Chapter 26
Robert
I won’t look at him. I will sit in my seat, I will do my work (although I may or may not turn it in), I will keep my mouth shut, but I will not look at him. And that’s what I do on Monday. And that’s what I do on Tuesday. And that’s what I intend to do on Wednesday when Ms. Lincoln catches me in the hallway before sixth period.
“Robert, how are you doing?”
“Great. Fine.” I’m already running a little late. Somebody stuck a bunch of confetti hearts through the vents in my locker, and when I opened it, they fluttered to the floor. I lost a minute scooping them up and shoving them back in. And now Ms. Lincoln wants to talk.
“I really need to get to class.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling gently. “I just want you to know that if you need to talk, you can come to my office anytime. Just fill out a counselor request form, or just stop by.”
I mumble a thank you, then jog to Calculus. The bell rings just as I reach the door.
“You’re late,” Andrew—Mr. McNelis—says. He’s standing at the whiteboard, his dry erase marker poised in his hand. “You need to get a pass.”
I am not late, and I am not getting a pass. I take my seat.
The classroom falls silent when he turns on me. “Go!”
So I go, but I knock the dry erase marker out of his hand as I do. He follows me out the door and closes it behind him with enough force to make me shrink back.
“What was that all about, huh? I am still the teacher in this classroom. And you are the student. I will not have you or anyone else challenging me. You’re late. You get a pass. End of story.”
“I was at the door,” I say, angry too.
He drops his voice even more, but he’s in my face, and I hear every word loud and clear. “You know, this is why teachers don’t date students. This is why teachers don’t give their phone numbers to students. This is why—”
“I’ll get the goddamned pass,” I say, cutting him off. I don’t want to cry. At least I don’t want him to see me cry. I turn to leave. He stops me with a hand on my arm.
“Robert . . . I’m sorry.”
I jerk my arm free.
The band hall is a cacophony of chatter and music. These are friends. This is where I’m most comfortable. Usually.
Caleb Smith, freshman trumpet and Robert Westfall fan-club groupie, has his head in my instrument locker. Unbelievable.
“What are you doing?”
He jerks his head out so fast he bangs it on the metal opening.
“Oh, hi.” He flashes me a big guilty smile. “Robert Westfall. Um . . . oh . . . is this your locker? Oh my God, I’m so stupid. I thought it was, uh, Erick Wasserman’s. I was, um, looking for something for him.”
I glare at him, and he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. But the smile is stuck on his face, and now he’s beaming.
“The alto sax lockers are over there.” I jerk my thumb in the general direction.
“Oh. Okay. Sorry.”
He slinks away, past Luke Chesser, who gives him a friendly hey. As drum major, Luke has to like everybody. Luke leans against the locker next to mine and watches me pull out my bari sax case.
“Hey, man, what was that all about?” he asks.
“That is a charter member of my fan club. He and Erick Wasserman and Zach Townley started a Facebook fan page on me. And they didn’t even bother protecting the page, so anyone can see it. The little twerps.”
“I don’t think you can protect a fan page, but really? I’m gonna have to go check that out.”
I set my case on the floor and open it. “Please. Don’t. And now they’re following me around school. I can’t turn a corner without bumping into one of them.”
“Aaah. You should be flattered.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You want me to talk to them?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe if I just ignore them they’ll go away.”
“Yeah. Maybe so.” He stoops down next to me. “Hey, I haven’t gotten to tell you yet how sorry I am about your dad.”
“Thanks.” I examine a crack in my reed. Change the subject. “I’m just curious. Did Curtis ever get that smell out of his truck?”
He laughs and drops back on his butt, stretches out his legs, and crosses his ankles. “You know, now that you mention it, I do still get a whiff of rotten eggs every now and then. I don’t think he’s fully forgiven me for that.”
“I’m glad things worked out for you two.”
“Me too.”
I have my sax together and I’m tightening the ligature on a new reed when suddenly I just don’t feel like playing anymore. “Hey, you want to go get a soda or something?”
There was a time when Curtis wouldn’t let Luke get close to him, despite the fact that everybody knew they were crazy in love with each other. It was actually Curtis’s idea for Luke to ask me out. I was to be the buffer that protected them from each other. It was a dumb idea that was destined for failure from the get-go. There’s more to the story, but the bottom line is that Curtis hurt him, and Luke paid him back one night in spades. He egged and floured his truck while I played lookout. I remember telling Luke as he wadded up the empty five-pound bag of flour, “Remind me never to piss you off.”
We sit in the same booth we did on our first “date” about a year ago. It hadn’t taken long for Luke to come clean about why he’d asked me out. He shared a lot of secrets with me during those weeks we pretended to be a couple. He trusted me, and I trust him now.
So when he says, “What’s going on?” I unload.
“Oh, shit! You and Mr. McNelis?” His voice is too loud. I glance around nervously, and he drops his voice and repeats, “Oh, shit! You and Mr. McNelis?”
I shrug, but I can’t help smiling a little as I pick up my soda and take a sip.
“Okay, give me a minute here. Wow.” He fans himself with his napkin, then grins at me. “Okay, okay. I’m good. Dang, he’s cute. How old is he?”
“Twenty-four, I think.”
“That’s just three years older than Curtis.”
“He’s freaked out about it. And now he won’t even talk to me except to yell at me in class.”
“Curtis did that kind of stuff. For a different reason. But it sounds like Mr. McNelis is just scared, like Curtis was. Don’t be too hard on him.” He slips his straw up and down in the plastic lid on his cup. “Glaze on a donut, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Four months. Big deal.”
“I don’t think he even wants that anymore.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” He picks up an onion ring and pinches it flat. “You know, we could always egg his car.”
There is that. Luke could always make me laugh.
“Four months,” he says, thoughtfully. “I waited a lot longer than that for Curtis to come around. Did you know he sent me a message on a Cracker Jack prize at the first football game?”
“Was that the game security hauled you two out of the stall in the men’s room?”
“Yep.” He laughs now. “I got suspended for two games, and Curtis got thrown out of the stadium. We were just talking—well—arguing. Oh, God, I was pissed about that. I do all that work to make drum major and then have to sit in the stands for two half-time performances.” He shrugs and his mouth settles into an impish grin. “But, in the end, he made it up to me.”
I bet.
“Listen,” he says, folding his arms on the table and leaning in. “I’m here for you, okay? And if you want me to pretend to be your bitch for a while and make him jealous, well, I owe you one.”
“Curtis would break my neck.”
“Probably.”
By the time we head to the car, some of the air has been let out of the balloon of my righteous indignation. I’ll play the game. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll egg his car.