by Jj Rossum
Copyright © 2013 by JJ Rossum
All rights reserved.
Cover Designer: Tosha Khoury
Editors: Lori Sabin and Tarryn Fisher
Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit my website at http://www.facebook.com/JJRossumauthor
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgments
Olivia and Caleb by Tarryn Fisher
I felt like I was swimming laps in the world’s warmest pool. The air was unusually warm, even for a September day. The humidity, which normally felt like a heavy wool blanket suffocating you every time you even thought about stepping outside, now felt like the blanket had quadrupled in thickness and been set on fire. The air conditioning in my 1997 Suzuki X-90 (which was lovingly referred to as a funky looking roller skate on 4 big wheels), had apparently known the weather would become nearly unbearable and had no intention of being overworked, so it ceased working at all at the end of August. This inconvenience changed my entire routine of getting ready for work, and as a creature who functions on routine, it added needless stress to my mornings.
Anyone who has ever driven in Florida without the luxury of air-conditioning knows that even with your windows rolled down, you will begin sweating profusely by the time you back out of your driveway. They also know that unless you are driving a block or two, you will wind up with perspiration-drenched clothing when you arrive at your destination. So instead of getting dressed for work before I left the house, I wore my gym clothes while driving to work, and then got dressed once I arrived. There’s nothing professional about a well-dressed man dripping with sweat.
There were only three stop signs, and two traffic signals on my way to work, but that rarely meant I’d arrive in a timely manner. Without any traffic, and with only green lights, I would probably be able to get to work in about seven minutes. But anyone who has ever driven in Florida also knows that traffic can be a serious bitch, and that morning the bitch was mean as hell.
By the time I reached the school, my shirt clung to me like an overbearing girlfriend. And, unfortunately, anyone who saw my drenched body probably thought the same. I was behind schedule because of the traffic, and early-bird students had already begun to congregate outside the glass doors that welcomed them to another day of high school.
I grabbed the tattered blue backpack containing my books and the brown duffel bag containing my clothes, and hurried toward the sidewalk that ran along the west side of the building which led to the outside door of the boys’ locker room. I had hoped to sneak past the group of students sitting on the picnic tables out front, the ones who couldn’t drive and had to be dropped off earlier than everyone else because their parents had to be at work at an ungodly hour.
“Looking good, Mr. H!” Andrew Preston shouted from the table where he sat with the other band nerds. Andrew had taken my 10th grade English honors course the year before and could rarely get through a class session without making a joke about something or someone. “Does the Roller Skate come with indoor sprinklers?”
“Don’t be dumb,” Samantha Bennett said. “He was obviously at the gym. Look at his clothes.” Like most of the band members, Samantha was sizably overweight. I was surprised she knew what a gym was. I scolded myself for even thinking this, but it’s true—most teachers love their students, but we are capable of thinking some pretty awful things about them on occasion. Don’t believe me? Spend an hour in a teachers’ lounge at any school, anywhere.
I ignored both of them and reached the locker room without further harassment. I showered quickly. I could hear the sound of whistles coming from the gymnasium outside the locker room, where Coach Clemmons was finishing up one of his famous early morning practices with the varsity basketball team. I had played for Coach C in my high school days and didn’t envy the boys out there one bit. They would likely turn out to be a disciplined team that made a run at yet another state title, which would give Clemmons his fourteenth in twenty-three years. But as much as the players would remember the championships, they would remember the practices just as vividly, if not more so.
The thud of basketballs being bounced in various places across the court meant practice was nearing an end. Coach Clemmons always gave the players 5-10 minutes of “free time” at the end of every practice, and the chaotic sounds reverberating the locker room walls indicated free time had arrived. I dressed hurriedly, already knowing I would be late for the meeting upstairs. For some reason, that morning I was having the most difficult time tying my necktie (navy blue with small grey hearts), and I had almost given up on it completely when Landry Perkins, one of the school’s star basketball players, entered the locker room to get first dibs on a shower.
“Hey, what’s up, Mr. H?” he asked as he sat down on the bench to remove his Nikes.
“What’s going on, Landry? How was practice today?”
“Oh, man, you know how it is.”
“That I do.”
His head was bent over what he was doing. I noticed a red mark on his neck that looked like a hickey. He was a good looking kid. I wanted to slap him on the back and congratulate him. That would be entirely inappropriate coming from a responsible authority figure. I hid my smile instead and remembered the good ol’ hickey days.
“You having trouble with your tie, man?”
“What? Oh, it just seems like it doesn’t want to cooperate with me this morning.”
“Just remember the rabbit.”
“The rabbit?”
“Yeah, man, the rabbit. ‘The rabbit jumps over the log. Then he goes under it, around it, and through it.’ Or something like that. I don’t know,” he said it in a sing-song way, almost like a nursery rhyme.
It always amazed me how often teenagers could use words or phrases like like, man, dude, whatever and I don’t know in their sentences. I am sure there are plenty more, but I couldn’t think of them at that particular moment. Whatever. I don’t know. It’s not like I needed to be taught how to tie the damn thing, I just needed it to WANT to let me tie it. But it was still nice of him to try to teach me.
“Where did you learn that? I don’t think I have ever heard it before.”
“I don’t know. I think my grandma taught me or something.” And with that, he stood up and walked to the showers and turned on the one at the far end of the lo
cker room.
“Don’t forget the rabbit, man!” he shouted over the sound of the running water.
I decided to start the tying process over and sang his little song in my head as I followed the steps. And wouldn’t you know, it worked.
The library upstairs was already full, and the meeting had already begun when I slipped in the back and took an empty seat next to Ron Ward, one of the 9th grade math teachers. Normally, when the staff knew someone was running late, they would purposely make sure the only empty chair was the one smack dab in the middle of the front row. But that morning, I noticed a few more empty chairs than usual.
The school’s principal, Mark West, was in the middle of making a few announcements as I settled into my chair.
“As you can see, we have quite a few of you missing again this morning. Six at my last count, and five of them are out sick. I guess Marty’s toilet exploded last night, so he will be plumbing all day. We all know a nasty bug is going around, so don’t forget to wipe down everything with disinfectant after each class! Can’t very well have all of you go missing with the flu.”
Mr. West continued on, as my mind wandered to the lessons I had planned for that day. I was looking forward to my third period class, American Literature, as we were going to be discussing one of the famous lines from To Kill a Mockingbird. The students had been assigned the book for their Summer Reading Program (partly because I loved the book, and partly because my last name is Harper), and we had already dissected it at great length over the first month of the school year. But I had sent them home the previous Friday with the Atticus Finch quote: “The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience” and had asked them to be prepared to discuss what they thought it really meant, and how the quote manifested itself in their own lives and the lives of the people around them.
“Luke? Earth to Mr. Harper.”
I realized everyone was looking at me as I caught the last of what Mr. West was saying.
“Wow,” I laughed, “I’m sorry, sir. I was going over lesson plans in my head.”
“What I was saying,” he continued on, ignoring my excuse, “is that Robin will be out again today, and from the sound of things, for the rest of the week too. I know we floated Kristin over there yesterday to cover her classes, but we need her in the science lab. So, you will be working with a new substitute today, and possibly the rest of the week.”
Robin Geary was the English teacher who operated the classroom right next door to mine. She taught the 9th grade English classes, as well as a British Lit class for the seniors. I taught the 10th grade English classes and an American Lit class for juniors. We often pooled resources and brainstormed different ways to get the concepts across to the kids. It was always her idea to take quotes from a novel and make the students examine it and apply it to their lives. She was in her mid-forties and had been teaching for close to twenty years. I was always comfortable knowing she was next door, teaching well the subject we both loved. I hated the idea of substitutes.
“Who is the sub?” I asked.
“Her name is Mrs. Batista. Moved to the area over the summer. She has an English degree, so she shouldn’t have any trouble with the kids or the material. Robin’s husband already brought in her lesson plans, so Mrs. Batista should be all set to go. Just be sure to be there for her and answer any questions she might have during the day.”
“No problem, sir.”
With that, Cindy Johnson (Girls’ P.E. teacher) began the Bible study for the morning. I heard her mention something about heart rebellion as my mind wandered once again. I really disliked substitute teachers, always had. Robin felt the same way, so I knew she must have been feeling pretty lousy to have already missed two whole days. It wasn’t that substitutes were awful people, and we were certainly grateful for them when we needed them (and God knew there had been a time when I needed them often), but teachers can be territorial people. We have plans for our students, and as good as some substitutes might be, they were no match for us. They couldn’t impart knowledge on the kids quite like we could no matter how hard they tried. And, on the dreadful occasion that the school got a substitute who wasn’t qualified, we would usually have to spend our first day back undoing all the damage the sub had caused. This is why most teachers just leave videos for the substitute to show. It’s not because we are lazy, we just don’t inherently trust anyone else with our students.
Robin and I weren’t video people though, so I hoped this Mrs. Batista would be able to handle the workload. Part of me secretly wondered whether or not Robin had jam-packed her lesson plans to scare the sub a little. I certainly wouldn’t have put it past her. I thought about offering Mrs. Batista’s name up when it came time to share our prayer requests. Hopefully, she didn’t have a thick accent that would probably get her made fun of and would cause more of a distraction than anything. Kids could be cruel, and while a good portion of the kids at Lakefront Christian School were absolute angels, the ones who weren’t, absolutely weren’t. No middle ground. Love ‘em or hate ‘em.
The meeting mercifully ended and I was the first one out the door. I headed down the hallway to my classroom, which was located on the far west end of the building and the last room on the left before you got to the bathrooms. Needless to say things could get loud, and I often was called into the bathroom to quell some sort of disturbance, but other than that I liked where I was and enjoyed the view from my upstairs window onto the baseball fields below. Thankfully a ball hadn’t been hit far enough to reach my window. Yet. When I had been a student and had played on the baseball team, I had hit a ball that struck the building between where my window currently was, and where Robin’s window was in the room next door. Fortunately, power like mine didn’t come around too often! Oh, who am I kidding?
I wrote out a few instructions on the whiteboard for my first period class as I waited for the bell to chime. Kids could arrive however early they wanted to, or however early their parents wanted to drop them off, but they weren’t allowed into the building until the first bell rang ten minutes before class was scheduled to begin. A bell would ring once to signify they had five minutes to get to class, then it would ring three times to signal the start of the class. Any students caught in the hallway after the last bell would be sent to the office.
No matter how many times I heard the bell, and no matter how I tried to time it, I never could seem to predict when the first bell would ring. I knew it was coming soon as I laid out review sheets on all the desks, but I had no idea when it would chime.
I heard the door to Robin’s room open slowly and then shut. Mrs. Batista must have arrived. I figured I should give her a second to look over the lesson before I bounded next door to see if she needed anything. But, I also knew that the bell was going to ring soon, and didn’t want to be trying to explain things to her as the kids were loudly declaring their arrival to the classroom. So, I finished laying out the review sheets and walked next door.
Each classroom door had a small glass window in the middle of it, and I could see into the room before I walked in. Mrs. Batista was standing with her back to the door, so I couldn’t see her face. She was wearing what appeared to be a very pretty green dress with large white polka dots that went down to her ankles. Her hair was brown and curly and went just a little past her shoulders. I could tell from the window that she had incredible hair. Luxurious was the word that immediately popped into my mind as I stood at the door. I remember it distinctly because the word “luxurious” had never entered my mind to describe anyone’s hair that I had ever met previously. I also remember thinking that if she had never been approached by someone to do a shampoo commercial, whoever was in charge of those sorts of things should be fired. Perhaps even executed.
I took a deep breath, and then I opened the door and entered the room. She turned to see who it was, and it was an absolute miracle of heaven that the words “Oh my God” didn’t come flying out of my mouth. I was standing face to face with one of
the most beautiful women I had ever seen, and she looked nothing like I expected her to look. When I heard the name Mrs. Batista, I immediately assumed she would be short, tan skinned, dark eyes, Hispanic. I also figured she would be Robin’s age, or older, but the only assumption I got correct were the color of her eyes. She was tall, probably 5’9 or 5’10, and lean, like she could have run track her whole life. Her skin wasn’t remotely tan. She was very fair skinned, incredibly so, like a porcelain doll that had been given another coat of white before being boxed up and shipped out. Her eyes were very large, and inquisitive, and brown like almonds. Her lips were plump, especially her bottom lip. It was a delectable work of art, and I had to resist the urge to immediately suck on it. Nothing says “Welcome” quite like a stranger moving in and sucking on your lip. She smiled a warm, friendly smile when she saw me, revealing perfect white teeth.
“Hi,” she said softly. “You must be Mr. Harper?”
She reached out her hand to shake mine.
“Yes, I am,” I replied. “But, please call me Luke.”
We shook hands.
“And you must be Mrs. Batista?”
I immediately felt like an idiot for trying to sound as Spanish as I could when pronouncing her last name. I always hated when people did that, and I had no clue why the hell I had decided to. Thankfully, she laughed.
“Yep, that’s me. Probably not what you were expecting, huh?”
“Well, not exactly. But, who doesn’t enjoy a surprise?”
Her lips took their time curling into a smile. “I get that reaction a lot. Like people are expecting a little old Mexican grandma or something.”
“Hey, as long as you can cook posole, I will be happy.”
She laughed and I noticed an enormous diamond adorning her ring finger, left hand. Very married. Damn.
“Actually, my husband picked up a great recipe from his grandparents. I will have to see if he would be willing to share that with you.”
I had no desire to talk about her husband. He was a lucky bastard, even if this woman turned out to be evil and despicable and cruel. He would still be lucky just to get to wake up next to her every day.