Troublemaker

by Kayley Loring

  Hang in there, cotton boyshorts. We’ve got a long half-day ahead of us.

  “I am very excited to go to the observatory. We have never been there.”

  “I haven’t been there yet either. Everyone’s excited this morning.”

  Especially my cervix, apparently.

  “I’m here,” Alex Vega says as he stops to stand next to Mrs. Torres.

  As if my entire being wasn’t completely aware of this.

  He holds out his hand to Mrs. Torres. “Hi, I’m Alex Vega. Ryder’s dad.”

  “Oh hello, I am Juanita Torres. Miguel is my son. He tells me about Ryder almost every day. Miguel likes him very much.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Torres. Ryder really likes Miguel too.” He nods at me, just once. “Hello.”

  I clear my throat. “Hello. I was about to give Mrs. Torres—”

  “Juanita.”

  “I was about to give Juanita this list…” I hand one photocopied sheet to her and one to Alex. “The other second-grade classes will be attending the observatory on a different day, so it’s just us. All fifteen of my students will be going on this field trip today, and you’ll find each of their names listed here, as well as their emergency contacts and any allergies we know of. We’ll be returning to school for lunch, but they’re bringing snacks from home with them, and they are not to purchase any food from the observatory. My cell phone number is listed at the top of the page. Please enter it into your phones in case we get separated at the location. Hopefully we won’t. Please keep your phones on vibrate, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t take any calls that aren’t related to this field trip for the next few hours. I’ve divided the students up into groups of five and buddied them up. Each of us will buddy-up with one student. I’ve paired both of you up with your sons, but please ensure that you pay attention to all five children in your group so we return here with as many kids as we leave with…”

  I finally take a deep breath—not just because I’ve been yammering while staring down at my copy of the list but because Ryder’s dad smells so fucking good, I want to stick my face in the crook of his neck for like half a year or so.

  But I won’t.

  I quickly glance up and find him smirking at me and my stupid trembling hands.

  Don’t you smirk at me, Ryder’s dad. If you think this is going to be an opportunity for you to flirt with me, then you’ve got another think coming.

  “Sounds good,” he says, holding up crossed fingers.

  I remove two Hello My Name Is stickers that I’ve filled out and hand one each to my volunteers. “Please wear this so the kids can see it.”

  Alex Vega removes the backing paper and very slowly and carefully and annoyingly smooths the Hello My Name Is Mr. Vega sticker out over his left pec while watching me watch him.

  I take the backing paper from Mrs. Torres. “I can throw that out for you.”

  I hold my hand out to Alex. His fingertips brushing against the open palm of my hand sends a direct message to my lady parts, and the message is this: You think I’m not going to flirt with you today, Miss Stiles? You’ve got another think coming.

  I clear my throat and smile at the good chaperone. “Juanita—would you come inside to help me round up the kids? Mr. Vega, would you mind waiting for us at the school bus? Make sure the driver is there? We’ll join you in a minute.”

  “I’ll see you in a minute.” He starts walking backwards down the hall, giving me a very obvious and appreciative once-over when Miguel’s mom is heading into the classroom. Down to my exposed bare ankles, back up the flowing blush-colored maxi skirt, to the somewhat tight white T-shirt that I’m wearing under a cute jean jacket. A slightly more work-appropriate version of the boho nerdy chic style I was rocking the night we didn’t meet. Definitely not slutty. But also not anything that Mrs. Norbert would have worn.

  I roll my eyes and give him a warning look before he turns to walk away, giving me a painfully awesome view of his cute butt.

  There’s a great example of a long and short u sound right there.

  Cute. Butt.

  But damn. I like the way he looked at me.

  Franklin Baldwin, you’re a genius.

  Oh God.

  Oh shit.

  Franklin Baldwin, you’re an idiot.

  The wind.

  The Santa Ana winds.

  Fuck you, wind.

  13

  Alex

  I fucking love you, Santa Ana winds.

  Here’s what they brought me today: a tantalizing glimpse of Miss Stiles’s long, shapely bare legs and black underwear that should not be sexy but totally is.

  That long skirt of hers just flew right up as she was turned to face her line of students, and I am so glad she sent me over here to wait for her.

  I watch her wrangle the pink fabric and shove it between her legs so it won’t blow around anymore.

  Oh, how I wish I were you, pink fabric.

  She checks her watch.

  No, you do not have enough time to change out of that magical skirt, Miss Stiles.

  She turns around, taking a little girl’s hand before grabbing a handful of the skirt as she and Mrs. Torres lead the group over to the sidewalk in front of the school building. She’s not wearing glasses today, and her big blue eyes are glowing with heat. When she’s looking at me, anyway. So pretty.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask the bus driver, who is also gaping at her.

  I mean, I’m not gaping at her.

  I was just witnessing that beautiful event in a totally cool and professional way. Because I need to catalog the image in my photographic memory and use it someday. Not in a spank bank kind of way. Like a respected film director. Who wants to bend Miss Stiles over a desk, grab that perfect peach of an ass with one hand, the ponytail with the other, and eat her out until she sees stars before drilling some sense into her.

  “Hey, Dad! You’re my buddy!”

  “Yeah I am.”

  Ryder lets go of a girl’s hand—Cheyenne’s, I think—and runs over to me. It’s only been like half an hour since we’ve seen each other, but I’ll never get tired of seeing that happy face coming at me. He holds his hand up for a high-five.

  Keep me in line today, buddy. Don’t let me get into trouble with Miss Stiles. Yet.

  “I just farted,” he tells me conspiratorially.

  That’ll do it.

  “Nice. Try to hold it in when we’re on the bus, okay?”

  “I will. That’s why I let it out just now.”

  “Good boy.”

  “Mr. Vega… Here is the rest of your group. Cheyenne, Nikki, Milo, and Beckett. Stick with Mr. Vega today, okay? He’s in charge of you while we’re on this field trip.”

  “Hey there, Cheyenne, Nikki, Milo, and Beckett. Stick with me.” I give them a wink. “We’re the fun group.”

  Miss Emilia Stiles narrows her eyes at me, but she can’t stop grinning.

  “And the responsible one. We’re the fun, responsible group that sticks together.”

  Miss Emilia Stiles lets go of her bunched-up skirt so she can push loose strands of hair behind her ear, and here comes that wind again.

  She manages to keep most of her legs covered this time—good reflexes, unfortunately. But she’ll be working awfully hard to keep things under control today. These warm Santa Ana winds are steady and persistent. Like me. And we’re both capable of flipping your skirt when you aren’t expecting it. At least I wait for the appropriate moment to do it.

  “Did you bring sunglasses?” I ask her, glancing down at her cross-body bag.

  “I think I left them in the car.” She frowns. “I’ll be fine.”

  “What about your regular glasses? It’ll help protect your eyes. From the wind.”

  “I don’t have time to get them,” she says, waving me off.

  “You want to borrow my sunglasses?” I pull my Ray Bans off my face and hold them out to her.

  It takes her a moment to tear her eyes away from my
hand, but she says, “No. Thank you,” and then whips around to face the giggling school children. “Kids! Let me have your attention, please! Let’s get into the bus in an orderly fashion! Those of you in front will go all the way to the back, and we will all buckle up! It’s not a long drive, but we won’t leave until everyone has their seat belts on and is sitting very quietly, right?”

  “Yes, Miss Stiles!” some of the kids, including my son, yell out.

  And then we all file into the relatively small bus, one by one.

  I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a school bus that doesn’t smell like a laundry hamper in a fart cave, but if there is, the Los Angeles Unified School District does not own one. It’s the opposite of sexy. Which is good—I don’t want to have sexy thoughts now. But when we’re on Los Feliz Boulevard, halfway to Griffith Park, I pull my phone out of my pocket and type out a text when Ryder’s staring out the window and counting all the Priuses.

  ME: Just making sure I entered your number correctly, Miss Stiles. For field trip-related purposes.

  “Who are you texting?”

  “No one. How many cars are you up to?”

  “Twelve.”

  “You’re missing one right now.”

  He looks out the window again, and I check my phone for a reply that hasn’t come yet.

  “Is it Uncle Shane asking you to meet that lady that Willa knows again?” he asks, still looking out the window.

  “Nope.”

  “Are you going to meet that lady?”

  “Don’t plan to.”

  “Good. I don’t like her.”

  “You haven’t met her.”

  “I don’t like the sound of her.”

  EMILIA STILES: Message received.

  ME: Yes, but are you REALLY getting the message?

  EMILIA STILES: Please behave yourself, Mr. Vega.

  ME: I hope your skirt behaves itself, Miss Stiles. Or maybe I don’t.

  EMILIA: Seriously. We need to keep our attention on the kids. Ignore me!

  ME: Try being a little harder to ignore. And I will remind you that I’m the guy who controls entire film sets full of people. I think I can handle five kids.

  EMILIA: I thought you were in charge of the big picture? The big picture here is that you shouldn’t be sending me flirty texts while you’re sitting next to your son on a school bus, remember?

  ME: Roger that.

  ME: But you really should borrow my sunglasses when we’re outside. You can’t keep an eye on the kids with half of the Mojave Desert blowing into it.

  EMILIA: No thank you!

  “No thank you.” Welp. Welcome to your first fall in Los Angeles, new girl. This is how you learn, Miss Stiles. This is how you learn.

  In my experience, it takes fifteen times longer to get a kid out of the house and into your car than it does to get him out of the car and into the place you were taking him to. But for some reason, it took about five minutes to get fifteen kids into the bus and thirty years to get them off of it and assembled so that Miss Stiles can do her second head count of the morning. And we aren’t even inside the observatory yet.

  I look over at Miguel’s mom while we stand back and wait for the teacher to remind the students of the rules of the field trip. “¿Cómo te va todo, Juanita?”

  “¿Ahhh, tu hablas español?

  “Sí, mi padre es de España.”

  “Ah sí, ahora puedo verlo.” She smiles beautifully, pats me on the arm, and then lowers her voice and says, in English, “You had better be single, Mister Vega.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because. I see the way you look at Miss Stiles. Even through those sunglasses. You will get her pregnant if you keep looking at her like that.” She gives me the stink eye and then smiles again.

  “I have been divorced for a few years, and I promise to behave myself today.”

  “Hah!” She waves her hand dismissively. “That is exactly what my husband said on our first date. Nine months later—Miguel.”

  “He must have given you quite a look.”

  “Pah!” She crosses over to take her son by the hand, giving me her back.

  I am not having any luck with the ladies today.

  Ryder returns to my side, and I call our group over so we can walk together.

  “I think Miss Stiles looks nice with her hair up like that,” Ryder says. “Don’t you?”

  And I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before, but my son really wants me to like the way Miss Stiles looks.

  “Yeah, buddy. I do.”

  The walk from the parking lot to the entrance of the Griffith Observatory would take me about five minutes if I were taking my time and enjoying the panoramic hilltop view of Los Angeles. It has taken twenty actual fucking eternal minutes to get this class from the school bus to the steps. Other people’s children are the worst. You’d think they’ve never been outside before, the way they’re freaking out about the patches of lawn and the lamp posts and the statue. They don’t even notice the view of the Hollywood Sign. Which is a good thing because nobody ran to the edge and fell over. But Emilia somehow manages to keep her cool even while managing her runaway skirt.

  Until she gets to the top of the steps, turns around to address her unruly followers, and swears like a marine while covering her eyes.

  “Okay, everyone!” I yell out as I pull Ryder over to the heavy bronze door and hold it open. “I want to see all fifteen of you kids walk through this door, two by two, holding hands. And then stand quietly right inside here in the lobby. Here we go!”

  They all file in past me, two by two. I tell Ryder to take Juanita’s free hand and tell Juanita we’ll join her in one minute.

  And then I go over to Emilia, who is furiously rubbing her left eyeball in a blind rage. I put my hands on her shoulders and turn her back to the wind. “I got you. Stop rubbing your eye. You’ll make it worse.”

  She drops her arms to her side, still squeezing her eyes shut.

  “Does it sting? Is it burning?”

  “No, it just feels like my eye is giving birth to an alien.” she hisses.

  “You got any hand sanitizer in your bag?”

  “Inside zipper pocket. Wet wipes too.”

  I reach inside the inside zipper pocket of her bag. “You wearing contacts?”

  “Yessssss. I don’t think it went under the lens. It’s just in the corner. Hurry up, hurry up.”

  “I’m gonna clean my fingers before I touch your eyes, but you need to try to blink. A lot.”

  She tilts her head back and does as I say, and I pull out the little spray bottle of hand sanitizer and…a condom.

  Well, well, Miss Stiles. Prepared for everything except desert winds.

  “I should have just forced you to wear my sunglasses,” I say, shaking my head and gently taking her head in my hands when they’re cleaned.

  She’s frowning and blinking madly, and it’s so cute.

  “You can stop blinking now.”

  She does and lowers her chin to look at me. “It feels better already.”

  “Face me and look up,” I tell her. “I see it. It’s just a tiny piece of something. I don’t see anything under the lens.”

  “That’s what I said,” she huffs. “Are you going to get it out?”

  “You really didn’t bring a backup pair of glasses?”

  “I have a pair in my desk. And my glove compartment,” she says through gritted teeth. “I was just…distracted. Are you going to help me or not?”

  “I’m going in,” I say. “Don’t move.”

  She starts shaking with laughter, so I pause my attempt at gently pressing my fingertip to the corner of her eye. “Yes, that was the first time I’ve ever said that to a woman. You gonna hold still or not?”

  She sucks in her cheeks and widens her eyes, stilling herself. But when she actually meets my gaze and I stare into those beautiful blue eyes, everything goes still. Her lips part and her eyelashes flutter, an
d I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted so badly to kiss a woman when I know I can’t. I hold her face and stroke her cheeks with my thumbs.

  “You have to stop touching me like this,” she whispers.

  “How would you like me to touch you?”

  Her eyes are pink and watery, and the quivering lip tells me it’s not just the wind and the dust that has her all worked-up.

  I use the tip of my pinky finger to get that tiny bit of debris out from her tear duct and hold it up for her to see, but she just blinks repeatedly again.

  “That’s it,” she says. “All better.”

  “You should still take your contacts out.”

  “I will.” She starts to walk past me and then turns to give my bicep a little punch. “Thank you. Really. I can see fine now.”

  I don’t know if you can, Miss Stiles. Or you wouldn’t be walking away from me.

  14

  Emilia

  “Okay, there are eighteen seats in this row, so we can all fit in it,” I say to Juanita and Alex, like we’re huddled up discussing our next play in the final quarter. “It should go five kids and then a parent, with me at the end of the row here.”

  “Yes, okay, yes,” Juanita says, nodding vehemently. “Good plan.” She ushers her group of five to the far end of the row.

  Alex steps aside in the aisle to make sure everyone can move past him, and I can tell he’s staring down at me, his hands on his hips, making his broad shoulders look even wider.

  But I refuse to make eye contact with him.

  Because I refuse to remove my contacts and my eyesight has been blurry for the past hour and a half.