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33
JOEY
If someone had told me a month ago that the time between the winter show and the end of term would fly by so fast, I wouldn’t have believed them. Actually, I didn’t. Because Ginger warned me that I’d blink and it would be break, and I blinked. And it’s really here.
Winter break.
Three weeks with no classes, no kids, no requirements. Even with four days at my parents’ house looming large in my future, I can’t help but notice how much easier it is to breathe now.
The Chamberlain student body exited campus in waves as soon as their finals were finished, and I have not stopped grinning.
Dexter Kaplan might have something to do with that.
Something completely appropriate and aboveboard. But, you know, behind closed doors.
I’m inputting the last of my students’ final grades in the computer and locking the semester’s data, and I’ve got thirteen minutes to spare. There’s a faculty meeting in the Hall at noon, and then most of the teachers will disperse for their own holiday destinations. I can only imagine how amazing Bali and Tenerife look right about now. But I’ll settle for getting into Boston without any National Weather Service announcements.
I save my changes and turn out my classroom lights before locking the door behind me and heading for the Hall.
Campus is covered in a blanket of fresh snow, smoothing out all the features of the dormant shrubs and highlighting evergreen trees. The dorm buildings are dark, shuttered for the next month, and I wonder if buildings sigh relief like I did when the kids left. Not that I won’t miss them. Wait. I probably won’t miss them. It’s only four weeks until class starts again. After this semester, I honestly can’t say that’s enough time for me to get sentimental. Weak sunlight makes an attempt to break through the cloud cover, but all it can manage is a grey haze. It’s like walking through a black and white photo.
I pull my scarf up over my nose and mouth, breathing through the wool.
I love this place.
When I get to the Hall, I find chairs set up facing the wall of windows, in front of which a portable stage has been raised. Dr. Moreau and the Chamberlain board members mill around up there, shaking hands and nodding at each other. I take a seat close to the fireplace and wave to Wanda when she catches my eye. I think she winks.
A minute later, Ginger sits beside me, and before we say more than hello, Dexter and Hank slip into the chairs on my other side. Hank is wearing a huge plaid flannel over a hoodie, looking as much like a student as I’ve ever seen him. Dexter has on dark jeans and a thick fisherman’s cable sweater that I instantly wish lived in my closet. It’s the kind of sweater I could curl up inside and go to sleep. Or just wrap it around me. While Dexter’s still in it.
“You look good,” I whisper to Dexter. It’s true, but I would have said it just to see him look at me that way even if it was a lie. His whole face lights up with a smile that would be impossible to ignore, even if I were still trying to ignore his smiles.
Let me be clear. I am not trying any such thing.
“Do you have a recent head shot?” I ask.
He looks surprised.
“It’s a couple of years old.”
“Will you let me take a new one for you?” I ask.
“Now?”
I shrug. “I mean, the meeting starts in a minute, but seriously, if casting directors or whatever they’re called could see how you look right now? In this light? In this sweater?” I put my hand on his arm. It feels so good, the warmth of him radiating through his clothes. This might be a mistake. I may never move my hand away. It takes a second to remember what I was trying to say. “They’d fall over themselves to put you on stage.”
He blushes. He blushes.
Hank slaps Dexter on the other arm. “See?” he says. Now Hank leans over and says to me, “I tried to tell him the same thing earlier today, but he blew me off. I hope he takes your compliments more seriously than he takes mine.” As Hank speaks, Dexter puts his palm to Hank’s forehead and pushes him gently away.
“Please ignore him,” Dexter says.
“Consider him ignored,” I say, throwing a grin at Hank. “You really should learn to take a compliment, though,” I say.
“Thank you,” Dexter says. “I would love to have my photo taken by the famous Joey Harker. Think how valuable that would be.”
I laugh. “It’s not the photographer. It’s the material. And don’t think I’m being noble. I want a copy of that picture.”
He starts to say something else, but my attention is drawn away when Dr. Moreau begins to speak into the microphone. “Alors. Welcome to the last meeting you must endure before your break.” She gives a small smile. “I shall make it as quick as possible.” This is received with a smattering of polite applause.
