Teach Me (There's Something About Marysburg Book 1)

by Olivia Dade

  Rose was not a fidgeter. He was watching her fight every instinct she had.

  Fuck, he wished he could make this easier for her. His heart hurt at the sight of such a smart, caring woman struggling so hard to share herself. All of herself, not just the bits she didn’t mind others seeing.

  “Both, I guess,” she finally said. “I love ancient Egypt, like I told you, and I have some fun activities for the mythology unit. The plague and Joan of Arc too. And tenth grade is a fun age. The kids aren’t as determined to seem cynical as my eleventh graders.” She paused again. “But it’s more than that.”

  He let his silence do the work this time.

  “I grew up poor, Martin.” She tore little pieces from the crust of her baguette. “Really poor. Trailer park poor. Food stamps poor.”

  No visible surprise. Keep your face neutral.

  “People judge you all the time when you’re poor, especially if you’re on welfare. They think it’s their right. That you must be dumb or lazy or dishonest.” Blotches appeared on her bare cheeks, pink splashes of rage. “When my mom went back to school to become a nurse, the people at the welfare office didn’t believe her GPA. The woman in charge of our case kept saying, ‘This can’t be right. You’re not that smart.’” Her long, elegant hands had formed fists on the table. “Mom and I finally figured it out. The system is meant to keep you alive, but also to punish you. To humiliate you. To make sure you would never, ever be part of it if you had a choice.”

  He forced himself to breathe normally. Your outrage, your anger on her behalf, don’t matter. This isn’t about you.

  Her mouth pressed into a thin, white line. “Then there were the people behind us in line at the grocery store, who’d sigh and roll their eyes and make comments about what we bought with our food stamps. Who’d inform us when we’d chosen something they considered too expensive, since they didn’t want their valuable tax dollars paying for anything more than the bare essentials. And all the other people who looked at us and said we obviously didn’t need help, obviously shouldn’t get money, because we dressed too nicely. Didn’t look poor enough. Had a decent TV.”

  All that flinty pride. All that fuck-you defiance and refusal to show weakness.

  No wonder. No wonder.

  She glared in his direction, but he didn’t think she saw him. “We scoured thrift stores for decent clothing, because Mom didn’t want to stand out in her classes, and she didn’t want other kids to mock me at school. Our hair always looked nice because we knew a good stylist, and Mom cleaned her studio sometimes in exchange for a cut and color. And we scrimped for years—years—to get a decent TV and cable, because God knew we weren’t going to movies, weren’t attending concerts, weren’t eating at restaurants or visiting amusement parks. We needed some sort of amusement other than library books, much as I loved reading.”

  He wanted to tell her she didn’t need to defend herself or her mother, not to him. Not ever.

  Not about you, he repeated to himself. Not about you.

  “We didn’t have health insurance, which meant every time I got sick, every time I had to go to the doctor or Mom had to miss work to take care of me, the TV fund would go back to zero. So I’d tell her I was fine. I didn’t need the doctor. She could go to work.” Her voice grew distant as she sifted through her memories. “When I was little, to stop myself from crying I’d pretend she was there, just out of sight. Around the corner. In the kitchen, getting me ginger ale.”

  A half-rueful, half-bitter smile curved her mouth. “I hallucinated her once, when I had a high fever. Talked to her for hours. When Mom got home, she had to take me to the hospital, and the TV fund was gone. Again.”

  His heart. Oh, Jesus, his heart.

  But the frozen dam had melted at long last, and there was no stopping the violent, churning flood of water and ice as it hurtled downstream. He didn’t even try.

  She’d survived a long winter. She deserved spring, even if the turn of seasons tossed some boulders and snapped a few trees in half.

  Without warning, she shook her head so hard, her braid whipped against her cheek. “But that’s not my point. Your AP World History kids are great. Smart, funny, generally hardworking. But very few of them need us, Martin. They’d be fine whoever their teacher was, because most of them have money. Most of them have parents with enough time and energy to ensure their kids’ success.”

  He couldn’t say she was entirely wrong, although he suspected more AP kids needed a teacher like her than she realized. He’d been one of those kids himself, desperate for affirmation and understanding and gentleness from any adult in his life.

  She sprawled back in her chair without any attempt at grace. “I wasn’t like them. I was a good student in school. Not great. Mom thought I could do better, but I knew I wasn’t AP or college material. By the time I started ninth grade, I was already washing dishes at restaurants and getting paid under the table, so I could help contribute to our savings. I didn’t have time for homework, and I wasn’t smart enough for anything past high school.”

  Not smart enough? He would laugh, if he weren’t so close to shouting or tears.

  “I loved writing, though. Read anything I could find for free.” She pushed away her plate restlessly. “At the end of freshman year, Ms. Jenkins met with me one day after class and said I could do more. Be more. She wanted me to skip normal tenth grade English and take her AP English Lit class that next year. Hemingway doesn’t deserve you, she said. But you deserve Hemingway.”

  Rose’s face had lit like a lantern at the first mention of her former teacher, and the beauty of it held him immobile in his chair.

  “I thought she was joking at first. It required special permission from my mom, and from the school. But she wasn’t joking, and I…” Her exhalation shook, just a little. “I respected her. I trusted her, when I didn’t trust anyone but my mom. And somehow, after I got an A in her class and a five on the exam, I started taking other AP courses. I started applying for scholarships. I started applying for student loans. I went to college. I went to graduate school. Me, of all people. Brandi Rose Owens.”

  For all the pain of his childhood, he’d never doubted he’d go to college. Not once.

  “Mom didn’t see me graduate. Neither did Ms. Jenkins.” She was shredding her napkin, tearing and tearing it again as she spoke. “I’m not a religious person, but I hope they saw. I hope they knew. I wanted them—”

  She stopped. Swallowed back a raw, rough sound. “I wanted them to be proud.”

  Against all his instincts, he didn’t try to touch her. Didn’t fold her into his arms and rock her like the mother she’d lost so long ago.

  She didn’t need his comfort right now. She needed him to listen.

  Her head ducked down, and she gathered all those shreds into a little pile. Tidied them. “With AP U.S. History, I get to use my academic background. I get to explore our history in so much more depth than when I teach regular or honors classes, and I wouldn’t give that up for anything. With Honors World History, though, more of the students are like me as a teenager. Smart but poor kids who may not expect too much of themselves, and who may not have anyone else expect too much of them, either. But they have time to change all that before graduation. They have time to raise their GPA and make a good case for college admission, if that’s something they want.”

  He’d like to think that was still possible for juniors and seniors too, but in reality, he didn’t know. One or two years of newfound academic success might not sway college admissions committees. Again, he’d never had to worry about such matters for his own sake, or even for Bea’s.

  Jesus, his thoughts seemed fuzzy. Weird.

  Her eyes blazed with emotion when they met his. “For me, the best moment in the entire school year is always, always, when I see next year’s AP U.S. History roster. When I get to watch some of my honors kids reach for more, like I did. Some of them won’t succeed in such a high-intensity class, and I understand that. But others wi
ll, and that success can change their lives for the better. Forever. I know that for a fact, Martin.”

  Conviction firmed her jaw, but tears roughened her voice as she finished her story.

  “And on the most selfish level, I’m so proud those kids trust me enough to take a chance. To take on hours of extra homework each week, hours they could be sleeping or working for their families, all to keep me as a teacher. All because I helped them believe they could do more. Be more.” Her throat worked. “It’s the greatest accomplishment of my life. By far.”

  She angrily knuckled away the wetness shining on her cheeks. “When Dale took that away, it fucking gutted me. I found out literally minutes before I met you the first time, Martin. I know I was a cold bitch to you, and I’m sorry. None of it was your fault, but I was so angry and hurt I could barely stop myself from crying.” She choked out a laugh. “Like I am now.”

  He waited, but she’d finished. Was staring down at her plate with livid stripes of color on her cheeks as she sniffed back more tears.

  Which meant he could finally speak. Finally hold her.

  “Rose…” He started up from his chair, eager to provide whatever solace and understanding she’d allow. But as the room swirled and his legs turned to Chef Boyardee spaghetti beneath him, he sat right back down. “Fuck.”

  After one last sniff, she looked over at him, emotional devastation gradually replaced by wry amusement. “The pills started kicking in, huh?”

  “Yeah.” He had to think. What did he need to tell her? “You’re amazing. You have to know that. Amazing.”

  Her lips tucked inward in a small smile, and she rose to her feet with enviable ease.

  “When you start sounding drunk, I figure it’s time for bed.” At some point, she’d maneuvered herself beneath his arm, and it seemed he was standing again. “Upsy-daisy. There you go.”

  They made halting progress toward his bedroom, which seemed much further away than he remembered. And there was something he needed to tell her. Oh, right. “Amazing. So pretty. Soooo pretty.”

  “At least you’re a happy drunk,” she muttered. “But you’re heavier than you look.”

  Oh, no.

  He dropped his chin to his chest and halted. “Sorry. Pills…hit me hard.”

  “No, no. Don’t stop moving now.” She tugged him back into motion. “No need to apologize. It’s kind of fun to see buttoned-up Mr. Krause undone.”

  Wait! That was what he needed to say. “Want to see you undone.”

  “I think you just did.” Another few feet. “When you’re feeling better, you may get another chance. This time without drugs or tears. Or clothes.”

  With a few gentle pushes and nudges, she got him onto his mattress, and he sank a mile deep. Oh, yeah. That felt good.

  Was she speaking?

  “—sleeping on your couch, and I’ll probably be gone before you wake up. But I’ll check on you in the afternoon, and if Bea doesn’t come to take care of you, I will.” Something warm and soft brushed his closed eyelids, then his cheek. “Sweet dreams, Martin.”

  In a blind grab, he caught her hand. “Dream of you.”

  Another tender brush against his cheek.

  And that was the last thing he remembered until morning.

  Thirteen

  A week later, Martin packed up his second-period materials and eyed Rose with both admiration and frustration as she greeted her AP students at the door.

  “Good morning, Vonnie.” She smiled at the slight young woman. “Last day before the exam. How are you feeling?”

  Vonnie sagged in the doorway as other students edged around her. “Tired. But that horrible review packet helped. I feel more comfortable with the Gilded Age now.” Her mouth tipped up in a slight smile. “I kind of want to kick Vanderbilt in the nuts, though. I’d forgotten how awful he was.”

  Rose snorted. “I’m pretty sure most of his business competitors felt the same way. And I’m happy to hear the packet did its job. Sometimes the most horrible things are also the most effective.”

  As Vonnie began to wander toward her seat, Rose laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Honey, don’t stay up late studying tonight. You need your sleep more than anything else right now.”

  The young woman’s back straightened, and she looked up at Rose with her heart so exposed, Martin almost looked away.

  Her face soft with affection and absolute trust, she reminded her teacher, “You said the same thing last year in honors, right before the state test.”

  “And you aced that test, didn’t you?” At Vonnie’s nod, Rose gave her a gentle push toward her desk. “That’s why you need to listen to me again. I’m always right. Now sit down before you fall down, and no energy drinks after school. Just sleep.”

  The girl saluted and dropped into her chair. “Yes, Mom.”

  Vonnie’s halfhearted snark didn’t conceal the connection between the two, and it wasn’t intended to. They understood one another perfectly.

  This. This was the bond Rose had formed over two years with these students.

  This was what Dale had stripped from her. From kids like Vonnie.

  In that moment, Martin decided it wasn’t going to happen a second time.

  Reluctantly, he prepared to leave the room, even though he was hungry for any glimpse of Rose’s stubborn chin and shining, bitter-coffee hair. Starving to claim the privileges she’d promised him in the dimness of his bedroom, the chance to render her unclothed and undone under his hands. Desperate to tell her how her attention, her tenderness toward him, had transformed him into the man he’d always dreamed of being.

  No. That wasn’t quite right.

  She hadn’t changed him. She hadn’t wanted to change him.

  But her total acceptance had changed everything around him, cleared away the fog, until he could look at himself in the mirror over his bathroom sink and see himself for what he truly was.

  Not Mute Boy or Old Sobersides.

  He was a man who would sacrifice anything to protect Rose, even though she didn’t ask for protection from him or anyone. Even though most people wouldn’t even see that she sometimes needed it. He’d dive into frigid dunk tank water. Make her coffee suitably dark and bitter. Insist to Dale, an all-too-familiar bully, that she reclaim her Honors World History classes next year.

  He was a man who paid attention. Who understood her thick, gleaming armor and could help her shed it whenever it got too heavy for her. Who nevertheless appreciated its beauty and the reasons she’d donned it.

  He was a man who made her snort with laughter.

  He was a man she trusted to keep her secrets.

  He was a man who adored her intelligence, her will, her wit, and her beauty.

  Above all: He was a man who could make Rose happy.

  That is, if they were ever alone again.

  By the time he’d woken the morning after her visit to his home, she’d left for school hours before, leaving only a neatly folded blanket and a note as reminders of her recent presence.

  Relax, Martin. I’ve got this. Talk to you this afternoon. —R

  When she’d phoned him after school, as promised, Bea had already arrived to take care of him, and he’d had to cut the call short.

  Each night he was absent, he and Rose had talked at some point, but he’d always remained too aware of Bea’s presence somewhere in the house to share anything more private than test strategies.

  And once he could move comfortably enough to return to classroom duty, he and Rose were working almost around the clock to prepare their students for the AP and state tests, and neither had the time or energy for any sort of intimate conversations or encounters.

  So, yeah. It was fair to say that he was a bit frustrated. In the sense that a tornado was a bit breezy, or Dale a bit dickish.

  The bell rang for the beginning of the period, and Rose closed the door.

  Dammit. It didn’t matter how much he wanted to bask in her presence. He needed to vacate her room before he got in h
er way.

  But once he got halfway to the door, the intercom blared to life.

  Tess’s voice rang out, clear and authoritative. “Attention, all faculty, students, and visitors. We are conducting a scheduled lockdown drill. Please follow standard lockdown procedures, rather than Run, Hide, Fight procedures. I repeat, this is a drill.”

  With a final crackle, the intercom went silent.

  Fuck. He’d completely forgotten. Now he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, and Rose had one more person in her classroom to consider during the drill.

  She spoke over her shoulder as she jogged to the door. “Chase and Ariana, get the blinds. Everyone else, either squeeze into the closet or get in the corner behind my desk, just like we practiced. Leave room for Chase and Ariana. No talking, not even whispers. Phones on silent. Understood?”

  The kids, well-versed after years of these drills—a fact that never failed to hurt him—went about their business quietly as Rose threw her deadbolt, flicked off the overhead lights, and covered the window in her door with the appropriate laminated sign. Green to indicate the safety of the room’s inhabitants, rather than yellow to indicate injuries or—God forbid—red to indicate the presence of a shooter in the classroom.

  A black sign would tell authorities to expect fatalities inside.

  The blinds descended one by one to the windowsills, and the room turned gray and dim as Chase and Ariana finished their task and joined their classmates.

  Most classes had at least a few giggling or whispering kids during lockdowns, since the unimaginable had somehow become banal in the last decade. But Rose’s kids remained in absolute silence, their eyes following her.

  Slipping off her heels, she carried them in her hand as she hustled barefoot toward her desk. Given the number of students in her class, though, there wasn’t much room for a woman her size to hide behind it, and there certainly wasn’t enough space left in the closet.

  He might be able to squeeze into the empty area underneath her desk, but not her. If a shooter burst into the room, she’d have nowhere to hide.