The Big Sister - Part One

by Lexie Ray

  It was important — my effectiveness as a caretaker for my brother could very well be on the line — but I wasn’t going to argue with a police officer.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wiping at my melting makeup. “God, I’m a mess. I’m really stressed out, and I’m running late to a teacher conference at St. Anthony’s.”

  “St. Anthony’s? You’re practically already there. Were you even going to slow down to park?”

  The idea that I was going to burn some of my hard-earned cash on a stupid speeding ticket was even more painful than the idea that I was late.

  “I was actually hoping by some act of God that I could sort of drift-park the car in a way that would launch me straight at the teacher’s office,” I said, giving a laugh filled with self-loathing. “Like an action movie, or something. I really am sorry. I just bit off more than I can chew today.”

  “Just slow down, miss, and be careful,” the cop said, putting his sunglasses back on and tipping his hat. “Whoever you’re going to that meeting for needs you alive and well.”

  He strolled back into my car as I tried to shut my mouth in shock. I wasn’t getting a ticket? The day was looking suddenly brighter, and I hoped that boded well for my meeting.

  I found the classroom without further incident after the front office gave me directions. I stopped by the girls’ restroom to check my appearance and try to clean the last of my gunky makeup off. Maybe it was a miracle that I had been pulled over — I might’ve missed the fact that I had on all the glitter and lipstick and sashayed right into the most embarrassing meeting of my life.

  “Hello,” I said, holding my chin up as I walked into a meeting about my brother’s wellbeing a full thirty minutes late. “I’m Faith Morgan. I’m here to talk about my brother, Luke.”

  The man busy writing something on the chalkboard turned around, surprising me with how young he was. I was surprised he wasn’t still a student somewhere. When I’d read his letter, I’d pictured someone older, portlier. Not someone this … hot.

  It was stupid, maybe, that my first impression of Adam Shapiro was that he was handsome. I was there to defend myself and my brother, not try to get a date. Plus, I couldn’t even say that he was my type — if I actually had a type. I might have worked as a dancer and escort, but romance wasn’t on my radar. I didn’t have time for it.

  Adam was busy saying something — introductions, I hoped — as he held his hand out for me to shake. He wasn’t even what I expected a teacher to look like. He was wearing a button-down shirt, but no tie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His nice tan told me he liked the beach, or at least being outside instead of cooped up inside a classroom or office. Maybe it was the buzz cut that surprised me most of all, the hair cut so short that I could just barely tell that it was blond, or the vivid blue eyes.

  No, the most surprising thing was how attracted I was to him.

  “I thought maybe Luke didn’t give you the note,” Adam was saying as I belatedly shook his hand, trying to force myself to pay attention instead of daydreaming.

  “My brother’s always honest with me,” I said, thankful to tap into my indignant anger. “We’re family, you know. Why would you accuse him of lying in the first place?”

  “You read the theme I attached, didn’t you?” Adam asked coolly. “It’s clear from the assignment that, at best, your brother’s a liar.”

  “At best?” I repeated, shaking my head a little, my eyes narrowing to slits. “What’s worse than being a liar?” Maybe hearing someone else call my brother a liar. Maybe that was worse. Or maybe being the person encouraging my brother to lie — or cover up the truth. That was definitely worse. But how could we be honest about our past after what had happened? The authorities were looking for my brother in Albuquerque — probably in the entire state of New Mexico. We didn’t have any ties to Miami. It had been a nearly perfect getaway, both of us clearing out and simply vanishing.

  “Well, did he tell you the wrong time for the conference?” Adam asked, his voice still cool as a cucumber. He was probably really good at deflecting conflicts, ending fights before they even got started. Well, he could try that on me all he wanted. There was no way I was backing down from this.

  “No,” I said, jerking my chin at him. “I’m late all by myself. I got pulled over on the way here. I apologize for the delay.”

  “Were you speeding?” Adam asked. “Is that something you do often, like when Luke is in the car with you?”

  I glowered. “I don’t think I like what you’re suggesting, Mr. Shapiro.”

  “And what is it you think I’m suggesting?”

  The way he calmly conducted this interview, making sure he was in full control the entire time, absolutely infuriated me. I wasn’t a child, and this guy couldn’t be much older than I was. I wouldn’t be condescended to. I was doing everything I could to make this work here. Maybe it was a mistake to enroll Luke at St. Anthony’s. Maybe it was just the latest mistake in a string of errors that was killing my brother.

  I ignored my self-doubt and focused on the matter at hand. If Adam wanted to play Mr. Cool, I could play that. I could be anything I needed to be when I was working at the club, or escorting. Why couldn’t those same skills be applied now?

  “Let’s get back on topic, Mr. Shapiro,” I said, smiling as sweetly as I could make myself. “My time is very valuable, and I’m sure yours is, too.”

  “Have a seat, Ms. Morgan,” he said, his face as placid as a calm lake.

  I didn’t see anywhere to sit other than the tiny desks, so I folded myself into one and had to hide a scowl as Adam sat on the edge of his desk. I didn’t like this position — it was too much like teacher versus student, and I wasn’t about to be schooled by this pretentious man.

  “I want to start off by saying that I think Luke is a very bright boy with a ton of potential,” Adam began, and I cut him off promptly.

  “You don’t have to think about that. My brother is incredibly smart, incredibly talented. Have you seen his artwork?”

  Adam smiled and spread his hands. “Alas, I am a lowly English teacher. Nowhere near as cool as art. I have been privy to some of your brother’s doodles, however, which perhaps I don’t appreciate as much as I could.”

  I shrugged. “He expresses himself through art. He always has. I would’ve thought that someone who was so interested in understanding what made Luke tick would’ve at least had that figured out.”

  “I’m not really interested in pointing fingers or placing blame,” he said smoothly. Oh, yes. He was very smooth. “I do want to figure out what makes your brother … tick, as you put it.”

  God, the arrogance just dripped off this man, as if there were a better way to say everything I’d been telling him. I’d finished high school with relatively good grades, for working and trying out living on my own, but the man sitting across from me, looking literally down on me, made me feel woefully inadequate in every way.

  “Ask me anything, then,” I said. “I’m more than happy to help teachers who are struggling with connecting with their students.”

  I’d made the comment offhandedly, just trying to assert something in this interaction that was spiraling swiftly out of my control, but it bit deeper than I’d hoped it would.

  “I have zero problem connecting with my students, Ms. Morgan,” Adam said, his voice icy and his eyes blazing coldly to match. “And when I perceive I’m getting a block from one of them, it’s usually a clue that something’s going on with them here at school, at home, or elsewhere. I’ve never been wrong on this.”

  “Everyone’s wrong sometimes, Mr. Shapiro,” I said, smiling, thankful that I’d at last redirected the conversation in my favor. “There’s no shame in admitting it. I won’t tell on you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  He returned my smile, and the ice vanished from his eyes. He was really, really good at this.

  “I’m afraid we’ve gotten off topic again,” he said. “I’m aware that you are your brother�
�s legal guardian. That’s easy enough to ascertain from Luke’s records, from the application packet.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, spreading my hands. “You’ve figured it out. I am Luke’s legal guardian.”

  “And that’s what I’d like to talk to you about. You’re young, Ms. Morgan, and I’m concerned about your experience with raising a child. You don’t have any children of your own, do you?”

  “Of course not,” I snapped, all veneer of pretended friendliness rubbed off instantly. “And, in case you’re confused, the United States of America decreed that I was an adult as of my eighteenth birthday. I’m twenty.”

  “That’s still not very old,” Adam persisted. “Haven’t you thought about what’s best for your brother? What’s best for you?”

  If my hackles hadn’t been raised before, they officially were now. “Let me tell you what’s best for both of us, because I’ve thought of it plenty. Family is best for both of us. Sticking together is best for both of us. You have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you the State of Florida? Are you able to make decisions based on your relationship with a student who might require a little extra attention, a little extra effort, whom you haven’t even known for an entire semester?”

  “I think you should calm down.”

  “I think you should wake up,” I spat. I didn’t care anymore that I was supposed to be playing his game, supposed to be beating him at being cool and confident. I was furious.

  “The thing is, I have been in contact with the State of Florida, specifically with their child protective services division,” Adam said, studying his hands, almost as if he didn’t want to look at me. “They don’t have any record of Luke Morgan there.”

  “The better explanation for that is that professionals like child protective services aren’t in the habit of sharing personal records of minors with strangers. Probably some concern about pedophiles.” That was a low blow, but I couldn’t help my joy at the way Adam winced.

  “Then maybe you can help me get my facts straight,” he said, “seeing as how you’re so passionate about helping misguided teachers.”

  “I already told you that you could ask me anything,” I said flippantly, crossing my legs even though it was a struggle in the tiny desk.

  “Where are your parents?”

  Easy enough, and innocent enough, too. “They’re dead. Any other questions?”

  “Plenty more,” Adam said, serene. “How did they die? Where did they die? How did they die? How long have you been your brother’s legal guardian? Why doesn’t the State of Florida have any records for this? Have you and your brother sought counseling services? Losing your parents so young has to be a traumatic experience for you both.”

  It was a barrage of questions, most of them questions I didn’t want to answer. Why was this guy trying to dig in so deep? What was it about my brother — or that stupid assignment — that had rubbed him the wrong way?

  “Do you treat all your students and their guardians like this?” I asked, my voice shaking with both rage and fear. “Are you so suspicious of tragedy, Mr. Shapiro, that you would interrogate a student’s legal guardian just because she doesn’t fit into your cookie cutter idea of what a family should be?”

  I would’ve felt vindicated with how flummoxed Adam was looking, rubbing his hand over his buzz cut and everything, but I was way too angry.

  “It’s not like that,” he began, but I cut him off sharply.

  “Oh, it’s not?” I was spitting mad. “Are you marginalizing my brother’s education just because it’s his sister who’s raising him? Wouldn’t you agree that we’ve had enough tragedy to deal with in our lives without you coming in and fucking things up?”

  The air between us practically crackled with hateful energy, and I started to regret the heat I’d used on that last statement. I really didn’t curse. Things were usually awful enough without the dirty language, and I’d probably just confirmed everything that Adam suspected of me with the casual drop of the f-bomb. Plus, it was easier not to cuss, since I was raising my little brother the best way I knew how. Crap.

  “You read the theme, didn’t you?” Adam’s voice was quiet, and he’d left a good deal of pomp from it. Something inside of me appreciated that. “Wasn’t there anything about it that troubled you?”

  Should I be honest or should I deflect? Adam hadn’t given me any choice at any point during this meeting.

  “It’s obviously a student who didn’t think he could trust his teacher,” I said.

  “Or a child who couldn’t reconcile his present with his past, no matter how many hurtful things have happened,” Adam countered.

  I bristled again, thankful that I hadn’t let my guard down just when I was thinking I might be able to trust this man. Of course the theme had been troubling. It had its uplifting parts, like when Luke talked about Jennet and Nick and me. But it did have a lot of half-held secrets, things that my brother seemed to be almost wanting to tell people. Would he ever be appeased with letting the past be the past?

  Even with all the worries I had about my brother, I still couldn’t believe my brother’s teacher was making so many snap judgments about my family. He had no right to make such vicious assumptions. Sure, things might be falling apart a little right now, but that didn’t mean I was doing a bad job of raising Luke. Even normal families — families who had never suffered through major deaths of loved ones and tenures with social workers and sentences with abusive adoptive families — had ups and downs. Just because Luke and I weren’t a family in the traditional sense, I was failing him?

  How dare Adam. I hadn’t come this far to one day just up and admit to some stranger that I’d bitten off more than I could chew with my brother. I was killing myself for him, working at least twelve hours a day in order to ensure that we could even afford this stupid school. I wasn’t paying to be paraded around as a model of what guardians shouldn’t be.

  I stalked closer to Adam, my frown deepening as I weighed what words to lash out with first. Should I start off with how ignorant this professed educator was to my familial situation, or should I go on the offensive with my own defense, making sure he had no right to judge me for my working schedule, my method of raising my brother, or anything else? I was sure that the majority of students who attended St. Anthony’s were born with silver spoons in their mouths. Just because their mothers were always available for conferences with teachers didn’t mean that I could be. I had to work for a living. I had to work to ensure our survival here, to get Luke the attention and education he needed and deserved.

  Just as I leaned in, really got in Adam’s face to make sure he knew how badly he’d screwed up, how terribly he’d misjudged this whole thing, something happened that I hadn’t even begun to expect.

  I kissed him.

  I kissed that motherfucker.

  Chapter 9

  My eyes fluttered closed as I locked lips with Adam, right there in the middle of the man’s classroom. Some part of me wondered if anyone had ever kissed in here — specifically, if Adam had ever kissed anyone in here before — but the part of me that had propelled me forward into kissing the guy in the first place shushed me. I hadn’t kissed anyone since Parker had arranged for me to escort her old friend, Marcus, and I was a little surprised to realize that I’d missed it. Something about that lip-on-lip contact threw off sparks like nothing else could. And we were throwing off enough sparks to ignite the entire campus.

  For a teacher, and a total jerk, Adam was a good kisser. As if we’d rehearsed it, we both tilted our heads in opposite directions at the same time, allowing each other better access. Our lips parted of their own accord, simultaneously, to accommodate our curious tongues. Adam tasted faintly of coffee and something sweet — he could’ve added sugar to the mug, or snacked on a donut or strudel or something while he was imbibing his daily caffeine. Judging by his hard body pressing up against mine, however, I sincerely doubted that he indulged in anything that fattening.

 
My imagination ran wild, visualizing the man standing before me naked. Where did he get his muscles from? There was such a solidness to him that I had to wonder. Did he work out religiously at the gym twice a day? I pictured him grunting as his biceps strained to complete some insane number of repetitions, the veins standing out in bold relief beneath his golden tan. Or was he some kind of athlete? What sport would it be? My mind’s eye dressed him up in football pads and slapped him on a field, going through drills, performing bone-crushing tackles, chugging water and letting it splash down his bare chest to cool himself after a hard practice.

  Adam reached up to cup my jaw, to deepen our kiss or guide me toward some further something, but his touch on my face might as well have been a slap. His hand wasn’t rough at all, and the gesture had been gentle, but that single touch was enough for me to wake up — wake up to the fact that I was kissing my brother’s teacher, a man I’d been ready to come to blows with because of what he thought of my family.