Lance

She’s always early on Monday mornings. It’s one of the few parts of her schedule I can predict and one the nerd in me loves. Most people struggle on Mondays. Mariah is at the school at least an hour early on the first day of the week.

While I don’t always start the week on a low note, today I was late. I could say it was the extra two minutes it took for the shower to warm up or the fact that I didn’t sleep last night. I could even situate the blame on Machlan’s shoulders for coming over and making me some rocket fuel shit that went down way too easily, but did help the story of the afternoon come together with less prompting.

Truth is, it was intentional.

The staff meeting about homecoming festivities would’ve put Mariah and I across from one another in a room full of people. On the surface, that seems like the perfect way to break the ice. Assumptions are often wrong.

The third rule of history is silence is not louder than words. When things get too quiet historically, they’re forgotten. The chaotic moments, the ones filled with passion and emotion—they’re the ones remembered. When I see her again, it won’t be in a room full of people. I won’t be forced to be silent. The words I’ll use aren’t formulated yet, they likely won’t be until the moment comes because I’ve tried to find the right thing to say since I left her yesterday and I keep coming up empty. But they’ll come. They always do with her.

“Make sure you finish this tonight,” I tell the sophomores as they gather their things. “I will take this for a grade tomorrow. You’ve been warned.”

“Have a good day, Mr. Gibson.” Two girls, who are going to cause some poor boys a lot of trouble, wave as they strut past my desk.

“Bye, ladies.”

It takes everything I have not to get up and shoo them out the door. Glancing at the clock, I have four minutes until I usually trek up the stairs and slip into Mariah’s room while she’s getting her lunch. On most days, I’d slide my phone out of my pocket and see what my inbox looks like. Today, I slip it in my desk.

I toyed with deleting the app last night. Machlan pointed out there’s a chance she could message me and if I answered that, I wouldn’t be out of line. So, I didn’t. But I haven’t checked it since the parking lot of Peaches.

My hands undergo a quick sanitizing with some gel. I’m getting up to go upstairs when I see Ollie head away from the cafeteria. Puzzled, I go to the hallway and watch him take a long drink from the fountain. The clock ticks to ‘go time,’ but my feet remain in place.

“Hey, Ollie. Can you come in here a minute?”

He spins around, looking surprised. “Sure, Mr. Gibson.”

Stepping by me, the same tattered shirt he wore on Friday hanging from his thinning frame, he stands next to a bust of President Kennedy.

“It’s none of my business,” I say. “But why aren’t you in the cafeteria?”

“I, um, I eat by myself. The cafeteria is too loud.”

He looks at everything in the room besides me. The clock flicks past another minute and I suck in a breath, knowing this situation likely just stole the moment I’ve been anticipating since yesterday.

“Okay. Fair enough. Where do you usually eat?” I ask him.

“Just wherever.” His hand goes in his pocket as resignation settles over his face.

“You can always eat with me. Even if I’m not in here, you can come in and flip on the television if you want. Okay?”

“Thanks, Mr. Gibson.”

The location isn’t the problem and we both know it. Racking my brain for a way to fix this without making him feel bad, I tap my fingers against the desk. “I had an ulterior motive for asking you to come in here.”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “What’s that?”

“I need a favor.”

“From me?”

Nodding, I try to bring this together as smoothly as possible. “I’m on a panel of teachers the school board put together to analyze the cafeteria food. It’s not something they really want spread around because of politics and stuff like that. Anyway, I’m supposed to pick a student to get a tray every day and then report back on what they think about it.”

“Okay,” he draws out, smelling bullshit.

I need to fortify my story. “Ms. Malarkey is selecting a freshman and I thought you’d be a great upperclassman.”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Gibson.”

“Look, all you have to do is get a tray,” I say, forcing a swallow. “The school will credit your account for a tray a day for the rest of the year.”

He eyes me curiously. There’s an element of pride sitting behind his sleepy eyes, one that makes my heart drop. It also worries me that he won’t go along with my plan.

“If you don’t want to eat it, you can toss it in the garbage,” I add. “Just give me something in May that says how you liked it and what you hated and, just, whatever you think.”

“All I have to do is get a tray and give you a paper on it in May?”

“Yes. It’s not for a grade or anything. I’ll even give you extra credit or something because I know it’s kind of a pain for you to do this. I could ask someone else,” I say, going for the guilt factor, “but I really need someone who’s truthful who’ll give me the report.”

The relief is visible. I want to give the kid a fucking hug.

“I’ll call down to the office now,” I say, having to look away. “You can get your tray and start today, if you want. No pressure.”

“I could do that,” he says eagerly.

“Great.”

He heads to the door. “I’ll go now. Thanks, Mr. Gibson. If you need anything sooner from me before May, just shout.”

“Yeah. Will do. Thank you.”

Using my palm, I wipe at an eye that must’ve gotten some dust in it. I buzz down to the office and the secretary picks up.

“Hey, this is Lance,” I tell her. “Does Ollie’s lunch account have anything on it?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you that,” she says. “But …” There’s typing on the other end. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Can you stick twenty bucks on there and I’ll come down this afternoon and talk to you about it?”

“Sure can.”

“Thanks.”

My head goes into my hands. On some level, this is why I got into teaching in the first place. But it’s also the part no one explained to me beforehand. Mouthy kids, errant students, even ones who don’t give a damn—I can handle that. Hungry kids? Neglected ones? Kids who don’t have a pot to piss in? Those I can’t.

A knock raps at the door. When I raise my head, I can’t look anywhere else.

Mariah is standing there in a yellow dress that’s belted around her waist. Her hair is down today and in her hand is the little bag she carries her lunch in.

She’s prettier than ever and I realize that’s probably some sex-deprived colored glasses kind of thing. But as she tries to decipher whether or not to say something, I want to storm across the room and plant my lips on hers.

“Hey,” she says, switching the bag between her hands. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was getting my lunch and sort of overheard a part of your conversation with Ollie.” She smiles sheepishly. “Don’t even start with the eavesdropping stuff.”

“I was in my room this time,” I say, getting to my feet. The sun didn’t change positions out the window, but it sure feels a lot brighter in here now. “I do find it interesting you’d go out of your way to listen in on my conversation, even when I don’t come to you to have them. More adorable than strange, if you’re wondering.”

She grins. “I think it was my name that stopped me in my tracks.”

“Still eavesdropping,” I tease. “Would you like to come in?”

The grin falters. Reality settles in, creasing the lines on her forehead. “Should I?”

“The door is open. Pun intended.”

Her eyes roll, but it’s enough of a joke to get her to move. She comes inside and does a full three-sixty of my room. “This looks nice.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Your room looks nice.”

“So nothing about the shirt?” I ask, tugging on the neckline of my button-down. “I wore it thinking it was the color of my balls.”

“Lance …” She gulps. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I do.”

Pacing around my desk, I lean against the front. She fidgets with her bag. Her nails are a shade of pink which is weird because she usually doesn’t paint them. But I don’t ask. Now isn’t the time.

At around four this morning, as I was watching a cooking show on television, I came up with a half-assed plan. I don’t want to make her so uncomfortable that she doesn’t want to see me. While I’m trying hard not to touch her, I have no intention of ceasing to see her. I haven’t lost my mind.

“I won’t mention the app if it makes you uncomfortable,” I promise. “I will say I loved seeing that part of you—now that I know it was you—and I find it hysterical that we were messaging all this time and didn’t know it. But I’ll let it go.”

“You will?”

“I will. But if I get a paper cut, I’m coming to you for those nursing skills you promised to show me.”

She swings her lunch bag and it hits me in the arm, but there’s a happiness on her face that’s priceless. Keeping a side-eye on her, I head to the door and swing it shut.

“What day do we go to your mom’s?” I ask. “And do we get to meet the sister? Because if she’s anything like your mom, I’m gonna get a drink before we go.”

“We aren’t.” She opens her bag and takes out a baggie. “I’m not going.”

“Can I ask two things?”

“Yeah.”

“First, and most importantly, what’s in that baggie?” Raising a brow, I hold out my palm. “It looks like dessert.”

She takes a nibble and shrugs. “Lemon bars. You don’t like lemon.”

“I’m assuming you made me something?”

“Nope.”

My jaw drops. “Fine then. Second question is why are we not going to your mother’s party?”

“I am not going to my mother’s because she’s impossible. And my sister is going to be there with her husband and their child and I have no interest in seeing them.”

Reaching out, I make a point of taking a lemon bar from her bag. She watches me with a heated gaze. That part I ignore. For now.

“May I ask why?” Bringing the bar to my lips, I take a bite. It’s sweeter than I thought it would be, brighter in flavor. Not really lemon-y, but fruitier. “This is really good.”

“Thanks.”

“Back to the sister?”

“You’re so pushy,” she notes, putting the baggie back in her bag.

“And your point?”

She rummages in the bag again, but more aimlessly than before. There can’t be that much crap in there to take her this long. Still, I refrain from pestering her even if it’s harder than hell to do.

“My sister,” she begins, forcing a swallow, “married my ex-boyfriend. Like, six months after we broke up they got married.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m not.”

Smacking my tongue off the roof of my mouth, things start to make more sense. “You’re thinking if she married him that fast …”

“That they were screwing around while we were together? Correct.”

I wonder vaguely what my reaction looks like from her viewpoint. Utter confusion as to how a guy who wanted to be tied down with a woman would walk away from Mariah? Pure venom spikes in my blood toward a man I don’t even know for putting that look on her face—like she’s not worthy of someone’s first choice.

Fuck that guy.

“You’re right,” I say, polishing off the lemon bar. “We hate her.”

“You have no idea,” she grumbles.

Shoving off my desk, I take a few steps toward her. Her perfume is different today. It’s still soft and feminine, but sexier instead of floral. Or maybe that’s her pheromones I’m picking up on. Either way, I feel my stomach knotting like it’s threatening to send instructions to my groin. Like I should show her just how desirable she is.

“If you change your mind and want to go, I’m happy to go with you. Just as friends,” I say, hands up in the air when she snaps her gaze to me. Because I want this to feel normal, I add a little at the end. “But if there are benefits involved, I’m game.”

She laughs. “I’m not going, but thanks. Now, back to Ollie. What’s up with that?”

“If he asks you, we’re in charge of a student panel to study the cafeteria food. You picked a kid, I picked a kid. Got it?”

“Oh, Lance,” she says, reading between the lines. “You’re kidding me.”

“I put money in his account today. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but fuck, Mariah. How does a kid go hungry in this country in this day and age?”

“Believe it or not, that’s one reason I bake a lot and bring it in.”

“I thought that was just for me?” I pout.

Her giggle winds the knot even tighter. “Sorry.” She heads toward the door, the clock threatening to tip as the bell rings. “If I can help, let me know. I’d love to.”

There’s no reply from me because nothing I could say would be well-received. I’ve managed not to blow it so far today. Keeping my mouth shut now would probably be wise.

Except, I’m not wise.

“I have things you can help with …”

She laughs, steps into the hall and disappears as the bell rings. My class begins to fill as students file in. They murmur their hellos and I ask them about their weekend on auto-pilot, all the while replaying mine in my head.

The tardy bell is set to ring when Stacy comes waltzing in. “Hey, Mr. Gibson,” she sing-songs.

“Better get to your seat before that bell rings.”

“I have something for you.”

Dropping my pen, I look up to see a red cupcake in a yellow liner sitting in the palm of her hand. “Ms. Malarkey sent this down for you.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking it from her.

“Mr. Gibson?”

“Yeah?”

Looking up at my student, I see a look of pure glee. She leans towards me and whispers, “You two would have gorgeous babies.”

“And you’re tardy,” I say, motioning toward her seat as the bell buzzes overhead.

The cupcake goes on the corner of my desk and Stacy’s comment gets filed away to a part of my brain I don’t want to revisit.