At some point, she tells me, “For the record, I've never gone out with Mathers.”
I wonder why I ever got so worked up about that. “It's a free world,” I say. We're on her sofa, half watching a DVD.
“Are you dating anyone?”
“How can you ask me that?”
“It's a logical question. I know you have a life outside of us.”
No, I don't, I think. “You and school,” I say.
“What about your friends?”
“What about them?”
“You don't mind spending so much time with me? Don't they ask questions?”
“Only Honey Fowler. You remember her.”
“The girl who likes you.”
I scoff. “We're just friends. For years.”
Lori gives me a skeptical look. “Well, she isn't that pretty. Not your type.”
“What is my type?”
Lori leans over and kisses my neck, sending shivers up my body. “I am.”
“Prove it.”
She does.
•••
“What do you want to do over Christmas break?” my dad asks me when I walk into the kitchen on a Saturday morning in December.
Spend every second with Lori, I think. “I don't know … hang, I guess.” I go to the fridge and pull out the OJ.
“Come on, you must want to do something fun. I'm off the road until after New Year's.”
The realization hits me—Dad's going to be home 24/7 for two full weeks. I take a swig from the carton, set it on the countertop. “What do you want to do?”
“Road trip?”
“I'm too old for Disney World.”
“We could buzz up to Baltimore and see your aunt Debbie. She's invited us.”
She's Dad's sister and lives up there with her husband and my two boring cousins, Robbie and Karen. “Whoopee,” I say.
“I don't like your attitude.”
“You want me to be honest, don't you?”
“I want you to act as if you care about some-thing—anything. You disappear into your room when I'm home. God knows what you do when I'm not.”
I hold my breath, exhale slowly. No good will come of pissing him off. Especially when I want a car for Christmas. Man, if I had a car, I could hook up with Lori more often. Riding the bus is really getting to be a drag. She takes me home after dark, sometimes will even pick me up, but not too often, just in case anyone's watching. If someone finds out … “Going to Baltimore will be fine,” I say.
Dad looks surprised. I guess he didn't expect me to cave without more arguing. “Well then, okay. I'll call Debbie and tell her to expect us for Christmas. We can go into D.C. and see the Capitol, the White House, and the Smithsonian—that's one great museum.”
He's getting excited just talking about it, while I'm getting sick just thinking about it. What fun … a road trip to Washington to look at boring buildings and visit relatives I don't even like. I turn and fish two pieces of bread from the cupboard and plop them into the toaster, but my appetite's totally gone.
Lori
eing with Ryan feeds something deep inside me I can't describe. Such a beautiful boy. And so willing and eager to make me happy. His enthusiasm is an elixir. Even the way he avoids eye contact with me in the classroom is exciting. This thing between us is like water simmering on a low, constant fire. I need him. He makes me feel alive. Especially now.
I was called into the main office for a conference with the powers that be. It seems my “apparel” is offending some of the faculty and some of my students' parents. It makes my blood boil. The old hags. I look at the way they dress, like bag ladies. They hate my high heels most of all. Why shouldn't they? Lumbering around like water buffaloes in their sensible shoes. Our esteemed principal, Estelle Dexter, kept coming back to my heels time and again. She cited “insurance concerns” as the reason I need to lose them in the classroom when I teach.
“What if you fall? These floors can be really slick. If you fall, you'll hurt yourself, maybe even break a leg or something. That will keep you from doing your job. It won't help lower insurance rates, either,” Dexter tells me.
“Fall? I don't think that's a problem for me. I'm very physically fit.”
“Yes, everyone can see that you're fit.” Her tone is condescending. She taps a pencil on the edge of her desk. “Ms. Settles—Lori—please don't make this an issue. Your attire just isn't absolutely appropriate for the classroom. There are impressionable young people, immature young men. No sense inflaming them.”
Inflaming them! How dare she say this to me? “Have my students complained about my teaching methods? My lack of skill in imparting world history to them?”
“No, not at all, but that's not the issue. I don't understand why you're getting so worked up about this. It's a simple request.”
“It speaks to my character. As if a woman in a dress and heels is somehow unfit to stand in front of a classroom.”
Her mouth puckers and tightens. “I regret you see things that way. However, this isn't up for debate. Change your way of dressing. Don't make me draw the county superintendent into this.”
My blood's boiling and I want to reach across her desk and choke her. The sanctimonious old bitch. I could make a case to the teachers' union, fight for my rights. Then I think of how ugly such a case could get. Sides would be taken. Kids would be jacked around. I'd lose my ability to see Ryan every day. I stifle my fury and ask, “And just what do you consider acceptable attire?”
She looks mollified and comes in for the kill. “Longer skirts, more coverage of your cleavage, heels no more than two inches high, nothing too avantgarde.”
In other words, look like a frump. I stand. “Are we through?”
“Yes. Have a good day.”
I walk out of the office and go into the faculty lounge, so angry I can hardly speak. Only Mr. Ishiwata, the music instructor, is there, on break. He looks up, smiles, but his smile quickly fades. “Is something wrong, Ms. Settles?”
Only if you count being told by your principal that you look like a whore. “Nothing a cup of coffee won't cure,” I say as pleasantly as I can. I know Mr. Ishiwata isn't one of my enemies. I've seen the way he looks at my breasts—his favorite part of a woman's body, I'm betting.
“Please, let me pour you a cup.”
He's solicitous and too eager, but that always works to my advantage. “That would be kind,” I say. “Two sweeteners and some cream.”
He falls over himself fixing the coffee, brings it to me ceremoniously and sets it on the table in front of me. “Thank you,” I say.
His eyes are magnified behind his glasses. I turn, lean slightly forward and give him a full look down the front of my dress at the curve of my breasts pushing up from my lacy black bra. He blinks and stares hard. I lean back and sip the coffee.
“It is my pleasure,” he says, and leaves the lounge.
I think, Lecher. All men are lechers, but I know how to handle them. Just the way I know I'll handle Dexter's unreasonable request. I want to stay under her radar, and causing a scene over my clothes won't accomplish that. I calm myself with thoughts of Ryan, of his smooth young body, of his raw and hungry passion.
Everything else is a distraction.
Ryan
I know the location of purgatory—my aunt's house in Baltimore. Dad and I arrive four days before Christmas. By day two I want to go home. My cousins make me nuts. Especially Karen, all of twelve and hanging on me all the time with her silly girlfriends.
“Where's your mom?” one of them asks. “Why didn't she come with you?”
Karen elbows the nosey girl in the ribs. “Shhh. I told you, he doesn't have a mother.”
The girl turns beet red and I grit my teeth but smile at her anyway. “No mom to nag me,” I say.
“Lucky,” the girl says.
All I think about is getting back to Lori. She wasn't very happy when I told her I was leaving, the night before Dad and I flew out. “But what about our Christm
as?” she said. “I bought you presents.” Her apartment was decorated and there were fresh logs in the fireplace.
“We'll just have to wait until I get home.”
“You should have told me sooner. Why didn't you say something before now? We e-mail every day.”
“No freedom of movement when my dad's in town, and I didn't want to tell you in an e-mail. But as soon as school starts again, he'll be heading to the Midwest for a five-day medical sales convention. I can stay over. I saved it as a surprise.” Lori has been asking me to spend a whole night with her, and now I can.
That made her smile. “Maybe I'll forgive you.”
I sneak her an e-mail from my aunt's. I'm so bored and craving contact with my real life that I e-mail Honey, too. Lori doesn't e-mail me back, but Honey does. She writes a long story about Cory and their Christmas turkey that makes me laugh out loud. I've forgotten how funny she can be. I realize that I miss her and promise myself that once I'm home, I'll reestablish contact.
Dad takes me and the cousins into D.C., where we visit every historical landmark in the city. Or it feels as if we do. Honey sends me a text message to say hello to the president, and I text back that if I can get past the Secret Service and into the Oval Office, I will. Keeping in touch with Honey helps me feel grounded. The girl's a real lifeline.
When we're in the Smithsonian gift shop, I remember that I don't have a Christmas gift for Lori, so I poke around and finally settle on a necklace from one of their ancient-history collections. A good move, I figure, because she's into history and it's real silver but doesn't cost a bundle.
Two other things happen while we're in Balti-more—I don't get a car for Christmas, and I turn sixteen. Aunt Debbie bakes a cake and everyone sings and Dad keeps saying how important family is and I try to act as if I care. By the time we fly home, I'm about ready to jump out of my skin. The first person I contact is Lori.
She asks, “When can I see you?”
“Two days. Dad's leaving on Tuesday.”
“I don't want to wait that long.”
This makes me feel really good, but tonight Honey, Joel, Jess and a few more of my friends are coming over. I've been looking forward to seeing everyone again. I want Lori bad, but I know we'll have more time if we wait a few days. “I can't help it,” I tell her. “I'll see you in class tomorrow.” The holidays are over and it's back to the salt mines.
There's a long pause on my cell, so long that I wonder if she's still on the line. “Lori?”
“I'm here. Just disappointed. I thought you'd want me.”
“I want you like crazy. I have a hard-on just hearing your voice.” She says some things that make me hot and I almost fold. “Two days,” I say. “It'll be even better because we have to wait. Anticipation can be a good thing.”
She hangs up and a jolt of fear goes through me. What if she blows me off? Being with Lori is the best thing that's ever happened to me.
Before I can decide what to do, Joel shows up with Jess. Honey arrives and so do Taylor, Peter, Kevin and his girl. It's good to see them all, talk to them and hang out, so I shove Lori to the back of my mind. We head downstairs to my rec room to listen to tunes and dance.
Honey
Hanging out with Ryan and all our friends is the best part of my holidays. I love being with everyone; it's like old times, before we all started high school and drifted apart. I linger after the others leave. Mom's going to yell because it's late and tomorrow school starts up again, but I don't care. Being with Ryan again, even as a friend, is worth any grief I get from my mother.
“Let me see what you brought home from D.C.,” I say when we're alone.
“In my room.”
We go upstairs. His room is neat as a pin. Same old Ryan. “My room looks like a campground for the homeless,” I say. “How do you do this? More to the point, why do you do it?”
“Habit. I hate messes,” he says, pulling out his desk chair for me. He hands me a clear container full of brochures. “My Christmas vacation in a box.”
I sort through the pile. “Is there any place you didn't go?”
“I didn't make it to the Oval Office,” he says with a grin. “Don't tell Dad, but the Smithsonian was pretty cool. You should have seen the aviation room and the gems rooms. One diamond was this big.” He holds his thumb and forefinger apart.
Just then, his cell rings. He glances at the display, looks at me, then down at the ringing phone. “I have to take this. Old friend.” I could swear he's nervous.
“Should I leave?”
“No…I'll take it in the hall. Stay put.”
I sit alone, wondering why he's acting flustered. I don't care who calls him…. Okay, maybe I care just a little. But it's odd. We've just spent an evening with all our friends. I sigh, set the container on the floor and cruise the room. I feel good being with him. He's more like the old Ryan, my friend from years past.
As I pass his dresser, I see a small black velvet box, the kind that usually holds jewelry. Back off, Honey, I tell myself. But I don't. I grab the box and open it. Inside is a necklace, a chain of hammered silver with a twist of curved silver strands dangling from the center. Where have I seen this before? Somewhere…Inside the lid is printed SMITHSONIAN GIFT SHOP in old-English-looking type.
Then it hits me. This is one of those Celtic love knots like the girl on the street was selling on the day Jess, Taylor and I went shopping. But why did Ryan buy something like this in Washington as a souvenir? A sick feeling hits my stomach—the slap of rejection mingles with the burn of jealousy. Does he have a girlfriend? One he's never told me about? I rack my brain, trying to imagine who it is. I come up blank.
I hear him heading down the hall. I snap the lid shut and drop the box where I found it. I'm back in the chair when he returns.
“Sorry,” he says, coming into the room.
“No problem,” I say, knowing it's a lie. I have a problem. A big problem. I want to know, what's going on in Ryan's life?
Ryan
When I enter Lori's classroom on the first day back, I'm shocked. She's dressed like a character from Little House on the Prairie—a white blouse buttoned to her neck, a skirt to the floor and weirdlooking old-lady shoes. She's still pretty, though.
One of the girls asks, “What's up, Ms. Settles?”
“Canada, Alaska, the North Pole,” Lori says, making everyone laugh. “Do you mean my new wardrobe?”
“Yeah,” another girl says.
“Glad you noticed.”
I'm staring but keeping my mouth shut.
“Request from the front office,” Lori says.
Kids groan. “Can they do that? Make you change the way you dress?” someone asks.
“They can send any of you home if you arrive dressed against their rules, can't they?”
A grumble races through the room. “But you're a teacher. You're a grown-up.”
“If they can do it to you, they can do it to me,” she says.
“It sucks!” yells some guy in the back.
“Rules are rules,” Lori says. She's vented to me in private, so I know how she feels about the administration and Mrs. Dexter—“the old hag”—and how much she's hating this. It must be hard for her to act as if she doesn't really care. “Now, let's get to work.”
I think about the rules we're breaking, she and I. What would the principal say if she knew what Lori and I were doing right under her nose?
Once class is over and I'm going out the door, Lori says, “Ryan, can I see you a minute? About that special assignment I gave you?”
Two people waiting to walk with me look curious. I wave them on and go to Lori's desk. My heart is thumping like a drum. For safety's sake, she always steers clear of talking to me after class.
Her eyes laser into me. “Is your special assignment on target?”
Code for “Is your dad out of the house?”
“On target,” I say. The room is empty and we're alone.
“I'll pick you up at the bus s
top. The one near your house.”
“I can ride.”
“I don't want to wait,” she says. Her voice is tight and sharp.
“All right.”
“And bring your things,” she says. “For the night.”
There's a bitchy bossiness about her that turns me off, but I nod anyway. And when I think about spending a whole night with her, I breathe hard.
Our clothes come off the minute we walk into her place, and our sex is wild and fast. When it's over, Lori dresses in a silky robe. She pops the cork of a bottle of champagne and pours two glasses. I've never drunk champagne but don't want to tell her that. I'm a beer guy. Joel and I got into my dad's bourbon once when we were in seventh grade. I felt great, all spaced out and soaring, until I got sick and tossed it all on the bathroom floor. Dad was better about it than I thought he'd be. He said, “A rite of passage, but don't do it again until you're legal.” I got grounded for two weeks, and a lock went on the cabinet, but he didn't go postal the way Joel's mother did when she found out.
“I've saved these for you,” Lori says, handing me a stack of presents.
I'm surprised because there are so many boxes. “I—I only got you one thing.”
“That's not what it's about. I want you to have nice things. I want to show you how much I care.”
I open boxes of cool shirts, a leather Harley vest, CDs by the hottest artists on the charts and, finally, an iPod. “Wow,” I tell her. “I've been wanting one of these. Thanks.”
“I'm glad you like it.”
I'm blown away but try not to show it. I retrieve my backpack and pull out the black velvet box. “Sorry it's not wrapped.” I feel like a miser, offering her one tiny present.
“Not to worry.” She opens the box and I see her eyes light up. “A Celtic love knot! I love it.”
“You know what it is? I didn't. I had to read about it.” Relief goes through me.
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