Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(18)

“There’s nothing overtly offensive about a white hood, either—it’d still be a bad idea to let a student walk around in one,” Merkle volleys back.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re delusional?”

“Stick it up your ass, Jerry.”

“That’s enough, you two!” McCarthy moves down the aisle between them. “There will be no talk of sticking anything up any asses! Not like last year.”

Miss McCarthy takes a deep, cleansing breath. And I think she might be counting to ten.

“MAGA clothes will not be banned—it’s a can of worms I don’t want to open.”

Merkle gives Jerry the finger behind McCarthy’s back. Then he returns the favor.

And I feel like I’m in the twilight zone.

“Speaking of clothing,” a younger-looking, light-brown-haired man in a gray three-piece suit volunteers, in a British accent, “could someone advise these lads to pull up their trousers? If I glimpse another pair of Calvin Klein pants, I’ll be ill.”

“Peter Duvale, pretentious asshole. Teaches English,” Garrett says, and I feel the brush of his breath against my neck. Delicious heat unfurls low and deep in my pelvis.

“Jesus Christ, Duvale—I am too hungover to listen to your bullshit British accent today. Please shut the hell up.”

“Mark Adams,” Garrett says, whisper soft. “Gym teacher, fresh out of college. Only, don’t call him a gym teacher—he’ll be insulted. They’re physical education teachers now.”

I swallow, my skin tingles from the sound of Garrett’s voice so close.

Another man raises his hand. This one middle aged with dark, thick hair sticking up at all possible angles.

“Speaking of dress code, can we make sure Christina Abernathy’s breasts are covered this year? There was nipple-peekage last year. Not that I was looking—I wasn’t. But if I had looked, I would’ve seen areola.”

“Evan Fishler—science teacher,” Garrett tells me quietly, and I squirm in my seat, rubbing my thighs together. “He spends his summers in Egypt researching the pyramids. Believes he was abducted by aliens when he was a kid.” A smile seeps into Garrett’s tone. “He’ll tell you all about it, for hours and hours . . . and hours.”

I turn my head and Garrett Daniels is right there. So close, our noses almost touch. And there’s the familiar, thrilling sensation of falling, hard and fast. There’s not a cell in my body that doesn’t remember feeling this way, whenever he was near.

“Thanks.”

He gazes at me, eyes drifting from my neck to my chin, settling on my mouth.

“You’re welcome, Callie.”

Then the moment is broken.

Because Merkle and Jerry go at it again.

“Breasts are not sexual objects, Evan,” Merkle says.

Jerry snorts. “The fact that you believe that is exactly your problem.”

“You’re such a pig.”

“I’d rather be a pig than miserable.”

“No. Miserable would describe the women who’ve had the misfortune of going out with you.”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” Jerry winks.

Dean groans. “Jesus, would you two put us out of our misery and just bang already?! I hear the janitor’s closet is nice—there’s probably still lube in there from last year’s senior lock-in.”

Miss McCarthy yells, “There is no lube in the janitor’s closet, Dean! That’s a vicious rumor!”

“There’s definitely lube in the janitor’s closet,” someone says. “Ray the maintenance guy hangs out in there way too long not to be whacking it.”

Then the whole auditorium erupts in a debate over whether or not there is lube hidden in the janitor’s closet. Then the conversation quickly turns to the mystery of the still unclaimed dildo that was apparently found in the teacher’s lounge after sixth period last May.

Amidst the chaos, Miss McCarthy throws up her hands and talks to herself.

“Every year. Every fucking year with these shitheads.”

Wow.

In fifth grade, my school gave us “the talk”—the birds and bees, where babies come from, biology talk. My mother had already given me the rundown, so I wasn’t surprised—unlike some of my poor classmates, who looked like they were being scarred for life.

What was surprising was my epic realization . . . that my teachers had, at some point in their lives, had sex. Old Mrs. Mundy, the librarian, whose husband was the school gardener, had had sex. Young, handsome Mr. Clark, who taught social studies and who eighth-grade girls—and a few of the boys—majorly crushed on, had had sex. Cheery, energetic Mrs. O’Grady, who had seven children . . . she’d had a whole bunch of sex.

It blew my mind.

Because it was the first moment I comprehended that my teachers . . . were human.

They ate, they drank, they had sex, they went to the bathroom, fought, probably cursed—just like real people. Like my parents. Like anyone.

Teachers were people too.

And looking around the room now, I feel another realization coming on. Were my teachers also this crazy? I don’t know if it’s a question I want answered.

So instead, as the arguing and insults continue, I lean closer to Garrett. “Is it always like this?”