See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  His jaw tenses, his eyes unwavering as he studies us.

  “I agree. A little assistance could really move this process along,” Stella says.

  Not saying a word, he grabs us both by the upper arms and starts guiding us up the stairs to the patio.

  Well, not guiding, more like escorting.

  Ehh . . . dragging.

  He’s dragging us across his lawn, our drunk legs stumbling to keep up.

  “Whoa there, horsey.” My stomach rolls. “Lit-tle slower, buster. Uneasy alcohol belly over here.”

  “Same.” Stella raises her hand and then asks, “At least I kept my underwear on this time. Progress, wouldn’t you say, Arlo?”

  “Progress would be not getting drunk at a work function.”

  “Then why serve alcohol if you don’t want people getting drunk?”

  “Valid point,” I say as we work our way to the side gate. “Frankly, this is all his fault. What was he expecting us to do when serving such delicious bubbly?”

  “For such a poised hostess, the follow-through on the thought process wasn’t there.” Stella hiccups and then laughs. “You’ll get the hang of this hosting thing one day, Arlo. Don’t give up.”

  “Yeah, the whole thing was almost a home run. Two minor glitches,” I say. “No cap on the booze, detrimental for two uncontrollable lushes. And number two . . . uh . . . oh yeah, number two, not liking me.”

  “Why is that?” Stella asks, stopping us as she digs her heels into the ground. “Why don’t you like her?”

  Not showing an ounce of irritation, besides the clench in his jaw and the tone of his voice, he says, “Maybe because she gets wasted at a work event and I’m left dragging her across my lawn when all I want to do is go to bed.”

  “I hardly consider this dragging,” I say, though it’s a lie. It’s dragging for sure. “And we were perfectly content sleeping in the lounger, so you’re the one making this harder on yourself.”

  “She has a point, Arlo.”

  Pulling us forward again, he doesn’t say a word as we move through the gate and out to his front yard. “I trust you can call yourselves an Uber.”

  “Sure,” I say, reaching for my phone in my pocket. “Whoa, that screen is bright.” I look away. “Burned my retinas.”

  “Spare yourself, you can come to my place. Although, the decent thing would be Arlo telling us we can spend the night in one of his guest rooms.” She lolls her head to the side and smiles up at Arlo.

  “Set up the Uber,” he says without blinking.

  “Sheesh, you’d think he’d be more accommodating given the size of his house.” Stella types away on her phone, and then says, “They’re five minutes away.”

  “Good.” Stepping away, Arlo retreats toward his house.

  “Sure, yeah, no goodbye or anything,” I call out. “See you on Monday . . . turd nugget.” I whisper that last part.

  Stella cups her mouth and calls out, “She just called you a turd nugget.” The gate to the fence slams and I push Stella, who falls to the ground laughing.

  “You ass.”

  Chapter Two

  ARLO

  “Good morning,” I say as Coraline comes stumbling down my stairs, her hair a goddamn mess, and her makeup smeared under her eyes.

  Leaning against the counter in my kitchen, I hold a warm cup of coffee close to my chest as I watch my sister blindly make her way to the coffee pot and pour herself a cup. With a sweep of her hand, she moves her long chestnut-colored hair out of the way and takes a large sip.

  Her head falls back as she says, “Praise Jesus.”

  “I’m gathering you had too much to drink last night?”

  “What gave you that impression?” she asks, taking another large sip and working her way to the bar-height chairs at the island.

  “The stench you brought into the kitchen.”

  She lifts her shirt to her nose and sniffs. “I don’t smell.”

  “Hard to smell booze when you’ve been sleeping in it all night.”

  “God, what crawled up your ass?”

  Lifting off the counter, I rest my hands on the island in front of me. “Need I remind you whose house you’re staying at while you get your life back together?”

  Her silver eyes snap to mine. “And need I remind you why I’m here? Because until my divorce is final, I’m not allowed to touch any of my finances. Trust me, this would not be my first choice of places to be.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re a stuck-up asshole.”

  I chuckle. “Tell me how you really feel, Coraline.”

  She smiles and sighs. “Stop being a jerk and make me some bacon.”

  “Nice try, sis.” I toss a protein bar at her, grateful for our playful ribbing. “I’m heading out.”

  “Going to go buy your first-day-of-school cardigan?”

  “Do you really think I’d wait until the day before to purchase something so important?”

  “True.” She opens the protein bar, no doubt eager for food and coffee to soak up the alcohol. “Where are you headed?”

  “Sporting goods store. Need some new running shirts and shorts . . . maybe some shoes.”

  “Sunday shopping spree. Don’t you want to take your desperate and lonely sister with you?”

  I shake my head. “Not when you smell like that.”

  “Give me ten minutes. I can smell like a flower and look presentable. We can go through the McDonalds drive-thru and get hash browns for my hangover, and then I can help you pick out some supreme workout clothes.”

  I study her. “Are you going to make me to buy you shit?”

  “Yes.” She smiles. “But you love me.”

  “Unfortunately.” I nod toward the stairs. “Hurry up, I’m leaving in ten.”

  “I know I said ten, but give me fifteen.” She winces and then quickly says, “To accommodate for the hangover. I’m moving slower than normal.”

  “Fine. Fifteen. Hurry up.”

  “You’re the best.” She slowly takes off toward the stairs and shouts, “Sibling Sunday!”

  Shaking my head, I hold back my smile and drain the rest of my coffee just as my phone buzzes next to me.

  With a quick glance, I spot a message from my group text thread with my best friends Gunner and Romeo. I can only imagine what this is about.

  I rinse my mug out and put it in the dishwasher, grab my phone, lean against the counter again, and read the text.

  Gunner: So . . . did Gibson and Garcia spend the night?

  Exactly what I thought he was going to ask.

  Last night, after everyone left, Gunner was on his way out when he spotted Greer and Stella on the lounge chair. He patted me on the back and wished me luck before he took off. I waited a good ten minutes in the hopes that they would figure out everyone was gone before going over there and kicking them out of my backyard.

  Arlo: No. They stumbled their way to an Uber.

  Romeo: Why are you asking if they spent the night? Did Turner finally talk to Greer? Solve his differences?

  Gunner: Did you?

  Sighing, I sink into my position and type them back.

  Arlo: There are no differences to be solved. And they were practically passed out in a lounger. I had to escort them out of my backyard—literally.

  Gunner: Oh damn. Don’t blame them though, I’m not much of a champagne drinker and that shit was good.

  Romeo: Top notch.

  Gunner: So nothing happened?

  Arlo: What do you suppose would happen?

  Gunner: A passionate love affair.

  Romeo: LOL. You’re such an idiot.

  Arlo: Something Romeo and I can agree upon.

  Gunner: Mark my words, you two are going to get it on at some point. I see it in the way you look at her.

  Arlo: And how is that exactly?”

  Gunner: You know . . . all growly.

  Romeo: Growly? Dude . . .

  Arlo: Good thing you teach physical education. S
tick with bats and balls, man.

  Gunner: You know what I mean.

  Arlo: We really don’t.

  Gunner: Like you’re going to pounce.

  Romeo: I think he’s comparing you to a lion.

  Arlo: Seems that way.

  Gunner: You don’t have to be dicks.

  Romeo: You’re trying to hook everyone up in a relationship now that you’re in one. Be honest, that’s what this is.

  Gunner: No.

  Romeo: Bullshit.

  Arlo: As much fun as this was, I’m heading out. See you nitwits tomorrow.

  Gunner: Did you pick out your first day cardigan?

  Romeo: What color is it?

  Arlo: That’s not a thing.

  Gunner: Turner . . .

  Arlo: Fine. It’s green. Now fuck off.

  * * *

  “Why do you think these hash browns are so good?” Cora asks, mouth full.

  “Grease that’s probably been reused for months on end.”

  “Well, good on them.” She takes another bite. “They’ve found the hidden secret to a hangover cure.” She leans back into her seat, and says, “Bitching party last night, bro.”

  “Glad you evicted yourself from your room long enough to enjoy it.”

  “Are you calling me a hermit?” She licks her fingers.

  After turning right, headed toward the mall, I say, “You haven’t been social.”

  “Not much to talk about.”

  And that right there is why I hate my shit-for-brains ex-brother-in-law. What he did to Cora . . . It burns me watching her act reserved. She’s . . . shuttered now. I hate it.

  “It’s not healthy to hold everything in.”

  “This coming from the man who’s harboring feelings for the newest addition to the faculty.”

  I stop at a stop sign and turn toward her. “Where the hell did you—” Fucking Gunner. They were hanging out last night. “Don’t listen to a goddamn thing Gunner says.”

  “It was actually Romeo.” She chuckles.

  “Don’t listen to either of them. And don’t hang out with them. They’re idiots.”

  “You hang out with them.”

  “Because they’re my only option.”

  “Doesn’t say much about you if your only options for friends are idiots.”

  Sighing in frustration, I say, “Just don’t listen to anything they say.”

  “Why? Because it’s true?” She crumples up her hash brown wrapper and sticks it in the bag.

  “It’s not fucking true.”

  “Okay, whatever you say, bro.” She picks up her orange juice and takes a large sip. “For what it’s worth, I think she’s really hot.”

  Christ.

  “From the grip you have on the steering wheel, I’m going to guess you don’t want to talk about that though.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Because she’s inconsequential.”

  “Ooo, boy, don’t say that to her face.” Cora shakes her head. “That would be a blow to the old self-esteem. That’s something one of those alpha asshole bosses would say.” In a hoity voice, Cora repeats, “She’s inconsequential.” Shaking her head, she adds, “Does everyone at school know what a tightwad you are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good . . . at least everyone is aware.”

  “I’m an educator, I’m not there to make friends, Coraline.”

  “Clearly,” she says sarcastically. “Gunner said this new teacher teaches English as well. Does that mean you guys have to work closely together?”

  “No.”

  “Shame. She seems like your type.”

  “A lush who gets drunk at work events seems like my type?”

  Coraline laughs. “If you don’t want people getting drunk, don’t serve them champagne that tastes like juice. But Greer, she has that whole ombre look with her hair, long legs, pretty lips. Feisty. I could see her giving you a run for your money and you enjoying it.”

  “I would not,” I answer, pulling into the mall parking lot. “Now drop it.”

  Coraline laughs some more. “Sure, Arlo. I’ll drop it . . . for now.”

  Great. On a deep exhale, I exit the car and wait for Coraline to join me before I lock up. Looking up toward the blue sky, I realize this might be the first time I’m not excited about the first day of school, and it has everything to do with the girl everyone keeps bothering me about.

  It’s not that I don’t like her. I barely know anything about her.

  But what I do know . . .

  Now that’s what’s going to drive me fucking crazy. It’s why I’ll be cold and dismissive.

  A turd nugget.

  * * *

  Nose pinched, I bow my head, trying to keep my composure.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Do not lose your shit in front of your students.

  From the other side of my classroom wall—for the third time today—comes the distinct sound of at least twenty desks being pounded on, followed by a clap as “We Will Rock You” by Queen blares through a bass-filled Bluetooth speaker.

  And when the chorus chimes in . . .

  For the love of God, I’m going to fucking lose it.

  “We will . . . we will . . . rock books.”

  Boom. Boom. Clap.

  “Mr. Turner,” Jeremy Whitehead says while raising his hand. “It’s hard for me to focus on these chapters with that music.”

  “I’m aware, Jeremy,” I say, unfolding my arms and pushing off my desk. I glance at the clock on the wall and note we have five minutes left in class. Typically, I’d force my students to read until the end of class and pack up when the bell rings, but given the circumstances . . . “You can pack up. Remember the first three chapters must be read by tomorrow. There will be a quiz. If you’re in my class, you know we work hard, so be prepared to put in the time.”

  I round my desk and make a show of writing something on a notepad, when in reality, I’m counting down the minutes in my head before I can march next door and put an end to this godforsaken calamity.

  This . . . this is why I didn’t want Dewitt to hire Greer Gibson, because during her interview, she was very expressive about her “offbeat” teaching style. She wants the students to care about the books, rather than just read them. She wants to give them a chance to understand them, appreciate them by using alternative methods.

  That interview . . . it was, quite frankly, embarrassing. Watching her falter from confident to ignorant. When she left, I actually laughed, wondering if asking her to come in was a joke, but when Dewitt was serious about hiring her, I had to take a calming breath.

  She couldn’t be serious.

  A teacher who prides herself on using teaching methods like movies and children’s picture books to help understand literature? This is a serious high school, not a dainty, hippie-filled educational system.

  This is Forest Heights, the most prestigious public school in the country—at least that’s what was said last year.

  Greer Gibson has no right to be teaching here.

  And no . . . this has nothing to do with her saying I’m an elitist.

  This has everything to do with her being underqualified, unprofessional, a disturbance, and not the right fit for the Forest Heights English department.

  The department I’m in charge of. I will not tolerate her making a mockery of teaching high school English.

  Slamming on desks and belting out nonsensical lyrics by a seventies rock band is a prime example of her incompetence. And not only is it an elementary approach to learning, it’s been a massive disruption to every single class I’ve had today. Her inability to appropriately teach has taken away my first day intimidation tactics, the same tactics I use every year to set my expectations.

  The bell rings. Class is dismissed, and I wait a whole two minutes before I stand tall, lift the sleeves of my green cardigan, and make my way to the classroom next door.

  Unfo
rtunately, I share a wall with Greer. I knew going into the school year that was going to be the case. I wasn’t aware I’d be making a visit on the first day.

  Thankful for lunch break, I charge through her door, only to be slapped in the face with an obnoxious amount of color pinned to the walls. Her room is decorated like it’s for kindergartners, not high schoolers. A “reading corner” is in the back. A rainbow of color spans across the walls, one hue rolling into the next. It’s ridiculous and childish. Just like the woman standing before me.

  “Oh, Arlo. You startled me.” Greer chuckles, sitting at her desk, a salad in front of her.

  I close the door behind me and set my hands on my hips. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She glances at her lunch and then back at me. “Uh, eating my lunch. What does it look like?”

  Through clenched teeth, I say, “During your classes?”

  “Oh . . . uh . . . pumping the kids up for the school year. I want to establish a rapport with them, let them know it isn’t going to be a stuffy English class of Shakespearean knaves and knaps.”

  “So you decide to disturb every other classroom around you?”

  She faces me now, a look of shock on her face. “You heard my music?”

  “The walls aren’t soundproof.”

  She taps her chin. “Hmm . . . I guess I never thought about that.”

  “Shocking,” I mutter.

  “Hey.” She stands and closes the space between us.

  It’s hard not to notice the skirt she’s wearing and how it clings to her hips, or the tucked-in button-up shirt that leaves no room for the imagination, or the way her hair is pinned up into a bun, highlighting the curves and contours of her face. Coraline might have been right. Greer is slightly my type.

  Only slightly and only physically.

  With her manicured index finger, Greer pokes me in the chest and says, “What’s your problem? Are you this rude to everyone?”

  “Just turn it down; some of us have to actually teach.”

  “As opposed to what I’m doing?”

  “I have no idea what you’re doing besides being a disturbance in this school.”