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“I have an idea, I know what we should do, I have equipment at my house—night vision cameras and audio devices from my cousin before they sent him away to the facility in Branson.”
“Breathe, Quinn,” I interrupt. “And we’ve talked about this—you gotta lay off the Red Bulls.”
She turns toward Burrows and seems to remember to inhale between sentences. “I could come to your house and we could do a séance. Then we could burn sage and recite lines from the Bible and Torah and the Quran just to be safe, because you don’t know what religion the ghosts are, but—Oh! And I’m Quinn, by the way.” She holds out her hand. “Hi.”
Jason looks at Quinn’s hand, then slowly reaches out and shakes it.
“Hey.”
“So—what do you think? Do you want to hang out? I can come today, or tomorrow, or tomorrow-tomorrow works too.”
Several other students nod, inviting themselves right along with Quinn.
And Burrows has this expression—it’s the look of a kid who hasn’t been asked to hang out very much in his life. Maybe never. And now he’s got a pretty, outgoing, energetic girl and half a class of students wanting to do just that.
His eyes are warm and hopeful when he smiles. “Yeah, cool. Tomorrow is good. Sounds like fun.”
~ ~ ~
For the next half hour, we do a worksheet—mostly a review of old material. Then with five minutes left before the bell, I announce, “That’s a wrap for today. As you were, people.”
And I pull up “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister on my phone and hit play—loud enough to enjoy the song as it was meant to be heard, but not so loud that one of my fellow educators will go bitching to McCarthy.
My students from last year know the drill. A few talk, Daisy doodles a butterfly on her folder, Diego pulls his cap down and closes his eyes.
Jason Burrows takes out his phone.
“We’re not allowed to go on our phones at the end of class,” Min Joon tells him.
So Burrows takes a textbook out of his bag.
And I whip a wadded-up ball of paper at his head.
“No studying allowed.”
“Well . . . what am I supposed to do?”
I stand up and approach his desk, playing perfect air drums in time to the song.
“Be a kid. Chat amongst yourselves, look out the window, play frigging Seven-Up, I don’t care. You just can’t study or screw around on your phone.”
He still looks confused, so I explain. “Your brain is a muscle . . .”
Louis raises his hand. “Technically the brain . . .”
“Shhh,” I put my finger to my lips. “The teacher is talking.”
My voice resonates across the room like a better-looking version of the Cobra Kai sensei from The Karate Kid.
“How do we build muscle, class?”
I open and close my fist in time to their response.
“Contract, release, contract, release.”
“If you don’t release will you build muscle?”
“Nooooo,” the class answers in unison like a well-trained army of geniuses.
“If you don’t rest, will you build muscle?” I ask.
“Nooooo.”
“No.” I look down at Burrows. “You’ll get worn out, injured, burnt out . . . and you’re no good to me dead.”
I spin around to the class. “Extra credit point on the next quiz for the first person who can tell me who said that!”
I like to keep them on their toes. And these kids eat up extra credit like a puppy scoffs down dog biscuits.
“Boba Fett—The Empire Strikes Back!” Hailey calls out.
“Correct!”
I bring my attention back to Jason.
“So you see, young Burrows. You have to rest your brain once in a while in order to keep getting smarter. Which is why we don’t study or screw around on our phones at the end of AP Calculus.”
I turn around and walk to my desk. But when I sit down, Jason has his hand raised.
“Yes?”
“Boba Fett didn’t say that.”
“No?”
He shakes his head. “The actual quote is ‘He’s no good to me dead.’ ’Cause he was, you know, talking about Han Solo.”
Slowly I nod. “And now you’ve got an extra credit point on the next quiz too. Well done.”
I like this kid. I don’t always like all of them—that’s the dirty little secret of teaching. But I like him.
“You a big fan of Star Wars, Burrows?”
“Kind of.” He shrugs. “My mom’s into all those old movies.”
Old movies . . . nice.
“She says everyone my age should watch them, because they don’t make them like that anymore.”
“Your mom sounds like a smart lady.” I smile. “And I think you are going to fit in with this class just fine.”
Chapter Six
Lainey
Most bloggers, Instagramers, and influencers do their damnedest to project a flawless image to their followers. Perfect lighting, background, makeup, clothes—perfect double mocha latte with an intricate oak tree leaf designed in the foam.
I’ve never been a flawless person. Or organized. I’m more of a hot mess who happened to be blessed with good skin. But my followers like me that way—so I show them the good, the bad, and the morning sickness ugly.
