Getting Schooled

He could give me a hand, all right . . . a hand, a finger . . . two of Garrett's fingers was always my favorite.

"Thank you, yes. That would be . . ."

Fuck-hot? Incredible? So mind-blowing my hair will turn white?

". . . great."

Garrett smirks, raising an eyebrow--like he can read my mind--and at this point, I have no doubt he can.

I look to Michael. "Can you show them what we need from the storage closet?"

Garrett and his boys follow Michael out of the theater.

Then Toby flips through the script in his hands, shaking his head. "I don't know about this anymore. The idea of doing some of this stuff is pretty weird--they're gonna laugh at us. I don't want to look like a frigging idiot."

Classic case of cold feet. They want the play to be good . . . but they don't trust me to show them how to make it good. Not fully, not yet.

"You're only going to look like idiots if you hold back, if you try to play it off like you're too cool for school." I slouch and shrug the way David sometimes does, garnering soft giggles from the class. "But if you let it all go, throw yourself into your part--the only thing anyone will see is how amazing you are. That's why trust between the director and the performers is so important. If you trust me, I promise . . . I won't let you look like idiots." I meet their eyes and swear, "And I sure as hell will never let anyone have a reason to laugh at you. Not ever."

"You should show them the thing." Garrett's voice echoes in the theater, surprising me. I spin around to find him leaning against the stage-left wall--all mesmerizing, cocky confidence.

I know "the thing" of which he speaks. It was a trick I used to do for him to show off--back after our sophomore-year class trip to Manhattan to see Les Miserables.

I shake my head. "I don't want to do the thing. I don't even know if I still can."

He scoffs. "Of course you still can."

"What's the thing?" Simone pipes up.

"The thing," Garrett answers, "is why you should listen to Miss Carpenter. Why you should trust her. She knows her shit."

David grins crookedly. "Okay, now you have to show us the thing."

I sigh dramatically. "All right. But it's been a while, so be kind."

I shake out my hands and crack my neck--and do a few vocal warm-ups.

Garrett cups his hands around his gorgeous mouth. "Stop stalling."

I stick my tongue out at him and the whole class laughs.

And then I begin. I perform the full cast version of "One Day More" from Les Miserables--I step to the side, turn to the left or right, cross my arms, pound my fist into my hand, change my posture, the key of my voice, my facial expression--to differentiate each character. I'm just one person, but with each line, I become--Jean Valjean, Cosette, Marius, Eponine, Inspector Javert--I become them all. I don't look at my audience, but past them, towards the back of the theater, until I close my eyes on the very last rousing note.

Slowly, I open my eyes and every one of my kids is staring at me like I have four heads. Until David starts to clap--loud and quick--and like baby ducks, the rest of them follow, until a full-on applause rings out. Garrett puts his fingers to his lips and whistles.

And it's ten times better than any standing ovation I've ever received.

"Holy crap." Bradley stands up. "That was sick!"

It's okay--sick is good.

"Can you teach us how to do that?" Toby asks.

"Yeah." I nod. "Yeah, actually, I can."

The bell shrieks from the hallway and the kids grab their stuff and head towards the door.

"We'll pick this up tomorrow," I call after them. "And it's never too early to start memorizing your lines!"

In the midst of the shuffle, I make my way over to where Garrett's still standing against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for me. I lean in towards him, as much as I can without setting the high school gossip mill on fire . . . or jumping him.

"That was sexy as fuck," Garrett growls low, making me blush like the virgin I was before I met him.

"You always did have a thing for Les Miserables," I tease him.

And his smile hits me right in the center of my chest, making feel giddy and silly and light--like my feet aren't on the ground. He makes me feel that way.

"Thanks for helping me with them--for trying to get them to trust me."

He tucks a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. "Anytime."

Garrett stares at my mouth, his brown eyes intense and swirling--filled with carnal thoughts and desperate, delightful ideas. "Come over tonight, Cal. Even if it's just for an hour or ten minutes, I don't care. I'll feed you ramen and do dirty things to you."

I laugh. How could any girl say no to an offer like that?

Chapter Thirteen

Garrett

No, no, no--as if this season wasn't already a flaming bag of dog shit . . . as if being 0-3 wasn't humiliating enough to make me want to burn the school down . . . now this, on game day.

"Walk away, dude," Dean whispers to himself, because he gets it too. "Keep your mouth shut and walk away."

Damon John--my star receiver and his long-term girlfriend, Rhonda, are having an argument--a loud, public, right in the middle of the fucking D wing-break-up, kind of argument. The crowd's about six students deep, but Dean and I can hear every word.

"You broke my heart. You only get to do that once."

I like Rhonda; she's a good girl for DJ--sweet, smart, doesn't take any of his stupid shit. But it would seem Damon John has forgotten that fact.

"Whatever, baby." He shrugs, looking right through her. "Been there, done that. I'm over it."

What a little asshole.

But that's high school boys for you--back them into a corner and they turn ugly--like Gremlins fed after midnight.

Rhonda lifts her chin, holding back tears. "Do not text me, do not call me, do not show up at my house. You are dead to me."

When DJ swallows hard and his eyes flair with uncertainty--I catch it, but I'm probably the only one who does. To the rest of the world, he laughs, blows it off . . . but I know him--studied his every move, so I know better.

"Works for me. In a few hours, I won't even remember your name."

Dean covers his eyes. "Dumbass."

With that, Rhonda turns around and walks away, and doesn't look back. The late bell rings and the crowd disperses.

I glance at Dean. "DJ and Rhonda were together for two years, man."

In high school years, that's like twenty.

"Yeah." He shakes his head. "It's gonna be bad."

~

And bad it is.

I hear just how much as I walk down the hall towards the locker room after school. The mixture of despair and regret that sounds like a mortally wounded animal . . . but is really a seventeen-year-old boy who's been dumped on his sorry ass.

I open the door and sure enough, there's DJ lying on his back across the bench, with his forearm across his face, covering his eyes.

Crying.

For even the staunchest supporters of the "boys don't cry" rule--a locker room is the exception. A thousand disappointed, heartbroken tears have been shed here.

Six of my starters surround DJ, without a single clue between them about what to do. If he'd twisted an ankle or cramped a muscle, they'd know. But a busted heart? That's out of their league.

"I don't get it," Sam Zheng says. "If you still like her, why did you say all that crap to her in the hallway? Why didn't you just say sorry?"

Ah . . . Sammy, he's a sophomore--still innocent.

"I don't know," DJ moans. "I didn't mean it." He turns on his side, moaning, "How am I supposed to play tonight? How am I supposed to live without my bae?"

"Oh damn," Kyle Lanigan gasps. "What if she bangs someone else to get back at you? Or two people . . . a threesome? Dude, she could be doing it right now! Like right now!"

DJ's face crumples.

I walk to the bench, move his legs, and sit down.

&nb

sp; Then I sigh. "You screwed up, Deej."

"I did," he sniffles. "I screwed up so bad, Coach."

I look around at the faces of my players. "But, this could be a good thing. It's better you all know the truth now, while you're still young."

They move closer, gathering around, staring at me like I'm Jesus Christ on the mount, about to preach.

"What's the truth, Coach D?" Wilson asks, wide-eyed.

I lean forward and lower my voice. "The truth is, when it comes to guys and girls, men and women? We need them, more than they will ever, ever, need us."