Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(19)

“No, it’s a lot calmer this year.” He glances at the Poland Spring bottle in his hand. “I wonder if McCarthy spiked the water bottles with chamomile.”

Again . . . wow.

Garrett looks over to me, smirking. “Is this what your theater company’s meetings are like?”

All I can do is chuckle.

“Ah . . . no.”





Chapter Seven


Garrett





The doors open for the first day of school at Lakeside High, and the students surge, filling the hallways. There’s a rush of sound, shuffling feet, the metallic clang of opening and closing lockers, a clamor of chatter. It’s how I imagine hell sounds when it receives an influx of souls through its gates—the sounds of the damned, who don’t want to be there, groaning and crying for release.

I don’t know who thought starting the school year off on a Friday was a good idea, but they’re a fucking idiot. Probably the same genius who thinks suspension is an actual punishment. Moron.

The first day of school always has a Groundhog Day vibe to it—you’ve been here before, you know how this goes, you could swear you were just here yesterday.

Freshmen resemble tourists wandering through the big, dangerous city, trying desperately not to look like tourists. Sophomores are unkempt, stressed out, and borderline depressed. Juniors congregate en masse in the halls—laughing with their friends, kissing their boyfriends and girlfriends, making plans about where they’ll hang out that night. Seniors are like the old, wise lifers—everything bores them, they’ve seen it all. Some of them may take a scared, vulnerable freshman under their wing, pass the torch, show them the ways of the force . . . but most of them just want to fucking leave.

I held an early team workout in the weight room before first period, because games aren’t just won on the field. Afterwards, I didn’t see Callie in The Cave—aka the teachers’ lounge because they don’t give us windows—to wish her luck on her first day.

But if the look on her face at yesterday’s meeting was any indication, she’s going to need it.



~



My first two periods are average, uneventful, and then third arrives—my sweet spot. It’s not unlike The Breakfast Club—a movie before its time. The kids file in and take their seats. We’ve got Skylar Mayberry—your basic overachiever, type-A, academic club brainiac.

Then there’s Nancy Paradigm.

Nancy’s a Queen B kind of popular, a pretty brunette at the upper end of the social status food chain, who’s obsessed with the latest trends in makeup, hair, music, and clothes.

“Hey, Big D. Welcome back.” She smiles as she passes my desk.

The Big D. As far as teacher nicknames go, it’s not bad, but it’s important to keep the lines between friendly-student-teacher and messed-up inappropriate clearly drawn.

If not, you’re just asking for a shit-ton of problems.

“Let’s keep it Coach D or Mr. Daniels for the year, okay, Nance?”

She bats her lashes. “That’s what all the girls call you behind your back, you know.”

“Yeah, let’s keep it that way.”

Nancy shrugs and slides into a desk.

DJ King, my starting wide receiver, moseys in next.

“S’up, Coach.”

I just saw him two hours ago in the weight room, but we bump fists. Damon John reminds me of me—good family, long-term girlfriend, Rhonda, and a good head on his shoulders. He’s gonna do okay.

After the final late bell, I shut the door and start class, talking to them about their summer, laying out how grading works, and explaining the Billy Joel assignment.

And ten minutes later, David Burke breezes in. Low-slung, saggy jeans, flannel shirt, oversized dark-gray trench coat—he’s the rebel, the disaffected youth whose extracurricular activities include petty theft, dealing pot, and occasional vandalism.

I saw from her roster that Callie has him in fifth-period theater class.

“Sorry I’m late, Coach D.” He presses a hand to his stomach. “I shouldn’t have eaten that burrito for breakfast, you know?”

“You’re so gross,” Nancy hisses, her face twisting from her front row seat.

David winks at her, unabashed. Because girls still go for the bad-boy—that hasn’t changed. But the weird thing about kids today? Their cliques are less defined, the parameters permeable. A goth can be a hard-core jock, a dork can be prom king, a druggie could be president of the French Club, a pretty cheerleader can be a criminal.

David’s smart—really smart—he could be in honors classes if he wanted to be. Instead, he uses his intelligence to figure out the minimum amount of work he has to do to not get kicked out of school, and no more.

“Sit down,” I tell him. “Don’t be late again. It’s disrespectful.”

He salutes me and takes a seat in the back of the class. I continue my lecture. Until Brad Reefer—in the back corner seat, glances out the window and announces, “Runner! We’ve got a runner!”

And the whole class moves to the windows for a better look. Some of the students grab their phones, filling the room with the sound of snapping digital shutters and the ping of recording cameras. They point their devices at the skinny, light-haired boy—likely a freshman—dashing across the school lawn towards the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street and doing a piss-poor job of it. Stealth is not this kid’s friend.