“I don’t know—it might be the drinks—”
“Are you going to be sick?”
I bite my lip a little too hard and wince. “I don’t know.”
He doesn’t miss a beat as he grabs my hand. “Let’s go back downstairs and find your friends, sweetheart.”
“But I’m supposed to take you home,” I mumble up at him, pressing a clammy hand to my forehead. “It was my number three. You’re supposed to by my number three.”
Not exactly the most brilliant response, I guess, but I didn’t have a lot of time to worry about that. As the world began to spin, I let myself close my eyes and then everything around me—the steep staircase, the blue light, and Smith’s concerned expression—disappear into blackness.
***
I can remember opening my eyes and looking up at the ceiling, wondering how all of the lights looked so much like stars. I remember waking again and thinking I was floating. It took me a minute or so to realize that someone was carrying me across the dance floor and back out into the bar. Then everything goes black again until we’re in the parking lot of my apartment complex.
The rest of my memories of the night are spotty. Of course, Carson and Rainey were unerringly thorough in painting the picture that was the hot mess of my Friday night. Apparently Smith was a gentleman, despite my spectacular failure in the hookup department. He’d insisted on following Carson to my apartment when she wouldn’t let him drive me himself, and he even carried me up three flights of stairs when we got home.
“You came home with me,” I’d said.
Or, at least, I meant to say that. I’m not sure if it actually sounded like that or not. He’d smiled and stroked my face, laying me down on the couch. Then he’d removed my shoes and I’d started trying to undress myself, forgetting that I, in fact, wasn’t wearing a shirt in the first place.
I never learned Smith’s last name. And he didn’t leave his number behind, either. Clearly I didn’t make a lasting enough impression to be worthy of a second date. Or even a real first one.
And, frankly, that sort of hurt. Look—I know it was a potential hookup, not necessarily a long-lasting, loving relationship. But, I mean . . . well, what if it was? Not only was Smith gorgeous, but he was polite. And funny. And over the course of one evening, he was able to make me feel comfortable in my own skin, something Brett couldn’t accomplish over the course of our entire relationship.
It takes me almost two days to get over the nausea and self-loathing that’s infiltrated my body—so much so that I’m actually glad when the workweek rolls around and I’m back at the Franklin School. A long workweek where I can think about anything but fantasy bars and body paint and a mysterious man named Smith who has left me guessing about so much more than his last name.
At least, I’m glad until the principal calls me into his office after the weekly faculty meeting.
If I were still in high school, I would never be sitting across from the principal, trying to read into his stern expression. I’d only be picking up another honor roll certificate or academic achievement letter.
Or a trophy.
There was always a trophy.
But, on Thursday afternoon, when I sit down across from Principal Weathersby, I’m swallowing hard against a lump of nerves lodged in my throat. Somehow, it doesn’t matter that we’re both professional adults—I feel something like trepidation as I force myself to smile at my boss.
“How are you doing, Miss Hendricks? Are the students giving you a hard time?”
Mr. Weathersby doesn’t say the word yet, but it’s implied. Since I’m fairly new at the Franklin School, he’s probably required to bring me in and coddle me a bit. Make sure I’m not letting the seniors railroad me, since, despite the fact that I’m approaching my late twenties, I look about fifteen years old. I also have the unfortunate tendency of talking like Minnie Mouse when I’m nervous.
“I’m doing just fine, sir. Thank you.”
“Your mentor teacher, Mrs. Jenks—is she providing you with all the necessary lesson plans?”
“Um—yes. Absolutely.”
Mr. Weathersby sort of shifts in his chair, his large body making the whole desk rattle.
“I know our school has a reputation for being a bit difficult,” he says, clearing his throat. “Obviously our students can be a little less traditional than what you’d expect.”
I continue to smile at him, albeit weakly. I know what he’s trying to say—the Franklin School is an alternative school, known around Baltimore for being a rough institution with students who’ve been in and out of juvenile detention and social service programs. Even before I took this position, I’d heard it called the “Juvie Junkyard” more often than not. I guess it’s not a complete misnomer—most of the students have been incarcerated at least once, and many of them aren’t even close to graduating, despite being two or three years older than the average high school senior.
“It’s been fine,” I say, hoping my expression is serene—placid and docile, like a cow. Like a happy, peaceful cow who hasn’t been called “hot slice” or “fresh meat” while walking down the hallway earlier this week. I’ve been doing my best to play down my younger features—today, for example, I’m in a knee-length black dress with a red cardigan sweater. My face is really too round to pull off a good updo; despite that, I’m rocking a bun or a ponytail on a nearly daily basis. Still, when the average age of the adults in this building seems to hover around fifty, I guess I should expect at least a little interest from the male population.
Mr. Weathersby gives me the “I don’t believe you, but nice try” look.
“Most of our pupils have been in unfortunate situations before coming to us, but we’re required to admit everyone—regardless of their current predicaments.”
He’s saying that because of the meeting we just had—Officer Rains, the school resource officer assigned to Franklin, told us about some students who’d recently returned from a Department of Justice program that requires them to wear ankle bracelets that monitor their location at all times.
“Which is why I think it’s important that I discuss this with you,” Mr. Weathersby continues, adjusting his striped tie. “You are close to the same age as some of our most troubled attendees. I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or as though you can’t assert your influence as their instructor. Just because you are an intern doesn’t make you any less of an authority figure.”
I nod my head.
“I understood the situation when I accepted the position here. I promise you, I can handle anything that’s thrown my way.”
This is my MO. I’m a rock star. An overachiever. I’ve excelled at everything I’ve done. Honor roll every year, valedictorian of my high school, and magna cum laude when I graduated from college. But now? Well, I’m a little tired of acing every test and winning every game. The truth is that anything that’s considered too difficult is exactly what I should be doing right now.
“Was there anything else, sir?” I ask, trying to sound polite. I’m going to be late to see Dad and I know he’ll worry. I never miss our Thursday night dinners.
Mr. Weathersby clears his throat and gives me a tight smile.
“Actually, yes. This is a bit unorthodox, but I’ve brought you in for a preliminary introduction to a new member of your first-period class. He’ll be starting with you tomorrow and I felt it important that you meet beforehand.”
“Oh. Okay—great.”
I paste on my “teacher smile.” I’ve perfected it—friendly without being too open. Caring without being condescending. It’s like my student-resistant shield. Keep your distance while maintaining authority—that’s how you make them respect you, even if they might be old enough to drink. Definitely old enough to buy cigarettes. And porn.
“Mr. Asher, you can join us,” Mr. Weathersby calls out.
The door opens behind me, and I try to decide whether I should stand up. I wonder why the private meeting is necessary—maybe it’s someone who has a history of violent episodes in the classroom.
Shit, maybe he killed his last English teacher, so Mr. Weathersby is trying to give me a fighting chance to live . . .