See Me After Class(16)

“Why do you have terms?” Gunner asks, going to Romeo’s side, all of us taking stances, ready to face off. “We’re the ones who are helping you out.”

“That’s what you’d like to think,” Stella says. “But we all know that’s not the case. Sure, whatever, Arlo finds out about the tables. He gets angry, what’s new? But if we don’t join your league, you’re stuck with Esther again.”

Romeo and Gunner both clench their jaws, and I know Stella has them. God, I love this girl.

“So, we’re going to play it like this,” Stella says. Motioning between us with two fingers, she states, “We’ll join the league—two division-one, full-ride athletes—as long as you don’t tell Arlo about the desks . . . or the rest of the pranks we have planned.” Their eyes widen with humor. “And you report back to us with his reaction to every single one of them.”

“You want us to spy on our friend?”

“Not necess—” I start.

“Yes,” Stella finishes. “We want to know how pissed he is, how annoyed, if he’s onto us. Every little detail you can muster up in those pea-sized brains of yours. And in exchange, we’ll play in your teacher league.”

Gunner turns to Romeo, making a show of it. “They drive a hard bargain.”

“Positively evil, if you ask me.” Romeo smirks. “But nothing would give me more pleasure than to watch Arlo squirm.”

I match his smile.

Turning toward us, the boys close the distance and hold out their hands. “Deal.”

As we shake their hands, Stella says, “And that’s how it’s done.”





Chapter Four





ARLO





“Stop fucking with me, was it you?” I ask Romeo, who can’t stop laughing as we walk into the Atomic Saloon, our bar of choice that’s far enough away from Brentwood University that we don’t have to worry about college students and is far too fancy for any high schoolers trying to jump in with fake IDs.

“Why on earth would I move your desks around? Dude, probably the cleaning staff.”

That was not the work of the cleaning staff.

That was the work of someone trying to fuck with me, and there are two people dumb enough to do that.

Romeo and Gunner.

“Cleaning staff doesn’t move desks mere inches, and all precisely, as well.”

“Is he still harping about the desks?” Gunner asks, coming up behind us.

“Yup. Shocking. Arlo can’t let it go,” Romeo says as we find a booth.

The swanky industrial style bar is dimly lit by low-hanging Eisenhower lights encased in glass globes, giving a warm hue to the room. Encased in deep-red exposed brick, the bar sits center stage, while navy blue leather booths flank the outer ring. In the back, sectioned off by plexiglass garage doors and black trim, are four pool tables with accompanying high-top tables. The space gives just enough room to those who want to be loud, those who want to watch the game, and those who just need to sit back and relax for a drink.

Still irritated by the desks—I know they were the culprits—I pick up the menu and search out a new drink. It was a long first week. Dealing with Greer and her music on the first day, then having to hear about how innovative Greer is from another English teacher, along with the desks, my advanced students who think they know everything—they don’t—and then add in my nagging sister, I’m ready for some strong liquid encouragement to start off the weekend.

The first week in a new semester is always hard. You’re trying to find your rhythm. Getting to know the students, seeing how far you can push them, how far they’re going to push you. The kids always think they’re being original in their pranks and smart-assery, but I’ve been teaching high schoolers for eight years now, so I’m rarely surprised. It’s hard not to feel that initial burst of excitement at the idea of molding young minds, believing you can make a difference. In the next few weeks, I expect to establish a solid routine full of expectations that will take us through the winter break. At least, that’s what I’m hoping for.

“Why are you looking at a menu?” Romeo asks, eyes on the TV that’s just off to the right. The Bobbies are playing the Pittsburgh Steel tonight, so I know we’ll be parked here for at least a few hours. “You always get the same thing.”

“Changing it up,” I answer, even though the whiskey is calling to me.

“Going to get one of those lady cocktails you’re always admiring?” Gunner asks, eyes on the TV as well.

Not to sound like a nagging partner that’s being ignored, but . . . looks like I’ll be spending the night with the sides of my friend’s faces.

“Knox has been on fire this year,” Gunner says. “His bat is fucking insane.”

“I’d be shocked if the Bobbies don’t take the World Series,” Romeo says. “When offense and defense are both clicking, you’re unstoppable.”

“Thinking about the lady bird drink,” I say, knowing neither of them are paying attention.

“Oh . . .” they both say and then high-five each other like a couple of barbarians. “Nothing gets past the middle infield,” Romeo says. “Carson and Knox are unstoppable.”