“I knew it!” says Jason.
Ah shit. I am so getting an angry email from this kid’s mother.
“Me and Coach Walker saw the boys in the attic ourselves, when we were twelve.”
I try to catch Garrett’s eye while running my hand across my neck—the universal sign for, “Dude, shut the hell up.” But he doesn’t notice. Having Will has dulled his brain a little—he’s not as observant as he used to be.
“And Louis—your Uncle Roger was with us.” Garrett laughs. “He wet his pants and you can tell him Coach Daniels told you that.”
“D!” I finally bring Garrett’s attention to me.
“What’s up?”
“Burrows here just moved in to the house on Miller Street.”
Garrett’s face goes blank. He looks at Jason.
“Oh.”
He was always good on the recovery.
“It’s not that haunted.” He waves a hand. “It’s an urban legend—like alligators in the sewer. Don’t worry.”
But Burrows is worried.
And Garrett is unconvincing.
Louis doesn’t help.
“Dude, you’re gonna die in that house.”
Jason Burrows looks like he’s gonna die right now. On my classroom floor. From a heart attack brought on by hyperventilation and fear.
Wouldn’t that be a fuck of a way to kick off the school year.
Quinn Rousey jumps up from her desk. “Wait, wait, wait, listen!”
Quinn is a pretty, jittery kind of girl with pixie-cut black hair and a raging case of ADHD.
“I have an idea, I know what we should do, I have equipment at my house—night vision cameras and audio devices from my cousin before they sent him away to the facility in Branson.”
“Breathe, Quinn,” I interrupt. “And we’ve talked about this—you gotta lay off the Red Bulls.”
She turns toward Burrows and seems to remember to inhale between sentences. “I could come to your house and we could do a séance. Then we could burn sage and recite lines from the Bible and Torah and the Quran just to be safe, because you don’t know what religion the ghosts are, but—Oh! And I’m Quinn, by the way.” She holds out her hand. “Hi.”
Jason looks at Quinn’s hand, then slowly reaches out and shakes it.
“Hey.”
“So—what do you think? Do you want to hang out? I can come today, or tomorrow, or tomorrow-tomorrow works too.”
Several other students nod, inviting themselves right along with Quinn.
And Burrows has this expression—it’s the look of a kid who hasn’t been asked to hang out very much in his life. Maybe never. And now he’s got a pretty, outgoing, energetic girl and half a class of students wanting to do just that.
His eyes are warm and hopeful when he smiles. “Yeah, cool. Tomorrow is good. Sounds like fun.”
~ ~ ~
For the next half hour, we do a worksheet—mostly a review of old material. Then with five minutes left before the bell, I announce, “That’s a wrap for today. As you were, people.”
And I pull up “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister on my phone and hit play—loud enough to enjoy the song as it was meant to be heard, but not so loud that one of my fellow educators will go bitching to McCarthy.
My students from last year know the drill. A few talk, Daisy doodles a butterfly on her folder, Diego pulls his cap down and closes his eyes.
Jason Burrows takes out his phone.
“We’re not allowed to go on our phones at the end of class,” Min Joon tells him.
So Burrows takes a textbook out of his bag.
And I whip a wadded-up ball of paper at his head.
“No studying allowed.”
“Well . . . what am I supposed to do?”
I stand up and approach his desk, playing perfect air drums in time to the song.
“Be a kid. Chat amongst yourselves, look out the window, play frigging Seven-Up, I don’t care. You just can’t study or screw around on your phone.”
He still looks confused, so I explain. “Your brain is a muscle . . .”
Louis raises his hand. “Technically the brain . . .”
“Shhh,” I put my finger to my lips. “The teacher is talking.”
My voice resonates across the room like a better-looking version of the Cobra Kai sensei from The Karate Kid.
“How do we build muscle, class?”
I open and close my fist in time to their response.
“Contract, release, contract, release.”
“If you don’t release will you build muscle?”
“Nooooo,” the class answers in unison like a well-trained army of geniuses.
“If you don’t rest, will you build muscle?” I ask.
“Nooooo.”
“No.” I look down at Burrows. “You’ll get worn out, injured, burnt out . . . and you’re no good to me dead.”
I spin around to the class. “Extra credit point on the next quiz for the first person who can tell me who said that!”
I like to keep them on their toes. And these kids eat up extra credit like a puppy scoffs down dog biscuits.
“Boba Fett—The Empire Strikes Back!” Hailey calls out.
“Correct!”
I bring my attention back to Jason.
“So you see, young Burrows. You have to rest your brain once in a while in order to keep getting smarter. Which is why we don’t study or screw around on our phones at the end of AP Calculus.”
I turn around and walk to my desk. But when I sit down, Jason has his hand raised.
“Yes?”
“Boba Fett didn’t say that.”
“No?”
He shakes his head. “The actual quote is ‘He’s no good to me dead.’ ’Cause he was, you know, talking about Han Solo.”
Slowly I nod. “And now you’ve got an extra credit point on the next quiz too. Well done.”
I like this kid. I don’t always like all of them—that’s the dirty little secret of teaching. But I like him.
“You a big fan of Star Wars, Burrows?”
“Kind of.” He shrugs. “My mom’s into all those old movies.”
Old movies . . . nice.
“She says everyone my age should watch them, because they don’t make them like that anymore.”
“Your mom sounds like a smart lady.” I smile. “And I think you are going to fit in with this class just fine.”
Chapter Six
Lainey
Most bloggers, Instagramers, and influencers do their damnedest to project a flawless image to their followers. Perfect lighting, background, makeup, clothes—perfect double mocha latte with an intricate oak tree leaf designed in the foam.
I’ve never been a flawless person. Or organized. I’m more of a hot mess who happened to be blessed with good skin.
But my followers like me that way—so I show them the good, the bad, and the morning sickness ugly.
Which is why when I’m recording in the kitchen and the wave of nausea that’s been crashing down on me all day turns into a tsunami, I leave the camera running while I dive into the small hallway bathroom. Later, I’ll edit out the sounds of my wrenching heaves that feel like they’re emptying my stomach and my soul. But the before and after, that stays in the video.
Because it’s real.
I step out of the “barfroom” a few minutes later, dabbing at my face with a damp towel. “Sorry about that, Lifers. This kid is killing me. I never had morning sickness with Jaybird. Is this like an omen of things to come—’cause if it is, I’m screwed.”
I posted the pregnancy video announcement last week—the Lifers are all super excited for me. Though I occasionally mention Mr. Hot-Baby-Daddy or Sexy-Drummer-Guy interchangeably, I’ve kept any other details about Dean and his level of involvement purposely vague.
I grab the pencil and notebook that sits on the shiny marble counter top and record the “vomitous” occasion for posterity. Then I hold the notebook up to the camera.
“Did I tell you guys I started a pregnancy journal? It’s for me, mostly, and for the baby when they’re an adult, so I can guilt them into taking care of me when I’m old.”
I hold up a picture of myself taken in the master bath mirror yesterday—topless and turned to the side with my arm across my breasts, to show the weekly progression of my surprisingly expanding stomach. That’s different from Jason too—I’m only about three and a half months and already starting to pop.
“And it’s for Mr. Sexy-Baby-Daddy too, so he won’t miss out on any big moments.” I set the notebook aside. “Anyway, where were we?”
The kitchen is finished. I decorated it in shades of white with wood touches—to go with the overall nautical theme and because it’s super easy to change out accent colors. There are white cabinets for storage below the counter, but on the walls above it, it’s open thick, butcher-block shelving that hold neat rows of white ceramic dishes and glasses. There’s a matching hood above the stainless steel range and an accent wall of distressed horizontal oak planks with a massive five-by-three chalkboard sign hung across the top that reads LAKE.