Outside the Lines

by Lisa Desrochers

  A new student.

  I brush my palms down my slacks again, a fresh jolt of nerves twisting my insides into knots. I was already going to be way over my head with a classroom full of nine-year-olds fresh off Christmas vacation and all sugared up on candy canes.

  I look over the instructions. Sherman William Davidson needs his reading comprehension assessment, writing and grammar evaluation, and his math skills worksheet completed by the end of the week.

  I blow a wisp of hair off my forehead and unpack my toothpaste and toothbrush, my journal, and a few of my favorite colored pens into Mrs. Martin’s desk, careful not to displace her things too much. I’m just pulling the assessments for the new kid from the file cabinet when the classroom door opens. I hear Principal Richmond’s gravelly voice before I turn around. “… and his classroom is here. We just got word a few days ago that our regular fourth-grade teacher is out on medical leave, but Sherman will be in good hands with Ms. Wilson. She’s a very capable substitute.”

  I take a deep breath as I turn and hope he’s not lying.

  I substituted five times during fall semester. For the most part, everything went great until I subbed for Mrs. Yetz’s sixth-grade class the week before winter break. Somehow, what started out as a math lab on probability devolved into a liar’s dice tournament, complete with money changing hands. I wasn’t sure they’d call me back after that.

  But when I see Principal Richmond waddle his round frame through the door, I straighten the scarf I tied over my favorite teal sweater and try to look as confident in what he said as he does.

  “Ms. Wilson,” he says, waving me over. “This is your new student, Sherman.”

  Sherman is a wiry little thing with unruly brown hair and clothes that hang off him a little. He looks as if he’d vanish into himself if given the chance.

  “He goes by Sherm,” the man standing next to him says.

  I look up into some of the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen. Heavy dark brows curve over irises the color of honey with burgundy flecks through them. Thick brown waves are loose around a strong face with angled cheekbones, and a square jaw covered in two-day stubble. Set in flawless olive skin are lips so firm and red they make me forget the frown that’s turning them down slightly at the corners. He’s just so … gorgeous, like something out of a magazine or a movie. And he’s tall—well over six feet of broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips under his blue button-down shirt. The tails are loose over pressed jeans that fit him just so. Everything about him is tailored and cultured and nothing like any of the year-rounders who live on this bumpkin island. But it’s not just the way he looks. A blend of confidence and something else I can’t identify but that makes him seem a little intimidating wafts off him with the spicy cologne I keep catching hints of. He’s nothing like anyone I’ve ever met, even at Clemson.

  I feel my jaw dangling and snap it closed, pulling myself together long enough to extend an arm. “I’m Adri.”

  Principal Richmond clears his throat, and when I flick a glance his direction, I know my ogling didn’t go unnoticed. His brow is deeply furrowed, and his frown curves so low it makes him look like one of those marionettes, where their chin is a whole different piece of wood than the rest of their face.

  My eyes bulge and I shift my outstretched hand to Sherm. “I mean, Miss Wilson. Welcome to Port St. Mary, Sherm.”

  The boy just looks at me with sad eyes the color of his … father’s?

  My gaze gravitates back to the guy towering over me. Could he be Sherm’s dad? He looks way too young to have a nine-year-old. He also looks all business. There’s nothing soft or nurturing in his cold, sharp gaze as it flicks around the classroom, silently assessing.

  “What’s on the other side of those partitions?” he asks Principal Richmond.

  “The third– and fifth-grade classrooms,” he answers.

  The guy’s eyes continue to scan the room. “He’ll spend all day in here?”

  The principal nods. “Except when he’s on the playground.”

  “Is there security on campus?”

  Principal Richmond looks momentarily perplexed, rubbing his round stomach as if he’s thinking with it. “Not as such. We have yard monitors during recess and lunch, and the teachers are responsible for the children when they’re here in class.”

  “What about lunch?”

  “He can bring his own lunch, or buy a bag lunch from Nutritional Services for three dollars. Either way, if it’s nice weather, the children eat outside at the picnic tables. On rainy days, we open the partitions and they eat inside as a group.”

  The guy reaches into his pocket, but Principal Richmond holds up his hand to stop him when he comes out with a thick wad of cash. “We don’t allow students to carry money on campus. When we’re done here, I’ll take you to the office and have you purchase a scan card for Nutritional Services.”

  The guy nods, then moves to the door and jiggles the knob. “The exterior doors are left unlocked?”

  “During school hours, yes,” Principal Richmond answers, moving to my desk and shuffling through the papers I pulled for Sherm.

  The guy’s full lips narrow into a tight line and he scowls at the door. He spins and starts toward the door in the back of the room, leaving no stone unturned.

  I wipe my hands down my slacks again and decide just to ask. “So, you’re Sherm’s father?”

  His feet stall on the chipped linoleum and he seems to finally notice I exist. “Brother,” he answers, and that one word seems to carry the weight of the world with it as it falls from his mouth.

  His eyes make a slow sweep of my face, and as they trail down my neck, the front of my sweater, over my hips, and down my legs, I’m frozen in place, paralyzed by the intensity of his gaze.

  Principal Richmond shoves some papers in my face, breaking the spell. “You still have fifteen minutes until the bell. Maybe you can get Sherman started on these.”

  “Um …” I grab the papers out of his hand as Big Brother blinks, some of the thickest lashes I’ve ever seen hiding those incredible eyes. “Yeah. We’ll do that …”

  Principal Richmond guides Big Brother to the door. “Let’s get out of their way and let them get started. I’m sure Sherman will have a positive experience here. Children his age tend to adjust quickly,” he’s saying as the door swings closed behind them.

  I look down to see Sherm has pulled a small shark jaw off the bookshelf in front of my desk. I lean down and look over Mrs. Martin’s “cabinet of curiosities,” as she calls it—things that fascinated me as a kid. “That’s the jaw of an Atlantic sharpnose shark.”

  Sherm tugs at a chain around his neck as he turns the jaw in his hands, inspecting it from every angle. A thick gold ring at the end of the short chain slides out from under his shirt. What looks like a diamond sparkles in the center of the band.

  “What’s that, Sherm?” I ask, ducking my head for a closer look.

  He lowers his gaze and fists his hand over the ring, tucking it back down his shirt. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “You know what?” I say instead of asking again. “Let’s do the tour first. Okay?”

  He looks a little mournfully at the shark jaw then at me, like he’s afraid I’ll make him put it down.

  “You can bring it with us,” I say, standing, “as long as you promise it won’t bite me. I’m sort of scared of sharks.” This is not a lie. I’ve always had a phobia, which is why, despite growing up on the beach, I’ve never gone into the ocean deeper than my knees.

  He shakes his head.

  “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  We move toward the door in the back of the room that leads to the short hall to the restrooms. “If you need the bathroom, just raise your hand. This is where the boys’ bathroom is,” I say, stopping in front of the door.

  He holds up the shark jaw and makes it nod.

  I can’t stop the smile. He’s a cute kid, but his eyes seem older than his nine years, making me w
onder where his parents are and why his older brother is the one bringing him for his first day of school. And why said older brother seems so concerned about campus security and locked classroom doors. It also hasn’t missed my attention that Sherm hasn’t spoken a word.

  I lead him back through the hall. “The doors all look the same, so look for the big yellow four,” I say, pointing to our room number. I push through the door and realize I don’t know where I have a free desk. I decide to put him up front, next to the cabinet of curiosities. “This will be your desk, okay?”

  He slips into the seat and sets the shark jaw on the desk in front of him.

  I lean against my desk. “Did you bring your lunch, Sherm?”

  He shakes his head.

  As if on cue, the classroom door opens and Big Brother is back with a lunch card. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to …” He holds up the card between his index and middle fingers, and the light flashes off a chunky ring on his right pinky. It’s identical to Sherm’s, but heavier—proportionate to the size of his masculine hands. It has a topaz the same size as Sherm’s diamond set in the center of the band.

  “It’s fine,” I say, pushing off my desk. “We were just taking the tour and getting Sherm settled.”

  He moves deeper into the room and crouches in front of his little brother. “What you got there, champ?”

  Sherm pulls the shark jaw closer without looking at his brother.

  The older brother’s mouth presses into a line, and concern creases the corners of his eyes as he slips the lunch card onto Sherm’s desk and stands. The tension between them is so thick it’s nearly choking me.

  “Excellent, Sherm,” I say, tapping the card. “Now you won’t have to miss out on our famous peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.”

  Sherm’s nose scrunches as he glances up to see if I’m serious. When he sees my grin, he smiles back.

  “Yuck,” I say making a face. “I’m only joking. We’re really having frogs’ legs and fluff sandwiches.”

  Sherm breaks into a giggle, his whole face lighting up for a second.

  Big Brother’s eyes pull into saucers as his gaze lifts to me. He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but then closes it and focuses back on his little brother. He grasps Sherm’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze, making Sherm flinch. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll be back when school gets out at two thirty. I want you to wait right here for me, okay? Not outside, but right here in your classroom.”

  Sherm nods grimly, and it strikes me again how odd this whole situation is. Granted, I don’t have a lot of experience in the classroom, and I know families come in all shapes and sizes, but there’s definitely something off here.

  “Okay, champ,” Big Brother says, moving toward the door. “See you in a few.” His eyes catch mine just as the door closes, and I curse under my breath at the prickle of goose bumps I feel.

  I think I was in this very classroom when I had my first real crush. This feels exactly the same—weak knees, sweaty palms, pounding heart. This building must be some kind of time machine. The Hormone Portal. I step inside and am instantly transported back to prepubescence.

  I shake the feeling away and move to my desk, pulling open Sherm’s file. I scan the page and find it lists Robert Davidson in the Parent/Legal Guardian box of his paperwork.

  Is that a father? Or guardian? Could it be Big Brother?

  I can still feel the press of his gaze on my body. There’s no doubt Big Brother is hot … in a frighteningly intense sort of way. But even if he was interested, then what? I’d be pretty shocked if dating the guardian of one of my students isn’t grounds for getting fired—or at the very least, severely frowned upon. This is a tree I definitely shouldn’t be barking up.

  Especially because there’s something about Big Brother that isn’t quite right.

  Maybe if I can get Sherm to talk, I can solve that particular mystery. I just hope it doesn’t end with a call to child protective services.

  At the bell, the door pushes open and students start to filter in. Most of the seats are full by the time a big boy with blond hair and freckles walks in like he owns the place. He seriously looks like he must have been held back a grade or two, because he’s easily a head taller than anyone else in the class—which means he matches my five foot four. He stalks right up to Sherm. “Hey, dickhead. Get out of my seat.”

  “Hey!” I sweep around my desk. “I put him in this seat. There’s a free desk over there,” I say, pointing to a desk in the back, two rows over.

  “Then he can take it,” the kid says, shoving Sherm’s shoulder.

  I take a deep breath and count to ten, praying for my inner teacher to show herself. This is exactly the kind of thing I was afraid of. I have no idea how to handle something like this. Do I make an example of him? Do I let it go?

  Mom? Are you there? Help me out here.

  Nothing. God, I miss her.

  I glance at the new boy and the only thing I know for sure is that I have to get him out of the middle of this.

  “What do you think, Sherm?” I ask with a nudge of my head toward the desk in the back.

  He shrugs.

  “Okay, cool. How about we move you over there? You can take the shark jaw, okay?”

  He nods and slides out of the seat. Once we get him settled at his new desk, I come back to the front of the room.

  “What is your name?” I ask the bully.

  “Jason.”

  I go to the desktop computer and pull up the roll. “Jason Harkin?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Fabulous, Jason. I’ve just made you a date with Principal Richmond. He’ll be expecting you in his office for first recess.”

  But by the end of the day, it’s clear Jason’s trip to the principal’s office didn’t have the desired effect. Despite moving desks, Jason and two of his fifth-grade buddies make it a point to knock into Sherm every chance they get, including when he’s eating, spilling his chocolate milk down the front of him. Sherm puts up a brave front, bless the scrawny little thing, but I pretty much want to die.

  And he still hasn’t said a word.

  Despite desperately wanting to know why Sherm isn’t speaking, I decide going on the offensive with a guy like Big Brother isn’t likely to get me very far. Especially since I don’t really know what questions I should be asking yet. Instead, I make myself busy with another student when his brother comes to pick him up at the end of the day and just watch their interaction.

  But I can’t keep my eyes off Big Brother’s remarkable form, and I know he catches me staring when he glances over his shoulder as he’s ushering Sherm out the door.

  When they’re gone, I shake his formidable image out of my mind and pull the lesson plans for the week toward me. I thumb through them. Mrs. Martin has everything for the next few weeks sorted for me, but I have to figure out how to teach it all without just reading from the textbook. It’s late before I feel like I’ve got anything that will keep the kids interested.

  When I get home, Dad’s cruiser is already in the driveway. The second the front door swings open, I’m hit in the face with the smell of burning … everything.

  “Dad?” I call.

  He pokes his head around the corner of the kitchen door. “Adrianna! There you are! I decided to surprise you and cook dinner.”

  “What are you making?” I ask, checking that the fire extinguisher is still in the holder near back the door on my way by.

  “Well … it was going to be spaghetti and meatballs,” he says, gesturing to an empty skillet with an oily black film at the bottom, “but I realized about halfway in that meatballs are more than just balls of meat, and then I burnt them when I was trying to make garlic bread. So now it’s just spaghetti, which is difficult to burn.”

  He picks up the pot of boiling spaghetti by the handle, then and drops it, shaking his hand. “Jeez, that’s hot.” I hand him a potholder, and he tips the spaghetti into the colander in the sink.

&nbs
p; I dump the sliced tomatoes on the cutting board into the bowl of lettuce on the counter. “I could have made dinner when I got home, Dad.”

  He gives me a crooked smile as he shakes out the spaghetti. “It was your first day at work. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

  I peck his cheek, then pick up the salad bowl, grab the dressing from the fridge, and bring it to the table. Dad’s there a minute later with two mounded plates of spaghetti with sauce. He drops one on the table in front of me and lowers himself into his chair at the end of the table with the other.

  “I thought you said there was garlic bread,” I say, looking around the table.

  The left side of his face squints in chagrin. “It burned while I was trying to save the meatballs.”

  I can’t stop the laugh that erupts out of me.

  Dad raises his bushy eyebrows at me. “Poking fun at your poor old dad?”

  “No, Dad.” I reach across and pat his hand. He’s just so helpless. “This is awesome. Really. Thanks for cooking.”

  Yep, this is why I’m here.

  Chapter 3

  Rob

  I wake up in a cold sweat, bound to my feet, the solid butt of my Glock G30S already firmly in my palm. But as I stab the gun into the dark of the room, the realization that it was only a dream seeps through my bones. I thought I’d been more successful than Sherm at shaking the image of what happened the night that goon came for us. Guess I was fooling myself.

  Forgetting I killed a man with my bare hands isn’t as easy as I’d hoped.

  But I had no choice. He had a gun pointed at my baby brother. So I jumped him, snapped his neck.

  And then we ran and never looked back.

  I lower the gun, give my hammering heart a second to settle before fishing my sweatpants off the end of my bed and tugging them on. The floorboards groan under my weight as I stand.

  I scrub the sweat off my face with a forearm, then glance to Sherm’s bed. My heart shoots right back into overdrive when I see that his covers are in a pile on the floor and the twin bed is empty. I lead with the Glock as I move toward the window, but through the pounding of blood in my ears and my rasping breath, I hear soft voices coming through the wall from the bedroom next door. I brace my hands against the windowsill, drag in a measured breath.