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“That’s not cool, Dean,” I say, like I’m lecturing one of the kids.
He rolls his eyes, then makes a whipping motion with his hand—sound effects included. “Wapsshh. I don’t even know you anymore.”
He wiggles his eyebrows at Callie. “If you quit the first week, Evan has to cough up a cool hundred.”
And my chest tightens, way more than it should.
“She’s not fucking quitting.” I look down at her. “You’re not quitting. You got this, Callie.”
She shakes her head, and the fist squeezing my heart loosens its grip.
Dean may have a point about my whipped status. Shit.
“I’m not quitting. But I could really use a drink.”
I nod. “We all could. Chubby’s does a special every year . . . if you show your teacher’s ID, you get half off.”
~ ~ ~
There’s a lot of bars in Lakeside, but Chubby’s is the favorite among old-timers and locals looking for a beer after work. It’s dim, windowless, quiet except for the old jukebox in the corner and the one, small television above the bar that’s only ever been tuned to ESPN. My brother Ryan used to bartend here in the summers when he was home from college—and because we were cool about it, he’d slip me and my friends beers. Callie’s old theater friend, Sydney, owns the place now. She’s divorced with two kids and gorgeous—a far cry from the granny-glasses-wearing, frizzy-haired shy girl she used to be.
None of my current students would be caught dead here—they prefer to try their fake IDs at the newer, younger, more New York club-like Colosseum, down the highway.
Me, Callie, Dean, Merkle, Jerry, Evan, and Alison Bellinger head to Chubby’s and commiserate over a few pitchers of beer at a table in the back corner.
“Two weeks . . . I don’t smile for the first two weeks of school.”
Alison Bellinger is one of the nicest, happiest people I know. If you told me she shits rainbows and pisses sunshine, I’d believe you. Apparently, she’s also quite the actress.
“They all think I’m a grade-A bitch,” she tells Callie, wiping foam off her upper lip with her sleeve. “Mean, nasty, stone cold and heartless.”
You wouldn’t know it to look at her, but little Alison can also chug like a fucking champ. I’ve seen her drink guys twice her size under the table without missing a beat. It’s impressive.
“But it’s what I have to do—scare them. I’m young, small, if I’m nice right off the bat, they think they can get away with murder. My first year teaching, nobody did classwork, no one brought pens to class—it was bathroom passes and trips to the nurse all period long. Chaos.”
She shakes her head, remembering. “If they’re afraid of me, they respect me, or at least pretend that they do. Then, as the year progresses, I can slowly relax—let them get to know the real me. But the respect sticks.”
Callie draws her finger across the side of her frosty mug.
“I think I need to be taught how to teach.” She snorts, maybe only half-jokingly. “You guys know any available tutors?”
No less than three awesome, tutor-and-the-naughty-student fantasies spring into my head at once, and every one stars me, Callie . . . and her old Catholic school uniform.
I lean forward, and go for it.
“Come to my house tomorrow night. I’ll make you dinner and tell you everything I know about teaching. I’m awesome at it—ask anyone. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be awesome too.”
Alison’s eyes dart from me to Callie above her beer.
Callie’s smile is shy and her voice is just a little bit breathless. Good sign. And then . . . she shoots me down.
“I would love to . . . but my parents . . . I can’t leave them.”
I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone.”
Callie watches as I pull up her sister’s number.
“Colleen, hey, it’s Garrett Daniels. I’m good, thanks. Listen, I need to borrow your sister tomorrow night. Can you cover for her with your parents?”
Colleen starts to give me shit about how she already has daytime parent duty and how her kid has basketball practice Saturday nights.
“Okay, I get all that, but she needs a night off once in a while. You want her to snap?”
Callie’s green eyes shine at me, making my heart rate run faster, harder . . . because she’s so damn pretty. And I can’t remember the last time I wanted to hang out with someone so much—just talking, laughing, listening, looking at them. Probably not since high school.
Not since her.
“Give her Saturday nights and I’ll give your kids driving lessons, free of charge. Emily’s only a few years away from her permit, right? It’s a good deal for you, Col.”
She thinks about it for a second . . . and then she agrees. Because even over the phone, no one can resist this face.
