Ryan
Dad comes in Thursday evening from his road trip. He sells hospital equipment—big, expensive, one-of-a-kind units. His territory is the East Coast, and his typical week is out Monday morning and back home to Atlanta on Thursday. He's hired us a housekeeper, who cleans once a week, and she has a sister he pays to cook us meals ahead of time and freeze them so we never go hungry. Plus, we never have to cook.
“How's school?” Dad asks.
He starts all our conversations this way.
“Fine.” And I answer this way, but he never seems to notice the sameness.
“Any good classes?”
Sure, he calls home when he's gone, but just to check in, make sure nothing major has gone wrong. He doesn't know about any of my new classes yet. He doesn't know about Ms. Settles—Lori's her first name. What should I tell him? That she's a babe? That I sit in front of her desk every day and drool? That I watch her every move? Her legs are long, and she always wears heels that make them look even longer. Sometimes when I see her unexpectedly, like in the halls or in the lunchroom, my heart races and the crotch of my pants gets tight.
“Classes are all right. A lot more homework than last year,” I tell him, because I have to say something, and I sure don't feel like telling him about Lori Settles.
“Any of your friends in your classes?”
“Joel has English in the same room as me, but in the next period.”
“That's it?”
I'm not making it easy for him, but I really don't want to talk. I've got a load of homework waiting upstairs. Besides, Dad and I have never been good at small talk.
“Any girls?”
He's asked me that every year since seventh grade. It irks me. “I have girls in every class except phys ed. Rules, you know.”
“Don't be smart. You know what I mean. Any girls that look good to you?”
“Shouldn't you ask if I look good to any girls? I'm not exactly a babe magnet.”
He gives me a long stare and I wait for his usual comeback: “Why not? You got my good looks.”
He says, “Sure you are… what with my good looks in your DNA.”
Predictable. He doesn't mention my mother. He never does. It's as if he found me in the backyard or something. As if I were an asexual experiment. I don't think much about my mom these days. I used to when I was a kid, but no more. Too much going on to think about that now.
“Anything happening this weekend?”
“Game tomorrow night. I'm going with Joel. In his car,” I add pointedly.
Dad ignores my transportation hint and begins to shuffle through the mail Mrs. Gomez has stacked on the table for him. “Have fun.”
“You around next week?” I ask.
“Off to Richmond on Sunday.”
I watch him sort the mail and I know I've been dismissed. I leave him and go up to my room. Welcome home, Dad.
Honey
The entire ride to the football game Friday night is spent talking about the new teacher, Lori Settles. I sit in the backseat and listen to Jessica and Taylor trash the woman. Not that I want to defend her. She really isn't the typical teacher, and for some reason, it bothers me. And not because she wears heels and body-hugging clothes every day.
“Stilettos?” Jess asks, and I know she's rolling her eyes. “Who wears stilettos to teach history?” She also has world history with Ms. Settles, but fifth period.
“Well, nobody's mind wanders,” Taylor says. “Not the guys' minds, at least.”
“Oh, their minds wander, all right,” Jess says. “Just not to history.”
They laugh. Taylor, in the front passenger seat, turns to look at me. “You're awful quiet. Do you like Stiletto Settles?”
“I haven't met her, but I hear all the guys talking,” I tell her. My mind is more on catching up to Ryan at the game. We've exchanged some e-mails. He thinks Settles is smoking hot. Of course. He's a red-blooded male.
“The best thing to come out of Settles' arrival is that now the focus is off Jordan Leslie.”
Jordan is captain of our cheerleaders: blond, pretty and always at the top of the lust list of the boys now talking about Settles. She's thought of herself as a princess ever since sixth grade, and none of us like her. Not that she cares, because my friends and I will never register on the babe Richter scale, so we're of no interest to her or her little followers and worshipers.
“True,” Jess says. “She was pouting, I heard, because Lars said Ms. Settles was giving him wet dreams.” Lars is Jordan's boyfriend.
“A well-groomed collie could give him wet dreams,” I say, and the others laugh hard.
We park in a crowded lot next to the field and walk to the stands, already full of students. I look for Ryan, but covertly, because I don't want Taylor and Jess to know. When I see him, my heartbeat picks up. He's sitting with Joel, sees us and waves.
“Ryan's saved us some space,” I tell my friends. “That was nice of him.” They exchange glances, but the cheerleaders finish a routine and the whole bleacher erupts into yowls, drowning out any comments Jess and Taylor might make. They know I've had a thing for Ryan for years, even though I don't talk about it.
“Hey,” Ryan says, moving his stuff aside so we can sit. Joel ogles Jess.
I sit next to Ryan, hoping no one can guess that my heart is thudding like a drum. “Think we can win this one?” I ask.
“Only if their quarterback drops dead during the coin toss,” Ryan says.
Joel nudges Ryan and says, “Whoa! Look at that.”
Lori Settles is passing below us along the bleachers. Her black hair is tied back and she's wearing a ballcap, a suede jacket and skintight jeans.
“Makes my knees weak,” Joel says.
“Isn't she wearing stilettos?” Jess asks snidely.
“Boots,” Ryan says, following her with his eyes. “Baby-blue cowboy boots. Would you look at that.”
The expression on Ryan's face tells me that's not all he's noticing. Her jeans follow the curve of her butt like a second skin, and Ryan sweeps her backside in one long admiring look. Behind us, someone whistles. Someone else shouts, “Bring it on home to me, baby.” Shushing and laughing everywhere. Settles appears to hear nothing. My mouth tastes sour. What I wouldn't give to have Ryan look at me that way. But he won't. I'm too big and horsey. I'm not pretty. I'm plain and ordinary. I'm just a girl he's known for years.
Jess leans over and whispers in my ear. “She's out of his league.”
I start, feel color rise to my cheeks. My pathetic thoughts must be written on my face. I glance at Jess, see understanding. “And he's out of mine,” I say.
A whistle blows and both football teams run onto the field. The stands on both sides of the field go crazy. My moment of unmasking passes, and I stand and shout for our team, pouring all my frustration into it.
a cognizant v5 original release september 20 2010
Ryan
I like sitting in front of her desk, doodling in my notebook and mentally undressing her. Her lectures are all business, but when she moves, my mouth waters. Okay, so I have the hots for my teacher. It's not the first time. My “love” was purer, but when I was in kindergarten, I loved Mrs. Knobler. In first grade, I fell hard for Mrs. Rubinstein. When I hit second grade and found out I wouldn't be in her room again, I had a meltdown. Dad took me to some shrink who talked to me endlessly and told Dad I was “projecting” and turning women who remained consistent in my life into “mother figures” because I had no mother. What a bunch of crap. There's nothing about Ms. Settles that makes me wish for a mother.
Three weeks into the school year, Ms. Settles asks me if I could come to her room after the last bell and I about fall over myself, telling her yes even though it means missing the school bus and having to take two city buses to get home. The rest of the day drags. I look at the wall clocks fifty times, wishing time away. When the day is finally officially over, I saunter back to her room, forcing myself not to hurry so that I don't get there out o
f breath from having run all the way.
The halls are almost empty by the time I arrive. She's sitting at her desk reading papers. She looks up, smiles. “Ryan. Thank you for coming.”
“Not a problem,” I say.
“Good.”
She leans back in the chair and I can't keep my eyes to myself. They just help themselves to a long stare at her perfect body.
“Ryan, do you know a couple of young men who might be willing to help me move furniture?”
I swallow. My mind races over a short list of my friends. “What kind of furniture?”
She laughs and the sound is soft and silky. “Let me better explain. You see, I took this job at McAllister at the last minute and moved down from Chicago quickly. Then I had to be here getting things ready for the new year a week in advance of classes. Then classes started, and, well, I've never really unpacked my stuff. The movers just dumped my furniture in my apartment, and I'm tired of walking around it. Every piece needs placement. I can't move it by myself and I don't know a soul in Atlanta. So I thought maybe I could hire a few of my students to help me move the pieces I want to reposition.”
I nod almost the whole time she's talking. “Sure, sure. I know some guys.”
“I'll pay all of you well.”
I feel giddy. “When did you want to do this?”
“Saturday morning? About ten-thirty?” she asks so sweetly that I almost beg her to start right now.
“Sounds good to me.”
“You're a lifesaver. I'd hate for you to miss out on any other plans you've made, so I promise we'll do this quickly. I already know where I want everything.” She looks at me through long dark lashes. “You sure you don't mind?”
“No problem.”
She smiles brightly. “That's such a relief. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this.”
She grabs a legal pad and writes down her address.
I reach for the pad.
“Wait,” she says. “Let me write down my cell number too. If something goes wrong, if you can't come, just let me know.”
I would have shown up even if it meant canceling an audience with the Pope. I take the pad and tear off the paper, fold it and slide it into the pocket of my jeans. “See you Saturday,” I say.
“Yes. And thank you again.”
I leave her and scoot down the empty hall, knowing I have to move fast because the resource cop locks the doors at four. At the bus stop, I remove and unfold the paper from my pocket. I read her address and phone number in her neat handwriting and my palms get sweaty. I don't know where her apartment is in the city, but I'll download a map tonight. I think about who I'll ask to come with me. Joel's the logical choice. Yet something inside me doesn't want him to come. I don't even want him to know. I don't want anyone to know. Me and Lori Settles moving furniture. How lucky can one guy get?
On Saturday I make up some story for Dad about meeting kids from my science class at a coffee shop that's around the corner from Lori Settles' apartment complex. The Internet is helpful for finding all kinds of info—so I know exactly where she lives and what's near her apartment. I drive and Dad rides in the passenger seat. He's been letting me drive since before I got my learner's permit, but he still won't let me take the car on my own. Not until I'm sixteen. I feel like such a kid and make my case again for my own wheels as a Christmas gift.
“I get it, Ryan,” he says once I rehash my reasons. “I get it every time you ask.”
“But you never tell me if it's going to happen.”
“Have you figured a way to pay for insurance and gas? Cars are expensive to keep, you know.”
“I'll get a job. The grocery store always needs baggers.”
“You've got to keep your grades up.”
“I'll do it.”
He sighs, runs his hand through his thinning hair. “Well, stop badgering me. I've got a lot on my mind.”
“Work?”
“Always. Some hotshot from the home office wants to intrude on my sales territory.”
“Can he?”
“I have seniority, but you never know.”
The equipment he sells is state of the art. He only has to sell a few a year for his commission to cover our expenses, but he has to keep customers happy and that's why he travels so much. He handholds and troubleshoots for every piece of equipment he sells. “I'm sure you can take him, Dad.”
That makes Dad laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
I pull up to the curb in front of the coffee shop, grab a paper sack from the backseat and get out of the car.
“Where's your notebook?” he asks.
“Girls take notes. Guys bring lunch.”
He laughs again. “I'll give you a few bucks for lunch.” He hands me a ten, a bonus for the little lie I've told so smoothly. “You have a time frame for me?”
“I don't know how long this is going to take.”
“You can call—”
“I'll hitch a ride with one of the guys,” I say. “That way you can do what needs doing in your life.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.” I've already plotted my bus route home, and Dad'll never know how I actually get there.
He drives off and I enter the coffee shop in case he's looking in the rearview mirror. As soon as I think it's safe, I leave the shop, head over to the next block and to the giant complex Lori Settles calls home. My heart is thudding and my mouth is dry. I can't wait to get started.
Ryan
Lori Settles lives in building five on floor five of the Garden Ridge apartments, overlooking Georgia pines, oaks and maple trees. I ring her doorbell. When she opens the door, she's wearing tight jeans, a bodyhugging hot pink T-shirt and a smile. “Ryan, come in.” She crooks her neck to look past me into the empty hallway. “Where are the others?”
I flash my best grin. “Just me. All my buds were covered up.”
“But the furniture's heavy.”
I hold up the paper sack I've brought with me and shake it. “I have other friends.” I reach into the bag and pull out four padded disks with slick surfaces. “These are called ‘moving men.’ You slide them under the feet of the furniture you need moved and push, and presto—instant move, no effort. These babies and two people can move the world.”
She stares at the disks, then returns my smile. “Then let's get started.”
She walks into the living room. Her black hair is tied back with a pink velvet ribbon and she's wearing lip gloss that makes her mouth look slick and pouty. I feel like a slobbery dog as I follow her.
“Well, here it is,” she says, gesturing at stacks of boxes and several large pieces of furniture along the walls.
“This one first,” I say, pointing to a large cabinet that I'm guessing holds dishes; the one at our house does. “Where do you want it?”
“Over there.” She points to a wall near a kitchen pass-through.
“All you have to do is help me tip it,” I say. “I'll do the rest.” I drop to my knees and put the pads directly under the furniture's front legs while she tips the cabinet up. We repeat the process for the back legs. Then I slide the heavy unit effortlessly across the carpet while she guides it.
Lori claps when it's in place. “How easy! You're a genius.”
I beam at the sound of her praise. “What's next?”
We finish the living room and dining room in record time, stopping only to shuffle stacks of boxes out of the way. I'm thinking that she has a lot of stuff, but then I remember she's had years to collect it. Everything I own fits into my fourteen-by-twelve-foot bedroom.
Once she tells me she's happy with where we've put the furniture, she says, “Let's take a break. Do you like cappuccino?”
“Sure.” I'd have drunk cat pee if she'd offered it. “I saw a coffee shop on my way here.”
She laughs. “I have a machine in the kitchen, silly.”
I feel my face get red but follow her into the kitchen. The machine sits on the counter, and I watch her
every move as she makes the coffee.
“Sit,” she says, and I grab a chair at a small round table in the corner. “I worked at Starbucks in college,” she says. “I can do this with my eyes closed.”
The coffee smells great and tastes even better. I tell her so.
“You don't have to call me Ms. Settles when we're off campus,” she says. “I'm Lori.”
This makes me feel special. “I promise not to forget when we're on school property,” I say.
“You better not, or I'll give you a detention.”
Her eyes sparkle and I know she's teasing. It's hard to look away, but I do. “I don't have to be anywhere else, so I can work all day.”
“Really?” She sets her cup down and her hand brushes mine. It feels like an electric shock shooting through me. We both jerk away. She laughs. “Static electricity.”
Maybe so. But my heart's pounding like a drum and every nerve in my body is jangling. I jump up from the table. “What's next?”
She looks at me levelly. “Why, my bedroom, of course.”
Honey
I'm bummed out because Ryan's a no-show. On the third Saturday of every month, I take my brother to the library for story hour. It gets Cory out of the house and gives him exposure to the real world, and it gives Mom a break. Ryan rarely misses meeting us there. We've done this together for years. He can handle Cory if he gets unruly, plus Cory likes both Ryan and story hour. When I talked to Ryan at school on Friday, he said he'd be at the library, but he isn't.
After I settle Cory in the reading room with the other kids, I call Ryan's cell. No answer. I leave a message, hoping I don't sound whiny or hurt or mad, which I am—all of the above. Next I call his home and his dad answers.
“I dropped him off at some coffee shop to meet with some kids from his science class about ten this morning.”
I know this is totally bogus. Ryan would have told me about any science project. “Um—oh yes, I forgot about that.” I hate myself for covering for him, but I do it anyway.
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