Page 7 of Apparently, I’m Trouble

SOUTH BRONX CLASSICAL

Monday

“Are you excited?” Lilly asked as she looked around the smallest—and oldest—classroom in our school.

The room was the size of a shoebox, with exposed red-brown brick walls and an electricity-sparking brown carpet. On one side of the room, there was a single whiteboard, an overhead projector, and a blocky wooden desk. The rest of the room was taken up by student desks, all bundled together in the usual U shape. They pointed toward the whiteboard in that typical way that meant I would be their central focus for the next fifty minutes.

It was hideous. It was perfect.

“I’m nervous.” And it was true. I’d taken it for granted that Lilly needed me to do this, but now that I was here, I was afraid I’d screw it up.

Lilly tilted her head at me, which made her mousy-brown bangs tangle with her absurdly long lashes. Her green eyes flickered over my face.

“You don’t get nervous.”

“I know.” I put a hand to my chest and felt my heart pounding away in there. “Is this what you have to put up with?”

She barked out a laugh. “Constantly. I still feel like I might throw up every time Shawn looks at me.”

Ah yes, Shawn.

Lilly’s tall, smoldering, education-mastermind boyfriend. I was glad he wasn’t around. He’d tease me about this for weeks.

Lilly handed me the takeout coffee she’d been carrying, gripped my shoulders, and turned me to face her.

“You’re going to get those spots.”

“But what if I don’t?”

“Then you don’t.”

“Lilly,” I groaned. “What if Rutton takes your promotion away? What if I ruin this for you? I know what this job means to you.”

After everything Lilly had been through, she more than deserved this job.

When her mom died, Lilly threw herself into following in her footsteps. Her goal was to teach at her mom’s school and to make the same impact she had.

Here, Lilly felt connected to her mom, and now she could make a difference too.

So of course I couldn’t stomach the thought of this opportunity being ripped from her because of me.

But Lilly wouldn’t see it that way.

And just like I knew she would, she raised a brow. It was just visible under her bangs, and I almost smiled at the look on her face.

“Then we’ll put on our big boy pants and figure it out. Right?”

I breathed in and held it. Put on our big boy pants. She was right. I’d taught hundreds–thousands–of classes over my career. I could do this for her, and I could do it well.

Air rushed out of me as I said the same thing to her that I’d been telling myself for days. “I’m going to teach the shit out of this class.”

Those adorable freckles of hers wrinkled as she smiled and said, “Yeah, you are.”

She squeezed my shoulders one more time, then took back her coffee, leaving me to set up.

Not too long later, a familiar scratchy voice floated into the room.

“Miss Walker? Holy shit, are you our teacher?”