Getting Schooled

by Emma Chase

  I turn my head and Garrett Daniels is right there. So close, our noses almost touch. And there's the familiar, thrilling sensation of falling, hard and fast. There's not a cell in my body that doesn't remember feeling this way, whenever he was near.

  "Thanks."

  He gazes at me, eyes drifting from my neck to my chin, settling on my mouth.

  "You're welcome, Callie."

  Then the moment is broken.

  Because Merkle and Jerry go at it again.

  "Breasts are not sexual objects, Evan," Merkle says.

  Jerry snorts. "The fact that you believe that is exactly your problem."

  "You're such a pig."

  "I'd rather be a pig than miserable."

  "No. Miserable would describe the women who've had the misfortune of going out with you."

  "Don't knock it till you've tried it." Jerry winks.

  Dean groans. "Jesus, would you two put us out of our misery and just bang already?! I hear the janitor's closet is nice--there's probably still lube in there from last year's senior lock-in."

  Miss McCarthy yells, "There is no lube in the janitor's closet, Dean! That's a vicious rumor!"

  "There's definitely lube in the janitor's closet," someone says. "Ray the maintenance guy hangs out in there way too long not to be whacking it."

  Then the whole auditorium erupts in a debate over whether or not there is lube hidden in the janitor's closet. Then the conversation quickly turns to the mystery of the still unclaimed dildo that was apparently found in the teacher's lounge after sixth period last May.

  Amidst the chaos, Miss McCarthy throws up her hands and talks to herself.

  "Every year. Every fucking year with these shitheads."

  Wow.

  In fifth grade, my school gave us "the talk"--the birds and bees, where babies come from, biology talk. My mother had already given me the rundown, so I wasn't surprised--unlike some of my poor classmates, who looked like they were being scarred for life.

  What was surprising was my epic realization . . . that my teachers had, at some point in their lives, had sex. Old Mrs. Mundy, the librarian, whose husband was the school gardener, had had sex. Young, handsome Mr. Clark, who taught social studies and who eighth-grade girls--and a few of the boys--majorly crushed on, had had sex. Cheery, energetic Mrs. O'Grady, who had seven children . . . she'd had a whole bunch of sex.

  It blew my mind.

  Because it was the first moment I comprehended that my teachers . . . were human.

  They ate, they drank, they had sex, they went to the bathroom, fought, probably cursed--just like real people. Like my parents. Like anyone.

  Teachers were people too.

  And looking around the room now, I feel another realization coming on. Were my teachers also this crazy? I don't know if it's a question I want answered.

  So instead, as the arguing and insults continue, I lean closer to Garrett. "Is it always like this?"

  "No, it's a lot calmer this year." He glances at the Poland Spring bottle in his hand. "I wonder if McCarthy spiked the water bottles with chamomile."

  Again . . . wow.

  Garrett looks over to me, smirking. "Is this what your theater company's meetings are like?"

  All I can do is chuckle.

  "Ah . . . no."

  Chapter Seven

  Garrett

  The doors open for the first day of school at Lakeside High, and the students surge, filling the hallways. There's a rush of sound, shuffling feet, the metallic clang of opening and closing lockers, a clamor of chatter. It's how I imagine hell sounds when it receives an influx of souls through its gates--the sounds of the damned, who don't want to be there, groaning and crying for release.

  I don't know who thought starting the school year off on a Friday was a good idea, but they're a fucking idiot. Probably the same genius who thinks suspension is an actual punishment. Moron.

  The first day of school always has a Groundhog Day vibe to it--you've been here before, you know how this goes, you could swear you were just here yesterday.

  Freshmen resemble tourists wandering through the big, dangerous city, trying desperately not to look like tourists. Sophomores are unkempt, stressed out, and borderline depressed. Juniors congregate en masse in the halls--laughing with their friends, kissing their boyfriends and girlfriends, making plans about where they'll hang out that night. Seniors are like the old, wise lifers--everything bores them, they've seen it all. Some of them may take a scared, vulnerable freshman under their wing, pass the torch, show them the ways of the force . . . but most of them just want to fucking leave.

  I held an early team workout in the weight room before first period, because games aren't just won on the field. Afterwards, I didn't see Callie in The Cave--aka the teachers' lounge because they don't give us windows--to wish her luck on her first day.

  But if the look on her face at yesterday's meeting was any indication, she's going to need it.

  ~

  My first two periods are average, uneventful, and then third arrives--my sweet spot. It's not unlike The Breakfast Club--a movie before its time. The kids file in and take their seats. We've got Skylar Mayberry--your basic overachiever, type-A, academic club brainiac.

  Then there's Nancy Paradigm.

  Nancy's a Queen B kind of popular, a pretty brunette at the upper end of the social status food chain, who's obsessed with the latest trends in makeup, hair, music, and clothes.

  "Hey, Big D. Welcome back." She smiles as she passes my desk.

  The Big D. As far as teacher nicknames go, it's not bad, but it's important to keep the lines between friendly-student-teacher and messed-up inappropriate clearly drawn.

  If not, you're just asking for a shit-ton of problems.

  "Let's keep it Coach D or Mr. Daniels for the year, okay, Nance?"

  She bats her lashes. "That's what all the girls call you behind your back, you know."

  "Yeah, let's keep it that way."

  Nancy shrugs and slides into a desk.

  DJ King, my starting wide receiver, moseys in next.

  "S'up, Coach."

  I just saw him two hours ago in the weight room, but we bump fists. Damon John reminds me of me--good family, long-term girlfriend, Rhonda, and a good head on his shoulders. He's gonna do okay.

  After the final late bell, I shut the door and start class, talking to them about their summer, laying out how grading works, and explaining the Billy Joel assignment.

  And ten minutes later, David Burke breezes in. Low-slung, saggy jeans, flannel shirt, oversized dark-gray trench coat--he's the rebel, the disaffected youth whose extracurricular activities include petty theft, dealing pot, and occasional vandalism.

  I saw from her roster that Callie has him in fifth-period theater class.

  "Sorry I'm late, Coach D." He presses a hand to his stomach. "I shouldn't have eaten that burrito for breakfast, you know?"

  "You're so gross," Nancy hisses, her face twisting from her front row seat.

  David winks at her, unabashed. Because girls still go for the bad-boy--that hasn't changed. But the weird thing about kids today? Their cliques are less defined, the parameters permeable. A goth can be a hard-core jock, a dork can be prom king, a druggie could be president of the French Club, a pretty cheerleader can be a criminal.

  David's smart--really smart--he could be in honors classes if he wanted to be. Instead, he uses his intelligence to figure out the minimum amount of work he has to do to not get kicked out of school, and no more.

  "Sit down," I tell him. "Don't be late again. It's disrespectful."

  He salutes me and takes a seat in the back of the class. I continue my lecture. Until Brad Reefer--in the back corner seat, glances out the window and announces, "Runner! We've got a runner!"

  And the whole class moves to the windows for a better look. Some of the students grab their phones, filling the room with the sound of snapping digital shutters and the ping of recording cameras. They point their devices at the ski
nny, light-haired boy--likely a freshman--dashing across the school lawn towards the Dunkin' Donuts across the street and doing a piss-poor job of it. Stealth is not this kid's friend.

  He glances behind him.

  Bad move. When running, always keep your eyes on the prize--where you want to go. Unless you want to go backwards, don't fucking look there.

  The runner misses the police officer who steps out from behind a tree, raises his arm, and clotheslines the kid across his throat, knocking him on his ass.

  "Damn."

  "Ouch!"

  When I was a student here, we had security guards, basically mall-cop-level enforcement. But today it's the real deal. Armed officers patrol the grounds and halls--if you get into it with them, you're looking at a charge for assaulting an officer--minimum. And there are all different kinds of cops. Level-headed, calm realists, like my brother Ryan. And aggressive, power-high live wires, like Officer John Tearney, who's currently hauling the runner up by the back of his shirt, cuffing him, and dragging him back into the building.

  Remember my theory about the soul? How it doesn't change after high school? Tearney is Exhibit A. He was a grade above me in high school--he was a prick then, and he's a prick with a badge now.

  "All right, guys," I tell my class. "Show's over. Back in your seats."

  Midway through the period, my door opens and Jerry Dorfman, school guidance counselor and assistant coach, lumbers through.

  "What's up, Jerry?"

  He hands me a slip of paper.

  "I need David Burke."

  "I didn't do it." David holds up his hands in surrender and the class laughs.

  From what I hear, David lives with his grandmother. His mom's out of the picture, his dad's still around, but the situation is not good.

  "On your feet, Burke!" Jerry barks. "I didn't ask for your lip. Move it, monkey, move it!"

  Jerry's big and rules with the tough love he learned from his marine days. He's a hardass--but he's not a dick. I wouldn't let him coach my team if he were.

  With a final compulsory eye roll, David stands up and walks out of the room with Jerry.

  Twenty minutes later, the bell rings and the mad, Hunger Games-worthy fight for the door ensues. I give them the same send-off I do every Friday.

  "Have a good weekend. Don't be idiots."

  You'd be amazed at the amount of bullshit you can save yourself by following those three simple words.

  ~

  My fourth period is free--a prep period--thank you, teachers' union. I plan to spend it in my office next to the locker room. But on the way, I'm stopped by the view of three football players--my quarterback, Lipinski, and two junior varsity players, Martin and Collins, surrounding another student--Frank Drummond. Frank's a special needs student in the self-contained classroom.

  Lipinski has Frank's navy Yankees hat in his hand, holding it just out of his reach--letting him get close, then yanking it away like a yo-yo. Martin and Collins laugh as Lipinski taunts him.

  "Hey!" I call out, walking over. "Knock it off, right now."

  Martin's face pales when he sees me and Collins' eyes shift like he's looking for an escape hatch. I snap the hat out of Lipinski's grasp and put it in Frank's hands.

  "Apologize."

  "Sorry, Frank."

  "Yeah, sorry."

  "Just joking with you, Frankie." Lipinski sneers. "You don't have to freak out."

  I look at him, hard--come practice I'm going to rip the little shit's head off.

  "There you are, Frank." Kelly Simmons walks up to us, threading her arm through her student's.

  Kelly is beautiful, in a light-tan dress that only reaches her mid-thigh, and high, suede, brown fuck-me boots--she definitely stars in the hot-for-teacher fantasies of the majority of the male student population.

  "Sorry about this, Kelly," I tell her as she scowls at the three players. "I'll take care of it."

  "Thanks, Garrett." And walks with Frank down the hall.

  "My office," I growl at the remaining jackasses. "Now."

  Once the three of them are inside, I slam the door.

  "What the hell did I just see?" I snap.

  "We were joking." Collins squeaks out, eyes on the floor.

  Lipinski juts out his chin. "It's not a big deal."

  I step closer. Brandon's almost his full height, but I still have two inches on him and I use them to my advantage. "It's a big deal to me."

  Martin lifts his shoulder meekly. "Guys bust on each other, Coach. We were messing around with Frank, that's all."

  My voice is clipped, sharp, and damning.

  "Guys bust each other's balls, yeah, but Frank wasn't in on the joke. Only assholes punch down--don't act like assholes."

  "Punch down?" Lipinski challenges. "That almost sounds like you think Frank isn't as capable as the rest of us. Pretty messed up, don't you think?"

  "Frank has challenges that you don't," I fire back. "I can't figure out why in God's name you would go out of your way to make his life even harder. Are you hearing me?"

  "Yeah, Coach," Martin mumbles.

  "Yeah, we hear you," Collins adds. "Sorry."

  Lipinski says nothing. And his silence is loud.

  First rule of dealing with a kid who's acting out? Take away his audience. He'll back down easier if there's not anyone else there to watch him do it.

  I scratch out two hall passes and hand them to Collins and Martin.

  "Go back to class. And if you pull this shit again, it'll be the last time you ever wear a helmet for this school. Got it?"

  "Yeah, got it."

  "Okay, Coach."

  I point at Lipinski. "You--sit."

  Collins and Martin shuffle out the door, closing it behind them. Lipinski sinks down into the chair and leans back, knees spread, without a care in the world.

  I walk around my desk and sit down.

  "You're a team captain--every move you make is a reflection on the team, and more importantly, a reflection on me." I point at the door. "That bullshit and your attitude right now does not fucking fly with me--you know that. What the hell is your problem, Brandon?"

  He smirks. "I don't have a problem, Garrett . . ."

  Garrett?

  I mentally choke.

  I watched Inside Out with my niece this summer, and if that film is any indication, my little red guy's head just exploded into flames inside my mind.

  ". . . I've just figured out a few things."

  "Oh yeah? What have you figured out?"

  "Dylan has mono, Levi's got pins in his arm . . ."

  Dylan and Levi are my second-and third-string quarterbacks, who are both on the injured list for the year.

  ". . . I'm all you've got. You don't have a season without me. So . . . I'm done jumping when you snap your fingers. I'm done with your bullshit rules. I do what I want, when I want . . . and you can't say dick about it."

  Huh.

  Interesting.

  Confidence is a tricky thing with athletes. They need to believe they're invincible, the best of the best--it makes them better players. But this isn't arrogance. This isn't some little shit testing boundaries, because deep down he wants to be snapped back in line. This is a challenge to my authority. Mutiny.

  I speak steadily, evenly, because truth stands on its own.

  "That's not how this is going to go, Brandon. You either straighten up and kill the attitude or, I promise, you will not step foot on that field."

  I don't know when Lipinski changed. When he went from shining all-star to Frankenstein's monster.

  He leans forward, staring me down.

  "Screw that."

  Harsh lessons are always learned the hard way.

  "I'm going to tell you something I hope you'll remember--life will work out better for you if you do."

  "What's that?"

  "No one is irreplaceable. No one." My tone final, definite--the last hit of the hammer that drives the nail in.

  "You're off the team."

 
; For a second he doesn't respond. He swallows and blinks as the words sink in. Then he shakes his head, starting to laugh. "You . . . you can't do that."

  "I just did."

  I scribble on the pad and hold the slip out between my fingers. "Go back to class; we're done here."

  He darts out of the chair. "You can't fucking do that!"

  I regard him calmly. "Shut the door on your way out."

  "Fuck you!" His voice goes sonic-boom loud and his face turns a radioactive red, eyes bulging, probably breaking a blood vessel.

  He goes for the bookshelf along the wall, knocking it over, scattering the frames and books and trophies onto the floor with a metal crash that echoes in my ears.

  I don't react. I don't even stand up. I don't give his tantrum any more energy or validation than I would a two-year-old, kicking and screaming on the floor because he doesn't want to take a nap.

  With a final kick to the bookcase, Lipinski stomps out of the room.

  Slowly, I walk around to the front of my desk and lean back on it, looking down at the mess on the floor. I wrap my hands around the back of my neck and tug.

  God damn it.

  Dean's blond head appears in my doorway. He eyes the toppled shelf and steps into the room, adjusting his glasses.

  "Looks like you're having an interesting day."

  I fold my arms across my chest--my mind swirling, reassessing my options.

  "I just kicked Brandon Lipinski off the team."

  He takes that in, blowing out a slow breath that sounds like an imitation of an atomic bomb going off. "Well, D, that's . . . fuck."

  Yep, my thoughts exactly.

  ~

  After school, I tell the assistant coaches to get practice started without me and I head over to the freshman field.

  "Tell me you've got something for me, Jeffrey. A wonder rookie, a new kid who just moved to town . . . a foreign exchange student with a golden arm."

  Jeffrey O'Doole is the freshman coach and an old teammate of mine from back in the day. He scans the team roster on the clipboard in his hands, then glances up at the players running drills on the field.

  It doesn't look good for me.

  "You know all the kids as well as I do, Daniels. Dylan was my starter last year; when he moved up, I knew it'd be a rebuilding year."