Page 193 of Coach
Once we had plates piled with whatever Frankenstein stew she’d invented, she filled our mugs with something that might have been ale but smelled of cough syrup.
Mike, while poking at his mystery brew with a fork as though it might leap out of the bowl and attack, broke the silence. “I swear, if one more freshman wanders into my classroom wearing Crocs and the will to die, I’m filing for retirement.”
“You’re twenty-nine,” I said, digging into something that might have been lamb, or possibly squirrel. “What would you even do in retirement? Yell at clouds?”
Mike gestured with his fork. “I’d yell at Crocs. We should start a campaign, save the youth.”
“We already started an LGBT support group,” I countered.
“Maybe you need a Croc Recovery Group for the fashion blind?” Elliot added, though from the look of his work boots, he was the last man in the room to offer anyone fashion advice.
“I had a kid wear light-up Skechers to my third period,” I offered. “He did a little dance move every time he answered a question. I think it was involuntary. Like a tic. Or possession. The other kids lost their minds at the blinky bling . . . and they’re juniors, not third graders!”
“Better than the one I had in study hall,” Mike said, sipping his ale. “He told me the mitochondria was a government conspiracy and tried to fistfight a biology textbook.”
“Uh, Mike, you teach literature and English,” I said.
“Exactly!” He speared the air with his fork, as if any of that had just made sense.
Mrs. H clattered in from the kitchen, brandishing a gravy boat that had seen some shit—or contained some shit; the jury was still out. “Oh, let the poor boys dream. If a mitochondria paid rent, I’d let it live in my basement and do my laundry.”
“Please tell me you know what a mitochondria is,” I said.
“Cellular power source.” She winked. “I read, and I’m not dead. Yet.”
Mike snorted. “Her obituary is just going to say, ‘Survived by thirty casserole dishes and the scorched earth she left behind.’”
Mrs. H slapped his shoulder with a dishtowel on her way past. “You’re damn right. Now shut up and eat my stew before it eats you first.”
“You say that like it’s not a genuine concern,” Elliot muttered.
Mike looked over at me. “You got that transfer kid yet? The tall one from North Cobb with the attitude problem?”
I groaned. “Oh, Walker? Yeah. Walks into the gym like he’s already in the NBA. He shot a free throw today with one hand and missed by a solid five feet.”
“Isn’t five feet a hard miss? There’s only, what, ten feet between the line and the goal?” Elliot asked.
“Okay, Mr. Sparky, I’m impressed.” My brows shot up in appreciation. “There’s fifteen feet from the line to the backboard. That makes missing by five pretty hard to do.”
“Huh,” Mike said, bored by the basketball talk.
“I have him in U.S. history,” I said. “He asked me if World War I came before or after the dinosaurs. It took him three full minutes to realize I wasn’t kidding when I said definitely after.”
Mrs. H laughed so hard she nearly dropped the bread basket. “These children are the future of our nation?”
“They’re going to vote one day, run for office, run the whole place,” I deadpanned. “I wake up sweating about it.”
Homer whined under the table. Elliot reached down and scratched behind his ears while still managing to spear what might’ve been a turnip.
“And yet,” Mike said, lifting his mug, “we keep showing up at school. Every morning.”
“To education,” I said, clinking my glass against his. “Where the mitochondria is fake, the Crocs are foam, and every third kid thinks Lincoln founded TikTok.”
“And where my stew cures heartbreak andhemorrhoids,” Mrs. H declared, plopping down at the head of the table with a gleam in her eye. “Now, tell me who’s got a new boyfriend, or I’ll start guessing . . . and it’ll get inappropriate real fast.”
I froze.
Mike grinned.
