Page 68 of Taming His Teacher

On the last night of Caleb’s visit, he’s passed out in a beat-up recliner I’d snagged at Goodwill and I’ve got Erin tucked under my arm on the couch.

“Have you talked to your dad again?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

She doesn’t sound optimistic and she shouldn’t. “He said no. Again. I’m glad I didn’t mention it to Caleb.”

“There must be something you could—”

“There’s not. Not unless I want to get involved in a big court case. I don’t have the money or the time or the inclination to drag my family through that.” By family I mean my mom and Caleb. Caleb’s always been sensitive to conflict. He wants everyone to get along. If he thought everyone was fighting because of him, he’d never forgive himself. Not to mention the harder I push, the more blowback there’s going to be, and it’s not going to fall on me.

I’ll be here on a manicured campus with my pretty girlfriend and a job I love, not thinking about whether the food is going to run out or if the lights are going to go off while my dad will be going ballistic on the people I was trying to protect.

“But—”

“Stop it, Erin. There are things at play here you don’t understand. Not because you aren’t smart enough, but because I don’t want you to. So let it go. He’ll be fine.”

I cross my fingers the words I’m saying are true. I need them to be true.

The next day when we tromp down to my car at the ass crack of dawn, Caleb bleary-eyed and still in pajamas with his duffel slung over his shoulder, it’s to find Erin propped against my car with a big smile plastered on her face and a fresh box of donuts.

“Thought you boys could use the company. It’s a long drive.”

I want to tell her to go home, get out of here. I don’t want her to see Shamokin. I don’t want her to meet my asshole father or my dishrag mother. She should mind her own fucking business. But I told her I would be her family and she’s trying to be mine. Trying to protect her blew up in my face already; I spent four months I didn’t have to without her. I may not be very bright, but I’m not a fool, either, so I swallow my objections and lean down to give her a kiss.

“Thanks, lamb. I’m glad you’re here.”

Caleb sleeps for most of the trip, his head resting on one of the three Tupperware containers of cookies Erin made for him. When he wakes up, they talk about books. Turns out when she’s not reading kinky smut, Erin likes YA. They compare notes on their favorites and she promises to send him The Maze Runner trilogy andGraceling.

I told her not to spoil him and she’s been respectful, but there’s no way I’m going to tell her not to send him books. Especially books he seems interested in reading, unlike whatever they’re trying to shove down their throats at school. The closer we get to home, the more uneasy I become. I hate coming back here and the duller and dingier everything gets the more I wish Erin weren’t here. She grew up on the Hill and in swank apartments and hotels all over the world. Shamokin is going to look gritty and gross by comparison. I don’t want it to rub off on her.

By the time I pull into the driveway of my parents’ rundown house, I’m aching not from the long drive but from tension. Every ounce of me is screaming,Get me out of here. The three of us linger in the car, no one in a huge hurry to walk up the cracked cement path to the front door. But then the storm door with the pane of cracked plastic bangs open, and there’s my mom.

She’s wearing a dress that’s at least ten years out of style, but it’s clean. It’s probably the nicest thing she has in her closet. There’s a recoil in my chest like I’ve been hit by the butt of a rifle. She dressed up for Erin. I’m thankful and horrified at once. I’m glad Erin wore a pair of jeans and a sweater, no jewelry. But she still looks unbearably clean and shiny against the backdrop of my childhood.

“Come on in, guys. Lunch is on the table.”

Caleb’s already climbing out of the back, slinging his bag over his shoulder and tucking his stash of cookies under his arm. I thread my fingers through Erin’s as we walk up to the house and when we reach the front door, I make introductions.

“Mom, this is Erin. Erin, this is my mom.”

Erin holds out a hand and offers a big smile, so genuine I want to squeeze her and then smother her with kisses. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Shepherd.”

“Oh,” my mom says, wiping her hand on the threadbare apron she’s tied around her waist, “Christy, please. There’s no ‘Mr.’ and ‘Mrs.’ around here. I hope you like potato salad.”

“I do.”

My mom ushers Erin into the house, asking about the drive down, and I follow behind, feeling like I’m on the wrong side of a tug-of-war. My mom brings us into the kitchen, where there’s a bowl of potato salad, one of coleslaw, a plate of corn fritters, and a Jell-O mold with mandarin oranges frozen in it set out on the table.

She went all-out. I wonder how pissed off my dad is about this. I get my answer when he staggers into the kitchen from the living room, where some talk show is blaring. He dumps himself into a chair at the table and spoons food onto a plate, spilling as he goes because his hand is unsteady. For fuck’s sake. At least let him be pass-out drunk instead of mean drunk.

“Doug, why don’t you let our guest help herself first?”

My dad blinks up at the four of us, still standing, as if he’d forgotten we were here.

“Siddown and help yerselves.”

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