Read With Your Heart: a small town romance

by L. B. Dunbar

  I stare at his beautiful body until he tips his head for me to shoot. I have a feeling he’s only going to keep talking as long as we keep playing. I take my turn, hardly focusing on the rim.

  “Will they be back? Will they be okay?” My voice rises. I’ve seen this kind of thing in the news, but it always seems like it happens in another land. Not this country. Not America. Then again, that’s exactly where it happens. Regardless of whether illegal immigration is right or wrong, I feel for families who only want a better life and think America will provide it.

  “Are you here illegally?” I question as he comes to the line, prepping for his shot.

  “Natural born citizen, as are my sisters.” He crosses himself, but he mocks the symbol. He bends his knees like he’s going to take his shot but looks over at me before he shoots. “Can we just play?” The irritation in his voice tells me our conversation is getting tedious. He’d like to move on, win the game, and get a dinner out of it.

  It wasn’t specified if I’m supposed to make dinner for him or take him out to dinner. Or did he simply mean have dinner with him, like a date?

  Don’t be ridiculous, I remind myself. I’m not date worthy. I’m not even divorced yet. I shouldn’t be thinking about dates.

  I’m not.

  I didn’t pay attention to his shot, and all too quickly, the ball is coming back to me. I barely catch it, and we continue without speaking for a few minutes. My mind races. Prison. Detainment. His parents. His sisters.

  “Why a teacher?” he questions, breaking into my thoughts as he passes the ball to me for another turn.

  Setting up my shot, I take it before I answer him. “I’ve always loved kids, ever since I was little. My mother let me have a summer camp in our backyard when I was ten. Most of the kids were four or five. I thought I wanted to work with the younger set, but when I went to college, I settled on the older ones. I thought I’d make more of a difference with them. My certificate is grades six through twelve. I wanted to be down at the middle school, but when the high school position opened up, I took it just to get in the district. I’ve been here ever since.”

  He’s watching me again, his head tilting to the side like it does.

  “Want kids of your own?” It’s kind of an intrusive question, but one that people ask all the time. When are you and Trent going to have some babies? Trent loved to joke we were working on it, but it was a lie. He didn’t want them, and it wasn’t work. It was torture. I’d begun to hate sex with him after a while.

  “Sorry,” Leon mutters, seeing I’d fallen into my thoughts. “That’s none of my business.”

  “Yes, I do,” I blurt, ignoring his apology and squinting up at the rim. “I want lots of them, but Trent never promised me we’d have any, and now I’m not certain it will ever happen.” Trent liked to remind me—too late, I might add—that our wedding vows did not include procreation. He promised love, honor, and respect, which he also didn’t uphold.

  “‘He was ever precise in promise-keeping,’” I state, and Leon stares at me. “Shakespeare,” I clarify, thinking he’ll understand as he quoted Shakespeare to me on the night of the stolen notebook. “Never mind. For now, I do have lots of children. They just happen to belong to other people.” It’s my standard, flippant answer.

  He watches me a second longer. The silvery gaze digs under my skin. It’s strange that such a cool color lights me on fire. My body heats everywhere. I wonder what a baby with him would be like? It’s such a strange thought that I almost slap my forehead but resist.

  “Can we get back to playing?” I stress, taking his words and making them my own.

  Leon breaks his assessing glare and turns for his shot. We play on again in rapid succession. I make every basket while he suspiciously misses his. He’s too good to have missed so many in a row.

  Eventually, I’m in the lead, and then we go head-to-head again, sharing easier topics like our mutual love of basketball. He thinks by default he’s the greatest fan because, as he puts it, “Hello, Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls.”

  I scoff, reminding him Magic Johnson came from the state of Michigan.

  “He’s an old guy,” he teases.

  “Well, we all grow up some time,” I mock, although some boys never become men. Leon laughs.

  We come down to the end of our game, and I have the final shot.

  She shoots. She scores. She wins.

  I’m no fool, though. I know he let me win, and now I just need to make certain he follows through on the challenge.

  “You win,” he says, falsely defeated. His head shakes in mockery. “Guess I lose out on dinner.”

  “I’ll make it double or nothing. You really follow through on this, and I’ll make you dinner.”

  His brows lift as he claps a hand on the basketball balanced by one palm. “You really want to see me again, don’t you?”

  I falter for words.

  “I’m teasing. Relax, pretty lady. Got your phone?”

  I don’t. It’s up in my classroom, and when I tell him as much, he walks over to a motorcycle. After reaching into the satchel, he pulls out a phone and takes my number instead. I don’t like this turn of events, but I nod when we part ways, hoping he keeps his promises, at least with regard to his sister.

  Once I return to my room, I find a text from an unknown caller on my phone.

  Vows are but breath and breath a vapor is.

  Shakespeare? I’ve no doubt it’s Leon, but I don’t have any idea what he means. I find it curious how he seems to have these lines memorized, and I wonder where he read so much Shakespeare.

  Prison, I realize and shake the eerie sensation rippling over my skin. While Leon Ramirez might be dangerous to my body, he’s not menacing. Somehow, I think he’s a man of his word. He’d keep a promise, and I can’t help but smile to myself at the thought.

  Lesson 11

  Everybody needs help sometimes.

  [Leon]

  Damn that fucker Trent. He hurt her in more ways than one, and I saw it in her expression when I asked her about kids.

  He never promised me children. What does that even mean? When a man marries a woman, that’s a vow of family unless you both agree against it, which clearly isn’t what happened between her and her man. Her perseverance with my sister proves her love of kids, and her soon-to-be ex is a fucking douche for not giving them to her.

  Before I leave the parking lot, I scan the area. For some reason, I feel like I’m being watched. I spin in a slow circle, assessing my surroundings, and note the minimal number of cars still parked on the asphalt. Teachers and students park in the same location, and I’m thinking I’ll hang here until I see Tricia leave. Something feels off-kilter to me, and I don’t like it.

  My thoughts wander to my sister while I wait out Tricia’s return. I don’t break deals—never have, never will—so I’ll be following through with Lys’s teacher and meet with the social worker as well as her team of teachers. Damn. What did I do to earn the label of parent in a parent-teacher conference?

  Tell me something. The text lights up my phone, and I chuckle to myself. Before I even respond, the question comes through. Why Shakespeare?

  It’s a long explanation to give through a text, but the short answer comes to me. A teacher, I type. In seventh grade, I read my first Shakespeare play, and I loved how dirty the Bard really was. Once interpreted, a horny teenager found some of his puns rather funny. As I grew older, his plays of revenge resonated more strongly with me. I’d even gone so far as to tattoo myself with his words.

  Vengeance is in my heart; death is in my hand. Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. These words had been my motto for too long, and as revenge was sought but not obtained, it all felt in vain. The years of wasted energy for nothing.

  I shake my head, ridding thoughts of what I hadn’t accomplished, and finally see Tricia exit the building. Her head pops up, and her gaze skims over the parked cars. Does she have that eerie feeling she’s being watched like
I do? Quickly, her eyes land on me, and she gives a short wave. I give a single wave in return, waiting on her to enter her car and pull out of this lot.

  She quoted Shakespeare to me. I smile to myself. For some reason, I just loved Shakespeare’s language and the depth of it. I found so many life lessons in his plays, and let me tell you, a kid in a gang who can quote Shakespeare is a fucking freak. But I had this weird ability to memorize his words without thinking about it too much. Maybe it was all the re-reading I eventually did in prison. I earned my GED behind bars.

  I’d also sketched things, incorporating the words into the scene to help me understand and express their meaning.

  When I see Tricia clear the parking lot, I rev my bike, noticing a truck I hadn’t seen pull up behind Tricia. Where did he come from? Instinctively, I know it’s a man driving that dusty big vehicle, and that unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me to follow him.

  The night is cool, a hint of fall definitely in the air, but I ignore the sting of the cold as I focus on the truck behind Tricia’s Honda. I’d know her car anywhere now that we share the driveway. As we near town and she pulls off for our street, the truck tailing her finally turns right, peeling down Main Street. I can’t shake the sense he trailed her on purpose, and when I see her pull past our street and turn down a different one, I decide I’m not overreacting.

  + + +

  Tricia doesn’t respond to my text until a few days later when she tells me she passed my phone number on to the school social worker and asked me my availability to meet with her and a special education teacher. I work seven to three and overlap Arnie’s shift from ten to six, so I can meet with her just after the school day ends. I set the appointment for both meetings on the same day.

  Two birds, one stone.

  Only I’m not prepared for her to catch me outside the social worker’s office.

  “I don’t think orange is your color,” Tricia says, and my eyes drift up.

  You have no idea, I want to retort.

  “It’s the new black,” I mock and drop the winter jacket inside the coat donation bin. I’m embarrassed she caught me rummaging through the donated things, but the girls didn’t bring all their belongings, and winter coats seem to be one area where they are both lacking. They both want ones with a certain brand name, and it’s triple my budget.

  “You should take it,” Tricia pushes, nodding at the box which holds a pile of gently used coats.

  “I don’t take handouts,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at her. I’ll figure it out. I’m the man of my family for the time being, and I’ll take care of my own, even if I hardly know my younger sisters. Her head rears back at my sharp tone, but I’m not here to apologize. I’m holding up my end of the bargain.

  The social worker meeting didn’t go so great. After getting caught with my hands in the charity bin, I’m even more worked up, and I’m ready to just walk out of this school. During the meeting, she tried to reassure me that Lys could speak freely with her. Whatever Lys said stayed confidential unless my sister offered information about self-harm or domestic abuse. I’m not concerned about either category, but my eyes narrowed as the witch insinuated I might be causing domestic distress of some sort. She quickly recovered when my demeanor shifted, claiming she had to make the statement. I still didn’t believe her. Then she babbled on about her concerns with Lys’s adjustment.

  We’re all still adjusting, I wanted to snap at her.

  Maybe I should just take the girls back to their home, settle into my parents’ apartment, and find a job around there. The thought lasts no more than a second as I know I’ll never go back. Not to the city. Not to that life. I want what I’m trying to build here. Peace. Quiet. No pushy teacher butting into our lives. No hot neighbor who I watch like a creeper through the window.

  My eyes catch on said pesky homeroom teacher. Next up is a meeting between her and another teacher who’s going to tell me my sister is stupid. I sigh and rub a hand over my short hair.

  Just give her this minute, Leon, and then walk away.

  “Don’t we have an appointment?” I question, still harsh, still frustrated.

  “If you’ll follow me.” She sweeps out a hand and then leads the way to the second floor. I watch her ass in another body-hugging dress and heels. She dresses nicely for a teacher. I don’t remember my teachers looking like her. If they had, I might not have remembered a lesson, but I’d remember them. I also wish I’d had a teacher who cared as much as Tricia seems to care about Lys. I’m old enough now to realize if I’d had one like her, I might have turned out differently.

  No, you wouldn’t have, my memory scolds. School had nothing to do with what happened to you.

  Tricia points me to a student desk and then takes one as well. The other teacher is already present, and he begins explaining how they’d like to test Lys and wish they had former school records, blah-blah-blah. I’m hardly listening because I’m distracted by Tricia, who isn’t even looking at me. She’s watching the other teacher. He’s a solid guy, put together with a pressed shirt and khaki pants, something I’d never wear. He seems friendly enough, sounds like he knows his stuff, and the way Tricia’s looking at him makes me wonder if he’s her type. It wouldn’t make sense now that I’ve seen her dickwad ex-husband. The two men are night and day. Then I wonder why I’m thinking about this shit. What do I care if she likes backwoods-hunter types or the jock-turned-teacher dude? I’m neither of them.

  Maybe that’s your issue?

  Wrong. I never want to be anything other than who I am. I can’t change my past. I can’t predict the future. I can only be my best me in the present, and that’s what I’m trying to do.

  “So with your permission, Mr. Ramirez,” the dude-teacher continues. I’ve already forgotten his name. “If you sign here and here, we can begin.”

  “Do I need a lawyer?” For some reason, I look at Tricia. Is this a trap? Am I signing my sister away?

  Tricia’s brows furrow, and she softens her voice when she speaks. “Not unless you want one, but this is standard procedure. It’s a contract between us and you, and it’s more about protecting Amaryllis. It binds us to do all we can to provide for her, and if we don’t, this holds up in court for you to use against us. Not that I think you’ll need to take us to court, but if you’re looking for reassurance . . .”

  Those green-brown eyes stare into mine. I am looking for reassurance. I need to know I’m not fucking something up with my sister while my parents are gone, especially since I don’t know how long they’ll be away.

  Without another question, I reach for the paper, scribble my name, and hand it back. I sign by the guardian line, although I’m not technically Lys’s guardian. I’m sure that lie makes none of this binding, but whatever. If it gets Ms. Carter off my back and this dude to help my sister, I guess I can move on.

  “Are we done?” I ask, the tone of my voice making me sound like the punk I once was as I sat in a principal’s office or in an interrogation room, wanting to be finished with the bullshit.

  “We are,” teacher-dude who looks like a former football player says. “Here’s my card if you have any . . .”

  But I don’t hear the rest. I take the card and slide out of the desk. I don’t shake their hands or offer my gratitude. I’m not thankful for this. I don’t want to be responsible for the girls because I just know I’m going to screw this up. I just want to be left in peace. And I especially do not want a set of forest-y eyes watching me as I walk out of the room without so much as a goodbye.

  + + +

  Two nights later, a knock lands on the front door. I’d just yelled at Lys for coughing, though she can’t seem to help it, and I’m pissed that Lena’s not home yet when she’s not involved in any extracurricular activity linked to the school.

  “Yeah,” I say, whipping open the door, angry with the world. I freeze when I see Tricia Carter with a tinfoil-covered pan in her hand and a duffel bag looped over her arm.

  “I promised
you double or nothing if you showed up, so I brought you dinner.” I stare at her a long minute as she stands on the front stoop, offering me a casserole of some type and a weak smile. Her expression remains cautious.

  “What’s this?” Lena says, surprising me, and I turn to face my absentee sister.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” I snarl, catching her off guard when I realize she snuck into the house. I hear Tricia’s breath hitch, and I do not need an audience when I rip into my sister again. I turn on the nosy, pushy neighbor. “We don’t want dinner.”

  “What is it?” Lena presses, closing her eyes as she moves forward to inhale over the dish Tricia lifts upward.

  “It’s enchiladas. I looked up a recipe.” Her voice falters as I glare at her. She what?

  Before I can even question why she looked up my favorite dish, Lena reaches forward to escort Tricia into the house. “Come in and join us for dinner.”

  It’s the sweetest Lena has ever sounded, and it makes me suspicious. What the . . .? I’m forced aside as Lena guides Tricia inward, holding her wrists as she brings her into the house. Tricia does a quick sweep of the front room, and I brace for her judgment. The place isn’t exactly a Hilton. It’s not even a Holiday Inn. It’s more highway motel with one-hour room rental.

  Not that I see it that way. This is my home, but I just know Tricia’s assessing it.

  “Our homes are twins.” She bursts out laughing. “I have that same couch.”

  She’s shitting me. It’s a velour thing from like the 1970s.

  “Isn’t it ugly?” Lena adds, and Tricia turns to my sister.

  “Very, but it’s also strangely comfortable.” I don’t want to imagine Tricia sitting on a couch like mine. Maybe sitting next to me on one or lying under me on it. My thoughts rush through the possibilities, and then I remind myself it isn’t possible. She needs to get out of our house.

  “I don’t think tonight’s a good night for—”

  “Ms. Carter?” Lys’s soft voice reaches us, and I close my eyes. My youngest sister thinks this woman is a goddess. She talks about her every damn day. I can’t get away from Ms. Carter.