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She set the tea down on an end table, leaned back, and closed her eyes.
Brett Falcone.
Twenty freaking years. Well, in three days, she’d see him again.
What would happen? She had no idea.
Twenty years earlier
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Phillips?”
“Yes, Kathryn.” The guidance counselor motioned for her to enter his office. “Close the door and have a seat.”
Kathryn complied. She’d never been in a counselor’s office. She was a straight-A student, editor of the school newspaper, member of the orchestra, president of National Honor Society. She’d received early admission to Stanford, her dream school. Spring was here, the school year was nearly over, and graduation was just around the corner. Why was the senior guidance counselor summoning her? What had she done wrong?
She sat, quiet, and waited for him to tell her.
He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you in here.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”
He smiled. “No, of course not. You’re a model student.”
She heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.”
Mr. Phillips chuckled, shaking his head, and part of his comb-over fell over one ear. “You weren’t really worried about that, were you?”
“No. Not really, but you never know.”
He nodded. “I called you here because I need your help, Kathryn.”
/> “Of course. What do you need?”
“We have a student who needs a tutor. I think you might be the best fit.”
“Oh? Who is the student?”
“Brett Falcone.”
“The Italian Stallion?” She clamped her hand on her mouth. Not the thing to say to the senior guidance counselor.
Mr. Phillips, however, let out a laugh. “Yes. The Italian Stallion. He’s failing math, Kathryn. If he doesn’t get his grades up, he can’t play baseball. Our team needs him.”
“You’re kidding, right? I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you want me to tutor Brett Falcone so he can play baseball? Why are sports so important, Mr. Phillips? Why isn’t it important that he learn math because it’s math? Math is a lot more useful in life than batting a ball.”
Kathryn was overreacting, but still she seethed. The emphasis schools put on athletics angered her. She’d never been good at sports, was always the last picked for any team in gym class, had revered the day, sophomore year, when she’d finished the last required physical education class of her high school career. No doubt all the jocks and jockettes had revered that day, too. No longer would they be saddled with the class nerd on any of their teams.
“Normally, I’d agree with that assessment,” Mr. Phillips said, “but he’s already been offered a scholarship to play baseball at OSU. If he doesn’t get his Math grade up, he won’t get the scholarship.”
“A scholarship?” Kathryn shook her head. Brett Falcone would never make it in college. Clearly, he was barely making it through high school. “So you want me to tutor him and get his math grade up so he can play in college?”
Phillips cleared his throat again and his cheeks reddened. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“I think I might be too busy. I have my own grades to think of, you know. And the newspaper and—”
“We all know you’ve already been admitted to Stanford. Your grades at high school level no longer matter.”
Kathryn opened her mouth, but Mr. Phillips held up his hand.
