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I tilt my head back, cursing the sky and hating the words "rebuilding year" with a passion hot enough to melt steel.
But when I open my eyes, across the field, I see a small, scrawny kid step back and throw a sweet pass to his receiver. It was short, only a few yards, but it was nice, and his form wasn't half-bad.
"Who's that?" I point.
Jerry follows my finger with his eyes.
"Parker Thompson. Second string, a young freshman, good kid, but kind of the runt of the litter--hasn't hit his growth spurt and don't know if he'll have one. His brother was already a monster his freshman year."
Thompson, Thompson . . . Thompson.
"James Thompson's little brother?"
James Thompson was a player of mine six, seven years ago. He went on to be the quarterback for Notre Dame until he was sidelined by multiple concussions.
"One of them, yeah."
"I thought Mary wouldn't let the other boys play after James was injured?"
Jeffrey shrugs. "Guess she changed her mind for Parker. He's the youngest."
You can't underestimate the power of genetics--the natural athletic gift that's impossible to duplicate through training alone. And desperate times call for working with what you've fucking got.
I watch the kid throw another pass. And another. Then I watch him for the next fifteen minutes--his feet are decent, his attitude is good--he's scrappy, quick, and it's obvious he loves the game. I can work with him.
Jeffrey calls Parker over.
He's even shorter up close--a kind-looking boy--with gentle bone structure, intelligent eyes, and light-brown hair.
When I tell him I want him to be my starting varsity quarterback for our first game two weeks from today, his lips go gray, and his face, cloud white.
"I'm not . . . I'm not my brother, Coach Daniels."
"You don't have to be. You just have to do what I say. The greatest skill the best athletes in the world possess is their ability to listen. I'll work with you. If you listen to me, Parker . . . I'll take care of the rest. Okay?"
He thinks it over, then he nods jerkily. "O-okay."
I put my hand on his shoulder and try to sound enthusiastic.
"You're gonna do great. I believe in you."
He nods again, forcing a smile.
And then he bends over . . . and pukes all over my shoes.
~
After cleaning off my shoes, I walk out of the faculty bathroom in The Cave and spot Callie coming down the hallway. And she looks . . . a lot like Parker Thompson before he upchucked. Shell-shocked, drained, the curls at the end of her long blond hair limp and defeated on her shoulders.
"Cal?" I ask tentatively. "You okay?"
Her mouth opens and closes. "I . . . they . . ."
Her chest rises and falls quickly and a barky hiccup bursts from her lips. "They were so mean, Garrett. I didn't think kids could be that mean."
"Yeah. Sorry." I grimace. "High school kids are kind of assholes. Somebody should've told you."
She shakes her head, covering her sweet face with one hand. "They were--they were total assholes! They knew where I went to grammar school, what roles I played in the high school plays--they had pictures! That really awkward one from fourth grade when my mom permed my hair and I looked like an electrocuted poodle! They passed it around. And they had one from my friend Sheridan's divorce party--of me kissing a sex doll! They called me a degenerate!"
Huh--that's a picture I'd like to see.
I put my arm around her, patting her shoulder.
"Social media's evil. You need to slash and burn your accounts if you want to survive."
Dean's voice called out from midway down the empty D-wing hallway. "Yes! We have tears--pay up, Merkle."
"God damn it," Donna Merkle curses next to him, then slaps a bill in his hand. She shakes her head at Callie. "I believed in you, Carpenter. And you let the team down."
Merkle walks away, and Callie narrows her eyes at Dean. "You bet on me? You bet on how bad my first day would be?"
"Sure did."
"You . . . dick."
He holds up the folded bill between his fingers, grinning. "Easiest fifty I ever made."
"That's not cool, Dean," I say, like I'm lecturing one of the kids.
He rolls his eyes, then makes a whipping motion with his hand--sound effects included. "Wapsshh. I don't even know you anymore."
He wiggles his eyebrows at Callie. "If you quit the first week, Evan has to cough up a cool hundred."
And my chest tightens, way more than it should.
"She's not fucking quitting." I look down at her. "You're not quitting. You got this, Callie."
She shakes her head, and the fist squeezing my heart loosens its grip.
Dean may have a point about my whipped status. Shit.
"I'm not quitting. But I could really use a drink."
I nod. "We all could. Chubby's does a special every year . . . if you show your teacher's ID, you get half off."
~
There's a lot of bars in Lakeside, but Chubby's is the favorite among old-timers and locals looking for a beer after work. It's dim, windowless, quiet except for the old jukebox in the corner and the one, small television above the bar that's only ever been tuned to ESPN. My brother Ryan used to bartend here in the summers when he was home from college--and because we were cool about it, he'd slip me and my friends beers. Callie's old theater friend, Sydney, owns the place now. She's divorced with two kids and gorgeous--a far cry from the granny-glasses-wearing, frizzy-haired shy girl she used to be.
None of my current students would be caught dead here--they prefer to try their fake IDs at the newer, younger, more New York club-like Colosseum, down the highway.
Me, Callie, Dean, Merkle, Jerry, Evan, and Alison Bellinger head to Chubby's and commiserate over a few pitchers of beer at a table in the back corner.
"Two weeks . . . I don't smile for the first two weeks of school."
Alison Bellinger is one of the nicest, happiest people I know. If you told me she shits rainbows and pisses sunshine, I'd believe you. Apparently, she's also quite the actress.
"They all think I'm a grade-A bitch," she tells Callie, wiping foam off her upper lip with her sleeve. "Mean, nasty, stone cold and heartless."
You wouldn't know it to look at her, but little Alison can also chug like a fucking champ. I've seen her drink guys twice her size under the table without missing a beat. It's impressive.
"But it's what I have to do--scare them. I'm young, small, if I'm nice right off the bat, they think they can get away with murder. My first year teaching, nobody did classwork, no one brought pens to class--it was bathroom passes and trips to the nurse all period long. Chaos."
She shakes her head, remembering. "If they're afraid of me, they respect me, or at least pretend that they do. Then, as the year progresses, I can slowly relax--let them get to know the real me. But the respect sticks."
Callie draws her finger across the side of her frosty mug.
"I think I need to be taught how to teach." She snorts, maybe only half-jokingly. "You guys know any available tutors?"
No less than three awesome, tutor-and-the-naughty-student fantasies spring into my head at once, and every one stars me, Callie . . . and her old Catholic school uniform.
I lean forward, and go for it.
"Come to my house tomorrow night. I'll make you dinner and tell you everything I know about teaching. I'm awesome at it--ask anyone. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be awesome too."
Alison's eyes dart from me to Callie above her beer.
Callie's smile is shy and her voice is just a little bit breathless. Good sign. And then . . . she shoots me down.
"I would love to . . . but my parents . . . I can't leave them."
I hold out my hand. "Give me your phone."
Callie watches as I pull up her sister's number.
"Colleen, hey, it's Garrett Daniels. I'm good, thanks. Listen, I need to borrow your siste
r tomorrow night. Can you cover for her with your parents?"
Colleen starts to give me shit about how she already has daytime parent duty and how her kid has basketball practice Saturday nights.
"Okay, I get all that, but she needs a night off once in a while. You want her to snap?"
Callie's green eyes shine at me, making my heart rate run faster, harder . . . because she's so damn pretty. And I can't remember the last time I wanted to hang out with someone so much--just talking, laughing, listening, looking at them. Probably not since high school.
Not since her.
"Give her Saturday nights and I'll give your kids driving lessons, free of charge. Emily's only a few years away from her permit, right? It's a good deal for you, Col."
She thinks about it for a second . . . and then she agrees. Because even over the phone, no one can resist this face.
"Awesome. Great, thanks."
I hang up and slide the phone back over to Callie.
"You're free. I'll pick you up at your parents at six."
A bright, beautiful smile stretches across her face--a face I've dreamed of more times than I can remember.
Her eyes darken and her voice is sweet. "It's a date."
I have a date with Callie Carpenter. Fuckin-A right I do.
