Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(30)

I’m a badass teacher—I’ll run you down even if you’re a student—I’ve got twenty-nine more in class just like you.

The outfit helps too—leather boots, blue jeans, a starched white blouse, and a black leather jacket. It’s my armor. The morning air is cool and crisp today, but I barely feel it. I’m locked and loaded and ready to roll.

As I march towards the main entrance, I spot Garrett and Dean and Alison Bellinger outside the doors. They pause when they see me, waiting.

“Damn,” Dean chuckles. “Callie’s got her shit-kickers on. Did you dig them out of a mosh pit from 1993?”

Garrett crosses his arms. “Somebody’s channeling Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds.”

He looks fantastic. His hair is tousled from the breeze and kisses his brow, and he’s wearing a dark-blue sweater that’s snug around his biceps and soft, worn, light-blue jeans. I remember his arms around me yesterday on my parents’ porch. The wonder and exhilaration of the moment.

Of him.

The intensity in his eyes, the desire and possessiveness in the grasp of his hands. The scorching feel of his mouth, his wet, talented tongue that made my stomach swirl and my head spin.

So much for not complicating things.

But I’m not going to play head games with myself or Garrett—we’re too old for that shit.

I have feelings for him—I always have—our breakup had nothing to do with either of us not wanting each other desperately. But these aren’t just leftover echoes of a sweet, first love—this is something new. A throbbing, breathless attraction to the amazing man he’s become. I want to be near him. I want to know him, inside and out, all over again.

And he feels the same way. Garrett wants this version of me as much as he always did—maybe even more. I heard it in his whispered words and felt it in his kiss.

I don’t know if we have a future, if it can go anywhere. We have separate lives on opposite ends of the country. But I’m not going to worry about that—for now, I’m going to take each day as it comes and enjoy every moment we can.

Except for now. Now is not the time for enjoying or worrying or relationship building . . . now is the time for focusing. Now is the time to be ice and steel—don’t smile, don’t waver.

“Little fucknutters don’t know who the hell they’re dealing with,” I growl.

Alison pumps her fist. “That’s the spirit.”

Garrett opens the door for me. “Go get ’em, Gangster’s Paradise.”



~



The first few periods go great. This mean-teacher shit actually works.

I scowl and frown and lay down the law. I make them take notes on stage direction and famous playwrights—the boring stuff. Fun, dramatic, silly exercises? Not today, kiddies . . . maybe not ever again. I imitate the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld—no fun for you!

I tack homework passes on the wall, to be given out at my discretion. There really isn’t any homework in theater—the only homework my drama teacher in high school, Mr. Pelligrino, ever gave us was practicing pratfalls. But these kids don’t seem to realize that. They respond to my attitude, to the role I’m playing—I am Pavlov’s bell and they’re the dogs.

Until . . . fifth period. My D&B class.

They’re different.

It’s not just because they’re the meanest of the bunch. But I see something in them, in each of them. The performer in me senses it. There’s emotion simmering in this room, talent just waiting to be tapped into.

It’s in David Burke—the slouching rebel, the Hamlet and leader of the pack. The other kids defer to him, wait for him, even if they don’t realize it. If I win him over . . . I win them all.

It’s in Layla Martinez—she’s a Juliet—quiet, tragically pretty, with the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen.

It’s in Michael Salimander—the dark-haired, clever kid who probably only took this class to drive up his GPA. He reminds me of Puck, there’s brilliance in him, and if the comic doodles that cover his notebook are any indication, creativity too.

It’s in Simone Porchesky—the Medea, with her blue-black hair and blood-red lipstick, and a resentful chip on her shoulder.

They could emote. They could perform. They would draw all eyes to them.

They could be magnificent.

“What do you want?”

I don’t yell the question, but project my voice through the rectangular room, grabbing their attention from the scattered chairs they sit in. When they don’t answer, I take off my jacket, hang it on the back of my chair, walk around to the front of my desk and fold my arms.

“We want a striptease! I wanna see titties!” Bradley Baker yells from the back of the room.

Garrett was right—he is a dipshit.

I ignore him. “You have to be here; I have to be here. So, what do you want to do while we’re here?”

“We want you to cry again.” Simone sneers.

I nod. And look to the rest of them for answers.

“We want to do something that doesn’t suck,” Toby Gessler offers, popping an earbud out of one ear.

“We want to get out of this room,” Michael says.

“Okay. Anyone else?”

“We want money.” David smirks. “You get paid for coming here; we should too.”