Page 12 of Taming His Teacher

“I don’t have time for a girlfriend.” It’s true and an easier answer than “I can’t, she’s my teacher.” Caleb’s head might explode. I wouldn’t blame him. His current teacher is one I had, too. Mrs. Ellis is nice, but she could be our grandmother. Definitely not girlfriend material.

“How much time does it take? All you have to do is be nicer to her than you are to anyone else and eat lunch with her.”

I’ve never wished so hard I were ten again. But I’m not and life’s more complicated than that. But... “Speaking of eating, sounds like dinner’s ready.”

By “dinner’s ready,” I’d meant Dad had stopped yelling and Mom had stopped crying. Later, I’d hear them through the thin walls while Caleb snored obliviously. Fucking. I didn’t want Caleb to hear him using her, that she lets him.How can she let him?

I’d buried my head under my pillow, tried to go to sleep. Failing that, thought of Erin. How I’d never do that to her. How I’d be different. How if she’d let me, I’d deserve it. Earn it. Finally it had stopped and I’d heard my dad’s heavy uneven footfalls headed to the bathroom. Happy Thanksgiving from the Shepherds.

But now I’m hauling up the steps of Ford to let myself into my room, preparing myself to put all my stuff away. I usually get pissed off while I’m doing this because it’s after a six-hour drive in the car with my dad, who’s been sullen at best or a raging asshole at worst. This time he’d been silent, which was fine by me. But instead of meditating on what a dick my dad can be, I find myself thinking of Erin. I wonder if my fleece is going to smell like her, like flowers, when she gives it back tomorrow.

Chapter 4

Erin

I’m looking over my calendar for the first time in weeks. Winter break has been welcome; a chance to decompress and finish planning for spring. My classes are all caught up on their material, but spring semester is going to be a long haul. Especially for my seniors who have to get ready for the AP exams right when their maturity and attention level is tanking. Not to mention I’m worried about a few of them.

Most of my kids are doing well, As and Bs. I don’t trouble myself too much about most of the Cs. They’re smart but lazy. I’ve offered help more than once and my encouragement is unflagging, but if they’re not prepared to work for it, I’m not going to drag them up the mountain like some mathematical Sherpa. The rest of the kids—particularly the ones who are struggling—deserve my effort and attention way more than the ones who are so confident in their parents’ ability to buy their way into a good college they don’t care.

I make a list of the kids I need to talk to, draft emails I’ll send them once they’re back on campus. When my draft folder is full to bursting, I flip through my calendar to make sure there aren’t any looming deadlines before the kids get back in a few days.

As I flip through the last week, something catches my eye. A red dot. It’s subtle, not meant to be seen or mean anything to anyone but me, but it’s there. A little red dot that may as well be a giant strobe light exploding from the page. That tiny red dot says I should’ve gotten my period a couple of days ago. It’s totally out of character for me to have missed that, but perhaps I’ve been so entrenched in the vacation routine I’ve set up for myself, I’ve been on auto-pilot.

Late.A word that strikes fear in most single women’s hearts like no other. My cycle’s always been so steady you could set a German train schedule to it. Two days is a big deal. Huge.

A shudder runs through me and I clutch at my abdomen. No way. No freaking way. I grab my keys and I’m about to run out to my car in my flip-flops and cut-off sweatshirt, but an image of Shep flashes through my mind, tipped head and stern glare.Don’t you dare.

Though it’s silly—Shep can’t see me and even if he could, I’m the adult here—I take five minutes to grab my parka and put on socks and shoes before vaulting down the stairs and out to my Civic. It’s freezing, and I’m thankful I had the good sense to listen to the specter of Shep as I shiver in my car, waiting for the heat to turn on and warm me.

I guide my car through the silent streets of campus and head two towns over to a drug store, paying cash for a pregnancy test. My face turns a vivid shade of red when the cashier, an older woman, eyes my ring finger and its distinct lack of ring. I may as well have a scarlet “A” tattooed on my forehead. I wave off the bag that’s too thin to hide its contents anyway and shove the box inside my coat. I hustle out to my car and shake the whole way home though it’s heated up by now.

Once there, I go through the rigmarole everyone’s familiar with. The indignity of having to pee on a stick adds to the doomsday feeling that’s sinking my belly.

Please, please, be on the fritz, cycle.I haven’t felt sick, my breasts aren’t tender, I haven’t had cravings. Clearly, I. Am. Not. Pregnant. But when I look at the test after the requisite five minutes, there it is, as I knew it would be. Two blue lines, less welcome than even that red dot.

I’m pregnant.

I’ve stood outside this door before. Not a lot, a couple of times. But now I know every inch of it. Every divot in the corkboard, the corner broken off the plaque announcing it as “Faculty Apartment 2,” the white paint chipped off revealing various colors this door’s been painted before. Dark brown, hospital green, and a startling seventies orange.

It’s been almost a week since I made my discovery and I’ve been dreading this conversation. I got to avoid it for a few days because Will was in New Jersey with his family and this isn’t the kind of news I want to deliver by phone, but he’s back. I was hoping to talk to him before the boys swarmed the place, but he didn’t arrive on campus until the last minute. Now the hallway is thrumming with adolescent noises of boys catching up with each other after a month away and done for the moment with the minutiae of studying. It’s hard to get back into the swing of things.

I flush when a door on the hall opens and Seung Park, a well-mannered sophomore who looks like a Korean pop star, emerges.

“Are you looking for someone, Miss Brewster?”

It’s unusual though not unheard of for faculty to be in dorms other than their own. My cheeks burn hot as I point a thumb at the door. “Believe I’ve found him. Thank you, Mr. Park.”

With that, I really have to knock. So I turn, metaphorically straighten my big-girl pants and raise a hand, only to be almost bowled over by a Will Chase in a hurry.

“Erin. What’re you doing here?” He sounds more surprised than he ought. It’s possible color rises in his cheeks, though it’s hard to say with his reddish-brown beard obscuring most of his face.

“I’m sorry. Uh, can I come in?”

He checks his watch and shifts his weight, frowning.Where are you in such a hurry to get to, Mr. Chase?

“It’s important,” I offer, hoping he won’t make me say anything else, knowing another door could open at any second. That would be my luck, too.

He steps back from the threshold and sweeps an arm inside. “By all means. Let me make a phone call first.”

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