School Ties (6 page)

“Yeah, it's a bitch all right.”

Chapter Five

Erin

The email had been terse:

Erin,

Please report to my office after seventh period.

Everett

I suppose he could want to check in. It's been a while since we've had a heart-to-heart over how things are going. Once the school year is in full swing, it's hard to find time to breathe, never mind chitchat over tea.

I write back to confirm that I'll be there and don't think much of it until the end of the day. But when I see Will's tweed-clad shoulders leaning up against the wood-paneled wall, my stomach leaps into my throat.

He turns and our eyes meet; our expressions of horror mirror images. What we're both thinking is
Oh no
.

“Did you get an email from the Headmaster?”

“Yes.”

I thought hell was other people, but hell is waiting outside Uncle Rett's office, a colleague of my grandfather's who I've known since I was born, knowing he's going to ask me about my sex life.

We stand in silence, Will's arms crossed over his chest, his clenched jaw evident even through his beard. I try not to fidget, but my anxiety needs an outlet.

When the door opens and Mrs. Latham gestures us inside, the blood in my body might explode out of my pulse points and leave me a drained shell on the floor. That horror show might be preferable to what's waiting for me.

Uncle Rett is sitting behind his large desk, his be-jowled face stern and put-upon. He doesn't want to have this talk any more than we do.

“Miss Brewster, Mr. Chase, please have a seat.”

We sit in the stiff-backed black chairs with the logo of the school in gold on the back. I suddenly know how every boy who's ever been sent to this office must've felt. Uncle Rett waits for the door to close before he speaks again.

“It's come to my attention that you two are . . . involved.”

Such a delicate way of saying it. But sure, involved.

Will grinds out a “Yes, sir,” that sounds like it's been forced out of him at gunpoint.

“It's not surprising two young, intelligent and attractive people such as yourselves thrown together on a campus full of old fuddy-duddies would start a relationship. Indeed, many of our faculty and staff have met their spouses on the Hill. The occasional rumor of hand-holding or dating wouldn't concern me, but that's not the rumor I've heard.”

Every internal organ I have stops working, shocked into humiliated panic.

“This is not a conversation I'd like to have, but it must be had. Are you pregnant, Miss Brewster?”

His eyes, the warm brown ones that have always looked upon me with such kindness, are glazed with disappointment. I wish I could tell him
Of course not! No, never, not me
. But I can't. I've never lied to Uncle Rett and I won't start even though I'd rather crawl under my chair and die.

I swallow hard before I can force the word from my throat. “Yes.”

His eyes close on my confirmation and he shakes his head, the dim glow of his green desk lamp glinting off his bald pate. He's been bald my whole life; I can't imagine him with hair.

“What are you intending to do about this pregnancy?”

“I'm going to keep the baby.”

Will grunts, not able to keep his disdain for my decision out of this conversation when we should be standing united on this side of the desk. Uncle Rett's eyes flash to Will, and his face reddens in anger.

“If that's the case, we have a few options. As faculty at this school you have a responsibility to uphold the highest moral standards, and a pregnancy out of wedlock does not meet those criteria. If both of you would like to remain teaching here—and aside from this incident with your personal lives, we've been pleased with your performances—you would need to get married.”

“Married?” Will's voice is a croak, a horrified, strangled vocalization.

“Yes, Mr. Chase.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting into tears. This year had started out so well, all of my dreams were coming true, but it's devolved into my worst nightmare. I'm pregnant by a man who has started to show some ugly colors under his tweed-and-corduroy veneer of WASP-y charm, and I've been presented with an ultimatum: get married or get out. The third option, get rid of the baby, is not going to happen, but Will is going to push for it.

I give in on a lot of things; let other people call the shots on much of how I lead my life. I don't mind it for the most part. If I let myself admit it, I like it. But there are some things that are too important, that matter too much to let other people decide. I don't use it often, so much that it probably seems like petulant stubbornness instead of the kind of assertions other people make every day, but I can put my foot down. In this case, I will.

“You may have the weekend to come to a decision, but by this time on Monday I'd like an answer. You're dismissed.”

In that moment, I ache for Uncle Rett. This is not the conversation he wants to be having on a Friday afternoon when he should be finishing up paperwork so he can take Aunt Tilly to a nice dinner in town. Instead he's lecturing his junior faculty members, one of whom has been like a granddaughter to him. I am such a complete and utter screwup.

Will and I push out of our chairs and I follow him out of the office, pulling the heavy door shut behind me. I walk behind him across the campus to Gefflin and trudge up the stairs, an unspoken agreement between us:
We need to talk
.

When he's gestured me inside his apartment and closed the door, he turns on the stereo and a concerto comes on. Lovely music to have a knock-down, drag-out fight by. But he surprises me, crossing the room and wrapping his slender fingers around my upper arms and rubbing. His affection is startling, but welcome. I sink into it, letting his hypnotic movements settle me.

“Let's think about this rationally, angel. Did you just do the one test?”

I shake my head. I'd done the second one almost immediately following the first, grasping at desperate straws. Then I'd gone to a different drug store in another town to pick up several more. Days later, the result had still been the same.

“Maybe it was a bad batch. Manufacturers make mistakes.”

I swallow hard. That's why I'd gotten three different kinds of tests. Just in case. “But not all of them, not all at once. I'm pretty sure eight positive tests is beyond the margin of error.”

The soothing motion stops and his hands drop, leaving a trace of the warmth that used to be there. It's replaced by his voice that's gone ice cold.

“Get rid of it.”

“I won't.”

“Christ, Erin, if I had known you were such a right-wing nut job, I never would've fucked you.”

“I'm not a right-wing nut job. I just . . .” I can't explain it. I am firmly pro-choice. Have been for as long as I can remember. Should any of my friends find themselves in this situation and want an abortion, I would support them. I would drive them to the clinic myself. But my baby, inside my body? “I can't, Will. I'm sorry.”

“Sorry is not going to get me out of this hellhole you've dug for me.”

“I'm sorry,
I
dug for
you
? You think my job isn't also on the line?” I don't mention the violently ill sensation I get when I think about leaving the Hill, like the very center of my universe might suddenly disappear. There's no way he'd understand. “And I don't recall being the only person having sex in Turner. I'm pretty sure you were there, too. Otherwise this wouldn't be a problem. It would be every boy on the Hill's fantasy come true!”

Well, not every boy. There are a few kids who are gay and out, a few more who are closeted, but “every boy” sounds better than “ninety percent of the boys.” He'll forgive my literary license.

“So, what? You want to get married?”

His pacing is going to wear a hole in the already threadbare carpet, and his jerky movements and aggressive striding scare me. He's always been the mild-mannered English teacher, charming with a ready smile, but this is the second time I've seen him behave like a caged animal. When animals are backed into a corner . . .

“I don't
want
to—we barely know each other—but I don't want to lose my job, either. I don't want to leave and I don't think you do, either. You love it here as much as I do.”

“I was here first.”

I laugh and he turns a murderous glare on me.

“I've been coming here since I was two weeks old. Rett and Tilly Wilson sang me ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider' and drank cambric tea with my dollies.
I
was here first.”

His rage is spilling out of his ears, but he won't push me on that point.

“Look, Will, I like you. You're smart, handsome and funny. You're everything I thought I'd want in a partner. I know this is less than ideal, but we could at least try to make it work. I don't see any other way out of this.”

If I did, I'd take it, but I can't leave. I just can't. I think I could handle any hardship or disappointment as long as I got to stay here. The need to be here, on the Hill, has blanked out the other thoughts in my head.
If I lose everything else, let me keep this.

“I'll think about it. Get out.”

I swallow my protests and get up from the couch. I want to say something, but I won't allow myself to apologize. Not for something that's equally his fault. I walk by him, and we exchange nothing. Not a look, not a touch. We're not even breathing the same air. As I close the door to his apartment, I hear something glass meet its maker on the bricks of the hearth.

Shep

Practice ended a few minutes ago. We tromped off the ice, filtering through the cinder-block hallway, tugging off sweat-drenched gear while the sharp edges of our skates dug into the rubber mats lining the way to the locker room.

We've each claimed our slice of bench, yanking skates off, tossing helmets into lockers and lobbing practice uniforms in the direction of the huge canvas laundry bins on wheels. As the gear gets stripped away, the gossip starts.

I let it run over me, unmoved, until a sophomore—new to varsity this year and doesn't know me well enough to know better—is saying some ugly things about a certain brown-haired, brown-eyed math teacher.

“Can it, Tom.”

“Look, man, I'm just—”

“I said, shut. The fuck. Up.”

“Whatever, dude.”

He strips off the last of his pads and wraps a towel around his waist to hit the showers. My hands are clenched tight at my sides, tight enough for my non-existent nails dig into my palms.
Fucking breathe, Shepherd. It's a rumor. An ugly, stupid, untrue rumor.
It's not the first time something like this has gone around about some female faculty member but it's the first time I've given a shit.

There's no way, no fucking way Erin's pregnant. And by Will Chase. She wouldn't. Would she? Okay, as much as I hate it, maybe they had sex. The idea makes me want to punch my locker so hard I'd leave a fist print in the metal, but the only thing I'd have to show for it is a broken hand. She's a grown woman. A pretty, smart, sexy woman and I'm no prude. Despite her prim teacher's exterior, maybe there's a little of the naughty librarian to her. Hell, I would love to fuck Erin Brewster and I'd want her to enjoy it. Lose herself under my hands, cry out because it feels so good. I'd want her to make tiny, pleading sex noises while I pushed inside of her, begging me to stop even though I'd know she wanted anything but.

Don't even think about it, Shepherd.
Can't walk into the showers with my dick as hard as the hockey stick I threw into my locker. Christ. A second thought of Will fucking Erin throws cold water on my hard-on, and I shove my shorts off.

So maybe Erin fucked Will. But she's not stupid. It's called birth control, and if she's going to . . . I can't even think it without a cold wave of jealousy flooding through me. If she's going to do it, she's going to do it without getting knocked up.

The rumors must be flat-out wrong. Rage is swarming in my head like a million bees, all bumping into my skull because they're trying to get out and too pea-brained to find the exit. In the middle of it all is a hot kernel of doubt. She wouldn't.

Would she?

I've got to stop thinking about this. I stuff my gear into my locker, grab up the thin towel that's gone through too many wash cycles and head toward the showers before I yank myself back. If I leave my stuff in a heap, it's going to be rank and sweaty when I have to suit up for the game tomorrow. Hockey gear is gross enough without me adding to the problem. I hang it up to air out overnight, a chant in my head:
She wouldn't, she wouldn't, she wouldn't.

Erin

Late Sunday night, there's a knock at my door. When I open it, Will is standing there, a forearm braced on the doorframe, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, hair disheveled, wearing the same clothes I last saw him in. He looks terrible and smells worse.

“Where have you been?”

“Out.”

His one-word answer scares the living crap out of me and my plan to wed this man sours further in my mind and in my stomach. He pushes by me and I catch a whiff of something that's not just unwashed man. It's liquor. Gin, if my summers of fetching G&Ts and gimlets for the guests at the country club taught me anything.

I peek into the hallway to make sure none of the boys have seen him, but the doors are closed and no lights are shining from under them. The hallway is dark and silent. When I turn back, he's sprawled on my couch. Maybe he's asleep.

But when I close the door, an eye cracks open.

“Yorright.”

Jeez, how drunk is he? I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at him. “I often am. About what?”

“We have teh get hitched. Merried. Shack up.”