School Ties

by Tamsen Parker

  Will’s cleared his throat, expecting to draw my attention. I don’t turn. I’m going to hang on to any scrap of control I have over this situation, so I ignore his guttural plea. I’ve been standing at the window, watching the celebration, but my legs are leaden. It might be a good idea to sit down. I drag myself over to the chair behind my desk and drop onto the wood, warmed by the sun filtering through the window and worn by generations of math teachers who’ve come before me. The terrible ergonomics are a point of pride.

  “You wanted to talk?” My voice has detached itself from my body. It’s doing a pretty good impression of someone who doesn’t give a care.

  “Erin, I . . .”

  Will’s got a big enough ego that it’s rare for him to sound genuinely contrite. It’s usually in a way that screams I’m apologizing because I know you think I’ve done something wrong and it’ll be easier for me to smooth this over and not deal with you being pissed off anymore if I pretend it’s rational. But there’s a cold streak of genuine remorse that sets off a chain reaction through my body.

  “I’ve been . . .”

  “You’ve been what?” The bottom’s dropped out of my stomach. I can’t believe this is happening. The diamond on my finger glints in the sun and shines a mocking beam right into my eye. “You’ve been what, Will?”

  The coward looks at the floor. “When I said that Lana and I were over, that was . . . less than the entire truth.”

  Oh? Tell me more. At my lack of audible response, he looks up like a dog expecting to be met with a steel-toe. Except I’m not the kicking type. I’m the kicked.

  I should be glad. He’s been honest with me. A lot of men would’ve carved another notch on their belts, zipped their lips along with their flies, and hoped their wife would never know. It’s not the first time Will’s carved this particular notch. Does it even count as a separate betrayal? At this point it’s the reopening of an existing wound. Do I want to keep walking around with this sore that refuses to heal?

  I should muster a “Screw you” or a “We’re over” or something brave and pithy that will make him sorry he thought of a woman other than me, never mind had sex with her. I hook the low heels of my shoes over the rung at the bottom of my chair and pull as hard as I can, exerting the only force I have control over until my thighs shake with strain and I have to let go.

  “Okay.”

  He looks at me like I’ve recited the Gettysburg Address or some equal non sequitur. I should yell. I should do something else. Someone with more self-respect would punch him in the face. But I’m worn out and what energy I have left shouldn’t be wasted on reactionary jibes at the man who promised to love and honor me and has done everything but. The boys who worked so hard for me and say their shy and earnest thank-yous, or who swing me around in exuberant and slightly mortifying hugs, they’re who deserve any feelings I can muster.

  “Later.”

  “Okay. Angel, I’m—”

  I close my eyes and shake my head, heavy with disappointment in the both of us. “Don’t.”

  When I open them again, Will nods and heads for the door. I want to throw a piece of chalk at the spot at the crown of his head where his hair is thinning, point out his vanity and flaws in a petty cat scratch of bewildered rage he’d brush off like a fly.

  When the door latches behind him, the tears slip from my eyes. I wrench my ring from my finger, leaving red marks, and fling it across the classroom. It makes a satisfying clink as it bounces off a window and skitters who knows where over the carpet. Despite knowing this is probably best for all involved, I can’t help feeling shitty. He may not have been perfect, but he’d been another brick in the wall of my life that I’d built.

  Now it’s crumbling. And I’ve gone and thrown a two-carat diamond across a room. I scramble to my knees and go in search of the stupid shiny bauble. I’d told him it was too much, but he’d insisted. I’ll return it, if this is the end, despite it being well within my rights to keep. If I can find it. I don’t want his money, or really his parents’ money. I’m on hands and knees, butt in the air, sinuses thick and burning with tears forced forward by gravity, reaching under a radiator for the trinket, when there’s a knock at my door.

  I’m so startled I forget I’m cowering under a desk and slam my head hard against it in my effort to be upright.

  “Son of a—”

  I crumple to the ground, a mess of snot and wrinkled summer-weight wool. Tears of pain join the pity party in my eyes. This is too much.

  In a second, dark gray trouser-covered knees appear in my field of vision.

  “Ms. Brewster? Are you okay?”

  Shep. Of course it’s Shep. This day should get a lot worse. My eyes travel up to his face while he lays a hand on my shoulder.

  What’s called for here is to sniff, extract myself from under the desk as gracefully as possible, stand up, brush myself off and assure him, Of course, Mr. Shepherd. I dropped my ring and it rolled under the radiator. You surprised me. Congratulations and best of luck at Northwestern. Good day.

  But what comes out is “No,” as I burst into tears. Most teenage boys would stutter and back away, possibly offer some tissues at arm’s length while looking around desperately for someone else, anyone else, to please do something with this crying woman. But it’s not Jeremiah or Caldwell who’s kneeling beside me. It’s Shep.

  I bury my head in my hands as weeping racks my body. I can’t stop the flood, but Shep is undeterred, his hand resting on my arm. My tears come hard and fast, hot moisture rolling down my cheeks, off my nose. One unfortunate drop streams into the hollow of my ear.

  When I gather up the reins of my outburst, Shep is still on his knees beside me, stroking my arm with long, firm passes. I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am, so I jumpstart the rational part of my brain. I cannot, cannot lose this job. I can’t leave here. Especially now. If Will and I are getting a divorce. Are we getting a divorce?

  I don’t refuse when Shep offers me a hand. I take it. It’s callused from long hours wielding a lacrosse stick, and warm. He helps me sit up, laying his free hand on the top of my head to urge me out from under the desk without banging my head again. God help me, I lean into his touch instead of away like I should, wishing his fingers would curl in my hair and hold firm.

  “Erin?”

  He’s said my name twice before but the way it rolls off his tongue like he’s said it a million times imprints itself in my memory. Ignoring the low glow in my belly, I extract myself from his grasp and wipe the tears from my cheeks with my hands.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Shepherd. Please forgive my . . . lack of decorum.” The understatement of the year colors my cheeks, and I hope he can’t feel the heat radiating off of me. A shallow line forms between his brows. I want to rub it out with my thumb. Nothing should mar his skin, especially not wrinkles from dealing with his crackpot teacher. “Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?”

  “I have to go. My parents want to get home tonight.”

  He has that tight look on his face as he looks down at the carpet, the one he gets when he thinks about home, his family. He’s disappointed and he’d rather stay to hang out with his friends and go to the wild off-campus party that’ll be happening later. The faculty pretend not to know about it, but we do. But he’s a dutiful, respectful son and he’s not going to argue. What he’s not saying is that his dad probably has to work at the feed mill early tomorrow morning. No time to take vacation days to let your son go to some outrageous, alcohol-fueled party with his aristocratic friends.

  “I wanted to say good-bye, though. And thank you.”

  His dark blue eyes have swept up to my face. I wish we could say the words we really want to say.

  “It was my pleasure.” My face flames with the truth behind my words. It was my pleasure to see him every day, his easy, solid manner an anchor in the sea of volatile testosterone, his handsom
e features a pleasant place to rest my eyes. His very existence proof that there are good men in this world. “I’ll miss you.”

  My confession flips a switch. “I’ll miss you, too.”

  He kneels up and sets a foot flat on the floor. Instead of standing, he leans forward and presses a kiss against my lips as he slips his hand into my hair.

  I’m startled, but his fingers sculpt around my skull and brook no argument. My eyes go from wide-open to slackly closed as his mouth meets mine. This feels right in a way kissing Will or my boyfriends never did. But my pliancy is shattered by how not right it is to be making out with one of my students. Under a desk. In my classroom.

  I wrench myself away and drag oxygen into my lungs as if it will save me.

  “Shep, I—”

  “I should go.”

  No. Don’t. Please? That’s what my crumpled-up face says but my brain intercedes before the thought makes it out of my mouth. “Yeah.”

  Because if you don’t, I’ll throw myself into your arms and never leave. He stands and, always the consummate gentleman, offers me a hand. Though I’m wary of what his firm grasp will make me want, I take it, half-desperate for his touch and half-determined to act like nothing’s amiss. If he offered me a hand up from my seat on the grass watching a soccer game, I would, I have, accepted it.

  He supports my weight as I come to my feet, wobbly-kneed and shaky. I haven’t let go of him, don’t want to, so I turn it into the world’s most awkward handshake.

  “Good luck at Northwestern. Let us know how you’re doing.”

  He flinches at my use of the plural. I’m a jerk. Me, I plead in my head where it’s safe to, let me know how you’re doing. Tell me you miss me.

  We stand there for what feels both like hours and milliseconds, our hands clasped tight. I want another kiss, but in full view of the window, families and faculty milling around not so far away, this “handshake” is suspect. I loosen my fingers as the uneasy thought about what someone like Uncle Rett might think if he happened upon us worms into my brain.

  Though it rips my heart in two, I don’t call him Shep as I step back.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Shepherd.”

  “Bye, Ms. Brewster.”

  He looks at me for a long second before he turns and walks out the door. I sink to my knees when the latch trips and cry anew, my fingertips grazing my lips where he kissed me. These tears aren’t for Will. They’re for the lost possibility of what might have been but can never be with Zach Shepherd.

  Chapter Nine

  Shep

  “Damn it, Kaiser.”

  It’s the second week of school and I’m already buried under mounds of homework. That’s what you get for taking an extra class, I guess. I don’t have time for this shit. But Kaiser’s dragging me out of my chair in a headlock and Paul’s throwing stuff out of the particleboard piece-of-shit that passes for a closet in the crappiest undergrad housing the university has.

  “Get dressed, Shep. You’re going out tonight.”

  “I would, guys, but I’ve got—”

  “Shut the fuck up and make things easy on yourself. You’re coming whether you like it or not. It’s Tudor’s birthday and we’re doing a, uh, team-building exercise.”

  I roll my eyes from where my head’s still wedged under Kaiser’s arm. I could have him on his back in a second but I can take some hazing. I push at his flexed forearm halfheartedly to give him the satisfaction. “Is ‘team-building exercise’ code for ‘strip club’?”

  Paul snaps a dress shirt against my ass and I growl, pushing harder against the arm at my throat that feels more threatening though the pressure’s the same.

  “For being such a geek, you’re not a total square. Now suit up, my friend. This night is going to be the stuff of legend.”

  “Then fucking let up, Kaiser. I can’t change my shirt with you choking me.”

  He releases his grip and I drag a few breaths into my lungs. He hadn’t been holding me tight, but I hate that trapped feeling. I shake it off and grab the button-down from Paul before I strip off the long-sleeve Hawthorn Hill hockey tee I’ve got on. The guys are still jabbering and I’m half looking forward to the porny bow-chicka-wow-wow beat of the club so I don’t have to listen to them anymore.

  • • •

  Ten minutes later, I’m cramming into Hurley’s Acura. I know enough to know it’s a nice car, but I also know enough about how to fit in with rich kids to not comment. We buzz through the streets of Evanston and down Sheridan into the city, ending up in a neighborhood I don’t know yet. The club is sketchy, but not the nastiest I’ve seen, called something like All Starz, if I read the gaudy sign correctly. The lot of us—spilling out of expensive cars, half drunk and all blowing off steam from a long week—fill up the parking lot and bottleneck into the club.

  Someone’s paid our way so we get in no problem and without a second look from the bouncers, jacked dudes who could snap most of us over their knees like twigs. I’ll keep an eye on the guys who don’t know when to shut the hell up to make sure that doesn’t happen.

  The place is dark and a bunch of tables have “Reserved” signs on them, where we spread out. Soon after, waitresses wearing not much more than the girls on stage saunter over and take our drink orders. When I ask for water, our server leans over farther, showing off her gaudy, sparkly canyon of cleavage, and a cloying fake vanilla smell pours off her.

  “You driving, honey?”

  “Yeah.” It was a lie on the way here, but I’m guessing it won’t be on the way back. Hurley had nudged me on the way in. “You’re all straight-edge and shit, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You mind driving back if I want a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  I don’t bother explaining that if I thought I could actually trust anyone here, I’d be happy to get fucked up. Relieved. Let me forget for a few hours about Erin Brewster. She’s been making unwanted appearances in my dreams since I met her, but after graduation, it’s been worse. It’s worse because I know what it feels like to have her lips against mine, have her kiss me back.

  For the most part over the summer I’d been too busy working, watching Caleb or sleeping. Showers were a three-minute exercise in waking myself up and scrubbing shampoo in my hair and passing whatever sliver of soap was left in the shower over myself.

  But now, I’m busy but I’m not that busy, and I’m tired but not sacked out. My dick has woken up from its summer hibernation. And the girls. Holy fuck, the girls. They’re All. Over. I’m not used to their high voices echoing through the halls of everywhere, or their girl smells or the short shorts. Real girls actually dress like that?

  I’d thought the flirting was bad at school dances when we’d meet up with the girls’ school in the next town over, but add alcohol and kids away from home for the first time and you get explosions of sexual aggression. I’m flattered by the attention but it feels wrong to me. They don’t know anything about me. How do they know I’m not an asshole who’d treat them badly? Do they care? They should care.

  Stupid as it may be, I can’t get rid of the nugget of hope that someday, somehow, I might be able to be with Erin. That miniscule possibility is enough to keep her as the yardstick in my head against which I measure all others.

  All I can think when the round little redhead who lives down the hall leans in my doorway to ask me to kill a spider is that she’s too insistent, not mild like Erin. The Asian girl who times her gym workouts to flirt with us when we’re coming and going from practice? Smells too spicy and wears too much makeup, not subtle like Erin. Even the knockout blonde in my multivariable calculus class? Not as smart as Erin.

  Now sugar tits. Yeah, lady, I’m the designated driver. She taps my nose with an acrylic nail. “Coming right up, honey.”

  I should’ve found some empty carrel in the library to hole up in. A number starts on
the main stage and war whoops go up around me. I do my best to ignore the cowgirl strip routine going on, when there’s a hand on my shoulder.

  “Shep. Come on, man.”

  It’s Paul. He’s cocking his head toward a low-lit door in a corner of the club with its own bouncer. “What? We going to the champagne room?”

  “There’s a reason I picked this shithole. Tudor’s coming, too. Come on.”

  I drain my water, setting down the empty glass with a few bucks under it, and slip out of my seat, ignoring the boos of the guys whose views I block. I shove my hands in my pockets as we head over. Paul’s looking over his shoulder to make sure we aren’t being followed, but all eyes are glued to the girl who’s down to a G-string, chaps and a Stetson.

  Paul thrusts his pointy chin at the bouncer, who nods us in, and when the door opens . . . Holy shit.

  • • •

  I’ve seen this in the occasional porno but never in real life. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  “Close your mouth, dude. Be cool.”

  Paul nudges me with an elbow. I do my best to plaster a look of cool disinterest on my face, but this might be my biggest challenge ever.

  There’s a girl strapped over some kind of bench and a guy is whaling on her ass with a . . . I don’t even know what to call that thing. It’s maybe leather? Got a handle and a bunch of separate strands that are spreading over her reddened ass cheeks with every blow. Whatever it is, it’s making the girl scream, but not in pain.

  “Nice, right?”

  “What the—”

  “Sit down, shut the fuck up and enjoy. You want some more water, you pussy?”

  “Yeah.”

  We dump ourselves into seats at an empty table at the front to watch the show. Though I was watching a mostly naked chick with a bunch of guys a few minutes ago and I didn’t blink, this makes me squirm. The faux leather is tacky and the place grimy, but there’s something about this . . .