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Chapter Three
AJ
“Aren’t you glad to be back? How was your summer? I’m so excited for this year! Did you hear about Coach Becker?” Laney Porter smiles widely, her bleach-blonde hair teased high and her lips painted bright pink.
“Hey, Laney. How was your summer?” I ask, knowing that she’ll ask me the same questions again shortly. That’s just how she is. She talks a mile a minute, nonstop, and sometimes it’s a bit hard to keep up. Can you imagine being in her English class?
“It was awesome, of course. I went to visit my dad who lives down the street from the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, so of course, we got tickets and went.” Breath. “Have you heard if they’ve replaced Coach yet? I mean, Ruby called me over the summer and told me he took early retirement because of that issue he had with Mrs. Dorsch. You know the one I’m talking about right? Of course you do. Everyone knows. It’s not every day the PE teacher gets caught with his pants around his ankles with one of the student’s moms. Oh, and she’s twenty years younger than him! Can you believe it?”
This is the point in the conversation when I usually tune her out. She means well, I know, and she really is a nice lady, but having a conversation with her is like trying to train a beagle to tap dance. It’s just not happening.
“Anyway, so our first staff meeting of the year. There are two new teachers, from what I’ve gathered. They replaced Connie Jameson, the sixth and seventh grade math teacher, which you probably know that since it’s your department. I hear he’s a younger guy, probably close to your age, which I guess is really close to my age too! And then there’s Coach Becker. I haven’t heard who they replaced him with. Have you?” She blinks repeatedly, waiting on my response.
“Nope, I haven’t heard yet, but I’m sure we’ll find out in a few minutes.” I glance down at my watch, cursing myself for not waiting a few extra minutes to come down to the teachers’ lounge. “Excuse me a second, Laney,” I say, getting up from one of the worn couches and heading to the back of the room. The coffee pot is calling my name.
“Good morning,” Ellen Morris (she teaches Science) says as she hands me the pot.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, doctoring it up as best I can to camouflage the actual coffee taste, but even then my options are limited. There’s some powder creamer, which is basically like adding chalk, and a handful of sugar packets. I hoard all of it, tossing it in my paper cup, and stirring it with a little plastic stick.
The room gets louder as more bodies cram inside. When I turn around, I’m thankful that my seat beside Laney is occupied. That leaves just a few open seats at the back of the room. Taking one in the corner, I grab my phone from my bag and make sure it’s set to silent. The last thing I want is to be the person in the staff meeting whose phone goes off during the principal’s speech about keeping our phones in our desks during the school day.
I’m checking my email when Mr. Stewart enters the room. He greets the room warmly, his voice welcoming and friendly. It’s always like this before school starts. Near the end of the school year, he’ll sound a bit more like Darth Vader. Working with teens and preteens takes a toll on all of us come mid-April.
“If you’ll all take a seat, we’ll get this meeting started,” he instructs.
I slip my phone into my bag and reach for my coffee cup on the floor. As I’m bent over, a shadow falls over me and someone sits in the chair next to me. I hope it’s Brandy. I’m just starting to sit back up when his leg moves, barely hitting my hand. But it’s enough to send the contents in my cup splashing over the rim and spilling on me.
“Ah!” I say, moving the cup from one hand to the other.
“Shit,” my neighbor mumbles, reaching for my cup and taking it from my hand. I have enough additives to my coffee to help cool it down a bit, so it’s not scalding hot, but it’s still pretty warm. I reach over to my right and grab a napkin off the counter, blotting at the residual beverage. When my hand is wiped clean, I dab at the droplets on the floor, making sure no one will slip.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching blindly for my cup.
The man places it in my hand. “I’m so sorry about that. I wasn’t paying attention,” he says. His voice is warm and apologetic, and oddly familiar.
When I glance up, I’m struck by hypnotizing blue eyes and dark brown hair. He has a bit of facial hair that resembles more of a five o’clock shadow than a beard. His lips are full and soft and remind me of amazing kisses that promised an equally amazing night.
My heart hammers in my chest and my mind blanks.
This can’t be happening.
“Fuck.”
