Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(9)

Embarrassment thickens in my blood—because that’s exactly what I thought. Maybe it’s little sister syndrome, but Colleen’s always so on top of everything, a regular Super Woman, I’ve never considered there’s something she can’t handle alone.

“Can we hire a nurse?”

“Ah, no. Medicare won’t cover that. Gary does okay at the insurance company—well enough for me to stay home with the kids—but we can’t afford a private nurse. Not for the amount of time they’d need help.”

My brother-in-law, Gary, is a nice, average guy—in every way possible. Medium height, average build, medium brown hair—even the tone of his voice is average—not too deep, not too high, always spoken at a steady, even volume. And like Colleen said, they’re not rolling in dough but he makes a good enough salary to take care of his family, to allow my sister to be the stay-at-home, PTA-warrior, dinner-on-the-table-at-five soccer-mom she always dreamed of being. Just for that, I love the guy way above average.

“I can take care of Mom and Dad during the day, after I get the kids on the bus,” my sister says. “I can take them to their doctor and rehab appointments. But at night, you’re going to have to be here in case they need anything, fixing them dinner, keeping them out of trouble. You know Dad—he’ll be trying to hobble out the door with Mom in his arms and squeeze both their freaking casts into the Buick for a joyride, on day one.”

I laugh. It’s funny because it’s true.

And then I rub my eyes, exhausted, like mustering that laugh took all the energy I had left in my bones.

I give my sister my big news, with considerably less excitement than I’d felt yesterday. “I got a promotion. I’m the new executive director.”

She hugs me tight and strong, the only way Colleen knows how. “That’s awesome! Congratulations—I’m so happy for you.” Then the joy dims on her face. “Is taking time off going to screw that up?”

The tendons in my neck feel stiff and achy. “I don’t . . . think so. I have to look into it, but I’m pretty sure they’ll let me take an emergency family leave and hold the position for me. But the pay for that kind of time off is only a fraction of my normal salary. It won’t cover my rent.”

And if I start dipping into my savings, I can kiss my seals goodbye forever.

My sister skims her palms over the steering wheel, thinking.

“Julie Shriver, the theater teacher at the high school, is pregnant and just got put on bedrest.”

“Julie Shriver is having a baby?” I ask.

Julie Shriver was always the odd girl around town. Her hobbies were beekeeping and pen-paling with the prison inmates in Rahway.

“Yeah! One of the inmates she wrote to was released last year and turned out to be a really nice guy. They got married a few months ago—he plays on Gary’s softball team and is the new deacon over at Saint Bart’s. Adam or Andy . . . something like that. But the point is, Miss McCarthy is in desperate need of a theater teacher for the year—she’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

Miss McCarthy was the grouch-ass principal when I went to Lakeside—and I can’t imagine the seventeen years since have made her nicer.

“Teaching? I don’t know . . . that would be weird.”

My sister waves her hand. “You have a master’s degree in theater arts.” Her voice takes on a teasingly fancy tone. “And you’re the executive director, now, la-dee-da. A high school theater class should be a piece of cake for you.”

Note to Past Callie from Future Callie: Should be, are the operative words there.

“Is, uh . . . is Garrett still teaching at the high school?”

“He sure is.” Colleen nods. “Still coaching too.”

“That could make it even weirder.”

“Oh come on, Callie,” my sister says. “That was forever ago—it’s not like you guys ended on bad terms. Would it really be so bad to see him again?”

My stomach does a little tumble, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, because seeing my high school boyfriend again wouldn’t be bad at all. Just . . . curiouser and curiouser.

I blow out a breath, vibrating my lips. “Okay. This could work. It might be a clusterfuck . . . but it could work. I’ll make some phone calls first thing in the morning.”

My sister pats my arm. “Come on, let’s go inside, you’re probably beat. I stopped at the store for some supplies before; I’ll bring them in.”

I love the scent of my parents’ house—it’s unique, no place on earth will ever smell just like it. A whiff of April Fresh fabric softener from the laundry room, and I’m eleven years old again, climbing under the cool summer sheets in my bed. The hint of cigars and Old Spice in the living room, and I’m instantly seventeen—hugging my dad as he puts the keys to his prized Buick in my palm, my freshly laminated driver’s license heavy in the back pocket of my jeans and my head buzzing with the excitement of freedom. A whiff of roasted turkey from the kitchen stove and a dozen years of family dinners dance in my head.

It’s like a time machine.

My sister walks past me into the kitchen and sets the brown paper bag in her arms on the counter. Then she pulls a bottle of wine out and slides it onto the wine rack below the cabinet. And then another bottle.