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Her mouth twists. "Simone's a freak--have you seen her? She tries too hard to get attention--to get noticed. So, we gave her what she wanted . . . we noticed her."
"That's genius!" someone in the back--I don't even know who--calls out.
David Burke's not laughing, but he's the only one. Even DJ joins the party--they sneer and giggle--a room full of pitiless little monsters.
I slam the side of my fist on the desk. "That's enough!"
The chatter cuts off quick when they see I'm pissed, when they realize this is not fucking okay with me. They go wide-eyed and silent.
"I have never been more disappointed in you than I am right now." I shake my head. "All of you."
They're supposed to be better than us. More accepting, more open, more understanding--a green generation, with hands reaching across the world, and love that always wins. They have more advantages, more resources and benefits than any who've come before them--and they still put so much energy into tearing each other to shreds.
Sometimes it feels pointless--like we're trying to hold up a dam that's crumbling beneath our fingers. Because kids are kids--no matter the century. They'll always be so young. Too young to know what matters, what's important, and how fast it all goes. Too young to not be selfish and stupid and sometimes just straight-up mean. They haven't lived long enough to know how to be anything else.
But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying. Trying to make them better--everything I know they could be. By any means necessary.
So, I bring the hammer down.
"Research paper."
And they groan.
"The topic is, propaganda and the 'othering' of groups in the lead-up to World War II. Five pages--minimum."
"Nice fucking job, Nancy." Dugan, a flannel-wearing, long-haired member of the skater crowd, throws a balled-up piece of paper at her.
"Knock it off," I tell him.
Then I up the ante. "And I want you to write it by hand."
Skylar Mayberry's arm rises like a rocket.
"I don't understand. What does that mean?"
I pick up a pen and a piece of notebook paper and demonstrate. "I want you to write . . . a research paper . . . by hand."
She squints at me. "Why?"
"Because I want you to actually think about what you're writing. The words and ideas you're putting down."
David Burke's hand goes up next. "They didn't teach script in my elementary school."
"Me neither," Brad Reefer joins in.
"You can print." I point at them. "And use white-out or a pencil. If you hand me an assignment that's filled with scribbles, I'll give it back and make you write ten pages."
They moan in agony again.
And it's music to my ears. Growth is painful; change is hard. So, if they're unhappy--it means I'm doing my job right.
~
During the weekend, on Sunday, Callie and I hit the grocery store together--because even something as boring as grocery shopping is better if I can look at Callie's ass while doing it.
"Pork rinds?" I ask as she puts a massive bag in the cart.
"My dad loves them. Colleen and I have been rationing them, hiding the bag, or he'll eat them until his stomach pops."
She looks especially hot today, with her hair pulled up into a high ponytail, a touch of pink shine on her lips, wearing snug black jeans and a royal-blue sweater that highlights her creamy skin and hugs her round tits perfectly.
I come up behind her when she bends over the cart, rubbing my ever-hardening dick against her ass. "I've got some pork for your rind right here, baby."
And I'm only half-kidding.
She turns, her face scrunching, and pushes me away. "Ew . . . you're disgusting."
I grab her hips and pull her flush against me.
"You know you like it."
She peers up at me, biting her bottom lip.
"Yeah . . . maybe I do."
She reaches up and pecks my lips--and I taste the promise of more to come. If we ever finish fucking grocery shopping.
I move to the back of the cart so we can get on that, and almost crash into another cart.
A cart that's being pushed by Tara Benedict.
Tara looks back and forth between us. "Hey, Garrett. And . . . Callie . . . hi . . ."
"Hey, Tara."
"Tara . . . hey. How's it going?" Callie smiles.
And because Tara's cool, there's only a hint of awkwardness.
"It's good. I heard you were back in town. Welcome home."
A dark-haired little boy comes up behind her, Joshua, holding the hand of a light-brown-haired guy with glasses.
Tara gestures to the man beside her. "Matt, this is Garrett and Callie--old friends from high school."
I shake Matt's hand and the four of us talk for a few minutes about nothing in particular. Eventually we say goodbye and Callie and I walk over to the next aisle.
"So . . ." Callie says, walking next to me, "you and Tara Benedict, huh?"
I toss a box of corn flakes into the cart. "It was a casual thing. Not serious."
"Right."
"Was it that obvious?"
She shrugs. "A woman looks at a guy that she's slept with in a certain way. I could tell."
I slide my hand into the back of her jeans, giving her plump, pretty ass a squeeze.
"You jealous, Callaway?"
She takes a second to think about it. Then she shakes her head.
"You know what . . . I'm not. Lakeside's a small town, we were bound to run into someone you've dated--probably won't be the last time. Whatever happened through the years, it brought us both here. And I like here." She takes my hand out of her pocket and holds it in her smaller one. "Here is good."
I lean down and kiss her, softer, longer this time.
"Here is very, very good."
Callie smiles, then resumes pushing the cart. After a minute, she laughs. "Besides, it's not like you hooked up with Becca Saber or something."
Becca Saber . . .
The back of my neck goes itchy and hot.
Becca is Coach Saber's daughter--she was in the same grade as us, and the splinter under Callie's fingernail all through high school. She was on my dick like white on rice, and not subtle about it. She'd drop by the locker room after practice, always making sure I knew she was available and up for anything. She got off on doing it in front of Callie. I told her to cut it out, that I wasn't remotely interested, but that didn't stop her from trying over and over.
And Callie . . . pretty much just sucked it up, let it go, ignored it, and kept her mouth shut. For me.
To not cause problems between me and the football coach I idolized, who thought his daughter was an angel straight from heaven.
"That would be a different story." Callie shrugs, still smiling.
I open my mouth to tell her, because--like I've said before--a guy gets to a point in his life when he knows that straight-up, brutal honesty is simpler. The best way to go.
Except . . . when it's not.
I look over at Callie again--and she's so happy--gazing at me with the perfect combination of playfulness, tenderness, and heat.
Here, where we are now, really is good. And it could all go away at the end of the year when Callie goes back to San Diego. Distance was the reason we ended the first time . . . one of the reasons anyway. And if history is bound to repeat itself . . . well, fuck . . . this could be all the time I get with her. The only time I get.
I think about what I tell my kids every Friday . . . "Don't be idiots." And I take my own advice. Because only an idiot would waste a minute--a second--with Callie explaining and rehashing shit that happened years ago. That shouldn't affect us at all here, now, in this moment.
So I nod. "Yeah, totally different story."
Then I put my arm around her, kiss the top of her head, and we head off together to the frozen food section.
Chapter Sixteen
Garrett
Mrs. Carpenter, with Colleen and
Callie's help, has decided to cook up an epic spread for Thanksgiving. Callie's friends from San Diego, Bruce and Cheryl, are coming to Lakeside for the holiday. The day before Thanksgiving, I drive Callie to Newark to pick them up from the airport.
We're waiting near the baggage claim when a piercing war cry rings out and a blur of beige sweater and dark-red hair comes streaking around the corner--all but tackling Callie.
"Girlfriend!" The blur squeals. "I've missed you! Damn, you look great--the Jersey air agrees with you."
This must be Cheryl. Callie's told me about her--the loud, quirky bookkeeper of the theater company Callie will be returning to at the end of the year.
