There’s a story behind Aly and me. There’s a story behind almost everyone I’ve mentioned so far. A long one, but I’m not ready to tell you all about that just yet. As you can imagine, I’m a bit secretive, but eventually, you’ll get the whole truth and nothing but it. I don’t lie.
For now, I’m inside my classroom watching students come in, one by one, their backpacks on their backs and nervous smiles on their faces. I enjoy watching people. Especially kids. You can decipher a lot about them and their parents by the way they present themselves and interact with others in public.
You can immediately tell which ones are assholes, and which ones have asshole parents.
Eight-year-olds are something else. In the matter of ten minutes, I’ve laughed more at this group of kids in my class than I have in the last ten years combined.
A girl with pigtails and a bright pink dress stands in front of me, staring at me like I’m some sort of superhero to her. Also, she’s clearly wearing makeup. Who lets their child wear makeup at this age?
“You’re young to be a teacher. Are you old enough?” she asks, hands on her hips.
I nod. “I am. Are you young enough for this class? You look ten.”
That makes her happy. “I’m seven. I’ll be eight in three days. Can I bring cupcakes on my birthday?”
“Only if they’re chocolate. If they’re vanilla, don’t bother. I’ll toss them out the window.”
Her eyes widen. “Why would you do that?”
“I don’t like vanilla. At all.”
She scowls at me, and I find it ridiculously entertaining I’ve already pissed her off, and the bell hasn’t even rang yet. “But it’s my birthday. . . .”
“It’s my classroom.”
Another kid to my left crawls on my lap and shows me his cast. “My name is Brennan. I broke my arm jumping off the roof of my house.”
“Explains the cast.” I gently push him off my leg and make him stand up. I’m not much for personal affection, and these kids are all over me. “Bet you don’t jump off roofs anymore, do you?”
He stares at me, blinking slowly. “No. What do you call an alligator in a vest.”
I roll my eyes. “What do you take me for, an amateur? An alligator in a vest is an investigator.”
The boy in the cast laughs and moves back for the next kid to invade my space.
I know exactly who Cash Jacob is as soon as he walks through the door to my classroom, along with his brother, Grady. Poor kids are matching, and I can tell by the way one has twisted his backpack around to the front of his chest, they don’t want to be matching twins.
But like I said, I know who Cash is. He’s one of those kids you can tell is going to own this school when he’s older. Even at eight years old, he has a walk of confidence and poise, something I know I had as a kid.
I can’t ever remember being insecure or feeling out of place around other kids. I just didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought. Cash, he’s the same way.
There are twenty-two students in my class, and he stands out. Probably because he looks identical to Austin, which is unfortunate, with Aly’s smile which I saw briefly, when the little blonde-haired girl seated next to him offered him a pencil.
When the bell rings, twenty-two sets of eyes look to me for direction. I smile at them, a little unsure what I’m supposed to be doing, but hey, can’t be that hard, right?
Before you go thinking I have no business teaching children, on some level, you’re absolutely right. I shouldn’t be teaching children. On others, I had been teaching camp tours for five years. I do know how to teach, and I have a degree that says so.
I start by pointing to the chalkboard behind me. “My name is Ridge Lucas.”
“Good morning, Mr. Lucas,” a handful of kids say, only to have me chuckle and lean back into the desk with my hands in my pockets.
“Nah, none of that. It’s just Ridge. I know the school wants you to call me Mr. Lucas. . . but where’s the fun in that? How about you call me Ridge?”
All but one of the student’s smile back at me. Cash. He’s staring out the window, probably ignoring me all together. I watch him for a moment, the way his dark lashes drift closed ever so often and the way no one in the class draws his attention with their giggles or questions. I’m a little jealous of his ability to be completely lost in a moment and shut the world out, even if it’s just for a second. I haven’t been able to do that in years.
I go through the normal procedures you would do on the first day from showing them where their lunch boxes go to where to hang up their coats. I only know this because there are labels on pretty much everything in the classroom.
“I have two rules for my classroom.” I wait for them to look at me. And they do, even Cash this time. “Respect me. . . and respect others.”
They nod but remain quiet. For the little comedians I had when they entered the classroom, I’m surprised they’re so quiet now. Makes me wonder who their fucking teacher was last year that they couldn’t talk during class.
“So let’s start by introducing ourselves and telling everybody one thing you did over the summer that you loved.” I point to my chest. “I’ll go first. You know I’m Ridge. . . and I taught camp tours at the National History Museum all summer down in Santa Barbara.”
A dark-haired boy in the front row raises his hand and sweeps his hair from his black eyes. “Yes?” I glance at his nameplate on his desk, but I can’t make it out. I’m blind as a fucking bat and refuse to wear glasses. Let’s just say that the minivan bitch in my lane this morning. . . could have possibly been my fault. There’s a 10 percent. . . maybe 80 percent. . . I was in her lane.
“Did you surf at the beach in Santa Barbara?” he asks, his voice timid like he’s not sure if he can ask that or not. With each passing minute, I’m more and more convinced this school is running a police academy.
I take a seat on the edge of my desk and reach up to run my hand through my hair. “Yeah, I surfed. But I’m not any good at it,” I tease, laughing lightly. I gesture with a flick of my hand to the boy who just asked the question. “How about you go next. Tell the class your name and one thing you did this summer.”
The boy slouches, pulling at the sleeves of his shirt nervously. “I um. . .” His eyes dart around the silent room. “My name is Draven Mattis, and I uh. . . helped my dad build a deck?”
In case you’re wondering, that did come out like a question. Look at his face? He’s asking me if that’s what he did. Crazy kid.
“Nice, buddy.” I nod, trying to be encouraging. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Draven.” He smiles up at me when I say his name. Next to him is Grady, and I’m really fucking curious what he’s going to say. “What’s your name?”
He looks to his brother first, then familiar blue eyes land on mine and the grin presents itself. It stirs my own. He has a cute smirk. One I know probably works on his mom to get what he wants.
Just the thought of Aly sends my heart racing, my memories of her sinking in my gut, and the last conversation I had with Austin the night I destroyed everything.
“What are you doing with Aly? You’re going to break her heart, and she’s too good of a person for it.”
This motherfucker had no right to be calling her Aly. He didn’t even know her. He knew Alyson Sprague. He didn’t know little Aly Rae. The little blonde girl crushing my heart with her sweet blue eyes and cherry-red lips.
Austin stared, his eyes assessing me just like his dad always did. Long before Brooks came into my life, he had assumptions about who I was and how he was going to treat me. Like the bastard stepson he never wanted.
I didn’t answer, and I wouldn’t give Austin anything to go on.
“You’re not fooling anyone, Ridge. . .” He paused, staring me up and down. “You’d break her heart, and that’s not a risk she’s going to take.”
He was right, but I still didn’t answer him. I wasn’t trying to fool anyone. I knew loving someone like Aly wouldn’t get me anywhere. I was never going to have her. Her heart would never be mine to break.
“I’m Grady Lucas,” the boy finally says, breaking me from my memories, bright eyes blinking slowly. “I played football with my brother. It was fun.”
Football? Who cares about football? I want to know about your mom, kid.
Damn. And I’m disappointed in a child. No information on Aly. Maybe Cash will help me out. He’s next. While the class greets Grady, I glance at Cash, who now has a pencil in his hand and he’s drawing something on his desk.
“What did you do this summer, Cash?”
Nothing. No response at all.
Sliding off my desk, I step toward his in the front row. “What are you drawing?”
He doesn’t look up but drops the pencil and then catches it before it rolls off the desk, slapping his palm over it. “What does it look like?” Our eyes meet for the first time. His defiant, mine amused.
Fuck. He acts more like me than Austin. I shouldn’t laugh, and I don’t, but I do smile. His drawing, while animated to say the least, doesn’t appear to resemble much of anything.
“Looks to me like Superman attacking Cinderella.”
Cash flips the pencil over and starts erasing the lines he drew. When that doesn’t work to remove the markings from the desk, he spits on the table then begins to wipe it off with his shirt. “It’s not Cinderella,” he growls at me, glaring. “She’s fake anyway.”
Remember vanilla cupcake girl with pigtails? Her name is Arrow and you better believe her makeup-wearing ass has something to say. She raises her hand, and my eyes slide to hers. “That’s not true. Cinderella is real! I met her this summer.”
Oh great. It’s only eight thirty and we’re already debating over fairy tales. Awesome.
The girl to the left of Cash raises her hand. I peek at her name tag. “Yes, Luna?”
“Cash spit on his desk.”
Is she seriously tattling on him? I give her a what the fuck look. “I’m standing right here. I literally witnessed him spitting, so why are you telling on him?”
She shrugs.
Just shrugs.
I need better rules. There’s gonna have to be more than respect me and others. “All right. I got one more rule. No telling on your classmates. Unless they’ve physically hurt you or themselves, I don’t want to hear about it.”
I stare down at Cash and Grady, both watching me.
What I really want to say is: Unless of course you want to tell me about your mom.
Grady is moving around in his chair a lot. “Why are you moving around so much? Stop.”
He frowns when all the kids look at him. “My. . . underwear are on backward.”
Well shit. Haven’t had that one yet.
Arrow snickers, covering her mouth in a laugh. “He said underwear.”
What an asshole kid. Why is the word underwear funny to them?
Cash whips around in his chair and throws his pencil at her head. “Don’t make fun of my brother, stupid head!”
Stupid head? That’s original. I fight the urge not to laugh.
Have you ever wondered how a war can break out with eight-year-olds? Here’s your answer. Call one of them a stupid head and throw a pencil at their eye.
I want to laugh, but my only thought is finally I can call his mother to the school for a parent-teacher conference.