~
Almost dying really changes your perspective.
There's no quicker way to light a big, blazing fire under your ass than almost biting the bullet. So, as soon as the paramedics check out Mrs. Jenkins, just to be safe, and I talk to the state troopers, fill out a report, see Mrs. Jenkins back home again, and get back into my own car, I only have one thought in mind.
Only one place I'm going.
Only one person who matters to me, in this moment.
I'm out of the car in front of Callie's parents' house before I even get it in park. I jog across their front lawn, pull open the screen door, and knock on the oak one. And I don't stop, until it opens.
And then she's there. Standing blond and beautiful in the doorway, the scent of roses and vanilla surrounding her. It's what my youth, what love, smells like. Her smile is sweet and a surprised sparkle shines in those green eyes . . . the ones I want to drown in all over again.
"Garrett . . . I was just--"
This time, I don't hesitate. I don't wait.
I step closer, wrap my arms around her and kiss her with everything I am, and everything I ever was.
Her mouth is so fucking warm, and soft--new and familiar all at the same time. Callie's lips move with mine, pliant but eager. And that connection, that bond, that live-wire spark that was always there between us flares up again, bright and strong. I cup her jaw in my palm, stroking her smooth cheek with my thumb, leaning in closer, tasting her deeper.
And I was right. She tastes even better--like warm honey, melted sugar.
Slowly, savoringly, I ease out of the kiss, brushing my lips against hers one last lingering time. Callie's eyes are closed, our foreheads are pressed together, and our breaths are the same--harsh and needy.
"Did you think of me?"
Her eyes open slowly, blinking up at me in that way that makes me want to kiss her again--and then do a hell of a lot more than kiss.
"What?"
"All those years, all this time, did you think of me? Because I thought of you, Callie, every fucking day. I would hear a song or pass a spot in town and some perfect memory of us would come back. And I would wonder where you were . . . how you were . . . and I would think of you . . . every single day."
She doesn't close her eyes, she meets my gaze head on, wets her lips with her small pink tongue--and nods.
"I would hear you in my head, whenever I needed you . . . and sometimes for no reason at all. And I would think of you, all the time."
And there it is--that same feeling I get on the field after a really great play--the thrilling, electric excitement of being exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I was born to do.
"I missed you," I whisper. "I didn't even know how much . . . until you came back."
She smiles, her eyes going shiny with wetness. Because Callie's a crier . . . happy or sad, sometimes both at the same time . . . she always was.
"I missed you too, Garrett."
And she doesn't hesitate either. She reaches up, clasps her arms around my neck, and kisses me hot and hard and wet, with years' worth of wanting. It's almost a full-on make-out session right there on Callie's parents' front step. Her fingers slide through my hair, and my hands skim down her arms, gripping her waist, pulling her closer, rediscovering the feel of her.
The feel of us.
And we feel spectacular.
Chapter Ten
Callie
High school parking lots are one of the most dangerous places on earth. I don't have statistics to back that up, but I know it's true.
I pull into the school parking lot Monday morning in my dad's giant, newly repaired mint-green Buick, with "Back in Black" by AC/DC blasting from the speakers. I feel tough, powerful--like I'm driving a tank.
I'm a badass teacher--I'll run you down even if you're a student--I've got twenty-nine more in class just like you.
The outfit helps too--leather boots, blue jeans, a starched white blouse, and a black leather jacket. It's my armor. The morning air is cool and crisp today, but I barely feel it. I'm locked and loaded and ready to roll.
As I march towards the main entrance, I spot Garrett and Dean and Alison Bellinger outside the doors. They pause when they see me, waiting.
"Damn," Dean chuckles. "Callie's got her shit-kickers on. Did you dig them out of a mosh pit from 1993?"
Garrett crosses his arms. "Somebody's channeling Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds."
He looks fantastic. His hair is tousled from the breeze and kisses his brow, and he's wearing a dark-blue sweater that's snug around his biceps and soft, worn, light-blue jeans. I remember his arms around me yesterday on my parents' porch. The wonder and exhilaration of the moment.
Of him.
The intensity in his eyes, the desire and possessiveness in the grasp of his hands. The scorching feel of his mouth, his wet, talented tongue that made my stomach swirl and my head spin.
So much for not complicating things.
But I'm not going to play head games with myself or Garrett--we're too old for that shit.
I have feelings for him--I always have--our breakup had nothing to do with either of us not wanting each other desperately. But these aren't just leftover echoes of a sweet, first love--this is something new. A throbbing, breathless attraction to the amazing man he's become. I want to be near him. I want to know him, inside and out, all over again.
And he feels the same way. Garrett wants this version of me as much as he always did--maybe even more. I heard it in his whispered words and felt it in his kiss.
I don't know if we have a future, if it can go anywhere. We have separate lives on opposite ends of the country. But I'm not going to worry about that--for now, I'm going to take each day as it comes and enjoy every moment we can.
Except for now. Now is not the time for enjoying or worrying or relationship building . . . now is the time for focusing. Now is the time to be ice and steel--don't smile, don't waver.
"Little fucknutters don't know who the hell they're dealing with," I growl.
Alison pumps her fist. "That's the spirit."
Garrett opens the door for me. "Go get 'em, Gangster's Paradise."
~
The first few periods go great. This mean-teacher shit actually works.
I scowl and frown and lay down the law. I make them take notes on stage direction and famous playwrights--the boring stuff. Fun, dramatic, silly exercises? Not today, kiddies . . . maybe not ever again. I imitate the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld--no fun for you!
I tack homework passes on the wall, to be given out at my discretion. There really isn't any homework in theater--the only homework my drama teacher in high school, Mr. Pelligrino, ever gave us was practicing pratfalls. But these kids don't seem to realize that. They respond to my attitude, to the role I'm playing--I am Pavlov's bell and they're the dogs.
Until . . . fifth period. My D&B class.
They're different.
It's not just because they're the meanest of the bunch. But I see something in them, in each of them. The performer in me senses it. There's emotion simmering in this room, talent just waiting to be tapped into.
It's in David Burke--the slouching rebel, the Hamlet and leader of the pack. The other kids defer to him, wait for him, even if they don't realize it. If I win him over . . . I win them all.
It's in Layla Martinez--she's a Juliet--quiet, tragically pretty, with the most expressive eyes I've ever seen.
It's in Michael Salimander--the dark-haired, clever kid who probably only took this class to drive up his GPA. He reminds me of Puck, there's brilliance in him, and if the comic doodles that cover his notebook are any indication, creativity too.
It's in Simone Porchesky--the Medea, with her blue-black hair and blood-red lipstick, and a resentful chip on her shoulder.
They could emote. They could perform. They would draw all eyes to them.
They could be magnificent.
"What do you want?"
I d
on't yell the question, but project my voice through the rectangular room, grabbing their attention from the scattered chairs they sit in. When they don't answer, I take off my jacket, hang it on the back of my chair, walk around to the front of my desk and fold my arms.
"We want a striptease! I wanna see titties!" Bradley Baker yells from the back of the room.
Garrett was right--he is a dipshit.
I ignore him. "You have to be here; I have to be here. So, what do you want to do while we're here?"
"We want you to cry again." Simone sneers.
I nod. And look to the rest of them for answers.
"We want to do something that doesn't suck," Toby Gessler offers, popping an earbud out of one ear.
"We want to get out of this room," Michael says.
"Okay. Anyone else?"
"We want money." David smirks. "You get paid for coming here; we should too."
The gears in my mind go spinning. With Alison's advice and the token system my sister used with her kids when they were little, and Garrett's words.
"The key to controlling your class, is figuring out what each kid wants . . . and giving it to them . . . letting them know . . . you have the power to take it away."
"You know what I want?" I ask.
"We don't care." Bradley laughs, but no one else joins in.
"I want to put on a play. At the end of the year. With just the theater students."