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Obviously voodoo.
Towards the back, I spot Garrett's dark hair and handsome face. He lifts his chin in greeting, then tilts his head towards the empty seat next to him. I smile, relieved, and head straight for him, like he's my own hot, personal dingy in a sea of choppy water.
Something I can hold on to.
Before I reach him, Dean Walker stands up from the seat behind Garrett and meets me in the aisle. In relationships, friend groups usually mix, meld together. When we were young, Garrett knew a lot more people than I did--his brothers' friends, the football players and their girlfriends, were a crew, a pack. Over the years we dated, my old friends became acquaintances, people I'd talk to in school and celebrate with at the cast parties after the fall drama and spring musical but didn't hang out with otherwise. I was pulled into Garrett's group--and his friends became mine.
"Hey, sweetness," Dean purrs, giving me a hug that lifts me off my feet. "Adulthood looks good on you."
"Thanks, Dean. Good to see you."
He hasn't changed, at all--still tall, blond, wearing hot-nerd glasses with a swagger in his stance and a naughty smirk on his lips. Dean was a player with a capital "play." He had a different girlfriend every few weeks and he was faithful to none of them--though that never stopped the next girl from wanting a crack at taming him. But he was a good, loyal friend to Garrett--to both of us.
"You too, Callie-girl. Welcome home." He spreads his arms, gesturing to the building around us. "And welcome to the jungle, baby. Just when you think you're out . . . your parents' BJ pulls you back in, amiright?"
My eyes roll closed. "I'm never going to hear the end of that one, am I?"
"Never. It's officially Lakeside legend--I've deemed it so."
"Lovely."
Dean sits back in his seat and I slide into the one beside Garrett. Our elbows share the armrest, and our biceps press against each other--sending dancing, ridiculously excited sparks through my body.
"How's it going?" he asks softly.
I sigh. "It's going."
"How are your parents?"
"They're home, mending, but already starting to get on each other's nerves. They're stuck in bed next to each other basically every hour of every day. One of them may not make it out alive."
Garrett's lips curl into a grin. "My money's on your mom. I could see her pulling off a Gone Girl."
I laugh at that imagery. Then I ask, "Why were Kelly Simmons and the Plastics looking at me like they hate me?"
"Because they hate you. Don't you remember what it was like for the new kid in school?"
"But we're teachers. We're not kids anymore."
Garrett holds up his finger. "Connor has a theory about that. He told me once that teachers like me, who've only ever lived by the school calendar--winter break, spring break, summers off--never really leave high school. Add to that the fact that we're trapped in this building with a thousand teenagers, and we absorb their energy and personality traits--he thinks our brains are still partly stuck in adolescence. That we're all still teenagers, just walking around in grown-up bodies." Garrett shrugs. "Kind of like Invasion of the Body Snatchers." He scans the room, glancing at Kelly and a few of the other teachers. "It would explain a lot."
Wait. Hold on . . . what the hell did I sign up for?
Before I can challenge his theory, Miss McCarthy walks down the main aisle clapping her hands. "Let's get started, people. Everyone sit down."
There's a gust of shuffling and muted whispers and then everyone settles in and turns their attention to Miss McCarthy, standing in front of the stage, with Mrs. Cockaburrow bowing her head behind her like a scared shadow.
"Welcome back. I hope you all had a pleasant summer," she says, in a tone that indicates she really doesn't care if our summer was pleasant or not.
"I'd like to welcome Callie Carpenter back to Lakeside--she's taking over the theater classes for Julie Shriver."
Miss McCarthy motions for me to stand, and I do, straight and smiling, feeling the weight of fifty sets of judging eyes.
"Hi, Callie," some in the crowd murmur in unison, sounding like an unenthusiastic group at an AA meeting.
Cockaburrow hands McCarthy a folder, and she holds it out to me. "Callie, here's your class rosters for the year." She addresses the others in the room, "The rest of you should have gotten your rosters last week. Check your emails."
I walk up to get the folder, then head back to my seat, while Miss McCarthy talks about changes to the parking lot regulations.
Garrett leans over my shoulder and Dean huddles behind me.
"Who'd you get, who'd you get?'
And I have deja vu--an image of our fifteen-year-old selves comparing sophomore-year schedules. Right in this room.
Garrett looks at the list and grimaces.
"Tough break."
Dean shakes his head. "Oh boy."
I look back and forth between them. "What? What's wrong with it?'
"That's D and B all the way," Dean says.
"D and B?"
"Dumb and Bad," Garrett explains. "See, some kids are dumb--not book smart, no matter what you do."
"Jesus, Garrett, you're a teacher."
"I'm honest. And I don't mean it in a shitty way. My dad didn't go to college--he was an electrician. The world needs electricians, and pipe layers, garbage men, and ditch diggers. Nothing wrong with that."
"Okay, so those are the D's. What about the B's?"
"Some kids are bad. They might be smart, they might have potential, but they're still bad. They like to be bad. Major pains in the asses, and not in a fun way."
"Hey! You three in the back!" McCarthy barks. "Do I need to separate you?"
And the deja vu strikes again.
I shake my head.
"No," Garrett says.
"Sorry, Miss McCarthy," Dean says, leaning back in his seat. "We'll be good. Please, carry on."
McCarthy narrows her eyes into slits and points to them with her two fingers, then points those same fingers back at us.
And, Jesus, if I don't feel like she might give us detention.
The real fun starts when Miss McCarthy begins talking about the student dress code. And a frizzy, red-haired woman shoots her hand up to the ceiling.
"That's Merkle," Garrett whispers against my ear, giving me delicious goose bumps. "Art teacher."
"Miss
Merkle?" McCarthy asks.
"Will we be adding MAGA articles to the banned clothing this year?"
Before McCarthy can answer, a square-headed, deep-voiced man in a USA baseball hat inquires, "Why would we ban MAGA clothes?"
"Jerry Dorfman," Garrett whispers again. And I can almost feel his lips against my ear. Automatically, my neck arches closer to him. "Guidance counselor and assistant football coach."
Merkle glares across the aisle at Dorfman. "Because they're offensive."
Dorfman scoffs. "There's nothing overtly offensive about a MAGA shirt."
"There's nothing overtly offensive about a white hood, either--it'd still be a bad idea to let a student walk around in one," Merkle volleys back.
"Anyone ever tell you you're delusional?"
"Stick it up your ass, Jerry."
"That's enough, you two!" McCarthy moves down the aisle between them. "There will be no talk of sticking anything up any asses! Not like last year."
Miss McCarthy takes a deep, cleansing breath. And I think she might be counting to ten.
"MAGA clothes will not be banned--it's a can of worms I don't want to open."
Merkle gives Jerry the finger behind McCarthy's back. Then he returns the favor.
And I feel like I'm in the twilight zone.
"Speaking of clothing," a younger-looking, light-brown-haired man in a gray three-piece suit volunteers, in a British accent, "could someone advise these lads to pull up their trousers? If I glimpse another pair of Calvin Klein pants, I'll be ill."
"Peter Duvale, pretentious asshole. Teaches English," Garrett says, and I feel the brush of his breath against my neck. Delicious heat unfurls low and deep in my pelvis.
"Jesus Christ, Duvale--I am too hungover to listen to your bullshit British accent today. Please shut the hell up."
"Mark Adams," Garrett says, whisper soft. "Gym teacher, fresh out of college. Only, don't call him a gym teacher--he'll be insulted. They're physical education teachers now."
I swallow, my skin tingles from the sound of Garrett's voice so close.
Another man raises his hand. This one middle aged with dark, thick hair sticking up at all possible angles.
"Speaking of dress code, can we make sure Christina Abernathy's breasts are covered this year? There was nipple-peekage last year. Not that I was looking--I wasn't. But if I had looked, I would've seen areola."
"Evan Fishler--science teacher," Garrett tells me quietly, and I squirm in my seat, rubbing my thighs together. "He spends his summers in Egypt researching the pyramids. Believes he was abducted by aliens when he was a kid." A smile seeps into Garrett's tone. "He'll tell you all about it, for hours and hours . . . and hours."
