Getting Schooled

"Miss Carpenter?"

"Yes?"

"I just want you to know . . . you're a really good teacher."

There's a pressure in my chest that makes my bones bow, like I could break open at any moment.

I hug him, wishing I could do more. "Thank you, David."

"Watch out for Layla, okay?" he says against my shoulder. "She gets sad sometimes."

I nod. "I will."

Then we part. Garrett puts his hand on David's shoulder, squeezing. "You're doing the right thing, David, and I know it's not easy. I'm proud of you."

David nods, his face tight.

Ryan smacks his brother's shoulder and Garrett nods. "I'll talk to you soon."

I take a step towards Ryan, dropping my voice so only he can hear. "You make sure he's okay."

His eyes are kind, understanding. "I'll do everything I can for him."

Then he turns around, takes David by the arm, and guides him through the door.

I stare at the spot where David just stood and my vision goes blurry. Garrett is right behind me--I feel the heat of his chest, his presence . . . his strength.

"Callie?"

"I didn't think it would be like this." My throat is closing, my voice raspy and strangled.

"Like what?" Garrett asks gently.

"I thought teaching would just be a job. I'd do the year and go back to California. Simple." My chest tightens, crushing me. "I didn't think I'd care about them so much."

Garrett holds my hand, threading our fingers together. "Kids sneak up on you. They have the uncanny ability to be amazing . . . when you least expect it. They're easy to care about."

The tears come then, scalding and heavy behind my eyelids. And my lungs swell with too much feeling. Because David's not a bad kid, not even a little. He's a good kid . . . who did a really bad thing. And he doesn't even know why.

And that's so much harder. So much sadder.

"I didn't . . . I didn't think they'd break my heart."

And I sob, the grief of all that's happened breaking loose and flowing from me.

Garrett pulls me against him, pressing my face against his shoulder, rubbing my back and kissing my hair.

"Yeah. Yeah, they'll do that too."

~

The next morning I walk into the auditorium and am met by thirty somber, dejected faces. The news about David turning himself in, that he's sitting in a jail cell at this very moment, has already torn its way through the school. I put my bag down on a chair in the front row, and my rib cage is filled with concrete.

"We have to finish blocking today. Turn to scene seventeen in your scripts."

For a moment, none of them move. They just look at me.

"That's it?" Michael asks quietly. "That's all you're gonna say?"

I clear my throat, fumbling with the pages of the script in my hands. "Um . . . Bradley, you're the understudy for Seymour. You need to start learning those lines. I'll have to pick someone from one of the other theater classes to play the dentist."

"No." Layla stands up, her voice unusually firm. "I'm not doing this with him. I'm not kissing him."

Bradley scoffs. "I don't want to swap spit with you either, loser."

"Shut up, dickface!"

"Screw you!"

"Stop it!" I slap the script down on the chair. "Don't do this."

"What about David?" Simone asks softly. "Don't you care about him at all?"

The quiet question slices me to the bone. And all the sorrow that I locked down, locked up tight last night, crests, threatening to spill over.

"The show must go on." I look at each of their sad little faces. "Have you ever heard that expression? It's true--in theater and in life. The show is bigger than any of us--bigger than you or me . . . or David. He can't be a part of this anymore, but we'll go on and do it without him."

Toby stares like he's never seen me before. "That's cold, Miss Carpenter."

"Life is cold, Toby."

And I try, I try so hard to be cold--to be strong. But my eyes burn and my heart aches.

"Life is going to knock you down, every one of you. Some way, at some time, something unexpected is going to come and hit you right in the knees. Knock the wind out of you."

Memories of me and Garrett wash through me, saturate me--submerge me in the remembered feeling of my whole world being turned upside down and shaken out.

"And I wish I could protect you from it." My voice cracks. "I would do that for you--for each of you if I could." I shake my head. "But I can't."

I wipe at the moisture filling my eyes, breathing deeply. "So, if I teach you nothing else this year--let it be this: the show goes on. You have to go on, because life goes on. Even when you're hurting, even when it's hard--you have to pick yourself up, lean on the people around you . . . and go on."

They're still and subdued for several long moments after that. Absorbing the words.

"I'll do it." Michael raises his hand. "I can do David's part. I already know the blocking and lines." He shrugs, smiling self-deprecatingly, adjusting his glasses. "I'm practically the real-life Seymour anyway."

My smile to Michael is grateful . . . and proud. I glance at Layla. "Are you okay with that?"

She looks at Michael, and then her eyes rise to me. "Yeah. Yeah, that works for me."

"Good." I nod. "Okay . . . scene seventeen."

And together . . . we go on.

Chapter Eighteen

Garrett

"What the hell do you mean you didn't put up a tree?"

We'd gone to Foster's cut-down-your-own-tree Tree Farm this afternoon and spotted a nice eight-foot Douglas fir for Callie's parents' house. Then Callie kissed me next to it, one thing led to another--and later we walked out of there with the tree and soaked jackets and pine needles in our hair from getting busy in the new-fallen snow.

Now we're strolling down Main Street, checking out the tables of baked goods and crafts at the annual Lakeside Christmas Bazaar--talking about her holidays in San Diego. She glances sideways at me from beneath her red knit hat--the tip of her nose all cute and pink from the cold. Makes me want to bite it.

"Well, it was just me--seemed like a lot of work for one person. I put out a table tree."

"A table tree?" I'm disgusted. "What a sad little life you had. Thank God you've got me now to rescue you from it."

She rolls her eyes. Then tugs me over to a table of graphic novels based on the classics. She buys The Count of Monte Cristo and a few others for David. I'm taking Callie down to visit him tomorrow--three days before Christmas--at the Jamesburg Home for Boys. She's talked to him on the phone a few times and he seems like he's doing okay--sitting tight while his public defender negotiates a plea deal for him.

"Hi, Coach D; hey, Miss Carpenter!"

"Hey, guys."

"S'up, Coach Daniels! Looking good, Miss Carpenter!"

"Hi, kids."

It happens every few minutes--we're spotted and greeted by gaggles of our students as we thread our way through the crowd. It's an occ

upational hazard--as is being cornered by an overeager parent and subjected to an impromptu conference.

"Darpenter forever!" a faceless voice calls from behind us. And Callie and I both laugh.

She stops on the sidewalk for a moment, threading her arm through mine, leaning against me, gazing down the street. The wreath-laden street lamps and strings of twinkling white lights make stars in her eyes.

"I forgot about this," she says softly, watching coat-and hat-covered families--pretty much the whole town--bustling around, talking and laughing, drinking spiked eggnog and hot chocolate. "I forgot how this feels. Being home for Christmas."

There's something different, warmer, about Christmas in a small, old town. It makes you feel like Norman Rockwell's paintings and It's a Wonderful Life are real--like you're living inside them.

"It's magical." Callie sighs.

And she looks so pretty, I have to fucking kiss her. I press my mouth against hers, tasting winter on her lips. Then I whisper wickedly in her ear, "Come back to my house tonight, and I'll give magical a whole new meaning."

She giggles . . . and later, comes back to my house where I make hot, sweaty good on that promise.

~

Over winter break, Callie spends the day with her parents, then switches off with her sister and spends most of her nights with me. The Thursday night before Christmas, we're at Chubby's. "Dancing Queen" by ABBA is on the jukebox, and Callie's leaning over the bar, singing along with Sydney, her old theater friend. They've been talking again, rekindling their friendship, and I'm not going to lie--I'm glad. Because there's been a voice, buzzing around my head for the last few weeks, that says the longer Callie's here, the more roots she revives . . . the more likely she is to stay.

For now, I shake my head, kicking those thoughts away--focusing on the here and now and what's in front of me.

And what's in front of me . . . is Callie's perfect ass. Round and bitable in snug jeans. The things I can do with that ass--I take a long drag on my beer--can't wait to get her back to my place tonight.

The ABBA song ends, and "Should've Been a Cowboy" by Toby Keith takes its place. Callie comes back to our table, carrying another round for herself and me and Dean. She plants herself on my lap, singing with Dean about California, women, whiskey, and gold. She's smiling, laughing, and it all feels so damn good.

Until it all goes straight to shit.

And Becca Saber approaches our table, her blue eyes trained right on me. And I swear to Christ she sounds exactly like Maleficent, from that Disney movie I watched with my niece Frankie a couple weeks ago.