McSlutbag returns just as the students come back to homerooms for dismissal. Must’ve been a hell of a meeting with the principal. He doesn’t say a word to me. He looks pissed as he types furiously on his keyboard, grumbling under his breath.

Slater asked me to help him after school, but I want to go home. After the hellacious roller coaster of my weekend and a tiring first day of school, it might be best. I glance down at the half- carat diamond on my left hand and replay the events from Friday night, still trying to make sense of the senseless.

Elliott took me out to dinner at the country club his parents belong to. They were there. He surprised all of us by pulling the ring from his pocket, dropping to one knee in front of God and all the rich folks, and saying the six words I never wanted to hear from his mouth.

Roxie Rambling, will you marry me?

He could’ve said, I want you to suck my dick in the front seat of my car in the Kroger parking lot at high noon right after church on Sunday, and I’d have been less surprised, and frankly, much more willing to reply in the affirmative.

I froze, racked by inner turmoil and shock and guilt.

His parents scowled.

Elliott seemed so proud of himself, proposing in such a public way. He’s a sweet, smart, oblivious mess of adorable.

But I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want to marry anyone.

I knew it was wrong, but I said yes anyway.

The pressure of his parents sitting right there, spearing me with Do not embarrass us in the middle of our quiet social haven where everyone knows us and is watching like hawks on mice, you little tart glares, forced me to. I told myself I could take it back later, that I could let Elliott down easy (which would make his mom and dad positively ecstatic, I’m sure) when we were alone, without an audience and the potential to totally embarrass his parents, but I haven’t even had a chance to do that.

Elliott spent the entire day Saturday helping his parents at their church flea market, which I wasn’t invited to. I’m sure they needled him about the engagement. Probably tried to talk him out of it. I saw him for all of two hours yesterday, and he was so tired from moving and lifting stuff at the rummage sale, he fell asleep on his couch while Pitch Perfect played on TV for the hundredth time.

I hate Pitch Perfect.

When he woke up, he promised we’d talk more about the wedding later. With the first day of school looming, I agreed. It was too much all at once, and the last thing I wanted to do was start a fight before I had to go to “work.” He drove me home shortly after.

The ride was quiet. Awkward. Weird. He asked how things were going with McSlutbag. I snorted and said everything was peachy keen. He seemed content to make small talk until he dropped me at the dorm. With a peck on the cheek, he sent me on my merry way.

Something’s up with him.

Something’s up with me too.

Neither of us is willing to broach the subject of What the hell is this thing between us and are we really ready for marriage?

I’ve been kicking myself ever since I accepted the ring. My impulsivity has always gotten me in trouble, and this fiasco is no exception.

But here’s the thing …

Elliott is safe. He’s a good friend who treats me right. He takes me to shows and basketball games. He shares his popcorn and snuggles with me at the movie theater. He’s a great kisser. For all I know, he could be a beast in bed. I hope so.

I can’t help but wonder, what if this is it? What if Elliott’s the best guy I’ll ever find? Sure, I could have sex with pretty much anyone I want, but it’s always empty. I don’t feel anything with the guys I screw, aside from fleeting pleasure that never hangs around long enough to be fully appreciated.

I may not love Elliott, but I love the way he takes care of me, no matter how forgetful or ditzy he can be. There’s a potential for love. Maybe not right this minute, but someday. Once I graduate, get a job, and find a permanent place to live, I’ll feel better about making important life choices like marriage and, God forbid, kids.

Right now, I gotta keep working on me. I’m a masterpiece still stuck in marble, waiting for the right sculptor to help me climb out. Whether that artist is Elliott remains to be seen. I’m in no hurry.

One thing is certain: I absolutely, positively will not end up like my mom, rotting away in jail because her baby daddy was a piece of shit and she couldn’t deal with her drug habit and losing him at the same time. I will never rely that hard on a man for validation. No man will ever be my fucked-up reason for living. Gramamma taught me I’m better than that. Whoever I settle down with will have to accept Roxie Rambling for the badass bitch she is.

“Hey, miss,” a boy calls amid the postafternoon announcement chaos, shaking me into the present.

I turn and make a show of looking around. “‘Miss’? Who’s ‘miss’? I don’t see no ‘miss.’”

“Wha’s your name, then?” It’s the boy Attila was sitting with when he got in trouble. He’s a tall, lanky black kid with big ears and a gap between his front teeth.

I lay a hand on my hip. “I’m Miss Rambling. And you are?”

“Quentin,” he says. “What a pretty lady like you doin’ up in this nasty school? You must’a got in lotsa trouble to be comin’ in here, try’na teach all these bad chil’rens.”

I laugh. “So, Bracken Middle is where they send the teachers who can’t cut it? To deal with Quentin and Attila?” I muse, marveling at the classroom with fake awe. “Now it all makes sense.”

He flashes a toothy grin. “Nah, you look too good to be here. Like you don’t belong.”

“Funny you should say that.” I lean my butt against the nearest desk and kick a foot over the opposite ankle. “Not that long ago, I was sitting where you are.”

He screws up his face and points to the chair between his legs. “In this seat?” he asks incredulously.

I shrug. “I was a Bracken Middle student like you. They said I would never graduate high school, let alone college. But here I am.” I lift my hands, palms up, and gesture to the room.

“You fixin’ ta graduate college, miss?”

“Yes, sir. I probably would’ve done it sooner if I’d kept my grades up when I first got there, but it took me a while to get the hang of college.” I lean closer. “I’m here to tell you, if you work hard now, maybe one day you’ll be doing the same, makin’ your momma proud.”

“Shoot, my momma don’t care ’bout me graduatin’ no college.”

I nod. “I can understand that. My momma didn’t either. So, what about you? Do you wanna get a degree? A good-paying job?”

He shrugs angrily. “I dunno. Ain’t never thought ’bout it.”

I hammer my gaze into his. A sharp twinge in my chest reminds me of how different my life would’ve turned out if someone had said to me the words I’m about to utter to Quentin. “Maybe you should start.”

A voice announces over the intercom, “Students riding bus number 88, please report to the bus circle.”

Quentin bounds out of his chair, along with the ten remaining kids. He tugs up his bustin’-slack jeans. “Bye, miss,” he shouts on the way out the door.

“It’s Rambling,” I call after him, shaking my head. “Miss Rambling.”

I turn around to find McSlutbag staring at me. He seems to catch himself off-task and returns to the papers scattered over his desk.

“The first week is always madness,” he mutters, arms flexing as he flips pages and scribbles on them. Damn, he has a smokin’ bod. And I’ll bet the face he’s making right now isn’t that different from his O face. All tight and lean and mad like he’s about to explode.

Clenching my thighs tight enough to crack walnuts, I shrug off the lusty thoughts about this delicious, arrogant, conceited man who isn’t my fiancé and get my head back in the work game.

I poke a thumb toward the door. “I’m guessing Quentin doesn’t have much support at home. Probably gets in trouble on a regular basis. Maybe he thinks he’s not very smart because his grades validate a false narrative some adult pounded into his skull that he can’t do better than C work.”

McSlutbag pauses the paper shuffling and meets my eyes. I want to believe there’s a kind soul trapped somewhere under the flattened lips, harsh lines, and machismo, but he continues to prove he’s nothing more than a raging egomaniac wearing a body made for sin.

Arrogant, asshole jock.

“I was that kid,” I say. I watch Quentin through the window as he hops up the bus steps with his friends. The coil in my gut tightens.

They’re like carbon copies of the younger me. I wish I could grab Quentin and Attila and a few others and shake some sense into them. But I know better than anyone, you can’t force a kid to be something they don’t want to be. They have to find the motivation inside themselves to do—to be—better. No amount of pressure from the outside will force them to change.

That said, subtle coercion is a valuable tool. Lead a kid to discover how meaningful something is, and they’ll find a way to own it. That’s what my coach at the Y did. I only wish Gramamma would’ve lived to see my transformation from jailbait to the woman I am today.

Choosing to remain in the shadows of middle school darkness for so long is my biggest regret. If only someone had told me the light switch was within reach.

“I was all of these kids.” I sigh.

Slater smirks. “That why you decided to become a teacher?”

“Absolutely. You?”

His smirk deepens into full-blown boorishness. “I just wanted summers off.”

“It’s never too late to shift your paradigm, Mr. Slater. I’m a testament to that fact. Change does a body, a mind, and a spirit good.” I draw an X over my chest. “Cross my heart.”

He clears his throat and suddenly becomes intensely interested in a blank piece of paper he’s holding. “What are you thinking about doing for your unit?”

Disappointed but not surprised the selfish prick switched subjects so abruptly, I settle into the desk he set up for me beside his and remove my notebook and pencil. “My supervisor says I can start leading lessons whenever you think I’m ready, but at the very least, I have to complete two weeks of full-time teaching. Science is my major, so I feel pretty good about that. Language arts, not so much.”

I’m a math and science girl through and though. My spelling is atrocious. Thanks to poor comprehension that requires lots of rereading, I don’t often read for pleasure, and I can’t write in cursive to save my life. Teaching language arts, even for two weeks, is going to be more than a struggle. It’s going to be nearly impossible.

But Roxie Rambling never says never, especially when she’s gotta prove she can slam dunk every ball her supervising teacher throws at her.

Mr. Slater rankles. “I hate to drop this on you, but the first unit in science is six weeks of health and sex ed, and, for legal reasons, I have to teach it.”

My stomach free-falls. I stare at him blankly. “You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head and tugs the knot of his tie away from his suddenly red neck. “I wish I were.”

McSlutbag teaching sex ed. Jesus. I’ll be even more embarrassed than the students.

Feeling my cheeks warm, I return to my notes and quickly regroup. “Okay, then maybe I need to focus on language arts.”

I can’t believe I just said that. I hate language arts as much as I hate Pitch Perfect. Seriously.

“That would probably be best,” he says.

“Originally, I was thinking about a video project integrating the performance objectives for the ‘Inside the Earth’ framework, but maybe we can hit a broad range of language arts state standards, especially the ones related to writing, researching, and presentation of knowledge and ideas. So many of these kids are hungry for attention. Why not give them a stage?”

McSlutbag’s expression sours. “The last things they need are more attention and freedom.”

I bristle and choose my words carefully. “I disagree. Kids crave the spotlight. They want their peers, their parents, and their teachers to notice them. Did you see the group dancing at lunch?”

He shakes his head. “I was too busy gobbling my protein bar in the five minutes we have to eat.”

“A few of them were rapping and dancing in their chairs over by the salad bar. Expressing themselves is important, especially at this age when they’re trying to figure out who they are.”

“I don’t need any more self-expression in my classes. I have enough with Attila the Hun, who’ll be joining us at the teachers’ table for lunch detention the rest of this week, by the way.”

I smack my desk. “That’s exactly my point. How else do you get a child with behavior problems to act right?”

“Giving him an open mic isn’t the answer,” he says, upping the volume. Like yelling over me will make him more right. Self-absorbed pig. “Come up with something else.”

I sigh. He just doesn’t get it. I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay. It’s your class. Your rules. Whatever you say.”

A knock at the door cuts the tension of our conversation.

Officer Acuff, wearing a plain white T-shirt with basketball shorts and shoes, fills the frame. “You ready?” he asks.

McSlutbag winces. “Shit, sorry, man. I forgot. I’ll be down in five.”

Acuff nods and leaves.

“Can we finish this tomorrow?” Slater asks, pointing a thumb after the officer. “I got a pickup game.”

My ears perk up.

“Staff development,” I assume.

“Smart girl.”

He did not just call me girl. Seething, I suck my teeth the same way I did to get a rise out of him when I was in his class. It’s immature, but man, it feels good.

Apparently oblivious, he stands and unlocks his storage cabinet. After rifling through its contents, he drags out a change of clothes. “You can use my computer if you want to stick around. Login as a guest. If you leave before five, shut the door behind you. We’ll talk more about your project tomorrow.”

Of course, we will.

I narrow my eyes, launching an arsenal of daggers at his back as he darts out the door.

With a loud huff, I assess the aftermath of the student tornado that whirled through earlier and straighten the desks, racking my brain for other unit ideas. Coming up empty, I glance out the bank of windows facing the main parking lot. Now that the buses have rolled out, the cheerleading squad is assembled on the blacktop. Sophie Snow, one of my fellow student teachers, is out there with her supervising teacher, Ms. Fortier, who directs the girls. She must be the coach.

Curious, I wander out to see what they’re up to.

“The end zone is what we’re looking for! So, come on, Bruisers! Take that ball and score!” Fortier shouts, demonstrating the motions for the cheer. Her round belly bounces as she kicks, and I do a double take. She’s a perky, petite little white woman with deeply muscled legs and arms. The only part of her that seems out of place is the half bowling ball stretching her shirt.

Holy crap, that woman is pregnant and doing cheers in eighty-degree weather. Respect!

“Hey, Roxie,” Sophie says with a friendly smile. She’s a redhead with big, beautiful blue eyes. “How was your first day?”

“Fantastic,” I lie. “How about yours?”

“Great. Ms. Fortier is an inspiration as a teacher and a cheerleading coach—they began practicing two weeks before school started. She also leads spin classes at night.” She nods toward the fitness gym catty-corner to Bracken Middle. “I can’t believe she does all that with a baby on the way. Such high energy.”

“Wow. That’s amazing.” I shield my eyes from the blaring sun. “Are you co-coaching?”

“Nah, just watching the magic. I know nothing about cheerleading.” She whirls on me. “Did you cheer?”

I shake my head with a smile. “No, I played basketball. But I remember a cheer or two from those days.”

On a whim, I jump into the line and shake out my arms and legs. The white girls look at me funny. The black girls nod guardedly.

I’m used to these stares. Being a mix of both races makes me a conundrum to a lot of folks. They aren’t sure which “side” I’m on. Truth is, I’m not on any side. I’m just me. Gramamma called me the best of both worlds. She was a wise lady.

Fortier grins. “All right! We’ve got a new member. Let’s show Miss—what’s your name?”

“Rambling,” I say.

“Let’s show Miss Rambling how the Bruisers do it. One, two, ready, go!”

“The end zone is what we’re looking for! So, come on, Bruisers! Take that ball and score!” I shout with the girls, going through the motions Fortier laid down, shaking my ass with extra sass.

Everyone laughs.

“Come on, let’s do it again. Miss Rambling, show Tanika how to work those steps.” Fortier points at a girl two places over who looks a little lost.

I slide in next to Tanika and walk her slowly through the moves while the rest of the squad runs through the cheer. It takes a few tries, but Tanika gets it. We high-five each other and rejoin the group.

I spend the next fifteen minutes rump shaking, yelling chants till I’m hoarse, and showing a few struggling girls how to execute the steps one-on-one. It’s amazing. Empowering. And so much fun.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I belong.

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