Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“I, um, I eat by myself. The cafeteria is too loud.”

He looks at everything in the room besides me. The clock flicks past another minute and I suck in a breath, knowing this situation likely just stole the moment I’ve been anticipating since yesterday.

“Okay. Fair enough. Where do you usually eat?” I ask him.

“Just wherever.” His hand goes in his pocket as resignation settles over his face.

“You can always eat with me. Even if I’m not in here, you can come in and flip on the television if you want. Okay?”

“Thanks, Mr. Gibson.”

The location isn’t the problem and we both know it. Racking my brain for a way to fix this without making him feel bad, I tap my fingers against the desk. “I had an ulterior motive for asking you to come in here.”

He gives me a lopsided grin. “What’s that?”

“I need a favor.”

“From me?”

Nodding, I try to bring this together as smoothly as possible. “I’m on a panel of teachers the school board put together to analyze the cafeteria food. It’s not something they really want spread around because of politics and stuff like that. Anyway, I’m supposed to pick a student to get a tray every day and then report back on what they think about it.”

“Okay,” he draws out, smelling bullshit.

I need to fortify my story. “Ms. Malarkey is selecting a freshman and I thought you’d be a great upperclassman.”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Gibson.”

“Look, all you have to do is get a tray,” I say, forcing a swallow. “The school will credit your account for a tray a day for the rest of the year.”

He eyes me curiously. There’s an element of pride sitting behind his sleepy eyes, one that makes my heart drop. It also worries me that he won’t go along with my plan.

“If you don’t want to eat it, you can toss it in the garbage,” I add. “Just give me something in May that says how you liked it and what you hated and, just, whatever you think.”

“All I have to do is get a tray and give you a paper on it in May?”

“Yes. It’s not for a grade or anything. I’ll even give you extra credit or something because I know it’s kind of a pain for you to do this. I could ask someone else,” I say, going for the guilt factor, “but I really need someone who’s truthful who’ll give me the report.”

The relief is visible. I want to give the kid a fucking hug.

“I’ll call down to the office now,” I say, having to look away. “You can get your tray and start today, if you want. No pressure.”

“I could do that,” he says eagerly.

“Great.”

He heads to the door. “I’ll go now. Thanks, Mr. Gibson. If you need anything sooner from me before May, just shout.”

“Yeah. Will do. Thank you.”

Using my palm, I wipe at an eye that must’ve gotten some dust in it. I buzz down to the office and the secretary picks up.

“Hey, this is Lance,” I tell her. “Does Ollie’s lunch account have anything on it?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you that,” she says. “But …” There’s typing on the other end. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Can you stick twenty bucks on there and I’ll come down this afternoon and talk to you about it?”

“Sure can.”

“Thanks.”

My head goes into my hands. On some level, this is why I got into teaching in the first place. But it’s also the part no one explained to me beforehand. Mouthy kids, errant students, even ones who don’t give a damn—I can handle that. Hungry kids? Neglected ones? Kids who don’t have a pot to piss in? Those I can’t.

A knock raps at the door. When I raise my head, I can’t look anywhere else.

Mariah is standing there in a yellow dress that’s belted around her waist. Her hair is down today and in her hand is the little bag she carries her lunch in.

She’s prettier than ever and I realize that’s probably some sex-deprived colored glasses kind of thing. But as she tries to decipher whether or not to say something, I want to storm across the room and plant my lips on hers.

“Hey,” she says, switching the bag between her hands. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I was getting my lunch and sort of overheard a part of your conversation with Ollie.” She smiles sheepishly. “Don’t even start with the eavesdropping stuff.”

“I was in my room this time,” I say, getting to my feet. The sun didn’t change positions out the window, but it sure feels a lot brighter in here now. “I do find it interesting you’d go out of your way to listen in on my conversation, even when I don’t come to you to have them. More adorable than strange, if you’re wondering.”

She grins. “I think it was my name that stopped me in my tracks.”