Caleb had shot up another inch in the two months I’d been gone. Kid’s a beanpole. He’s too skinny, and the happy glow he’s always had is fading. I don’t know if it’s malnutrition because fresh fruit and vegetables are way more expensive than a twelve-pack of ramen and when you’re trying to feed a teenage boy, volume counts more than quality, or if it’s that the shit that surrounds him is catching up with him, dulling his shine.
Bottom line is it doesn’t matter. I need to get him out of there sooner rather than later. While I’m here, I borrow Lucky’s cell, telling him I need to call home but really call Northwestern. I get my adviser assigned early and try to work out how to graduate in three years. I’d love to spend four years kicking back and fucking around, enjoying myself like my trust fund friends will be. Everyone who comes back to visit says college is a breeze after the academic boot camp that’s four years on the Hill. That sounds fantastic.
But not as good as getting a real job and maybe getting Caleb to come live with me. All my AP classes should help, but three years means no double major, no studying abroad, declaring my major pretty much the second I step foot on campus. Good thing I already know what it is.
I’ve had a lot of great teachers over the past four years, but having Erin in class solidified my goal to be a teacher. A math teacher. Everybody hates math, but not me. There’s always an answer. More important, a right answer. If you work hard enough, you can find it. For the next three years, I’m going to work my ass off. So for tonight, I should enjoy.
Right on cue, there’s pounding on my hotel room door.
“Shepherd, stop jerking off and let’s go. It’s dinner. They’re taking us to Benihana. You know what that means.”
At least Lucky knocks in case I was rubbing one out. I wasn’t. Haven’t been. Not because of a lack of opportunity, although four to a hotel room does cramp your style. At least it should. But that’s not the real reason. It’s because the last time I saw the source of most of my jerk-off fantasies, she was sick and I was helpless. That’s enough to throw cold water on my simmering hormones.
Lucky bursts in and starts doing some ridiculous hip-thrusting dance to a rhythm no one else can hear.
“Throwing knives and setting stuff on fire?”
“Geishas, man, geishas!”
I shrug off the beat-up tee I’ve been lounging in and pull on a polo shirt I found at the church tag sale a few weeks ago. Navy blue, Ralph Lauren. Two dollars. Perfect. “There aren’t geishas at Benihana.”
He freezes, his pelvis mid-thrust. “You’re breaking my heart, Shep. Think I can at least get a glass of sake?”
“Have you ever had sake?”
“No. But it sounds good, doesn’t it? You’re supposed to get knocked on your ass from a glass.”
“Go for it, man. But don’t cry on my shoulder when Coach busts your ridiculous, drunk ass and you get expelled two months before graduation.”
“You’re no fun, Shepherd.”
He scrubs a hand through my hair from the back and I shake him off, saying “Come on, man,” though in my head I’m thinking I can’t afford to be fun. I shove my keycard into my pocket and swat him upside the head. Benihana sounds really fucking good.
Chapter 8
Erin
Graduation. It’s bittersweet as a faculty member to watch the kids stand up and receive their diplomas. Most of whom I’ve taught, seen while I’m on duty down at Turner, or sat with over twice-weekly formal dinners in the dining hall. I know them all by name. It’s not hard when there are seventy-five of them.
They don’t wear caps and gowns, but grey slacks and their navy blazers with the Hawthorn crest embroidered on the breast pocket. Nor do the faculty don academic regalia. Thankfully. I’d be sweltering in this heat. It’s bad enough in the skirt suit I’ve put on for the occasion. The boys file up one by one to accept their diplomas from the Headmaster, and I’m surprised by the tears that prick at my eyes. The boys receive their diplomas in the manner they’ve lived the rest of their Hawthorn Hill careers, the class clown as obvious as the valedictorian.
They all look happy. All except Shep. His jaw is tight when he accepts the leather folio and a firm handshake from Headmaster Wilson, and he doesn’t look out into the audience or pump his fist when he has tangible proof he’s a graduate under his arm. My applause is more than polite for him, which it has been for all of “my” seniors, but perhaps even a titch louder for Shep. Am I allowed to think of him as Shep now? How many times do I have to tell myself to not think of him at all?
But it’s nicer to think of him than the other thoughts that are swimming around my head.
Will didn’t come home last night.
He’s sitting beside me, showered and shaved, dressed in the suit I’d taken to the cleaners to be ready for today. He’s sitting beside me as if nothing’s happened. As if we woke up in the same bed this morning, as if we’re an established faculty couple who’ve been sitting beside each other at graduations for years, and will continue to sit next to each other until one of us drops dead.
The last boy takes the stage to get his diploma, and when he stands with the rest of his class, the crowd erupts. The cheers, whistles and general mayhem is good cover for Will leaning over and saying, while still in the middle of a round of applause, “We need to talk.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Your classroom?”
“Fine.”
We sit while the Headmaster makes his last remarks and when he’s finished, the crowd disperses like a dandelion. Will and I get blown apart on waves of conversation and congratulations. It takes me half an hour to make my way through the swarms of families and boys milling about. I’ve met most of the parents before, and I make pleasant chit-chat while my heart is hammering.
My pulse pounds against my skull, my ribs, my wrists, the backs of my knees while I plaster a smile on my face and make inane conversation. Small talk isn’t easy for me under the best of circumstances. Parents’ Weekend and visit days leave me wrung out and exhausted, and the strain of imagining what Will wants to talk about is making it worse.
The more time I have to worry about this, the more freaked out I get. By the time we’ve glad-handed half the crowd and sneak away to my basement classroom, I’m light-headed with anxiety. When we’re inside, Will pulls the door closed until it latches.
I have a view of the swarms of be-suited gentlemen and sundressed women and girls who look out of place here. There shouldn’t be so many of them fluttering around, their voices too high-pitched to be bouncing off the brick and ivy-covered walls. I stare at them, trying to reconcile their presence, but I shouldn’t try too hard. They’ll be gone in a few hours and then I’ll be back to the minority, even when all the boys have left.
Will’s cleared his throat, expecting to draw my attention. I don’t turn. I’m going to hang on to any scrap of control I have over this situation, so I ignore his guttural plea. I’ve been standing at the window, watching the celebration, but my legs are leaden. It might be a good idea to sit down. I drag myself over to the chair behind my desk and drop onto the wood, warmed by the sun filtering through the window and worn by generations of math teachers who’ve come before me. The terrible ergonomics are a point of pride.
“You wanted to talk?” My voice has detached itself from my body. It’s doing a pretty good impression of someone who doesn’t give a care.
“Erin, I…”
Will’s got a big enough ego that it’s rare for him to sound genuinely contrite. It’s usually in a way that screams I’m apologizing because I know you think I’ve done something wrong and it’ll be easier for me to smooth this over and not deal with you being pissed off anymore if I pretend it’s rational. But there’s a cold streak of genuine remorse that sets off a chain reaction through my body.
Taming His Teacher Page 9