Page 13 of Read With Your Heart

Only moved here last week.

There’s definitely a disconnect with her writing because when she’s called on in class, she speaks well enough. Based on a few things in her journal, I think she could use a check-in with the school social worker. My concerns are solidified when I look in her student file. The parents’ names are listed but another person is named as guardian. There’s no phone number or email contact, which is my preference for home communication. The current address is missing with a note: waiting on utility bill for proof of residency. Her previous address lists Chicago. The rest of her file is empty, meaning she’s missing prior school records. It’s very strange, and when I bring it to the attention of the school secretary, she tells me Amaryllis is a transfer to the district.

“How am I supposed to reach the guardian?” I ask.

“Ask the student for a phone number.”

The advice isn’t much, but I do just that, requesting that her guardian or parent call me.

Only another week passes without any returned messages from the guardian, who I confirm with Lys is her older brother. My concerns for her academic ability have grown after some basic reading and writing tests we administer to all students. Amaryllis is not on grade level.

Then one day, I see Commercial Break—the nickname Jenna and I have given our afternoon basketball player—shooting hoops just before the bell rings to end the day. The nickname comes from an old television commercial where a group of women drink diet cola and ogle a construction worker. As I’m lost in my final moments of drooling over the mystery man, I watch a girl approach him. It’s hard to be certain from this angle who it is, but the distinct jet-black hair stands out to me. Is that Amaryllis? I track her path as she nears the court and the basketball hottie turns to her. Is she . . . dating him? She can’t be. Although his physique is masculinity defined to a T, his stature also suggests he’s older than high school, and she’s only fourteen, fifteen at most. They chat for a moment, and then he approaches her, slipping an arm over her shoulders and tugging her into him. My older brothers used to do the same thing to me before putting me in a headlock and rubbing their knuckles into my hair.

A lightbulb turns on. Is Commercial Break the older brother?

Setting my soda can down, I race out of my classroom and run down the hall, which we tell the students never to do. I take the stairs at a steadier pace since I’m wearing heels and then rush out the back doors of the building to discover I’m too late. I lost them in the time it took me to get to the parking lot. I spin around like I’m the only human on earth wondering where everyone else went.

+ + +

The next day, I tell Amaryllis it’s imperative I speak with her brother. She nods like she understands, but he still doesn’t contact me. I’m close to threatening a home visit but decide I’ll wait until open house, a night for parents—or guardians—to visit the high school and walk the student’s schedule at seven-minute intervals. It’s sort of like speed dating, not that I’d know anything about that. I try not to think about how I haven’t been on a date since I’d gotten married ten years ago and how before that, I was with Trent for two years, and we didn’t go out on traditional dates.

That’s a long time, Tricia, my dad’s voice says to me with a touch of concern.

I know, Daddy.

As students and parents file in on the night of the open house, I’m in the hallway greeting them, making eye contact with Jenna next door on occasion. Suddenly, the air in the corridor seems to still. It’s like a parting of the crowd, like you’d see in those young adult movies when the popular kids arrive at the building. Only this isn’t some high school jock walking down the hallway. This is a man dressed in head-to-toe black. Leather jacket. Motorcycle boots. Tee and jeans. Even his hair is dark, and his eyes narrow in on me as he draws closer to my door.

“Back to steal more pink notebooks,” I snark, although it comes out breathless and meek and just all kinds of wrong.

“Actually, I’m looking for a Ms. Carter. Lys told me this is the room number.” I’d decided to return to my maiden name at the start of the school year even though my divorce isn’t fully final yet.

“Lys?” I question, brows pinching together.

“Amaryllis Ramirez.” The way he says her name, the Rs rolling over his tongue, is like a lick along my neck. Wild, dirty thoughts come to mind about the strength of that tongue, what it takes to curve just right, and how it might feel in certain places on my body.

Oh my. Suddenly, I’m so warm I tug at the collar of my dress. Heat fills my face, and I itch to fan myself with my hand. Instead, I curl my fingers tighter into the neck of the light material near my throat as though this is a normal position and continue to observe him.

“I’m her brother.” He doesn’t offer a name but does extend his hand. Only, I continue to stare at him, lost in those unusual gray eyes. I know him. It’s more than the run-in in the classroom a few weeks ago.

He’s the man from the alley.

“Where have you been?” I whisper, breathless again. Still holding his gaze, he returns his hand to his pocket. I didn’t end up shaking it. He tilts his head, questioning my question, and I shake mine to clear it and continue.

“I’m so sorry. Yes, Ms. Carter. That’s me. I’m her teacher. You’re her brother?” I swallow. “I mean, you are her brother. Wonderful. Come in.”

He smiles slowly. It’s the same swoony smirk I glimpsed the night I caught him stealing the notebook—the one he was picking up for his sister, who is my student. His tongue peeks forward, and my vision follows the swipe of it over his pouty bottom lip.

Diet cola in a tequila cup.

I have no idea what that means, but it’s better than cursing, which I want to do, right before I press up on my toes and see how those lips feel against mine. Shocked by my sudden thoughts, I take a giant step back and kick a metal locker which echoes down the hall, causing a few people to turn their heads. The chime overhead signals the start of a new period, and I need to begin my presentation about freshman English. I have no idea what I say to this group of parents as I’m so distracted by the tall man casually leaning against the back wall of my classroom. With arms crossed, he’s watching me, and I can’t think straight. Before I know it, the seven minutes are up. The chime rings for the parents to rotate, and they move, emptying from the desks and shyly waving or thanking me for my time.

Just as Amaryllis’s brother is about to leave the room, my senses return to me. “Wait,” I call out a little too loudly. He stops and turns around.

“Am I in trouble, teacher?” The way he asks—the way his voice drops—makes me want to tell him he’s in all kinds of trouble, and he needs to be punished even though we don’t do that anymore. We aren’t about consequences as much as rewards in education these days. Still, he isn’t in trouble, but he is trouble—with a capital T.

“Yes,” I choke out. “I mean, no. I need to speak with you about Amaryllis.”

He steps back into the room, coming closer to my desk, and I lean my hands against it, my palms sweating. I use the furniture for support as my heart races. Focus, Tricia.