“Can we please get back to the book?” I beg as students rap the latest viral song like I’m not standing here, waving my arms to get their attention.

My first time teaching, and the entire class is bouncing off the walls. The heat of humiliation burns my cheeks as I desperately search my repertoire of redirection strategies to get them to shut up.

“Where should your eyes be right now?” I try.

A ball of paper flies overhead.

“If you can hear me, clap once,” I say, walking toward a girl who’s passing a note to her friend. I attempt to intercept it, but she snatches it back and scowls up at me with hateful eyes.

“If you can hear me, clap twice,” I say, clapping twice to model the behavior.

Nada.

If I had my way, I’d channel my inner DMX and holler, “Y’all gon’ make me lose my mind,” just to see if I’d get the proper response, but McSlutbag wouldn’t like that now any more than he did when I was a student sitting in one of these chairs years ago, pulling the same shit.

My heart sinks as I’m forced to look to him for help, which is the absolute last thing I wanted to do on account of my pride being a righteous bitch.

Could he have been right about needing to be a hard-ass from the start with the kids? Now that I’m on the other side of the gradebook, things look a lot different.

But I also realize I stood on pretty shaky ground with this language arts lesson. If I had a better handle on the subject matter, I might’ve put together a tighter plan that would’ve kept the students more engaged early on.

McSlutbag is watching behind the knot of his folded hands, his expression unreadable. I’ve used all the ideas he suggested, but the students are oblivious.

A swell of voices rises to an intense crescendo. In the back of the room, two arguing kids are about to come to blows.

“Gimme back my lead pencil!” Brittany shouts, knocking over her chair as she stands up.

“I didn’t take it. This is mine. You better step off, talkin’ to me like that.” Catrese pokes her chest out with an exaggerated swagger and matches the other girl’s pose.

“My momma bought me that yesterday.” Brittany points at the pencil clutched in Catrese’s fingers.

Catrese lifts the hand, clenching the device tighter.

Oh, shit.

Pandemonium erupts amid chants of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Students along the wall and windows stand up in their seats so they can watch the show.

I lunge toward the back of the room at the same moment Slater does. We arrive just in time. From behind, I snatch Brittany by the arms. He wedges between the girls, holding his hands out to the sides to protect Brittany and me from Catrese’s rage.

Does he have a death wish? You never, ever get in the middle of a fight between girls. It’s suicide. Girls fight harder and meaner than boys.

He deflects Catrese’s blow with a raised forearm. He quickly spins her around and grabs her wrists, forcing her to drop the pencil. We’re not supposed to touch kids, but in this case, with two screaming banshees ready to go berserk on the entire room, I think we’re justified.

“Catrese gonna get suspended!” someone yells.

The closet door flies open, and Vino jabs her head in. Seeing us holding the two girls, she runs for the call button and asks for Acuff to escort Brittany and Catrese to student services.

I struggle to maintain my grip on Brittany’s wiggling form amid a barrage of insults and threats to “rip out my weave.” I’m more offended she thinks this natural hair is fake than I am about her trying to rip it out, but whatever.

By the time Acuff arrives a minute later, it’s lunchtime.

Well. That was total shit.

During the class change, I follow McSlutbag into the hall to help monitor. The whole team is abuzz with gossip about the fight, and it’s only been a couple minutes. Experience tells me the chatter and smack-talk will only escalate the already hyped-up Friday behavior.

I feel like a complete failure.

Beside me, McSlutbag drops his lips near my ear. “They’re a tough group. Don’t blame yourself.”

But I do. This block of language arts kids is normally pretty well behaved for him. Why did they treat me like I’m a pushover?

I can’t help but think if McSlutbag would ease up on his control-freak nature for a day or two and allow me more face time with the students, they’d respect me more. As it is, he only lets me work with a handful of them one-on-one.

Him being a man also plays a role in how the class reacts to him. His presence is strong and mostly silent for that group. They listen when he tells them to be quiet. To them, I’m just a temporary fixture with boobs.

I have to earn their respect. My strategy for doing it will be the opposite of his.

“I want to try something different next time,” I say. “Will you give me the benefit of the doubt and roll with it?”

His eyes narrow. “We’ll regroup during planning and talk about this.”

I don’t argue. I’m too tired after last night.

The adrenaline from the fight wears off and imposter syndrome hops over like a monkey on my back to take its place. The empty spot where Elliott’s ring sat only yesterday looks like a nondescript blur of brown through the drops filling my eyes.

I thought I had this adulting thing under control, but I don’t. I’m a failure at relationships, at teaching, at everything.

Keeping my head down so Slater can’t see my weakness, I turn up the fake cheer and say, “I gotta run to the restroom. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.”

I don’t give him a chance to reply. I rush down the hall toward the teachers’ bathroom and check the three stalls for feet. Finding none, I commandeer the last one, tug off a long strip of toilet paper, and unload the tears I’ve been holding onto. I try to keep the sobs to a minimum, but it’s hard.

Everything is so damn hard.

At the end of the day, I shove my notes and a stack of papers I need to grade into my backpack. McSlutbag hasn’t said much to me since the fight before lunch, so I guess we’ll figure out what I’m doing next week on Monday morning. I’m done with this day.

Elliott texted that he’s working late again tonight. Ugh. For all its “flexibility,” his work schedule is really starting to piss me off. You’d think after Elliott rallied so hard last night against my decision to put the engagement on ice until student teaching ends, he’d make an effort to spend time with me this weekend. Or hit the reset button on us. Or, hell, find five minutes to have a simple phone conversation without work demanding his full attention.

I told him I thought the engagement was rushing into something we weren’t quite ready for. As usual, he was full of apologies and promises to scrape together time for me, but based on his past performance, I’m not waiting around again to see if he comes through.

Though, after this crap day, it sure would be nice to have someone to commiserate with.

Visions of a hard-earned, lonely hangover dance in my head.

“Have a nice weekend,” I murmur on my way to the door, mentally tallying how much money I have in my bank account. I can splurge on one bottle of the cheap stuff. Low cost + high proof usually = a nasty morning after, but it can’t be much worse than me lying in my dorm room, staring at the ceiling, alone and sober.

“Wait a minute,” Slater says.

I turn to him, keeping my head down. I tried to clean up the mess of mascara that striped my face earlier, but last I checked, I still look like a human/raccoon hybrid. When he doesn’t speak, I chance a glance.

He’s staring at me, probably trying to decide whether he made the right decision by deleting that email declining to take me on as his student teacher.

He stands and stuffs his hands in his pants pockets. His keys jingle. “It’s been a tough week.”

I snort. “You can say that again.”

What happened in third period today was a fuck-up of monumental proportions. Not to mention the personal shitstorm splattering my windshield with added drama and stink.

Is McSlutbag going to ditch me? I seem to have a knack for getting ditched lately.

“You should come to staff development this afternoon. It’s just across the street at Oscar’s.” He nods to the window.

I’m not sure I heard him correctly. “Staff development?”

His scowl softens. For once, he seems sincere. “Yeah. A few coworkers and I meet most Fridays after school to decompress. It helps maintain sanity in an insane work environment.”

“I know what staff development is code for, but I thought it was for teachers only,” I say, clutching the strap of my backpack tighter.

He crosses the room to me and stops with a few feet between us. “After today, you earned an honorary spot in the club. Come on. Have a drink or two. You’re twenty-one.” His cheeks flush suddenly. “You are twenty-one, right?”

I nod.

Relief washes over his face, and he grins. “I’ll see you over there.”

My heart practically leaps from my chest. I so need this.

I deserve this.

I’m going to staff development like a real teacher.

I smile for the first time all day. “Okay. Yeah. See you there.”

After making a quick stop at the restroom to fix my makeup, I walk over to the restaurant.

Raucous laughter resounds from the alcove off to the left that’s usually reserved for parties. I sneak past the hostess and head that way.

The table is packed with familiar faces—mostly teachers I’ve seen around the building but don’t know. McSlutbag’s sharp green eyes brighten. He grabs the slats of the empty seat beside him and shakes the chair. Its legs scrape the floor loudly. His tie is loose, the top button of his Oxford shirt undone. He looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.

“Roxie-with-an-ie, get the hell over here,” he says.

“Hey, Roxie!” A young woman about my age tips her margarita glass to me.

“Welcome to staff development,” a man says. I think he teaches eighth-grade science.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

Oh my God, is that Ms. Papadopoulos on McSlutbag’s right? I should probably apologize to her for being such a pain in the ass in her class.

I smile at her. “Hey, Ms. Papadopoulos! Fancy seeing you here.”

“Slater was just telling us you had an eventful day.” The older woman grabs the pitcher in the middle of the table and fills a glass with lime-green liquid. She slides it past McSlutbag’s arms and over to me as I sit. “This one’s on the house.”

“To first fights.” Mr. Savage nods to me.

“To first fights,” everyone agrees.

All the glasses lift and clink, and suddenly, I don’t feel so alone.

McSlutbag taps his margarita to mine and catches my eye with a wink as he slurps half the drink down.

A quiver shimmies up from my belly, and I drink too.

After a round of introductions, Dutchie Green, the young woman who first welcomed me, says to Slater, “We miss you on eighth-grade hall. It’s been miserable with Kuntz and Kuntz”—she pronounces it like cunts. I’ve always said it like Koonts, but maybe I’m wrong—“bossing everybody around like they own the place.”

Everyone groans.

“I guess that’s one good thing about switching grades,” McSlutbag says, though the tone of his comment sounds more like regret than something to be happy about. “It’s a no-Kuntz zone on sixth-grade hall. You guys should come visit. We don’t get many visitors down there in the Dragonlady’s forgotten cellar.”

Papadopoulos mock pouts and musses his hair. A twinge of jealousy hits me between the ribs. I throw back more margarita to quench the burn. Ah, better.

“We should start a regular pickup game,” Savage says. “Roxie over there joined Acuff, Poss, Slater, and me the other day.”

“She and Acuff kicked our asses,” McSlutbag says, rubbing his forehead and glancing shyly at me. “Next time, you’re on my team.”

I smile as the warmth from the margarita and the company loosens me up. “Sure. It was fun.”

“How’d you learn to play like that?” Savage asks, popping a fried mushroom into his mouth and passing the plate to Mr. Straight next to him.

Ah, the eternal question. The confrontation was destined to happen sooner or later. I was hoping it wouldn’t be in front of an audience.

“I started in elementary school. At the Y. I would’ve been the star player for Bracken, but I failed English. No pass, no play.” I make a point of not looking at Slater, but I can feel him tense beside me.

“My old coach at the Y took a chance on me when no one else would. She helped me pull my act together. I got serious about basketball—and grades—my senior year in high school.” I leave out the part about it being too late to get a full scholarship by then and losing Gramamma shortly after graduation.

Slater’s knuckles are bone white on his glass. I flip my attention to my drink and have another sip.

“A good coach can move mountains,” Mr. Straight says. “Which reminds me. Poss said we can use the gym on Thursday for the assembly …”

Slater turns his body toward mine as if to block out the irrelevant chatter blossoming around us. It feels like we’re in a tight, personal bubble, sharing air, breathing each other in. I’m not sure if I’m elated to be this close or contemplating his murder.

I lift my glass and consider it. Damn, this is some good shit. Maybe murder’s off the table. For now.

“You quit basketball because of me?” he says quietly, a lilt of apology hanging on the last word.

I face him, not even trying to hide my resentment. It’s been bubbling under the surface since the first day I walked into his room, and it’s time I let him know how much he hurt me.

“Well, not exactly quit,” I say. “More like I was kicked off the team because of you. You hated me in middle school. You flunked me on every paper. You belittled my writing and grammar and spelling in front of my peers. I never felt like I was good enough, and the way you always put me down made me believe I was the dumbest person on the planet. So, I didn’t bother studying or trying because what was the point? Acting a fool got me more attention.”

“Roxie, I—”

I shove a hand between us. “Don’t. It’s over. I don’t want your apology or pity. Leave it in the past where it belongs.” Look at me, being all mature and shit.

He inhales sharply. “You weren’t the easiest kid to teach.”

Or not.

“That’s no excuse to treat a student like crap,” I snap.

The conversation swelling around us stops abruptly.

Slater flips his friends an awkward smile and waits for them to resume their chitchat. Then he leans over, escorting a whiff of his cologne to my nose. I never noticed it before. I’ve never been this close to him before. His rich, earthy scent disarms me so completely, I almost miss what he says.

“You stole my fucking car and left it in the parking lot of a strip club, Roxie. I think I had a right to be pissed.” He glances over his shoulder to his friends. “And that wasn’t even the worst of it.”

I bite my lower lip and hold it for a long moment to gather my senses and defenses. “Okay, so maybe I did steal your car, but who the hell is dumb enough to leave their keys in an unlocked desk drawer in a classroom full of kids with behavior problems, Mr. Slater? You gotta admit that was stupid as hell.”

Wow, the combination of margaritas and truth packs a powerful punch. I’m digging this buzz and the discussion. So freeing.

I sample another sniff of his cologne. It’s to die for. I wish I didn’t want him so bad.

Did I think that?

Slater shakes his head, trying to cover his smile. He’s sorely unsuccessful. “Okay, props for creativity in this particular case of grand larceny,” he finally concedes.

“You know Attila would totally steal your car if you left your keys where he could get ’em.” God, I hope McSlutbag’s not that stupid. Surely, he learned his lesson from my antics. I grab his arm. “You do keep your keys locked up, right?”

“I sure as hell will lock them up from now on.” He swigs his drink.

I bust out laughing. “Seriously? Has total immersion in a middle school taught you nothing? You got problems.”

“Yeah, and you’re at the top of my list.”

The heat licking at my insides kicks up under his scrutiny. I don’t ask whether he means I’m at the top of his “trouble” list or some other list I don’t know about, and he doesn’t volunteer. Instead, he snatches the pitcher and refills my drink.

I smile my thanks. When I lift the glass to my lips, his gaze slams into my left hand with a distinct widening of the eyes and an almost-audible screech.

That’s when everything changes between us.

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