Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(17)

“How’s it going?” he asks softly.

I sigh. “It’s going.”

“How are your parents?”

“They’re home, mending, but already starting to get on each other’s nerves. They’re stuck in bed next to each other basically every hour of every day. One of them may not make it out alive.”

Garrett’s lips curl into a grin. “My money’s on your mom. I could see her pulling off a Gone Girl.”

I laugh at that imagery. Then I ask, “Why were Kelly Simmons and the Plastics looking at me like they hate me?”

“Because they hate you. Don’t you remember what it was like for the new kid in school?”

“But we’re teachers. We’re not kids anymore.”

Garrett holds up his finger. “Connor has a theory about that. He told me once that teachers like me, who’ve only ever lived by the school calendar—winter break, spring break, summers off—never really leave high school. Add to that the fact that we’re trapped in this building with a thousand teenagers, and we absorb their energy and personality traits—he thinks our brains are still partly stuck in adolescence. That we’re all still teenagers, just walking around in grown-up bodies.” Garrett shrugs. “Kind of like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” He scans the room, glancing at Kelly and a few of the other teachers. “It would explain a lot.”

Wait. Hold on . . . what the hell did I sign up for?

Before I can challenge his theory, Miss McCarthy walks down the main aisle clapping her hands. “Let’s get started, people. Everyone sit down.”

There’s a gust of shuffling and muted whispers and then everyone settles in and turns their attention to Miss McCarthy, standing in front of the stage, with Mrs. Cockaburrow bowing her head behind her like a scared shadow.

“Welcome back. I hope you all had a pleasant summer,” she says, in a tone that indicates she really doesn’t care if our summer was pleasant or not.

“I’d like to welcome Callie Carpenter back to Lakeside—she’s taking over the theater classes for Julie Shriver.”

Miss McCarthy motions for me to stand, and I do, straight and smiling, feeling the weight of fifty sets of judging eyes.

“Hi, Callie,” some in the crowd murmur in unison, sounding like an unenthusiastic group at an AA meeting.

Cockaburrow hands McCarthy a folder, and she holds it out to me. “Callie, here’s your class rosters for the year.” She addresses the others in the room, “The rest of you should have gotten your rosters last week. Check your emails.”

I walk up to get the folder, then head back to my seat, while Miss McCarthy talks about changes to the parking lot regulations.

Garrett leans over my shoulder and Dean huddles behind me.

“Who’d you get, who’d you get?’

And I have déjà vu—an image of our fifteen-year-old selves comparing sophomore-year schedules. Right in this room.

Garrett looks at the list and grimaces.

“Tough break.”

Dean shakes his head. “Oh boy.”

I look back and forth between them. “What? What’s wrong with it?’

“That’s D and B all the way,” Dean says.

“D and B?”

“Dumb and Bad,” Garrett explains. “See, some kids are dumb—not book smart, no matter what you do.”

“Jesus, Garrett, you’re a teacher.”

“I’m honest. And I don’t mean it in a shitty way. My dad didn’t go to college—he was an electrician. The world needs electricians, and pipe layers, garbage men, and ditch diggers. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Okay, so those are the D’s. What about the B’s?”

“Some kids are bad. They might be smart, they might have potential, but they’re still bad. They like to be bad. Major pains in the asses, and not in a fun way.”

“Hey! You three in the back!” McCarthy barks. “Do I need to separate you?”

And the déjà vu strikes again.

I shake my head.

“No,” Garrett says.

“Sorry, Miss McCarthy,” Dean says, leaning back in his seat. “We’ll be good. Please, carry on.”

McCarthy narrows her eyes into slits and points to them with her two fingers, then points those same fingers back at us.

And, Jesus, if I don’t feel like she might give us detention.

The real fun starts when Miss McCarthy begins talking about the student dress code. And a frizzy, red-haired woman shoots her hand up to the ceiling.

“That’s Merkle,” Garrett whispers against my ear, giving me delicious goose bumps. “Art teacher.”

“Miss Merkle?” McCarthy asks.

“Will we be adding MAGA articles to the banned clothing this year?”

Before McCarthy can answer, a square-headed, deep-voiced man in a USA baseball hat inquires, “Why would we ban MAGA clothes?”

“Jerry Dorfman,” Garrett whispers again. And I can almost feel his lips against my ear. Automatically, my neck arches closer to him. “Guidance counselor and assistant football coach.”

Merkle glares across the aisle at Dorfman. “Because they’re offensive.”

Dorfman scoffs. “There’s nothing overtly offensive about a MAGA shirt.”