Jennifer fancies herself a romance author. Her college roommate put herself through school writing erotica. Jen sees no reason she can’t get herself out of school writing romance.
I suspect she fancies me as well. I mean, what could be more attractive than a twenty-four-year-old, divorced high school teacher with a two-year-old, a student-loan debt that rivals the GNP of any number of small nations, an efficiency apartment, and a six-year-old Civic with a crack in the windshield?
“I’ve got Kiki,” I say.
“Aaaah. Bring her too.”
“So? What do you think?” Jennifer asks. “Juicy, huh?”
Kiki is sitting on her knees and eating a yogurt parfait. I wrinkle my nose at her and she wrinkles hers back. I stack the pages neatly together and hand them across the table to Jen.
“I think you’d better change the names and maybe a few other details, or someone’s going to sue your ass one day.”
She laughs. “Ah, they’re just placeholders. Once I get the story down, I’ll run a global search and change all the names.”
“So, is that stuff true? I mean, aren’t both Philip and Liz married. . . with children?”
“That’s really sweet, Drew. You actually believe in that stuff, huh?” She flicks a bit of ice at me with her straw. “You know, if you’d ever come out of your classroom, you might learn all kinds of things. Like, for instance, that those two leave for lunch together every day. Every day. Different doors, different cars, but they follow each other out of the parking lot. Like that isn’t obvious.
“And then last week, I went into Philip’s office to ask him to show me how to use Audacity. He was on the phone. So he says, ‘Gotta go. I’ll see you later. Love you.’ All that crap. So then he opens Audacity on his screen, and he’s showing me stuff, and a few seconds later this e-mail pops up in the corner from Liz. I’d have to be blind not to see it. And stupid not to add up two and two.
“Trust me; they’re doing it. And everybody knows it.”
I wonder if Philip Moore has any idea whatsoever that his colleagues are talking about him behind his back, that his little subterfuge is not nearly as covert as he thinks it is. He’s one of two technology liaisons on our campus, the go-to guy for everything software related, from converting YouTube video files to getting our contacts groups to show up in Outlook. Everybody knows him. It’s his job to respond to technology crises or last-minute queries about how to incorporate some little gizmo into a lesson.
But even I’ve heard rumors that Liz Masters seems to have more crises and queries than most. Not that I care. What they do is their business.
“So is this how you get your jollies?” I ask. “Speculating about what those two are doing in the backseat during their thirty-minute, duty-free lunch every day?”
“It’s twenty-seven minutes now, and hey, a girl’s gotta get it somewhere,” she says coyly.
I laugh lightly and pretend I don’t notice the subtle suggestion.
She throws a quick glance at Kiki. “So,” she says, “are you going to the Christmas party Saturday?”
“Nope.”
“Come on. Why not?”
“Why would I want to spend my Saturday night with a bunch of people I hardly know? Besides, last year it was mostly couples. Awkward, you know. And borrring.”
“You could go with me.”
Don’t think so. “I have Kiki anyway this weekend. I’m taking her to see Santa on Saturday, and then we’re going to eat graham crackers and watch The Lion King again, right, baby girl?”
Kiki holds out her spoon, and I take a bite and wink at her.
“And then when she falls asleep, I’m going to write my plans for the next nine weeks.”
“Wow, your social life kind of takes my breath away.”
I wish it took mine away.
Chapter 2
Robert
I turn my cell phone back on as I cross the parking lot. It vibrates immediately. Five new texts. All from Nic. I thumb through them as I walk.
I’m standing by your car. Hurry up.
Answer your phone.
OMG. Where are you? I don’t have all day!!!
WAITING!
I’m done. Leeeeaving.
I note the time stamps and estimate he waited a whole ten minutes. I reply, although I don’t know why I bother:
Had to make up test. Have group tonight.
He responds immediately. You could have told me that sooner.
I might have if I could have gotten past his posse of cheerleaders. Besides, we had no plans to meet after school. We never have any plans to meet after school. We rarely have any plans to meet anywhere. Sometimes I think Nic is my boyfriend in name only, when it’s convenient, when he needs some arm candy. Not that I consider myself arm candy, but I think he does the way he clings to me and parades me around on the rare occasion when we do go somewhere together.
Sorry. Text you later.
He doesn’t respond. I have about an hour before I have to be at Ms. Momin’s for my music therapy group—we’re playing “Jingle Bells” today—but I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with Nic right now anyway. And I damn sure don’t want to go home.
So I climb in the car, put my phone on silent, then tilt my seat back and close my eyes.
I allow myself to drift back to the classroom, to those gray eyes with the dark rings around the corneas, and that snug sweater over a striped, collared shirt, and the chest hair at the base of his throat that always shows no matter what he’s wearing.
I wonder if Mr. McNelis could smell it on me—the want to. Freshman year, in health (the sex ed unit, not the oh-my-god-that-feels-good unit as Coach Gideon liked to remind us, ha, ha), we learned that humans, like animals, give off a scent when they want to mate. I’m not saying I want to mate with Mr. McNelis, but I’m not saying I don’t want to either.
I’m pretty sure I don’t want to mate with Nic. Not that I haven’t tried once or twice. Nine months of dating and I haven’t touched him. In fact, the last time I tried, he followed his No with a That’s nasty. I’d be lying if I said that hadn’t hurt my feelings. I haven’t tried again. I do sometimes wonder why I tried at all. Yes, he’s cute. And, yes, he can be very sweet when he wants to be. But I don’t know him any better today than I did nine months ago, and he doesn’t know me. And I don’t think either of us really cares one way or the other.
On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind touching Drew McNelis. In fact, I’m indulging myself and imagining what that would be like when a sharp rap on the top of my car startles me. I turn
