by Emma Chase
I look for Dean online again. I even try searching “Dean, the sexy drummer in New Jersey” but it just sends me to a bunch of “singles in your area now” websites. So, I open up the video camera on my computer—focusing on my makeup free face, the freckles across my nose bare for all to see. I press record and talk in low, hushed tones.
“Hey Lifers. I don’t know when I’ll be ready to post this. It feels more real than it did yesterday, but still . . . surreal. I’m having a baby. It wasn’t planned, it’s totally unexpected, but with every passing minute, I’m happier about it.”
In my mind I imagine a little boy or girl, a toddler, with sun-kissed hair and ocean-blue eyes, and a great smile—with a talent for music. And it’s so bizarre that those could be the only things I know for sure they got from their father. But that may have to be enough.
I look into the camera. “You guys wanted to experience life with Lainey? Well strap in—it’s gonna get nuts.”
Chapter Five
Dean
I admit, I get a kick out of the first day of school—I always did. Maybe it’s the nerd in me, but there’s something exciting about a fresh box of #2 pencils, a clean notebook, a new, unblemished folder.
Okay . . . it’s definitely the nerd in me.
But that doesn’t change the fact that the first day of school is like New Year’s in September—the start of a whole new year—endless possibilities.
I have a personal dress code I stick to for work—it helps me compartmentalize, get into teacher mode and separate myself from the wilder, free-wheeling summer nights with the band. No T-shirts, sweats or hoodies allowed—it’s all button-downs, sweaters, jeans, suits and ties on game day Fridays, and . . . glasses.
I’m notoriously nearsighted. Woman are into the glasses—but generally not on a drummer. Contacts are for the summer, my dark, square frames are for the rest of the time.
They make me look smart—most people subconsciously associate glasses with intelligence. They make me look like a teacher. And when it comes to teenagers—perception is half the battle.
~ ~ ~
The first period final bell is still ringing as I close my classroom door, because my kids are already at their desks.
Standing at the head of the class, I greet my band of brainiacs.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to school. I’m sure you’re as excited as I am to explore the never-ending wonders of AP Calculus. It’s going to be a good time, people.”
I scan their eager, awkward, acne-cream tinted little faces as I pass out the syllabus and go through my PowerPoint presentation of how grades will be calculated. All the usual suspects are here—Louis, Min Joon, Hailey, Martin, Keydon, Daisy, Quinn and Diego.
Fun fact: Diego has a twin sister in regular math named Dora. His parents are obviously monsters.
There’s also one new face in the pack: Jason Burrows.
He’s got sandy-colored hair, and a 5 Seconds of Summer-ish, pretty-boy look that girls today really go for. After telling the class to take out their summer packets for review, I lift my chin at Burrows. “I don’t expect you to have it completed. You can—”
He pulls the packet from his folder.
“It’s already done, Mr. Walker. I found it on the school’s website and finished it last night.”
Oh yeah, he’s gonna fit right in.
I call the kids up at random to post their answers to the problems on the board. Most of the answers are close—but wrong. These kids may be the cream of the smart, but they still have a lot to learn.
Daisy Denton, a shy, bespeckled redhead who’s obsessed with butterflies, gets one right on the money.
“Good job, Daisy. You want to ask your question now or later?”
Any student who gets an answer correct in my class gets to ask me a question. Any question, nothing’s off-limits, and I’ll answer it truthfully, no bullshit. It’s a great way to establish rapport and hopefully trust.
“I’ll ask now.” Daisy blushes, merry and bright. “What’s the secret of life, Coach Walker?”
“Starting the year off with an easy one, huh?” I tease.
Her cheeks turn a darker shade of crimson, but she’s smiling.
I adjust my glasses. “The secret of life is . . . good friends, good food, and good music. You have those three—everything else falls into place.”
“What do you consider good music?” Daisy asks.
Technically that’s two questions, but since Daisy is basically a mute most of the time, I don’t point that out.
I hear a sweet, spellbinding voice in my head that, despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to forget. “I like songs that tell a story. That make me feel. That make me remember.”
“Good music tells a story, Daise. It makes you remember exactly where you were and how you felt when you heard it.”
Some of the kids nod, most of them looking at me like I’m Gandhi and Buddha and Nostradamus all in one. It’s nice to be idolized.
“Okay, summer packet is done.” I smack my hands together and sit down behind my desk, leaning back in my chair.
“Hey—new kid.” Jason Burrows’s eyes go wide and round. I gesture for him to stand. “Do your thing—you know the drill. Tell us about yourself.”
He stands up, wetting his lips, looking a bit nervous. But that’s okay—because if yolks want to make friends, they gotta crack their shells.
“My name is Jason, I’m a Junior, I’m from Bayonne. I’m fourteen—”
“Fourteen?” Louis asks. “That’s young for a junior.”
“Yeah.” Jason nods, shrugging it off. “I skipped a few grades when I was younger.”
That gets their attention.
Because my students may not be football players or track stars—hell, some of them can’t even walk straight. But that doesn’t mean they’re not competitive. Bloodthirsty.
They’d sell their mothers for an extra tenth of a percentage in their GPA. Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan? Pfft—amateurs. My kids wouldn’t have wasted time with a crowbar—they would’ve gone straight for the chainsaw.
Hailey gnaws on the end of her pen. “A few grades? You must think you’re pretty hot stuff.”
“Not so much.” Burrows shakes his head. “I just really like school.”
They look him over, judging and weighing, like sniffing wolves deciding if a loner is going to be a new member of the pack—or lunch.
“Where do you live?” Diego asks.
There’s only about eight thousand residents in Lakeside. Where you live in town can say a lot about who you are. Wealthier families live on the North side of the lake or in the newer homes of Watershed Village; the old timers, like Grams, live below 6th Street, and the rest of the working-class families live everywhere in between.
“On Miller Street, at the end, by the lake.”
Louis practically jumps out of his chair.
“Wait, wait, wait—I saw them doing work on the old boarded up house on Miller Street. That’s where you live?”
I see where this is going—and it’s nowhere good.
“Yeah, it’s not boarded up anymore. My mom does these decorating videos on—”
“Holy shit, have you seen them?” Min Joon asks.
Burrows looks around. “Seen who?”
“The boys in the attic,” Martin says excitedly. Then he goes on to explain the legend of the haunted house of Lakeside. The one Burrows currently lives in.
“If you stand in front of the house at midnight on Friday the 13th and look up at the attic window, you’ll see the ghosts of the two 18th century boys who haunt the house.”
Burrows turns as white as the chalk on the ledge behind me.
“That’s not true,” Keydon argues.
“It’s totally true!” Louis yells. “My uncle saw them—he told me!”
I try to turn it around.
“Okay, guys, let’s get back—”
But they’re on a roll.
“I heard
they committed suicide,” Hailey says.
“I heard their mother slit their throats in their beds,” Min Joon insists.
Even quiet Daisy gets in on the act. “I heard it was the nanny and then she hung herself from the top stair railing.”
“Uh . . . I . . .” Burrows looks like he’s going to puke any second now. Not the best way to make a first impression.
“Hey, guys!” I stand up, clapping my hands. “That’s enough, all right? Let’s bring it in and get back to work.”
I glance at my poor, terrified, new student and do the only thing I can.
I lie.
“The house isn’t haunted. It’s a joke, they’re just messing with you.”
He swallows so hard, I hear it. “Are you sure?”
I look him right in the eyes.
“I swear to God.”
It’s a good lie—God will understand.
And Jason almost believes me. Then, Garrett walks into my classroom.
“Sorry to interrupt, Coach Walker.” He hands me a manila folder. “Here are the revised plays we talked about, for practice later.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Coach D,” Diego calls. “You know the boarded up house at the end of Miller Street?”
“Yeah, I know it.” Garrett answers.
“What do you think of it?”
“Haunted as hell.”
And the whole classroom explodes.
“I told you!”
“So haunted!”
“I knew it!” says Jason.
Ah shit. I am so getting an angry email from this kid’s mother.
“Me and Coach Walker saw the boys in the attic ourselves, when we were twelve.”
I try to catch Garrett’s eye while running my hand across my neck—the universal sign for, “Dude, shut the hell up.” But he doesn’t notice. Having Will has dulled his brain a little—he’s not as observant as he used to be.
“And Louis—your Uncle Roger was with us.” Garrett laughs. “He wet his pants and you can tell him Coach Daniels told you that.”
“D!” I finally bring Garrett’s attention to me.
“What’s up?”
“Burrows here just moved in to the house on Miller Street.”
Garrett’s face goes blank. He looks at Jason.
“Oh.”
He was always good on the recovery.
“It’s not that haunted.” He waves a hand. “It’s an urban legend—like alligators in the sewer. Don’t worry.”
But Burrows is worried.
And Garrett is unconvincing.
Louis doesn’t help.
“Dude, you’re gonna die in that house.”
Jason Burrows looks like he’s gonna die right now. On my classroom floor. From a heart attack brought on by hyperventilation and fear.
Wouldn’t that be a fuck of a way to kick off the school year.
Quinn Rousey jumps up from her desk. “Wait, wait, wait, listen!”
Quinn is a pretty, jittery kind of girl with pixie-cut black hair and a raging case of ADHD.
“I have an idea, I know what we should do, I have equipment at my house—night vision cameras and audio devices from my cousin before they sent him away to the facility in Branson.”
“Breathe, Quinn,” I interrupt. “And we’ve talked about this—you gotta lay off the Red Bulls.”
She turns toward Burrows and seems to remember to inhale between sentences. “I could come to your house and we could do a séance. Then we could burn sage and recite lines from the Bible and Torah and the Quran just to be safe, because you don’t know what religion the ghosts are, but—Oh! And I’m Quinn, by the way.” She holds out her hand. “Hi.”
Jason looks at Quinn’s hand, then slowly reaches out and shakes it.
“Hey.”
“So—what do you think? Do you want to hang out? I can come today, or tomorrow, or tomorrow-tomorrow works too.”
Several other students nod, inviting themselves right along with Quinn.
And Burrows has this expression—it’s the look of a kid who hasn’t been asked to hang out very much in his life. Maybe never. And now he’s got a pretty, outgoing, energetic girl and half a class of students wanting to do just that.
His eyes are warm and hopeful when he smiles. “Yeah, cool. Tomorrow is good. Sounds like fun.”
~ ~ ~
For the next half hour, we do a worksheet—mostly a review of old material. Then with five minutes left before the bell, I announce, “That’s a wrap for today. As you were, people.”
And I pull up “We’re Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister on my phone and hit play—loud enough to enjoy the song as it was meant to be heard, but not so loud that one of my fellow educators will go bitching to McCarthy.
My students from last year know the drill. A few talk, Daisy doodles a butterfly on her folder, Diego pulls his cap down and closes his eyes.
Jason Burrows takes out his phone.
“We’re not allowed to go on our phones at the end of class,” Min Joon tells him.
So Burrows takes a textbook out of his bag.
And I whip a wadded-up ball of paper at his head.
“No studying allowed.”
“Well . . . what am I supposed to do?”
I stand up and approach his desk, playing perfect air drums in time to the song.
“Be a kid. Chat amongst yourselves, look out the window, play frigging Seven-Up, I don’t care. You just can’t study or screw around on your phone.”
He still looks confused, so I explain. “Your brain is a muscle . . .”
Louis raises his hand. “Technically the brain . . .”
“Shhh,” I put my finger to my lips. “The teacher is talking.”
My voice resonates across the room like a better-looking version of the Cobra Kai sensei from The Karate Kid.
“How do we build muscle, class?”
I open and close my fist in time to their response.
“Contract, release, contract, release.”
“If you don’t release will you build muscle?”
“Nooooo,” the class answers in unison like a well-trained army of geniuses.
“If you don’t rest, will you build muscle?” I ask.
“Nooooo.”
“No.” I look down at Burrows. “You’ll get worn out, injured, burnt out . . . and you’re no good to me dead.”
I spin around to the class. “Extra credit point on the next quiz for the first person who can tell me who said that!”
I like to keep them on their toes. And these kids eat up extra credit like a puppy scoffs down dog biscuits.
“Boba Fett—The Empire Strikes Back!” Hailey calls out.
“Correct!”
I bring my attention back to Jason.
“So you see, young Burrows. You have to rest your brain once in a while in order to keep getting smarter. Which is why we don’t study or screw around on our phones at the end of AP Calculus.”
I turn around and walk to my desk. But when I sit down, Jason has his hand raised.
“Yes?”
“Boba Fett didn’t say that.”
“No?”
He shakes his head. “The actual quote is ‘He’s no good to me dead.’ ’Cause he was, you know, talking about Han Solo.”
Slowly I nod. “And now you’ve got an extra credit point on the next quiz too. Well done.”
I like this kid. I don’t always like all of them—that’s the dirty little secret of teaching. But I like him.
“You a big fan of Star Wars, Burrows?”
“Kind of.” He shrugs. “My mom’s into all those old movies.”
Old movies . . . nice.
“She says everyone my age should watch them, because they don’t make them like that anymore.”
“Your mom sounds like a smart lady.” I smile. “And I think you are going to fit in with this class just fine.”
Chapter Six
Lainey
Most bloggers
, Instagramers, and influencers do their damnedest to project a flawless image to their followers. Perfect lighting, background, makeup, clothes—perfect double mocha latte with an intricate oak tree leaf designed in the foam.
I’ve never been a flawless person. Or organized. I’m more of a hot mess who happened to be blessed with good skin. But my followers like me that way—so I show them the good, the bad, and the morning sickness ugly.
Which is why when I’m recording in the kitchen and the wave of nausea that’s been crashing down on me all day turns into a tsunami, I leave the camera running while I dive into the small hallway bathroom. Later, I’ll edit out the sounds of my wrenching heaves that feel like they’re emptying my stomach and my soul. But the before and after, that stays in the video.
Because it’s real.
I step out of the “barfroom” a few minutes later, dabbing at my face with a damp towel. “Sorry about that, Lifers. This kid is killing me. I never had morning sickness with Jaybird. Is this like an omen of things to come—’cause if it is, I’m screwed.”
I posted the pregnancy video announcement last week—the Lifers are all super excited for me. Though I occasionally mention Mr. Hot-Baby-Daddy or Sexy-Drummer-Guy interchangeably, I’ve kept any other details about Dean and his level of involvement purposely vague.
I grab the pencil and notebook that sits on the shiny marble counter top and record the “vomitous” occasion for posterity. Then I hold the notebook up to the camera.
“Did I tell you guys I started a pregnancy journal? It’s for me, mostly, and for the baby when they’re an adult, so I can guilt them into taking care of me when I’m old.”
I hold up a picture of myself taken in the master bath mirror yesterday—topless and turned to the side with my arm across my breasts, to show the weekly progression of my surprisingly expanding stomach. That’s different from Jason too—I’m only about three and a half months and already starting to pop.
“And it’s for Mr. Sexy-Baby-Daddy too, so he won’t miss out on any big moments.” I set the notebook aside. “Anyway, where were we?”
The kitchen is finished. I decorated it in shades of white with wood touches—to go with the overall nautical theme and because it’s super easy to change out accent colors. There are white cabinets for storage below the counter, but on the walls above it, it’s open thick, butcher-block shelving that hold neat rows of white ceramic dishes and glasses. There’s a matching hood above the stainless steel range and an accent wall of distressed horizontal oak planks with a massive five-by-three chalkboard sign hung across the top that reads LAKE.
