Chapter Six
Callie
Days go by, and I’m not able to text Garrett to catch up. Because time really flies when you have ten thousand things to do: paperwork, fingerprints, background check—all so I can get emergency certification to teach in New Jersey. There are phone calls to make—to the HR department to set up my emergency family leave, and to Cheryl and Bruce who prove their BFF worthiness by packing up my whole wardrobe and other essentials and shipping it all to me.
My parents coming home from the hospital is a fiasco in and of itself. Between picking up the medical equipment—matching wheelchairs and crutches—and the stress of ordering and fitting a double-wide hospital bed in the middle of the living room—Colleen and I drink through half of her “supplies” in the first week.
Then, before I know it—before I’m anywhere close to prepared or organized—it’s the day before the first day of school, and I have to report to the high school at 8 a.m. sharp for a staff in-service meeting.
I step through the side door of the auditorium a few minutes early. The rows of dark seats, the thin black carpeting beneath my feet, the dim lighting, and quiet, empty stage hidden behind the draping of the red velvet curtain . . . it all takes me back to twenty years ago.
Like it was just waiting here for me, frozen in time.
I made a lot of memories in this room—on that stage and in the secret lofts and caverns behind it—and there’s not a bad one in the bunch.
The heavy metal door shuts against my back with a resounding clang, turning every head in every seat my way. Of course.
Most of the faces are new, but some I recognize—Kelly Simmons, who was the head cheerleader and top mean girl of our graduating class. Her eyes drag up and down over my body before she gives me a tight, unfriendly smile—then whispers to the two equally blond, long-acrylic-painted-fingernailed women on either side of her. Alison Bellinger adjusts her yellow-framed glasses and gives me a vigorous open-palmed wave. She was the student council president in the class above me and judging from her unruly, brown curly hair, effusive expression, and brightly colored Lakeside sweatshirt, she’s just as boisterous as she was then. And look at that—Mr. Roidchester, my old bio teacher, is still alive. We figured he was like a hundred years old back then, but his crotchety, gray, wrinkled self is still kicking.
Obviously voodoo.
Towards the back, I spot Garrett’s dark hair and handsome face. He lifts his chin in greeting, then tilts his head towards the empty seat next to him. I smile, relieved, and head straight for him, like he’s my own hot, personal dingy in a sea of choppy water.
Something I can hold on to.
Before I reach him, Dean Walker stands up from the seat behind Garrett and meets me in the aisle. In relationships, friend groups usually mix, meld together. When we were young, Garrett knew a lot more people than I did—his brothers’ friends, the football players and their girlfriends, were a crew, a pack. Over the years we dated, my old friends became acquaintances, people I’d talk to in school and celebrate with at the cast parties after the fall drama and spring musical but didn’t hang out with otherwise. I was pulled into Garrett’s group—and his friends became mine.
“Hey, sweetness,” Dean purrs, giving me a hug that lifts me off my feet. “Adulthood looks good on you.”
“Thanks, Dean. Good to see you.”
He hasn’t changed, at all—still tall, blond, wearing hot-nerd glasses with a swagger in his stance and a naughty smirk on his lips. Dean was a player with a capital “play.” He had a different girlfriend every few weeks and he was faithful to none of them—though that never stopped the next girl from wanting a crack at taming him. But he was a good, loyal friend to Garrett—to both of us.
“You too, Callie-girl. Welcome home.” He spreads his arms, gesturing to the building around us. “And welcome to the jungle, baby. Just when you think you’re out . . . your parents’ BJ pulls you back in, amiright?”
My eyes roll closed. “I’m never going to hear the end of that one, am I?”
“Never. It’s officially Lakeside legend—I’ve deemed it so.”
“Lovely.”
Dean sits back in his seat and I slide into the one beside Garrett. Our elbows share the armrest, and our biceps press against each other—sending dancing, ridiculously excited sparks through my body.
“How’s it going?” he asks softly.
I sigh. “It’s going.”
“How are your parents?”
“They’re home, mending, but already starting to get on each other’s nerves. They’re stuck in bed next to each other basically every hour of every day. One of them may not make it out alive.”
Garrett’s lips curl into a grin. “My money’s on your mom. I could see her pulling off a Gone Girl.”
I laugh at that imagery. Then I ask, “Why were Kelly Simmons and the Plastics looking at me like they hate me?”
“Because they hate you. Don’t you remember what it was like for the new kid in school?”
“But we’re teachers. We’re not kids anymore.”
Garrett holds up his finger. “Connor has a theory about that. He told me once that teachers like me, who’ve only ever lived by the school calendar—winter break, spring break, summers off—never really leave high school. Add to that the fact that we’re trapped in this building with a thousand teenagers, and we absorb their energy and personality traits—he thinks our brains are still partly stuck in adolescence. That we’re all still teenagers, just walking around in grown-up bodies.” Garrett shrugs. “Kind of like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” He scans the room, glancing at Kelly and a few of the other teachers. “It would explain a lot.”
Wait. Hold on . . . what the hell did I sign up for?
Before I can challenge his theory, Miss McCarthy walks down the main aisle clapping her hands. “Let’s get started, people. Everyone sit down.”
There’s a gust of shuffling and muted whispers and then everyone settles in and turns their attention to Miss McCarthy, standing in front of the stage, with Mrs. Cockaburrow bowing her head behind her like a scared shadow.
“Welcome back. I hope you all had a pleasant summer,” she says, in a tone that indicates she really doesn’t care if our summer was pleasant or not.
“I’d like to welcome Callie Carpenter back to Lakeside—she’s taking over the theater classes for Julie Shriver.”
Miss McCarthy motions for me to stand, and I do, straight and smiling, feeling the weight of fifty sets of judging eyes.
“Hi, Callie,” some in the crowd murmur in unison, sounding like an unenthusiastic group at an AA meeting.
Cockaburrow hands McCarthy a folder, and she holds it out to me. “Callie, here’s your class rosters for the year.” She addresses the others in the room, “The rest of you should have gotten your rosters last week. Check your emails.”
I walk up to get the folder, then head back to my seat, while Miss McCarthy talks about changes to the parking lot regulations.
Garrett leans over my shoulder and Dean huddles behind me.
“Who’d you get, who’d you get?’
And I have déjà vu—an image of our fifteen-year-old selves comparing sophomore-year schedules. Right in this room.
Garrett looks at the list and grimaces.
“Tough break.”
Dean shakes his head. “Oh boy.”
I look back and forth between them. “What? What’s wrong with it?’
“That’s D and B all the way,” Dean says.
“D and B?”
“Dumb and Bad,” Garrett explains. “See, some kids are dumb—not book smart, no matter what you do.”
“Jesus, Garrett, you’re a teacher.”
“I’m honest. And I don’t mean it in a shitty way. My dad didn’t go to college—he was an electrician. The world needs electricians, and pipe layers, garbage men, and ditch diggers. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Okay, so those are the D’s. What about the B’s?”
“Some kids are bad. They might be smart, they might have potential, but they’re still bad. They like to be bad. Major pains in the asses, and not in a fun way.”
“Hey! You three in the back!” McCarthy barks. “Do I need to separate you?”
And the déjà vu strikes again.
I shake my head.
“No,” Garrett says.
“Sorry, Miss McCarthy,” Dean says, leaning back in his seat. “We’ll be good. Please, carry on.”
McCarthy narrows her eyes into slits and points to them with her two fingers, then points those same fingers back at us.
And, Jesus, if I don’t feel like she might give us detention.
The real fun starts when Miss McCarthy begins talking about the student dress code. And a frizzy, red-haired woman shoots her hand up to the ceiling.
“That’s Merkle,” Garrett whispers against my ear, giving me delicious goose bumps. “Art teacher.”
“Miss Merkle?” McCarthy asks.
“Will we be adding MAGA articles to the banned clothing this year?”
Before McCarthy can answer, a square-headed, deep-voiced man in a USA baseball hat inquires, “Why would we ban MAGA clothes?”
“Jerry Dorfman,” Garrett whispers again. And I can almost feel his lips against my ear. Automatically, my neck arches closer to him. “Guidance counselor and assistant football coach.”
Merkle glares across the aisle at Dorfman. “Because they’re offensive.”
Dorfman scoffs. “There’s nothing overtly offensive about a MAGA shirt.”
“There’s nothing overtly offensive about a white hood, either—it’d still be a bad idea to let a student walk around in one,” Merkle volleys back.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re delusional?”
“Stick it up your ass, Jerry.”
“That’s enough, you two!” McCarthy moves down the aisle between them. “There will be no talk of sticking anything up any asses! Not like last year.”
Miss McCarthy takes a deep, cleansing breath. And I think she might be counting to ten.
“MAGA clothes will not be banned—it’s a can of worms I don’t want to open.”
Merkle gives Jerry the finger behind McCarthy’s back. Then he returns the favor.
And I feel like I’m in the twilight zone.
“Speaking of clothing,” a younger-looking, light-brown-haired man in a gray three-piece suit volunteers, in a British accent, “could someone advise these lads to pull up their trousers? If I glimpse another pair of Calvin Klein pants, I’ll be ill.”
“Peter Duvale, pretentious asshole. Teaches English,” Garrett says, and I feel the brush of his breath against my neck. Delicious heat unfurls low and deep in my pelvis.
“Jesus Christ, Duvale—I am too hungover to listen to your bullshit British accent today. Please shut the hell up.”
“Mark Adams,” Garrett says, whisper soft. “Gym teacher, fresh out of college. Only, don’t call him a gym teacher—he’ll be insulted. They’re physical education teachers now.”
I swallow, my skin tingles from the sound of Garrett’s voice so close.
Another man raises his hand. This one middle aged with dark, thick hair sticking up at all possible angles.
“Speaking of dress code, can we make sure Christina Abernathy’s breasts are covered this year? There was nipple-peekage last year. Not that I was looking—I wasn’t. But if I had looked, I would’ve seen areola.”
“Evan Fishler—science teacher,” Garrett tells me quietly, and I squirm in my seat, rubbing my thighs together. “He spends his summers in Egypt researching the pyramids. Believes he was abducted by aliens when he was a kid.” A smile seeps into Garrett’s tone. “He’ll tell you all about it, for hours and hours . . . and hours.”
I turn my head and Garrett Daniels is right there. So close, our noses almost touch. And there’s the familiar, thrilling sensation of falling, hard and fast. There’s not a cell in my body that doesn’t remember feeling this way, whenever he was near.
“Thanks.”
He gazes at me, eyes drifting from my neck to my chin, settling on my mouth.
“You’re welcome, Callie.”
Then the moment is broken.
Because Merkle and Jerry go at it again.
“Breasts are not sexual objects, Evan,” Merkle says.
Jerry snorts. “The fact that you believe that is exactly your problem.”
“You’re such a pig.”
“I’d rather be a pig than miserable.”
“No. Miserable would describe the women who’ve had the misfortune of going out with you.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” Jerry winks.
Dean groans. “Jesus, would you two put us out of our misery and just bang already?! I hear the janitor’s closet is nice—there’s probably still lube in there from last year’s senior lock-in.”
Miss McCarthy yells, “There is no lube in the janitor’s closet, Dean! That’s a vicious rumor!”
“There’s definitely lube in the janitor’s closet,” someone says. “Ray the maintenance guy hangs out in there way too long not to be whacking it.”
Then the whole auditorium erupts in a debate over whether or not there is lube hidden in the janitor’s closet. Then the conversation quickly turns to the mystery of the still unclaimed dildo that was apparently found in the teacher’s lounge after sixth period last May.
Amidst the chaos, Miss McCarthy throws up her hands and talks to herself.
“Every year. Every fucking year with these shitheads.”
Wow.
In fifth grade, my school gave us “the talk”—the birds and bees, where babies come from, biology talk. My mother had already given me the rundown, so I wasn’t surprised—unlike some of my poor classmates, who looked like they were being scarred for life.
What was surprising was my epic realization . . . that my teachers had, at some point in their lives, had sex. Old Mrs. Mundy, the librarian, whose husband was the school gardener, had had sex. Young, handsome Mr. Clark, who taught social studies and who eighth-grade girls—and a few of the boys—majorly crushed on, had had sex. Cheery, energetic Mrs. O’Grady, who had seven children . . . she’d had a whole bunch of sex.
It blew my mind.
Because it was the first moment I comprehended that my teachers . . . were human.
They ate, they drank, they had sex, they went to the bathroom, fought, probably cursed—just like real people. Like my parents. Like anyone.
Teachers were people too.
And looking around the room now, I feel another realization coming on. Were my teachers also this crazy? I don’t know if it’s a question I want answered.
So instead, as the arguing and insults continue, I lean closer to Garrett. “Is it always like this?”
“No, it’s a lot calmer this year.” He glances at the Poland Spring bottle in his hand. “I wonder if McCarthy spiked the water bottles with chamomile.”
Again . . . wow.
Garrett looks over to me, smirking. “Is this what your theater company’s meetings are like?”
All I can do is chuckle.
“Ah . . . no.”