Page 2 of Past Tents

Reading my mind was just something he did. Quietly, unobtrusively. Always serious and stoic, always leaning in to say things just to me, as though he and I shared a secret, and leaning away just as quickly to go about his business.

The problem was that he movedmymolecules all over the place when he spoke and he excited them just by walking into the room.

I willed the chills that prickled across the back of my neck to abate along with the flush I felt creeping across my cheeks. I hated that my body reacted to Clay, heart rate speeding to a faster clip, even as my brain gave it firm instructions to chill.

Clay was standing close enough that I could smell the woodsy, fresh scent of whatever soap or aftershave he used. I swallowed hard and popped the door on the microwave open, even though my coffee still had twelve seconds to go. “All yours,” I said, taking a generous step aside.

He slid a tray of something into the microwave and started it with the quiet press of a button. I tried not to notice every small movement Clay Meadows made, but it was impossible. Not when his six feet, three inches of muscle took up residence in a room.

Today, Clay wore a tan blazer over a gray tee and a pair of dark jeans which hugged his runner’s thighs. His hair had the rumpled perfection of a mad scientist mixed with a sexy surf-wear model.

He shoved a hand through it whenever he was thinking, which was often. Add the tortoiseshell reading glasses, and he ticked every box on the how-to-look-hot-and-nerdy checklist.

He and I had known each other since we were teenagers. He was—and still is—my older brother Jefferson’s closest friend. During our teen years, Clay spent half his waking hours at our house, but he was always on the go, moving in and out of our kitchen, upstairs and back down again, into the hallway and out the door. Never stopped long enough for a conversation with me, which was just as well since I was fifteen, two years younger, and tongue-tied around guys other than my brother. I was awkward and shy, he was tall and handsome, and his constant proximity made him the object of all my fantasies.

A lot had changed in nearly two decades. Now, I was confident and outgoing, and my teenage dreams of Clay Meadows had long since faded, replaced by dreams of fictional men. We’d worked together for going on ten years, and other than conversations that involved Green Valley High, we rarely talked outside of the teachers’ lounge.

Clay was still fast moving, stoic, and evasive, brow always furrowed with a permanent crease, hazel eyes always darting around as though his mind was elsewhere. Students loved him. He taught a senior honors seminar and a Shakespeare elective, and he coached the track team.

He kept his circle of friends small, and as one of Green Valley’s most notorious bachelors, he didn’t let in many women either.Not that they didn’t try. Not that every match-making auntie countywide hadn’t given it a go as well.

But according to the rumor mill, first dates with Clay Meadows rarely led to second ones. Ever discerning, he always explained, “It’s not you, it’s me,” and moved on. Clay was as commitment-phobic as Mr. Darcy was swoony. And as my mother would warn, “Leopards don’t change their spots.”

I inhaled deeply as a melted cheese aroma filled the room. At least it distracted me from the soap smell and the man emitting it.

“Wow, that smells amazing.”

Glancing at my wilting salad, Clay nodded. “Mac and cheese. Leftovers.”

“Even better. Where are they left over from? Restaurant or did you work your magic on some Kraft noodles at home?”

Clay tipped his head toward the microwave and inhaled a whiff of a smell that made me want to throw my salad in the trash. Or at him. “It’s from that new place outside of Knoxville. They Know What to Do with Pasta.”

“Smells like it.”

“No, that’s the name of the place. Guess that’s the point, to make people talk about it. Now you won’t forget the name, right?”

“True. But I’ll birth a platypus before I drive to Knoxville for mac and cheese.”

I heard what sounded like a grunt or possibly a laugh, but when I looked, Clay’s face had regained composure. I didn’t ask why he’d driven so far. Clay never discussed his personal life, whichrequired nothing short of a papal oath of silence, at work, but if Clay had taken a date to a pasta place, I’d hear about it from six different people by fifth period. The faculty around here were more up in each other’s business than a fat hive of bees.

As soon as the buzzer sounded on his mac and cheese, Clay whisked it out of the microwave, gave me a fist bump, and left the teachers’ lounge. “Catch y’all later.”

“Bye,” I called, turning to watch him go. Which meant I was looking right at our principal, Curt Pindich, when he came into the teachers’ lounge.

“Oh good. Ally. I need a favor.” He tapped a long yellow pencil against his lip. It looked freshly sharpened. Like a weapon.

Pindich and I didn’t have the best relationship, mainly because he was always one poorly worded sentence away from sexual harassment. He always hinted at the two of us spending time together outside of work, which gave me theickbig-time.

Spray-tanned and perfectly coiffed, Pindich looked like he’d just gotten back from vacation. He was charming enough around the female parents to make them giggle and sporty enough around the men to seem like a bro.

Only the teachers saw his evil side. If he didn’t get his way, punitive busywork and budget cuts came our way. I’d long ago learned that where he was concerned, the best strategy was to keep it brief. “Principal Pin Dick, what’s up?”

“It’s Pindeech,” he enunciated, as he always did when other teachers were in the room. And I always somehowforgothow to pronounce his name. Just like the rest of the faculty did. Behind his back.

With the spreading chicken salad bug, I figured he needed me to substitute for a class this week. I did a quick inventory in my mind of the teachers I hadn’t seen today, but since I’d rushed in late, it didn’t tell me much.

“Sure. How can I help?” I got to work finishing my salad.

---