Beauty and the Baller

He looks away from me, grabs one of the notebooks, and walks to the door. “There’s a list of things for you on the desk. I wrote down the passwords to the social media accounts. My cell number is there. You good?”

I nod. “Sure.”

Without looking at me, he walks out the door.

Well. Talk about avoidance . . .

After answering calls and jotting down messages, I dust the filing cabinets and the TVs and straighten up his closet. I clean the helmets and the benches with a disinfectant, then let the laundry guy in when he shows up to collect last week’s uniforms and Ronan’s dress shirts. Feet aching from my shoes, I walk out to the field and take pics of them practicing, careful to not post any of their plays or formations.

By the time the bell rings, I’m exhausted. Sabine is going to soccer with Lacey, so I point the Caddy to a house near the entrance of the stone gate that leads to our neighborhood. I stop at Caleb’s house, a rambling two-story colonial, a bit newer than some, but weeds have taken over the yard and landscaping. I slip my shoes back on and walk up the sidewalk.

An older lady, maybe seventy, answers the door warily.

Caleb appears in the foyer, a scowl on his thin face. “I’ve got it, Granny,” he tells her, then steps outside.

I wave. “Hi. Remember me?”

Dressed in dark jeans and a Rolling Stones shirt, he crosses his arms and glowers at me. “What do you want?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“Nope.” He flips around to head back in the house.

“Wait!” I catch the door before he can slam it in my face. “Caleb, I know what happened to your parents.”

His jaw clenches, anger flashing. “So? Everyone does! A drunk driver ran a traffic light and killed them.”

“Just give me five minutes, okay? Please.”

His throat bobs as he steps back out. I sit down on the steps of his porch while he stands in front of me. “You walked out of my class today, and you’ve missed six days already, which leaves a lot of work to make up.”

“So?”

Okay, he’s belligerent. I kind of get it.

“Your state scores are good; you used to play baseball and be part of the drama department.”

“And?”

“You’re a smart kid—” I stop and yelp when a foot cramp hits. I kick my shoes off and lean over to massage my foot. I groan, the pain rippling up my calf.

Caleb’s hazel eyes widen. “Um, are you okay?”

I throw my hands up, all professionalism gone. “No, I’m not. I really wanted to wear these . . . stupid freaking shoes . . . and I can’t because they hurt, but they look great . . . ouch!” I press my fingers into my foot. “And you know what? It’s been a doozy of a day. In case you’re the only person at BBHS that doesn’t know, I’m dating the football coach, and he’s freezing me out, and I think he might have left me a rose, which is dumb, because he didn’t—it was my ex. And then I had to deal with three classes of kids who don’t even care about Julius Caesar, and maybe I agree with them, but I want to be a good teacher and a good sister, and to top it all off, I’m still angry about my mama . . .” I blink rapidly at the rush of sadness.

Caleb’s brow furrows. “What did your mom do?”

“Nothing on purpose. She died.” My cramp eases away, and I let my foot fall back down to the porch. “Wow. You didn’t want to hear all that. I needed to vent, and you were available. Sorry.”

He uncrosses his arms. “You’re the first teacher to come to my house.”

“Here I am.”

“Eager much?”

“Sarcastic much?” I reply.

“You talked to us like we were babies.”

I wince. “Yeah, I need to work on that.” I pause. “I really am sorry about your parents.”

Emotion flits over his face, his eyes shiny. He sits down next to me.

“Death sucks,” I say, then lean back on the porch. “Tell me why you left today.”

He looks away from me. “I got mad. Miss Tyler just lets us hang out.” He shrugs. “They say I have anger issues.”

“I understand. Let’s do this again. Hi, Caleb. I’m Nova, and I’d really like it if you came back to my class tomorrow. I might not be a great teacher, but I think it might be entertaining to watch me try to teach Shakespeare. Don’t you?” I smile. “Truth? I’m holding out for the poetry unit. I was thinking we could draw or paint or, I don’t know, pick a song that hits the theme. What do you think? Is that a good idea?”

He shrugs.

“You’re angry about your parents. I’m there with you. And . . . and . . .” I’m not a counselor, but I have thoughts about what he’s going through. “There are some days when it’s overwhelming, and I get pissed that she was taken too soon, that I hadn’t talked to her in three days, that I don’t know how to do the things she did for my sister.”