Page 41 of Taming His Teacher

“Okay. How about math and science?”

“I’m flunking.”

Shit. I knew he’d been having a rough time—he’d told me so a few weeks ago—but I didn’t know it was this bad. I rein in my flip-out and try to keep my tone even. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe talk to your teachers? Ask for extra help after school? During lunch? Before school if you have to.”

“But Dad says—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what Dad says. You can’t…”

Flunk out. I won’t be able to help you if you flunk out.I haven’t mentioned it because I don’t want to get his hopes up, but I’ve been dropping hints with Headmaster Wilson about Caleb. His grades aren’t good enough to get him in here, but I’m hoping everything else he has to offer might give him a boost, and being my kid brother won’t hurt. Once he got here, his grades would get better. It was sure as hell easier for me to focus on my schoolwork and on the soccer field once I had more than enough to eat and didn’t have to worry about which bill my parents couldn’t afford to pay that month, what we’d do without until they scraped together some more cash: Phone? Oil? One month it was so bad, we didn’t have electricity.

“You don’t want to stay back, right?”

“No.”

“You want to go to college, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

Defensiveness is building in his voice, and I’m struggling with my own impatience and fear. “Then you can’t flunk. You can’t.”

“Fuck you, Zach. I’m not like you!”

His bluster is uncertain; he swears like a kid who’s experimenting with how the words sound coming out of his mouth. My brother is not a naturally angry kid. He might be pissed at me, but that’s not the only thing going on here. I take a deep breath and scrub a hand over my face, catching a glance at my watch when I do. Fuck, I’m late to the art show. I’ve got to go. But I have to smooth this over first.

Caleb’s a good kid. He deserves better than what he’s been handed. I can’t stand the thought of my Tiny Tim brother turning into a bitter drunk like our dad because I wasn’t good enough to save him and he wasn’t strong enough to save himself.

“I know you’re not. I don’t want you to be. Nobody wants that. I’m an asshole.” He snorts a laugh and a relieved smile splits my face. I’m not known for my comedic timing, but I’ll take it. “What I do want is for you to get the hell out of Dodge as soon as possible. I know it’s the long game and it’s hard to see from where you’re standing, but you need to pass. I’m not asking for straight As. That’s not your style and that’s cool. But you can pull Cs. Can you do that? For me? If you pick up your grades I’ll ask Dad if you can come up and stay with me for spring break. I’ll drive you back and forth myself.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Good man. Hey, I gotta go, but I’ll talk to you on Sunday.”

I turn my conversation with Caleb over and over in my head on my way down to Turner. What am I going to do if he fails? What if he gets held back? What if he gets frustrated and angry, says fuck it and drops out as soon as he can? He’ll never leave Shamokin. It’ll be Doug Shepherd Redux. I can’t let that happen. Maybe he could come live with me? Even if I can’t get him into the Hill, Hawthorn public schools are good. At least I’d know he’d have enough to eat and he wouldn’t have to listen to my parents go at each other all the time.

But my place here isn’t certain. Fellowships are for a year. While some people get to stay, most of them move on. John Phelps might be leaving. If he does, he’d leave a few holes in the math department and on the coaching staff I’d fill like Spackle, but it’s no guarantee. What if they don’t think I’m a good teacher? What if I’m not?

In the meantime, I’ll try to call more often. It’s rough because of my dad, but I should be able to sneak in a few more times a week. If I thought Caleb could keep it a secret, I’d get him a cell myself. But he’s not so great at subterfuge, my brother. Maybe I could offer to get him a tutor since I can’t be there to help?

These are the thoughts that churn in my brain as I lope toward Turner, but I shove them aside when I walk in the door because the guys deserve my undivided attention. I know how hard they’ve worked. All those nights spending study hall down here, cramming in my other homework whenever, wherever I could so I could walk Erin home at the end of the night. My favorite time of day: the ten minutes I could be alone with her. Shards of uncertainty and longing stab me in the chest, and I pluck them out with dogged determination. Leave Erin Brewster alone.

* * *

Erin

The show is great, as usual. There’s a ceramics student who’s particularly impressive this year and everyone is oo-ing and ah-ing over bowls so wide and thin and vases so tall and soaring they look like they’re defying gravity. I make sure to compliment the other kids in his class because their work is very fine as well, but when your work is great and someone else’s is earth-shattering, it’s easy to feel overshadowed.

I’m finishing up a conversation with Takeo Ninomiya about his own solid technique when I see Shep. My hope he wouldn’t be here has been for naught. Maybe he hoped I’d have come and gone already. To be fair, that had been my plan, but I always end up staying at this stuff for longer than I expect. The way his face darkens when he sees me makes me wish we’d set up a time-share system already. He’d tell me,You get the art show from eight-thirty to nine-thirty, I’ll take it from nine-thirty to ten-thirty. You can have cross-country meets because I’m coaching soccer. You chaperone the dance and I’ll drive the van to the movies.How have I ended up making custody arrangements with a man I never got to speak with, never mind sleep with? So unfair.

But I haven’t seen everything yet. There’s still a whole floor to look at and I won’t be driven out by Zach Shepherd and his grouchy, stormy, dreamy blue eyes. I head to the refreshments table and am about to ladle myself some punch but the memory of spilling it on Shep’s crisp white shirt and touching him makes my stomach roil. Water it is.

I take my sorry excuse for a beverage and tour the rest of the studio before ducking into the underused women’s bathroom. When the door falls shut behind me, the sound of retching erupts from the far stall. There’s a long flowy skirt pooled on the floor with Birkenstocks peeking out of the hem. I thought I saw Ellie Fishburne, the new art teacher, wearing something like that earlier.

“Ellie?”

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