Getting Schooled (Getting Some 1)

It’s also insane.

Riiiiiiing

The bell screams outside the heavy door, disturbing our happy place—sucking face in the fucking janitor’s closet. Ray’s whack-job palace. This is what we’ve been reduced to, this is who we are—two horny teenagers stealing kisses and dry-humping the first chance we get.

Between Callie taking care of her parents and their house, me grading papers—which is more fucking time consuming than the world will ever know—football practices and the extra one-one-one practices with Parker Thompson, our after-school availability is practically nil. We talk on the phone every night—long, good, deep conversations that end when we’re yawning more than speaking. Phone sex isn’t on the table just yet, so I’ve made do with jerking off to the memory of Callie’s sultry, sleepy voice after we hang up. I also had dinner at Callie’s parents’ place on Tuesday. We all watched Jeopardy and ate KFC together while I copped a feel of Callie’s smooth, bare leg under the dining room table.

It’s ridiculous. Like high school all over again. I’m seriously considering sneaking through Callie’s bedroom window tonight. I wonder if Mr. Carpenter still has that shotgun.

“Shit,” I pant, pressing my forehead to hers, trying to catch my breath—and get the steel pipe of my dick under control.

I need to find a textbook to hide behind. Male teachers walking the halls with too-obvious-to-be-missed boners are generally frowned upon by the school board.

“Damn it, I have to go.” Callie straightens her clothes and pats at her freshly fucked looking hair. “I need to be at the auditorium before the late bell and traffic in the C-wing is always a bitch.”

I nod, blowing out a slow breath. “Yeah, okay. So, you’re definitely not making it to the game tonight?”

“No, I can’t. My dad has a cold. My mom might hurt herself trying to take care of him, because of course he says he’s dying.” She shakes her head, muttering, “Men.”

“Hey, take it easy on us. Colds hit us harder than women; everyone knows that. Our immune systems are fragile . . . like our egos. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course.” She smiles as she kisses me one last time. “But I’ll be listening to the game on the radio. Good luck tonight, Garrett.”

“Thanks. We’re gonna frigging need it.”

I crack the door and take a quick look into the hallway to make sure it’s empty. But I don’t look hard enough—because when Callie and I step out, it’s into the direct path of Miss McCarthy. And she’s got David Burke with her, probably hauling his ass to the office for vaping in the bathroom or something.

McCarthy narrows her eyes, like a snake.

And I don’t have to worry about that textbook anymore—my hard-on runs for his life.

“What’s going on here?”

“We were just looking for . . .”

“Spackle.” Callie finishes, her eyes wide like quarters.

She’s a stage actress so you’d guess she’d be good at lying. But she’s really not. She never was.

“Spackle?” Miss McCarthy asks.

“Yeah,” Callie swallows so loud I think I hear her gulp. “There was a . . . crack . . . in the . . . floor . . . in my . . . classroom. And Garrett was helping me find spackle to . . . fill it. Don’t want to risk a lawsuit.”

David smacks his lips together. “Wow, that was lame. Are you sure you two went to college?”

McCarthy holds up her finger to David. “Zip it.” Then she turns the finger on us. “You’re already on my shit list, Daniels.” She pins Callie with her beady eyes. “And now you’re on my radar too, cupcake. There will be no filling of cracks on school grounds, am I clear?”

“As crystal.”

“Yes, Miss McCarthy.” Callie nods.

She shoos us with her hand. “Now get to class.”

After one last glance at each other, Callie and I head off in opposite directions.

And I think I just discovered the fountain of youth—getting busted by your high school principal. Cause, god damn if I don’t feel sixteen again.

~ ~ ~

Here’s the thing about teenagers—they have the ability to turn even the simplest event into a major production. A life or death type of drama.

Case in point: two of my team captains, John Wilson and Anthony Bertucci, and my receiver, Damon John, approach me in the hallway just after fourth period. They’re wearing their suits and ties—and serious as hell expressions.

“We’ve got a problem, Coach,” Wilson tells me.

I step back into the classroom and the boys converge around me in a huddle.

“What’s up?”

Bertucci tilts his head towards Damon John, and his voice goes low.

“DJ’s gotta take a shit.”

I blink at them.

Then I glance at DJ. “Congratulations. Why is this a problem?”

“I gotta go home,” DJ says.

“There’s a bathroom in every hallway in this building.”

DJ’s already shaking his head. “I can’t go here. I get like . . . stage fright . . . the pipes lock down, you know?”