Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

The bell rings, breaking me out of my reverie.

“I gotta get back to my classroom,” Tish says. “The freshmen are in there and they’re the worst class I’ve had in the twenty years I’ve been teaching.”

“Good luck with that,” I say.

“See ya tomorrow.”

She disappears into the library. I turn towards my computer when I spy the cupcake container. The plastic is dropping into the icing, the pieces missing from Tish and Lance.

As I fix the covering, a warmth washes over me like a warm summer rain. I settle back in my chair and try to get back to work. Yet, as my fingers hover over the keyboard, they don’t move. Instead, I glance at the cupcakes again.

Memories sweep through my mind of baking with my grandmother. She taught me the peanut butter icing recipe that Lance loves so much. Gran taught me how to bake, crochet, and even let me read the romance novels I craved though my mom said they were trash.

Everything was trash to her unless she could garner a social benefit. Me included.

One day, I tell myself, swiping up a dab of icing on my finger. One day I’ll have a family of my own and won’t rely on acceptance from co-workers to prove my mettle.

Three

Lance

The bell blares its final warning for students to be seated.

Hopping onto the edge of my desk, I face a room full of animated juniors. It never ceases to amaze me that the human population doesn’t die off at age seventeen. At that point in our lives, we think with our genitals, smell like shit from either perspiration or too much cheap cologne, and have virtually no idea what we’re doing. Yet, we make it. Somehow.

With no regard for his classmates or my classroom, the captain of the football team elbows a girl a third of his size out of his way and takes her seat.

He may be the one who doesn’t make it.

“Brandon!” I shout over the ruckus in the room. “To the office.”

The students quiet, settling into their desks. They look from me to Brandon.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks, scrambling to his feet. “What’s up your ass?”

My foot if you don’t get out of here.

“Class,” I say, my eyes still pinned to Brandon. “What’s the first rule of history?”

“It repeats itself,” they respond in unison.

“It repeats itself. That’s right.” I mosey toward the door and yank it open. “Last week, you accidentally bumped Mr. Greyson and knocked him into the wall. Do you remember that?”

His jaw sets.

“There was plenty of room for you to walk around but you found it acceptable to plow through him instead. I removed you.”

His eyes narrow.

“You just took Ms. Cambria’s books off her desk and kicked her out of her spot. The first rule of history applies: you will be leaving us once again. Only this time, the second rule of history applies too.”

“The second rule?” Stacy asks from the front row.

“You never get the war you want.” Flipping my gaze back to Brandon, I nod toward the hallway. “Get out.”

“But—”

“You want to flex your muscles? Do it in the principal’s office.”

“But—”

“What?” I ask, lifting a brow. “That’s not the fight you’re after? Suddenly it’s not fair for someone with more power to exert control?”

“Fuck this,” he snaps, storming by me.

“I refuse to believe you’re the dumb jock you try so hard to make us all believe.”

This catches his attention. He stills, his fingers re-gripping the edge of his books, as he stops on the second landing leading to the office. I step into the hallway and partially shut the door behind me.

“Pushing people around and using language any idiot can use isn’t doing you any favors, Brandon,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear.

He doesn’t look back, but doesn’t move forward either. I take this as a win.

“You might get away with that at home and in your other classes, but you won’t in mine. I expect you to work to your ability and behave the same. Is that clear?”

There’s no answer, and I don’t expect one. He heads down the steps with a little less flare than before.

I head back inside my classroom. “Cause and effect, boys and girls,” I say, hopping back onto my desk. “Act like a fool, get treated like one.”

“You sound like my dad,” Kyler laughs.

“Your dad must be a genius. But is he as good looking as me?”

“That would be a no,” Stacy giggles.

The entire room bursts into laughter and I kick myself for walking right into that one. “Okay. Settle down. I want you to write a paper …” Standing and walking around my desk to the dry erase board as their moans ring out behind me, I write out the topic in black marker. “Write a minimum of one thousand words about a historical event of your choice and what caused it and its effects on the world.”