Page 2 of Best Frenemies

And since Thatch has a lot of moneyandhe has a lot of friends with a lot of money—and I’ve had no luck raising funds on my own in the last two years—getting help from him seems like the absolute best place to get it.

Me: I’ve been taking it seriously. Money just doesn’t take an elementary school teacher seriously.

Thatch: Well, woof woof, dude. I mean, have you seen yourself? You look like a badly styled Matthew McConaughey.

Me: I don’t see what my unique sense of style has to do with getting funding for innocent kids.

Thatch: Jeez, fine. Turn down the Sarah McLachlan music, would you? I’ll help.

Me: And I’ll make sure Gunnar gets home today.

Thatch: You might dress like a clown, but you deserve to be the Mother Teresa of music education. I mean, I don’t think Mother Teresa wore Chuck Taylors and used to be the drummer in a band called Armpit, but the whole “help those in need” thing really fits.

I do love wearing Chucks, and I did, in fact, drum for a band called Armpit when I was a wild and crazy college kid at NYU. But while music is still in my blood, I’ve given up the live music scene. There’s something about having groupies and teaching elementary kids that doesn’t go well together.

Me: Armpit was kick-ass. Even you can’t deny that.

Thatch: Kick-ass? You were all right, but you were never gonna get anywhere with Butthole Billy as your lead singer.

He’s not wrong. Billy Lanser sounded a lot like Celine Dion if she had laryngitis and forgot how to sing on-key. But he had all the gig connections, and in our misguided youth, the rest of us just wanted to be onstage—even if Billy got us booed.

Me: Sometimes you’ve got to put some lipstick on a pig so you get an invitation into the barn.

Thatch: If this is your idea of poetry, you’d better stick to music. I’ll work on setting up a meeting just as long as you promise not to say any more dumb shit like that when we have it. These guys are billionaires, for fuck’s sake.

I click out of our text thread just as the subway rolls to a stop at 79th Street, and I slip my phone back into my pocket.

With a slight grimace thanks to a throbbing thigh, I adjust the gym bag on my shoulder and the drink carrier in my hand and head off the train. It’s only a short walk to the entrance doors of Calhoun Elementary, and once I’m inside, I aim straight for the front office. It’s my daily routine—one of the only things I actually plan rather than doing it on the fly—to check my mailbox for anything important while schmoozing the ladies who run this place before heading downstairs to the gymnasium’s locker rooms for a quick shower and change.

Betty and Carol, the nice secretaries who work the reception desk, and Mona, the school nurse, are gossiping behind the front counter when I walk through the door, and their faces light up with smiles the moment they see me.

“Morning, ladies,” I greet and flash a wink as I hand them their regular Starbucks orders I always pick up on my way in on Friday mornings because I’m smart.

I help them get their daily caffeine fixes, and they help me with things like organizing field trips, contacting parents, and sick kids. All three of which are pretty much the bane of my existence.

“You’re a lifesaver, Mack,” Betty chirps and greedily takes her caramel macchiato from my hands.

“Thank you,” Carol mouths silently with a newly answered phone pressed to her ear.

“You’re the best,” Mona says and pats me on the shoulder. This kind of praise isn’t new, but I’ll tell you, it never gets old.

“Hey, Betty, can you make sure Gunnar Kelly is waiting here for me after school? His dad asked me to help him get home today.”

“Sure thing, honey,” Betty agrees readily, the smoothness of her caramel macchiato dulling the normally sharp edges of her personality.

I’m just about to ask Mona for the latest tea when a grating voice trills from behind me.

“Mr. Houston, is there a reason you’re in a crop top and a backward baseball cap like some kind of teenage influencer this morning?”

Principal Dana Harris is standing behind me, her right shoulder resting on the doorframe of her office. I glance down at my post-gym attire—black shorts, sneakers, and a blacktanktop that reveals nothing but my biceps. I think me baring my midriff might be wishful thinking on her part.

“Principal Harris, if I were a teen influencer, I’d be in Costa Rica riding the waves this morning instead of talking to you.”

She narrows her eyes at me.

“I fit in a workout every morning before I come in,” I explain further. “I’ve tried doing it in a parka, but I passed out thirty minutes in.”

“You’re like this every morning?”

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