Getting Schooled

  He fights and twists some more. But eventually he wears himself out, breathing hard and going slack in my arms, leaning against me.

  "They suck," he chokes against my shirt.

  "I know."

  "I hate them."

  "You won't always." I lean back, looking down into his eyes. Aaron's so much like my brother--smart, good, steady--when he's not hurting. "It won't be like this forever, Aaron. I promise."

  He wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand, sniffling and nodding.

  I hook my arm around his neck, dragging him along. "Come on, I'm driving you guys over to Nana and Pop's. You're staying there tonight."

  ~

  After my family drama quota is filled for the day, Callie and I finally make it to Mr. Martinez's furniture store and find her a white wrought-iron bed. Getting the queen-sized mattress inside her room is a trip and a half, mostly because Callie's dad insists on helping me drag the fucker in.

  From his wheelchair. With his right, casted leg sticking straight out like jousting lance.

  "You're going the wrong way, Stanley!" Callie's mom yells from the open back screen door, with a cigarette hanging from her lips.

  "I'm not going the wrong way!" he shouts back.

  But, yeah, he kind of is.

  Still, we manage to get the mattress into the hallway, which, thankfully, is too narrow for his wheelchair.

  "Thanks for the help, Mr. Carpenter. I got it from here."

  Callie's room hasn't changed a bit. Same pink walls, same flowery curtains hanging over the window I used to sneak through after her curfew--so we could screw quietly on her blanket on the floor. Good times.

  Her old CD player is still here too--playing her favorite band.

  "Jesus, Callie, ABBA? I see living in California didn't improve your taste in music."

  She slaps my ass, scowling all fierce and protective of her bad music. It's really fucking cute.

  "Leave my ABBA alone. They're classic and they make me happy." With "SOS" as our background music, Callie picks up a wrench and opens the assembly instructions, tilting her head in a way that makes me want to bite her pale, graceful neck. "Now let's get this sucker put together. Time's a-wasting, Coach."

  Half an hour later, I slide the mattress on the bed frame and push it into the corner. With a naughty look on her face, Callie slips around me to her bedroom door, opens it a crack, and listens. The only sound from the living room is the hum of the TV. She shuts the door, meets my eyes . . . and locks it with a decisive click.

  Then she hops on her bed--her tits bouncing beautifully under her sweater--and my mouth goes dry. She lies back on her elbows, with one foot braced on the mattress and the other dangling off the edge.

  "We've got about fifteen minutes before they start trying to maneuver the wheelchairs around the kitchen to fix dinner for themselves. Until then . . . wanna make out?"

  It's absolutely crazy how much those words turn me on. All the blood in my body rushes south to my groin, making my head go light and my balls heavy. I want her. Even in the rapture of our horniest, hormonal adolescent days, I don't think I wanted her this much.

  Callie's green eyes rake down over me, like she's imagining all the things we can do to each other in that timeframe--and we can do a lot. I'm efficient like that.

  And I don't think about the game last night, or my brother's issues this morning--they're not even a whisper in my mind. All there is, all I see, is me and Callie alone in this god-awful pink room, with ABBA playing on the radio and her beckoning me to the bed with those smiling lips and dancing eyes.

  She gives a throaty laugh when I practically pounce on her, nestling my hips between her oh-so-welcoming thighs. I take that pretty mouth in a deep kiss, and thrust slow and firm against her, feeling how hot she is for me, for this, through our jeans. Sensation races up my spine and Callie gasps into my mouth.

  Things go from playful to rock-hard serious real fucking quick. Callie pushes against my chest, and I grasp her waist, keeping us tight and flushed together as we roll over. We're chest to chest, her long legs straddling my hips and her hot, sweet pussy sits on my straining dick.

  Perfect . . . she feels so fucking perfect.

  "Garrett," she breathes out in an airy moan.

  And I groan back, low in my throat, "Callie. Jesus, Callie."

  Her hips roll and rock, back and forth, slow at first . . . then in a faster . . . a more desperate slide that makes my eyes roll back in my fucking head. My fingers dig into the flesh of Callie's ass and I thrust up quick and hard against her.

  "Fuck me . . ."

  Roughly, I yank the neck of her sweater down, baring one breast covered in a pale pink bra. I break my mouth from Callie's and blaze a trail of licking kisses down her chest. Callie sucks at my shoulder, biting at the base of my neck, rotating her hips in glorious circles, rubbing her clit on my thick cock, jerking us both off with the pressure.

  I dip my head and wrap my lips around her, taking in a mouthful of delicate lace and gorgeous tit. I suckle her hard . . . then harder . . . flicking my tongue relentlessly over her perfect pebbled nipple. Callie's back bows, arching, giving me more of her breast. God damn delicious. She yanks at my hair, holding me tight, writhing in perfect, shameless abandon.

  But times flies. And life's not a bitch . . . it's a cockblocker.

  Because just as Callie starts to chant my name in that beautiful, high-pitched, keening voice--always a telltale sign she's about to fall apart in my arms . . . Mrs. Carpenter's raspy voice punches through the bedroom walls.

  "Callie! Is Garrett staying for dinner?" There's a crash of pots and pans, like a full set of cymbals got knocked to the ground. "I'm making sloppy joes!"

  We freeze, mid-hump. And the fiery lust fusing us together gets doused with a big bucket of arctic seawater.

  "Fuck," Callie pants against my hair.

  I release her breast with a pop of my lips. "That was the idea."

  She laughs, but it's more of a painful, choking sound. "This is awful."

  I breathe slow against her, working to get my shit under control.

  "No. No, it's okay. It's better this way." And I try and make myself believe that, which is hard when your cock is achingly . . . well . . . hard.

  I brush her cheek with my fingers. "I want to be able to take my time with you, Callie." My voice goes harsh, low, as I give words to the fantasy unfurling in my mind. "I don't want clothes between us or your parents on the other side of the wall. I want to feel it when you come all around me. And when I'm inside you, I'm going to want to stay for a hell of a lot longer than fifteen minutes."

  Callie's eyes are glazed, lust-drunk, and I wonder if I can make her come like this with words and promises alone.

  "I want to be above you, beneath you, behind you . . . I want you weak, drained from coming, hoarse from screaming my name. I'm going to need hours, baby . . . fucking days..."

  Her hips lift, rubbing against me, starting us up all over again. "Yeah . . . God, Garrett, I want that too."

  "Callie!" Mrs. Carpenter yells again. "Did you hear me?"

  I give up. I collapse back on the bed.

  "Yes!" Callie yells at the wall. "Yes, I'm coming."

  And then she groans while smiling, looking down at me. "Except I'm really not."

  I laugh, even though it hurts. And my dick starts thinking of new, inventive ways to kill me for toying with him this way.

  Callie takes a deep, cleansing breath. Then she drags herself away from me, standing next to her shiny new bed. "Do you want to stay for dinner?"

  "No, thanks." I glance down at the massive bulge straining my pants. "I'm going to just head home and spend the night rubbing one out. Or maybe . . . five."

  She leans down, her hair falling around us as she pecks my lips. "Same."

  Chapter Twelve

  Callie

  On Monday, I start showing the '80s movie Little Shop of Horrors to my classes, and, as if the semi-bribery weren't enough, it seem
s to make them like me more. I guess an in-class video day never gets old.

  Then we start auditions. I bring them all down to the big stage in the auditorium, because on a stage, with a spotlight in your face and endless rows of seats staring back at you . . . the whole world looks different.

  I sit at a table, just beyond the orchestra pit, with Michael beside me and the other students congregating in the back, talking quietly and staring at their phones. I call them up one by one--each student who didn't sign up for a crew spot. James Townden, a senior with plans to attend Juilliard next year, gets excused from his classes to accompany the auditions on piano. Once they're on stage, I have them sing "Happy Birthday." It's quick, everyone knows it, and it gives me great insight into their vocal range.

  Bradley Baker goes first.

  "I wanna be Audrey Two," he declares from the center stage. "He's the star of the show, and he's got a big head--I was born to play this role."

  "Noted," I tell him, folding my hands.

  Then Bradley proceeds to jump around the stage, wave his arms, howl out the birthday song. His voice is terrible . . . but he's entertaining. Completely over the top.

  "The dentist," I tell Michael. "Orin Scrivello, DDS. Bradley's perfect for it."

  Next up is Toby Gessler. Apparently, he's a "SoundCloud" rapper with the stage name "Merman." I recently learned SoundCloud is like self-publishing for music--kids post their songs on the site hoping to build up a fan base, maybe get discovered by a studio. Most of them . . . are not good. And Toby's no different. He stands on the stage with a backwards baseball cap on his head and oversized white sunglasses on his face and thick gold chains rattling around his neck, and he raps the birthday song.

  It's . . . unique. Some would say, brave. And I know the perfect role for Toby.

  "He'll be the chorus. Crystal, Ronette and Chiffon," I tell Michael.

  He writes it down on his iPad, but scratches behind his ear. "In the movie, they were girls. Aren't they supposed to be girls?"

  "Remember what I said about theater? We put our own stamp on it." I glance back up at Toby as he dives into some breakdancing moves. They're not good either. "Maybe we'll have him rap the songs."

  I put my hand up to my mouth and throw down a little beat-boxing of my own. Then I rap, "Li-li little . . . ssshop of horrors," ending with the classic hip-hop arm cross.

  "What do you think?" I tease. "Does it work?"

  Michael looks like he's afraid. "Don't . . . ever do that again, Miss Carpenter."

  I laugh, then think of something else, snapping my fingers. "We should have Toby wear a tuxedo. Mr. Ramsey, Kayla's dad, has a place in the mall that rents tuxedos, right? Maybe he'll rent it to us for free in exchange for advertising space in the playbill."

  "That's smart." He nods.

  "That's why I make the big bucks." I tap my temple. "In the coming months, I'll take Simone to check out the local thrift shops for possible costumes too."

  And Toby's still rapping.

  "Thank you, Toby," I call out.

  He gives the peace sign to the empty auditorium. "Merman lives! Whoo! See you next tour!"

  "Next . . . Layla Martinez," I announce.

  And like a ninja, David Burke slides into the empty chair next to me.

  "Is this seat taken?" He winks.

  Then his pale blue eyes stay on Layla as she slowly, stiffly, walks up the side steps, like she's walking to the guillotine. David nods encouragingly, and she stares back at him, as if his gaze is the only thing keeping her standing. Once she's center stage, the brisk notes of the piano float through the auditorium. But Layla misses her cue. She wets her lips, her face paling, like she's going to hurl.

  James stops playing, then starts the song again.

  Layla squeezes her eyes closed. "I changed my mind. I can't do this."

  "She's just scared, Miss Carpenter," David says softly. "But she's good, you gotta hear her. Layla's really good."

  I stand up and hold out my hand for James to stop playing.

  "Hey," I call to Layla. She fixes her tortured eyes on me. "It's okay. It's stage fright; it happens to everyone. When I was in high school, I used to throw up before every performance."

  "For real?" Layla asks.

  "Yeah. I kept a toothbrush and toothpaste with me at all times." I keep my voice steady and confident. "But I know a trick. It helped me and I bet it'll help you too. I want you to turn around and close your eyes. Block out everything, so it's just you and the song."

  Layla's eyes dart to David, then back to me. "Will you be able to hear me if I'm facing the other way?"

  "That doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're able to stand up there and get through it. One step at a time. Will you try that for me, Layla?"

  She runs her teeth over her bottom lip. "Okay. Yeah, I'll try."

  "Good."

  Layla turns around and I nod to James, who starts to play again.

  Then, after a few moments, Layla begins to sing. Holy shit, does she sing. She's hesitant, scratchy at first, but then her voice smooths out and rises. Her pitch is perfect, her voice smoky and smooth, like thick, fresh honey. She's got range, reach, hidden power in those pipes--it's so clear, even in just the few simple notes of the song. But more than that, every word is filled with emotion, the kind of singing that tells its own story, the kind of voice that can break hearts, and lift souls.

  "Wow," I whisper.

  David smiles up at me, his whole face lighter, younger looking. "I told you."

  When Layla finishes, I applaud--everyone does--even the kids in the back who weren't paying attention before she started to sing.

  Layla's tight curly hair flies as she turns around, laughing. "I did it!"

  "Audrey," I tell her, excitement bursting like crazed Pop Rocks in my stomach. "You're our Audrey."

  And just like that, the hurling look is slapped back on Layla's face.

  "I . . . can't do this in front of people, Miss Carpenter."

  "Not yet." I agree. "But by the time I'm done working with you, you will."

  This kind of talent deserves to be heard.

  "I want to be Seymour."

  I turn towards David--not really surprised. Garrett and I talked about him the other night. We both agreed he has potential, that he could do amazing things if only he had the motivation . . . if only he cared.

  David doesn't care about theater or the play or school. He cares about Layla.

  He asks to borrow Michael's glasses, and my dark-haired assistant hands them over, curiosity pinching his features.

  David Burke slips them on his face, then flinches. "Damn, man, you're blind."

  Then he leaps up on the stage, his gray trench coat flying out like a superhero's cape. He musses his dirty-blond hair . . . and then he starts to sing "Grow For Me," one of Seymour's songs. I don't know if he remembers the lyrics from when I showed the movie in class or if he looked them up and practiced, but he knows every word. His voice isn't the miracle Layla's is, but it's pleasant. More importantly, David possesses that unteachable but essential characteristic of any star. Charisma. Stage presence. Personality.

  I glance around the room--every eye in the auditorium is on him as he sings a capella and . . . makes Layla smile beside him.

  And hot-diggity-dog, I've got my cast.

  ~

  In the days that follow, something incredible starts to happen. It's a genuine Christmas miracle at the end of September. My students start to have fun. They get interested, invested--in the sets, the costumes, the music . . . the whole idea of the show. They begin to want it to be good--and that's the first step towards greatness.

  It makes me feel like David Copperfield and Khaleesi all rolled into one.

  It makes me feel . . . like a teacher.

  "Bigger!" I yell, climbing onto the stage and pointing towards the back row. "Everything on the stage has to be exaggerated, brighter--the makeup, your movements. They have to see you from all the way back there."


  We're doing our first script read-through and will begin blocking on the same day. Normally, these would be separate--but since my after-school availability is limited, I have to double-time it during class.

  "And louder!" I raise my voice and stamp my foot, shaking dust bunnies down from the rafters. "I told you guys, projection is key. If you're speaking in your normal voices, no one in the audience will hear you." I look at Layla, "Don't be afraid to be loud. Ever. On stage or off."

  "That's good advice," Garrett says, walking down the main aisle with a few of his players behind him. "Louder is always better."

  And I have to make a conscious effort to keep my tongue from falling out of my mouth. He's doing the preppy look today--a collared button-down beneath a sky-blue sweater. My heart flies and my skin tingles remembering the feel of his weight on top of me, on that new mattress, the sound of his groans, those powerful arms surrounding me, the hard relentless swell of his cock between my legs.

  Was it really just a few days ago? It feels like months, years. The janitor's closet has been a no-go zone since McCarthy busted us. I've taken my parents to physical therapy appointments every night this week, so the only time Garrett and I have had together is on the phone, by text, and a few hot and heavy kisses against his Jeep when he swung by my parents' house late Monday night just to be able to see me alone for a few minutes.

  It's so weird how life can change, how fast. You've got your five-or ten-year plan all laid out and then, overnight, everything you thought you wanted shifts, and all the places you'd planned on going don't seem so important anymore.

  I don't remember how I lasted sixteen years without Garrett Daniels in my life. Now that he's back, I'm like a junkie--I crave him, think about him, all the time.

  "Coach Daniels?" I try to sound professional, while every cell in my body is screaming for inappropriate.

  Our eyes meet, then Garrett's eyes drag subtly and slowly down over my black turtleneck, dark-blue skinny jeans, and leather pumps. It's only a few seconds, but when his gaze rises back to mine, his eyes are heated--hungry--and I know he's thinking the same thing I am: get me, him, us, out of these fucking clothes.

  "Miz Carpenter, Ray said there were some heavy set pieces you needed pulled out of storage?" He hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "This is my free period, so I figured I could give you a hand . . . or whatever you need."