Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(51)

Sometimes it feels pointless—like we’re trying to hold up a dam that’s crumbling beneath our fingers. Because kids are kids—no matter the century. They’ll always be so young. Too young to know what matters, what’s important, and how fast it all goes. Too young to not be selfish and stupid and sometimes just straight-up mean. They haven’t lived long enough to know how to be anything else.

But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying. Trying to make them better—everything I know they could be. By any means necessary.

So, I bring the hammer down.

“Research paper.”

And they groan.

“The topic is, propaganda and the ‘othering’ of groups in the lead-up to World War II. Five pages—minimum.”

“Nice fucking job, Nancy.” Dugan, a flannel-wearing, long-haired member of the skater crowd, throws a balled-up piece of paper at her.

“Knock it off,” I tell him.

Then I up the ante. “And I want you to write it by hand.”

Skylar Mayberry’s arm rises like a rocket.

“I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

I pick up a pen and a piece of notebook paper and demonstrate. “I want you to write . . . a research paper . . . by hand.”

She squints at me. “Why?”

“Because I want you to actually think about what you’re writing. The words and ideas you’re putting down.”

David Burke’s hand goes up next. “They didn’t teach script in my elementary school.”

“Me neither,” Brad Reefer joins in.

“You can print.” I point at them. “And use white-out or a pencil. If you hand me an assignment that’s filled with scribbles, I’ll give it back and make you write ten pages.”

They moan in agony again.

And it’s music to my ears. Growth is painful; change is hard. So, if they’re unhappy—it means I’m doing my job right.



~



During the weekend, on Sunday, Callie and I hit the grocery store together—because even something as boring as grocery shopping is better if I can look at Callie’s ass while doing it.

“Pork rinds?” I ask as she puts a massive bag in the cart.

“My dad loves them. Colleen and I have been rationing them, hiding the bag, or he’ll eat them until his stomach pops.”

She looks especially hot today, with her hair pulled up into a high ponytail, a touch of pink shine on her lips, wearing snug black jeans and a royal-blue sweater that highlights her creamy skin and hugs her round tits perfectly.

I come up behind her when she bends over the cart, rubbing my ever-hardening dick against her ass. “I’ve got some pork for your rind right here, baby.”

And I’m only half-kidding.

She turns, her face scrunching, and pushes me away. “Ew . . . you’re disgusting.”

I grab her hips and pull her flush against me.

“You know you like it.”

She peers up at me, biting her bottom lip.

“Yeah . . . maybe I do.”

She reaches up and pecks my lips—and I taste the promise of more to come. If we ever finish fucking grocery shopping.

I move to the back of the cart so we can get on that, and almost crash into another cart.

A cart that’s being pushed by Tara Benedict.

Tara looks back and forth between us. “Hey, Garrett. And . . . Callie . . . hi . . .”

“Hey, Tara.”

“Tara . . . hey. How’s it going?” Callie smiles.

And because Tara’s cool, there’s only a hint of awkwardness.

“It’s good. I heard you were back in town. Welcome home.”

A dark-haired little boy comes up behind her, Joshua, holding the hand of a light-brown-haired guy with glasses.

Tara gestures to the man beside her. “Matt, this is Garrett and Callie—old friends from high school.”

I shake Matt’s hand and the four of us talk for a few minutes about nothing in particular. Eventually we say goodbye and Callie and I walk over to the next aisle.

“So . . .” Callie says, walking next to me, “you and Tara Benedict, huh?”

I toss a box of corn flakes into the cart. “It was a casual thing. Not serious.”

“Right.”

“Was it that obvious?”

She shrugs. “A woman looks at a guy that she’s slept with in a certain way. I could tell.”

I slide my hand into the back of her jeans, giving her plump, pretty ass a squeeze.

“You jealous, Callaway?”

She takes a second to think about it. Then she shakes her head.

“You know what . . . I’m not. Lakeside’s a small town, we were bound to run into someone you’ve dated—probably won’t be the last time. Whatever happened through the years, it brought us both here. And I like here.” She takes my hand out of her pocket and holds it in her smaller one. “Here is good.”

I lean down and kiss her, softer, longer this time.

“Here is very, very good.”

Callie smiles, then resumes pushing the cart. After a minute, she laughs. “Besides, it’s not like you hooked up with Becca Saber or something.”

Becca Saber . . .

The back of my neck goes itchy and hot.