CHAPTER THREE
RORKE
One thing I don’t miss about being a student here is the uniform. Catholic school uniforms are the worst. I know the naughty little schoolgirl fantasy is popular, but a lifetime in Catholic school has ruined that for me.
Sterling made a good point yesterday. Some days, I can’t believe I signed up for this. High school was a rough time for me. My twin brother was sick and dying, and I was shy and slightly chubby. The kids were not kind, and teasing me that my brother was sickly because I ate everything was just one of the highlights. Looking back, I wonder if I was heavier because I had to be strong, for Levi, for my parents, for everyone. I couldn’t get sick. It wasn’t until college that I shed the extra pounds, or baby weight, as my mother called it.
Despite hating being a high school student myself, I really do love teaching. However, teachers are held to the same high standards as the students. Teachers have dress and conduct codes. I have to sign a morality clause in my contract every year. It’s fucking ridiculous. For what they pay me, I should be able to drink, smoke, or screw whatever I like.
But there’s nowhere else I’d rather teach than St. Genevieve’s High School. This place has been around since the 1800’s, and looks like it should be sitting on a European estate with its old gray bricks, columns, and pillars. It’s seen its share of hurricanes, but aside from closing for a month here or there during massive storms, it’s stood the test of time. And so has the old priest that serves our school. He looks like he was around for Vatican One and is very set in his ways.
The school serves about five hundred area boys and girls, so it’s small enough that I pretty much know all the kids by name. But the thing that makes it truly special is its location, right on the Bay, complete with a twenty-foot dock extending over the water. Not that the kids get to run around in swimsuits, but it makes for some good bonfires and volleyball games.
My first period is my off period today. I pass the school’s priest walking into the administration office and give him a polite head nod and respectfully say, “Father.” I’m heading down the hallway to my classroom just in time to see two boys trying to sneak in late. If you lined the entire school up, these two are the ones I’d pick out to be pulling this crap. These boys represent everything I hated about high school. They are popular, but not in the way Sterling was. They are bullies—the Quaid brothers. But no one ever seems to catch them in the act.
I step into the hallway right in front of them then simply point towards the office. “Ah, come on, Mr. Weston.”
“So you boys are late again?”
They don’t say a word.
“Did you drive yourselves to school?”
“Yeah,” the older Quaid brother says.
“You drove?”
“Yeah, in my BMW.”
The other boy snickers. I have to say, it’s a little disheartening when the students’ parking lot is filled with nicer cars than those in the teachers’ lot. But that’s neither here nor there at this point.
“That’s a pretty fast car. What time did you leave this morning?”
“Seven,” the younger Quaid brother says.
“You just live about two miles from school. Lots of traffic today?”
“Nope.”
“Care to tell me why you’re late?”
The younger boy looks to his older brother. “Flat tire.”
“That right?” I ask the other, and he nods.
“Follow me,” I say, walking into the office and grabbing a few pieces of paper off the copy machine. “Okay, boys. In a minute, I will hand each of you a pencil and paper with a question on it. You will write your answer on it. You both answer the same way, you’re free – back to class. If not, I call your parents, tell them you keep screwing around before school, and you’re mine each day after school until the end of the year.”
I jot down a question on the sheets of paper, handing them each a folded sheet. “When you open it, look straight down at it, and write your answer. Then we will share with each other. This should be fun.”
Gone are the Catholic rituals of kneeling on rice or being sent to Mother Superior’s office. In fact, the only religious person on faculty is the theology teacher. Times have changed, so this is the best I can do to try to make these two little assholes into men.
The boys unfold the paper, each with the same question on it: Which tire?
I see a trickle of sweat on the older kid, while the younger starts to fidget. They both look at each other then up at me. “Care to revise your bullshit story?” I ask.
*
“Remember, your final term papers are due Friday,” I say to my seventh period English Honors class, seeing their eyes glaze over. Last period of the day, it’s always hard to keep their attention.
I believe a good writer can take you anywhere. I just have to get the kids to open the book. Most English teachers aspire to write that great American novel, but not me. Now, if one of my students wants to pen that, I’ll be the first to buy it. “So I hope you’ve all finished reading A Good Man is Hard to Find. Flannery O’Connor is one of the . . .”
I stop when out of the corner of my eye, I see Sterling pause outside my cracked door. I almost shit bricks, unable to believe she actually showed up. She flashes me a little smile.
“Shouldn’t it be a good woman is hard to find?” one of my smart-ass students asks.
That whips me right back to reality. “Very funny. So for your assignment, I want you to take this quote, and tell me what you think it means.”
The students start to groan as I write the quote on the smart board, trying to ignore Sterling’s presence, which is damn near impossible.
“She would of been a good woman,” the Misfit said, “if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”
The final bell drowns out the groans, but stops before it can disguise the whistles of a few of my male students as they walk past Sterling.
She weaves her way past them, asking me, “Hope this is okay?”
“Sure,” I say, gathering my things and trying not to notice how well her jeans fit, how perfect she fills out her white t-shirt.
“Think any of them will get the religion behind that quote?” she asks.
Sterling was our valedictorian, beat me to the spot by the slightest percentage. But I didn’t care. Even then, I put her first. “I hope so.”
“You love it,” Sterling says. “I can tell. Teaching? It suits you.”
“Yeah, I do. I thought I’d be a doctor, with Levi and everything. Was pre-med. College required community service, and I was assigned to this inner-city school. Teacher didn’t show up one day, and they threw me into this classroom of kids who didn’t want to be there anymore than I did. And I just loved it. Pay sucks, but I can’t imagine not teaching.”
We step out into the hallway together as the last of the students scatter. No other place on God’s green Earth clears out quicker than a high school after the last bell of the day. A small smile graces her pink lips, the replay of our high school years echoing in her eyes. Probably a few of the smells, too. Throw her cheerleader outfit on her, her hair in a ponytail, and she’s exactly the same.
The two culprits from this morning come running down the hall, grinding to a halt when they see me, and trying to make a mad dash in the other direction. I snap my fingers. “Cafeteria! Wipe the tables and mop the floors.”
“Our mom says you can’t make us clean.”
The mother of the Quaid boys sits on the board and is a royal pain in the ass. “Want to scrub toilets instead?”
“Who’s she?” the older brother asks. “New teacher, I hope.”
“Miss Jamison is an alum,” I say.
“As in Deacon Jamison’s daughter?” the younger brother snickers.
Taking a couple steps towards them, I motion for them to get going then turn back to Sterling. “Sorry about that.”
She shrugs, giving me the same tight smile she did the other day. I hate that one. “It’s okay. Should’ve known I’d be the subject of teenage boys’ fantasies given what I do.”
Of course, I know what Sterling does for a living. Everyone knows. And everyone seems to have an opinion about it. Her eyes glance down. I scan the empty hallway, saying, “It’s okay. I know all about your vibrator.”
The way I said it makes her giggle. “You wish,” she laughs.
Leaning forward, I whisper, “I know you never needed one with me.”
The green in her eyes explodes. “I don’t think I even knew what a vibrator was back then. I was only eighteen.”
Gently, I curl a strand of her hair around my finger, my eyes watching the hair twirl around like it’s unwinding my memories of us. I swallow hard, my throat dry. “I’m damn proud of you.”
“You are?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. Most men feel threatened.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. “It’s a toy.”
“It’s a toy that’s more effective at getting a woman to climax than a man is,” she says. “That’s why they’re threatened.”
“Then they need better skills,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve used it, right?”
“What?”
“You used your invention?”
“Oh, my God, that’s none of your business.”
“Of course you do. So you tell me. Is it better than being with a real live man?”
“Depends on the man,” she says, and I imagine that’s completely the truth.
“Okay, fair enough,” I say, leaning closer. “Is it better than the last man . . .” I shake my head. I can’t go there. I can’t think about her with someone else. I’ve got no problem thinking about her and her vibrator, but another man bothers me. “Better than me?”
The look on her face is priceless. She can’t believe I went there, and I know she’s not going to answer me. But while she’s the same girl I remember, I am most definitely not the same chubby, shy boy she may remember.
“We shouldn’t be talking about this here,” she says, her skin turning a soft pink.
A loud shriek rings down the hall, “Sterling Jamison!”
Some people just continue to live in high school, like this woman, who doesn’t have a kid at our school, but she’s been our cheerleading coach since before I can remember. But I can’t for the life of me ever remember her name. I think it’s because she’s one of those close talkers. The type that’s always just a little too close, and no matter how much you inch back, they just keep coming.
That explains why Sterling is currently pinned up against the lockers. Sterling was a cheerleader, so that must be how they know each other, but not the reason this lady is yammering on and on about uniforms, pompoms, and summer cheer camps.
“You know what we really need is a sponsor,” the close talker says.
So that’s her game. She knows Sterling has money. Real subtle. Sterling gives that same tight smile.
“Would you like my company to sponsor the girls?” Sterling asks.
“Oh, no. I wasn’t hinting at that. I’m so embarrassed. No, we couldn’t possibly have your company associated with the girls. You understand?”
Sterling nods, straightening her spine and forcing the woman back. “I do.” Sterling takes a few steps away, the panic in the close talker’s eyes shooting out.
“But perhaps if it was anonymous?”
Sterling raises her eyebrows and offers the close talker a wicked grin. “Why don’t you call my assistant? His name is Miles. I’ll leave word for him to take extra good care of you.” With that, her eyes shoot to me, begging for me to get her out of here.
“Thank you!” the close talker shrills before practically skipping down the hallway.
Once she’s out of earshot, I ask, “That happen a lot?”
Giving me a little shrug, she says, “Miles will handle it.”
“You’re actually going to give her money?”
She chuckles. “I don’t recall promising money. Miles will be sending her an extra-large shipment of vibrators in our designer colors.”
Laughing, we start to stroll the halls, reminiscing about teachers, our old classmates. I fill her in on who’s up to what. Small town, so we all know each other’s business. We talk about old times, what we’ve both been up to the last few years.
I’ve kept up with her some through our parents, so I’d know if anything major happened, like marriage or kids. But I’m more than a little curious about boyfriends. More specifically, if she has one. I’m certainly not picking up a boyfriend vibe from her. And I think it’s a pretty safe bet that she’s not involved with someone, otherwise I seriously doubt she’d be spending the summer away.
It’s so easy being together, like no time has passed at all. I guess that’s what it’s like with old friends. No matter how much time you spend apart, you can just fall back into that easy place with each other. I’m hoping the place she falls back into includes my bed.
They say your personality is set by the time you’re five years old. I’ve known Sterling since we were at least that young, so no matter what she’s been doing, I know her. Who she really is.
“My old locker,” she says, running her hands along the freshly painted metal.
“Top locker,” I say. “You always had the luck.”
She glances across the hallway. Our lockers were across from each other for four years. But those ten feet felt like miles. She was so out of my league. Sterling was always kind to me even though we ran in different circles, but it was my brother who she took a special interest in.
Running my hand across the locker above mine, my eyes close. Damn, I still miss him.
“Levi,” she whispers.
Opening my eyes, I see her holding in tears. “You’d always leave him sticky notes on his locker. Sometimes two and three times a day,” I say. “Those damn pink heart sticky notes.”
Smiling, she reaches into her purse, pulling out a stack. “I’m still addicted to them.”
Exactly the same girl.
The same girl that didn’t look at my brother’s bald head and tease him. The same girl who left him stupid knock-knock jokes on pink heart sticky notes. The same girl who helped me bury my brother.
She’s leaning up against her old locker, and I’m leaning up against mine. Only now the distance doesn’t seem so far. I could kick my own ass for letting her go before. I let the distance stop me, just like I let being shy stop me in high school. It’s been years since she’s been home, and this time I’m going to make sure nothing gets in our way.
Two big steps, and I’m right in front of her, my eyes on her lips. “I should go,” she whispers. “Momma should be done working soon.”
“Did she get a new job?” I ask.
“Of course not, she’s been doing hair in her shop in our backyard since I can remember. Why would you ask that?”
Shit, she doesn’t know. I wonder what else they haven’t told her.
“Rorke,” she says softly. “Why would you ask that?”
“Sterling, it’s not my place.”
“I really need a friend, Rorke. I was hoping it would be you.”
Fuck me twice! I step to her and graze her arm with my fingertips. “I think we’re more than friends.”
She pulls away slightly, but not before her cheeks blush, and whispers, “Friends.”
I groan inside. “Your mom closed her shop a while ago.”
“But Momma does everyone’s hair.” She starts rattling off names of people in a frantic pace.
“Talk to your mom and dad,” I say, and she nods. “You want me to come with you?”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll see you later,” she says, walking down the hallway and out the door, leaving me in the friend zone.