Rock Bottom Girl(10)

“That seems…extravagant.”

“Well, when you spend $200 per twin every month at the barber shop, I guess you’d look at it as an investment.”

I wasn’t big on gossip. I’d been the target of it enough my senior year that I didn’t partake as a matter of principle. Besides, what business of mine was it if someone was screwing their boss or taking long lunches so they could run home and spy on their third-shift husband to see if he was having an affair? However, this piqued my interest.

“$200 per twin?”

The air conditioning vent above me blew a steady stream of arctic air onto my sweaty skin, and I started to feel the chill.

Floyd nodded. “Every month. Rumor has it Amie Jo is pushing to give them both Escalades for their birthday next year. They both drive pimped-out Jeeps that they got when they turned sixteen. Milton is on his second one since he drove the first one into Dunkleburger’s pond.”

Swans, Escalades, hair.

I shook my head.

“It’ll be very interesting to see how you two get along at school.” He grinned.

“You seem like a guy who knows a lot about a lot of people,” I noted.

He gave a shrug of his massive shoulders. “To be honest, there’s not a lot to do around here. And this feels healthier than watching reality TV. So yeah, if you need the dirt on anyone, you just let me know.”

I wet my lips and tried to talk myself out of it. What would stop Floyd from telling the entire town if I asked about him? Nothing. But did it really matter? I was only going to be here for a few months, and then I’d be back out in the world forgetting all about Culpepper.

“Jake Weston,” I said finally.

Floyd’s brown eyes lit up like I’d just handed him a winning lottery ticket.

“What do you want to know?”





6





Jake





The foam roller dug into the hot spot on my quad with a satisfying zing of pain. The first preseason practice was behind me for the day, and I could enjoy a few more hours of summer malaise.

August was bittersweet for me as a teacher.

I loved my summers off. Made great use of them. Taking the bike or the dog on road trips. But there was something exciting about heading back to school. New beginnings. Not that I’d felt that way when I’d been a student. I’d been more “rebel without a clue” back in the day.

“I’m rolling here, Homer. You’re not helping.”

Homer’s wet nose met my bare back. Damn dog did it on purpose. He was practically laughing at me with his shaggy face and lolling tongue.

“You keep doin’ that, and I’ll dig out the cone of shame.”

Homer rolled over on his back next to me, fluffy feet in the air. We’d been enjoying each other’s company for five years now, ever since I spotted him in the shame section of the local paper. There was a whole page dedicated to causes we should all be supporting, funds that needed donations, animals that needed homes.

Every once in a while, I picked one at random. It was atonement for my rabble-rousing days. Or prepayment on any new bad karma I’d attract during my hell-raising summers—which were admittedly more mellow now.

My phone rang from somewhere in the room. In the summers, I had the tendency to ignore it, lose it, forget it existed. I didn’t have to be responsible Mr. Weston. I could be Jake the irresponsible badass. Or at least Jake the sleeps-’til-11-and-wakes-up-a-little-hungover badass.

But with preseason starting today it was probably better to dip a toe back into the responsibility pool.

I found the phone under a stack of books and newspapers. Yeah, I still read ’em. I blamed Uncle Lewis for that. Every Sunday brunch, he’d whip out the Arts and Leisure section and read it front to back. And while I didn’t have his snazzy wardrobe or his love of the artsy-fartsy, I more than embraced staying up on current events.

“What’s up, Floyd? Still on for poker?” I asked. Floyd was the high school gym teacher and self-appointed school gossip. If it happened within the walls of Culpepper Junior/Senior High, Floyd knew who, what, when, where, and why.

“Yeah. Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it. I’m feelin’ lucky.”

“You always say that. Gurgevich is still gonna fleece you,” I predicted. Mrs. Gurgevich had been my English teacher in high school, and she’d been ancient then. She’d spent decades terrifying students over diagramed sentences and dangling modifiers. But get to know her outside of class, and the lady had stories that started with “When Hunter S. Thompson and I were road-tripping to Tijuana…”

“You want me to bring the crab dip this week?” Floyd asked.

“Yeah. The theme’s Under the Sea.” It was an every other weekly game with a bunch of teachers. A while back, we got up the brilliant idea to start serving meals with stupid prom themes.

“Cool. Cool. So guess who was asking about you yesterday?” he said.

I couldn’t quite work my way up to caring. Gossip didn’t interest me.

“I couldn’t even begin to imagine,” I said dryly, giving Homer’s belly a scratch. He grumbled and gave his back leg a lazy shake.

“Marley Cicero.”

“Marley ‘Graduated With Me’ Cicero?” I asked. Now my interest was piqued. I remembered her. At least, teenage her. I’d found her…interesting. Interesting enough to plant one on her, if I recalled correctly. I’d kissed a lot of girls in my time. Still enjoyed a good lip lock now and then. But yeah, Marley stood out.