Getting Schooled Page 2

  My father turned the burner off on the stove. “All right. Someone go pry Linden away from that puzzle. Dinner is ready.”

  I went to stand up, but my mother put a hand on my wrist. “Let me go. You help your father get the dishes out of the cupboards.”

  I set to helping my dad as the next Elvis song came on. He hummed under his breath for the bridge and sang the chorus, and I chimed in, my voice soft and sweet under his deep baritone.

  When the dishes were on the counter waiting to be filled, my father wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “For the record, we’re going to miss the hell out of you, Pumpkin. Me especially. Because you know I love you more, right?”

  I smiled. “Don’t go soft on me now, Dad. I don’t want to cry. I’ve already done enough of that this week.”

  He chuckled. “Yes. Well. So have I.”

  I shrugged out from under his arm and swatted playfully at him. “You have not.”

  “Ask your mother. She’ll confirm it. She’s been my rock. But you wait and see. After we drop you two off tomorrow, she’ll turn into a puddle right there in the airport, and it’ll be my turn to hold her together.”

  “True love,” I mused with a knowing smile.

  My father nodded as he began spooning rice into the bowls and topping it with steaming yellow curry. My mouth watered as I watched.

  My parents had the marriage every little girl dreamed of.

  Perhaps not every little girl. But I certainly did.

  They traded roles effortlessly. When one needed the other to be strong, they were stronger than diamonds. When they needed the other to listen, they were as attentive as a five-star rated therapist. And when they needed a laugh, the other fell into the role of stand-up comic extraordinaire.

  Yes. I wanted that. I dreamed of that.

  But being a single mom was hard. The nice guys I met shrank under the pressure when they found out I had a five-year-old son and the father wasn’t in the picture. They came to their own conclusions, assuming the MIA father had fled because I was crazy or because he couldn’t take the heat.

  My reality couldn’t be further from the truth.

  Linden’s father didn’t even know Linden existed.

  It was a secret I’d held in my heart since I first saw the positive pink lines on a drugstore pregnancy test, and it was one I intended on taking to my grave. Not even my parents knew who the father was.

  I’d left no margin for error. That was how I operated.

  I heard Linden coming long before he threw his arms around the back of my thighs and squeezed tightly. “Food!” he cried dramatically, rocking backward so he could throw his head back and look up at me.

  I laughed and patted his head. “You hungry, champ?”

  Linden nodded eagerly. His black hair fell over his eyes, and he shook it away before bouncing up and down on his heels. “Curry! Curry! Curry!”

  For a five-year-old, my son had elevated dining taste. He loved curry and spicy foods. His favorite was butter chicken and curries of all varieties, but primarily, my father’s curry.

  I couldn’t deny it was the most heavenly concoction I’d ever had. Though I grew up eating it every Sunday, so I might be a little biased.

  My father passed a half-full bowl down to Linden. “Be careful, Linden. It’s very hot. Can you bring it to the table and wait for us to join you?”

  Linden nodded and became acutely focused on his bowl. He stared intently at it as he carried it to the table and then gently set it down on his placemat. He climbed up into his chair and twisted around to watch as me and my parents topped off our bowls.

  “Hurry up,” he groaned, bouncing in his seat. “I’m starving.”

  “We’re coming,” my mother said, pausing near the fridge. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Soda!” Linden cried.

  I frowned. “It’s pretty late.”

  Linden’s hazel eyes—his father’s eyes—flicked to the time on the stove. “It’s not that late, Mommy.”

  “All right, you little negotiator,” I said, unable to hide my smile. I joined him at the table and sat down beside him. “But only because it’s our last night here for a while. And we’re splitting it. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Linden beamed.

  My mother brought over a can of soda, and everyone took their seats.

  As my father toasted to our last night in Atlanta and a fresh start in Annapolis, I marveled over how fast time had flown by.

  Just six months ago, I’d received an invitation from a high school in Annapolis to go there as a full-time History teacher. Apparently, full-time staff was hard to come by there, and none of the locals had gone into the field, so they had to outsource from other areas. When they reached out to my college, the first name out of my professor’s mouth was mine.

  I was honored. Flattered. Thrilled.

  And terrified.

  I had history in Annapolis.

  Six years ago, I’d gone there for a wedding—my best friend Marie’s wedding. She’d married John, a strapping man with a heart of gold who was more than worthy of being her husband. It had been one hell of a party.

  And it didn’t stop on the wedding night because I fell head over heels for the best man.

  Cliché? Yes.

  A wild ride? Also yes.

  Worth it? Yes.

  Because that weekend gave me Linden, and there wasn’t anything I would have done differently. My life changed drastically after that weekend, but in my mind, it changed for the better. It was hard going to college to get my degree to teach as a single mother, but my parents were in my corner, and we made it work.

  Now I was well on my way. I was starting my career.

  It would have been nice if it wasn’t in Annapolis because at some point or another, I was going to run into him again. Lucky for me, I hadn’t told a soul who Linden’s father was. And if anyone got suspicious, I’d lie and tell them Linden was the son of a guy I went to school with who I decided I didn’t want in my life as Linden’s father.

  Hopefully, nobody asked.

  Hopefully, Linden and I had the chance to start fresh and move forward without the constant reminder that Annapolis was where we began.

  “How’s the curry, Linden?” my father asked.

  Linden had a full mouth. He smiled with chipmunk cheeks and nodded vigorously. Once he swallowed, he beamed around at the three of us. “Can I have more?”

  Chapter 3

  Jace

  “So.” I folded my arms over my chest and leaned back against my desk as I regarded my classroom full of sixteen-year-olds. They watched me intently, a rare thing these days and especially in this school, and I crossed one ankle over the other and grinned at them. “What did you think about the essay topic?”

  I’d assigned them a five-page discussion essay and had been changing things up. Instead of having them write a response to a novel on the necessary reading list (a sure-fire way to bore them to death and receive mediocre work), I’d challenged them with a relevant topic for them to rattle around in their brains and present their opinion in text.

  The question posed was simple.

  Simple, but controversial, especially amongst some of the parents of my students, who’d written me, called in, or dropped by to express their concern with my teaching style.

  Their disapproval merely gave me an opportunity to ask why they weren’t challenging their own kids with these questions.

  My classroom vibrated with eager energy as a bunch of hands shot into the air. I’d given them ten days to write the essay, the first two days of which we used in class time to get a head start. We used this time to learn about structuring a paper and referencing, and the kids had time to ask as many questions as they needed or to have me read their ideas. They pitched their arguments, and once they had the stamp of approval, they were free to start writing.

  I clapped my hands and rubbed my palms together as I grinned around at my students. “All right. Who first? Gemma,” I poin
ted at the curly-haired go-getter in the front row, “tell me what you thought about the topic. Do you trust your government?”

  Gemma had been one of the students whose parents were steadfastly against the subject. They insisted she was too young—which was absolute bullshit in my opinion—to consider such big concepts.

  Gemma sat up straighter. “I think it was an honest topic. One that gave all of us a chance to explore something we’re going to have to consider when we get old enough to vote.”

  “Indeed.” I nodded. “Anything else?”

  She shrugged. “I kind of liked that my parents spent four dinners this week trying to change my mind about my stance.”

  I chuckled. “Oh dear. I didn’t mean to send you into the lion’s den.”

  The class chuckled.

  Gemma shook her head. “You didn’t. We had healthy debates. And because I’d done my research and had a formulated argument, I was able to hold my own. Which was cool.”

  And the whole reason I posed it as a subject in the first place, I thought, proud that my tactic had apparently paid off.

  A couple other kids offered their two cents, and the room was fairly divided. About forty percent fully trusted their government. Fifty percent did not. And ten percent walked the fine line in between both positions, posing arguments in favor of each. They were the ones who seemed to have done the most research and spent the most time considering how they felt about what they found.

  I doubted there would be a single letter grade lower than a B when I was done marking the papers they’d dropped off in my hand-in bin on my desk.

  A sharp turn around from last year when these same kids were fifteen and completely disenchanted by English, literature, and writing in general. Slowly but surely, I was turning that around.

  The bell to end first period rang, and everyone popped to their feet to collect their books and hurry out into the hall. They all smiled and waved goodbye as I collected their papers from my desk, tucked them under my arm, and left to lock my classroom door. I moved down the hall to the staff breakroom, where I claimed a spot at my favorite table near the window.

  There were only a handful of teachers in there, and they saw that I had work to do and left me well enough alone as I pulled out a red pen and set to work on the first paper.

  My relationship with the kids was good enough that I could challenge them fairly. My expectations were high, and so were my standards, and the kids in my classes always wanted to meet said standards. It took us some time to get there, but now that we were, I was confident my class was their favorite one to be in.

  How many English teachers could say that?

  I was nearly at the bottom of the first page of a paper in favor of the government when someone took up a seat beside me. The metal chair squeaked, and I didn’t have to look up to know it was John, the gym teacher and volleyball coach at Annapolis Secondary and my best friend. His cologne smelled like sandalwood and grapefruit, his wife’s favorite.

  “Morning,” I said as I circled a comma that should have been a period.

  John pored over my paper. “Morning.” His tone was chipper, almost sing-song in nature, and not nearly as deadpan as it usually was before lunch.

  I looked up at him.

  John was a dark-haired, burly man a few years my senior. His dark brown beard was streaked with auburn and was immaculately brushed and oiled, as always. I narrowed my eyes. “What has you in such a peppy mood?”

  John folded his arms on the table and grinned at me. “It’s just a good day, is all.”

  That answer made me even more suspicious, but I wasn’t going to pry if he wasn’t going to share. So I returned my gaze to the paper.

  “Coffee?” John offered.

  “Sure.”

  He pushed himself up and went to the counter behind me to brew a pot of coffee. A couple other teachers milling around accepted his offer as well, and before he knew it, he was brewing a big enough pot for four of us.

  As it brewed, he tapped his foot.

  There was no music playing.

  I peered over my shoulder at him. He was looking out the window and wearing a big, goofy smile.

  “All right.” I dropped my pen and turned my chair around to face him. “What’s up?”

  “It’s a good day, Jace. A very good day.”

  “Apparently. Do you care to share why it’s such a good day?”

  John gestured outside. “The sun is shining. The air is crisp. I’m just grateful to be alive.”

  I threw my head back and laughed. “Bullshit. You hate Mondays, and you look like you just won the lottery. Now spit it out.”

  John waggled his eyebrows and grinned at me.

  “What are you—” I paused as realization slammed into me.

  There was only one thing besides winning a sizable amount of money that would make John this over the moon with joy. Well, two things. The first was marrying his girl, Marie, which he’d already done six years ago.

  The second was starting a family with her.

  I pushed to my feet and stood close to him, leaning in and dropping my voice so nobody could overhear. “Are you and Marie, you know?”

  John’s smile somehow grew even bigger, and his cheeks turned a magnificent cherry hue. “We went to the doctor because we didn’t believe the at-home test. It’s real, man. There’s a baby.”

  “Holy shit,” I breathed.

  “Right?” John’s eyes were glassy with tears.

  I threw my arms around his shoulders and clapped him hard on the back before pulling away. My chest swelled with happiness for my friends.

  Marie and John had been trying to conceive for the last four years. Nothing stuck. After the first year and a half, they started visiting specialists looking for help. When nothing took, they even had to go to therapy to make it through the highs and lows of the process.

  At the beginning of the year, after a hard Christmas with no little one in their life, they threw in the towel and decided to pump the brakes for a while. Their hearts and their heads needed it.

  And yet, here they were.

  Pregnant.

  I raked my fingers through my hair. “How did this happen? How far along? How did Marie know?”

  John chuckled and poured us each a mug of coffee. He pushed mine into my hands. “She’s had a feeling for a good four or so weeks now, but she didn’t want to jinx it. So we kept it between us, waited it out, and when the feeling didn’t pass, we took a test. She resisted taking the test for a long time. I had to convince her. She didn’t want to face the disappointment, you know?”

  “I get it.”

  John and I sat down, and he pulled his chair closer to mine. “But we took it. And it was positive. So we went to see the doc a few days ago, and lo and behold, she’s three weeks along.”

  “Three weeks? That’s amazing! Congratulations, John. Really. I’m so happy for you guys.”

  “Thanks, man. I know. It’s crazy. It doesn’t feel real.”

  “It will.”

  John scratched at his beard. “This has to stay between us for now. Things can change fast. We don’t want the word to get out until she’s three months along. Then we’ll share the news with everyone. You’re the only one who knows.”

  “I’m honored.” It was true. I was. When Gwen and I first found out she was pregnant with Paxton, we didn’t tell a soul for three months. Well, we agreed not to tell a soul. She told four of her girlfriends and her parents and her sister behind my back.

  But that was in the past.

  I pushed my papers aside. I could mark them later. “We have to go for dinner to celebrate. On me. Somewhere family friendly because Bruce can’t watch Paxton this weekend. Say, Friday?”

  “I’m in,” John said. “I’ll tell Marie when I get home today.”

  “Brilliant.” I leaned back in my chair. My cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling so big. “Tell her she can order as many desserts as she wants.”

  John chuckled. “
Be careful. She’ll rack your credit card right up. The cravings have already started.”

  Chapter 4

  Emelia

  Linden looked up at me after we stepped out of the cab. I bent over and thanked the driver through the rolled-down passenger window, then put my back to him as he pulled away down the cherry blossom and maple tree-lined street. The pavement was cracked and uneven, the sidewalks bursting with little patches of grass and weeds, but the place was lovely in its own right. The overgrowth lent a unique sort of charm to the neighborhood that was echoed in the gardens of the homes. Colorful flowers winked in flower beds and danced in the late afternoon breeze, and trees cast shadows across the emerald lawns.

  I could only imagine how magical it would be at Christmas time.

  “Is this our house?” Linden asked, tugging on the sleeve of my denim jacket.

  My attention went to the little navy-blue rancher in front of us. A smile crept across my lips. “Sure is, champ. What do you think?”

  Linden studied the house, and so did I.

  It was set right in the middle of the square lot. The grass had been freshly cut by my landlords, who’d promised that the place would be in tiptop shape when Linden and I arrived. The lawn was boxed in by a white picket fence that matched the other fences of the other houses. A gate with two lanterns hanging from each side was set in the middle of the fence, and right beside it was a white mailbox with a wooden figurine bird mounted on top. Its faded yellow and blue paint gave it a rustic appeal.

  I moved to the gate, tugged on the latch, and nudged it open with my hip.

  Linden blew past me and ran down the path of concrete stones to the front door.

  The rancher had a crawlspace, which was still full of stored items from the landlords and off limits to us, that raised it about three feet off the ground. There was a small porch out in front of the living-room windows that would be just big enough for a table and two chairs, where I would likely sit in the mornings with a cup of coffee and my book or journal. The opposite side from the deck had an overhanging window which I knew was the kitchen. From the photos I saw, the kitchen sink faced the street.