Where You Are (22 page)

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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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Chapter 29
Robert
 
“Wake up, lazy bones. You've got a guest.”
I roll over and groan. “What time is it?”
Mom opens my blinds. “It's eleven. Get up. I don't want to be left entertaining Nic for half an hour.”
Great. It is way too early in the morning for this.
Nic has never been in my house. And I'm shocked that he steps inside when I open the door two minutes later. He's wearing his purple Rude jeans and a tight Tapout T-shirt like he's some kind of martial arts devotee. His sunglasses are pushed up on his head. Not too far, though. Just enough to be cool.
I wonder again why I ever found him attractive.
“What do you want?” I say, shoving my hand through my mussed hair. I'm still in flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt. My only concession to my former boyfriend is that I brushed my teeth.
“I want to know why you're mad at me.” He props his fists on his hips and shifts his weight to one foot. His face takes on a petulant look that isn't winning him any points. “Is it because I didn't come to your dad's funeral? You know how I feel about sick people and stuff like that. I sent you those paper flowers though. Krystal and I worked three hours on those. I would think you would at least appreciate my effort.”
“Thank you for the flowers, okay? We good?”
“You're mad because I had my girls over. Okay, I get that. You're jealous.” He rolls his eyes and huffs. “So how about I make Wednesdays just for you? And maybe every other Saturday?”
“I do my service project on Wednesdays, and Saturdays I'm busy.”
He fixes his eyes on me. “Why are you being so difficult?”
“Why do you even care? I'm nothing to you, and you're nothing to me. Why don't we just admit that and move on!”
“Oh, now you're just being a dick.”
I throw my hands up, exasperated. “Just go,” I say, opening the door. For a few beats, he doesn't move. He stares down at his boots, and I almost feel sorry for him. I squeeze my forehead with my thumb and middle finger. “Nic—”
“Your loss,” he says, cutting me off.
“Too bad for me, then.”
He gives me one last long look that I can't read, then he strides out of the house. I slam the door behind him.
Mom's in the kitchen, chuckling over a couple of slices of bread she's just popped in the toaster.
“You heard?” I ask.
“I never liked him. You know that. I'm just kind of sorry that he was . . . you know.”
I thumb through a stack of mail on the kitchen counter. There's an envelope addressed to me. “When did this come in?” I ask, opening it.
“Yesterday, but I didn't pick up the mail until this morning. Who's it from?”
“Ms. Momin.”
Inside the envelope is a handmade card with a drawing of me, I think, playing a recorder. Underneath the drawing in a pretty purple ink:
We miss you!
The card is signed inside with a bunch of random-looking marks. I can't read the names, but I know who they are—Patrick, Sophie, and Jo-Jo. The only one I can actually read is Ms. Momin's.
“Let me see,” Mom says. I turn the card to her. “That's so sweet. I bet those kids really do miss you. It's been, what? Seven weeks? You don't have much longer to accumulate all your service hours.”
I miss them too.
Nic's paper flower bouquet is still in a vase on the counter. Mom snickers when I toss it in the trash.
 
Andrew
 
There are good things and there are bad things about living with Maya again. When I went to bed last night, it was all about the bad things. This morning, I can smell pancakes and it's all good. Kiki grins at me when I stick my head in her door.
“Daddy!” She holds her arms out to me, and I scoop her up.
“I think your Mommy's making pancakes. Yum.”
“Yum,” she repeats and pokes at the scruff on my chin.
“Let's go get some.”
I shift her around to my back like she's riding a pony and gallop into the kitchen with her. I'm not surprised to see Doug. He and Maya are going to some art show today, which means I get Kiki to myself. But I can see that he is surprised to see me. I pretend not to notice and greet them with a good morning.
Doug's eyes travel down my boxers to my bare feet and back up again. He turns to Maya. His voice is low, but not so low I can't hear it. “What's going on?”
Maya's face looks so guilty she might as well say we're sleeping together, which we are not. I can't believe she hasn't told him yet. She had to know he'd see me this morning.
“Andrew moved back in,” she says flippantly, like all ex-husbands live with their ex-wives. “He's sleeping in the spare bedroom. His old bedroom.”
Doug glares at her for a few beats, then drops the spatula he's holding on the counter and stalks out of the kitchen.
“Doug,” Maya says. “Shit.” She runs after him. She leaves the front door open, and I can hear them arguing in the front yard.
I look at Kiki over my shoulder. “Uh-oh.”
She giggles.
“I guess we're making the pancakes, baby girl.” I set her on the counter, but far enough away from the stove that she can't reach it, and flip the pancakes. They're burned. I toss them into the sink and pour some more batter in the pan.
“Daddy—”
“Shhh,” I say to Kiki, putting my finger to my lips.
She grins and puts her fingers to her lips. “Shhh.” I grin back.
I'm eavesdropping. But, really, I can't help myself. I'm sure the neighbors are getting a good show too.
“Why are you acting like such a jerk?” Maya asks.
“Don't I get a say in this?” Doug fires back.
“No. You don't. He is the father of my child. There is nothing going on between us.”
“Then why is he standing in your kitchen in his underwear?”
“He just got up. I don't know.”
“You know what? I think you're still in love with him.”
“You're crazy.”
I flip the pancakes. “I think I may have underestimated Mr. Doug, baby girl. He's not as clueless as he looks.”
I'm kidding around, but deep inside I know he's right. I know another thing, this can't end well. But that doesn't keep me from enjoying their little spat.
“Do you want to take me to the art festival or not?” Maya asks Doug outside.
“Are you sure you can break away from your little family unit?”
“You're pissing me off.”
A car door slams.
I can't wipe the grin off my face when she returns to the kitchen. I try, but I just can't.
“You heard?” Maya says.
“He'll get over it. Go. Have a good time.”
“I don't even know if I want to go anymore. He's being such a jerk.” A brief pause. “But then again, you do look kind of sexy in those boxers. Can't blame him for being jealous.”
Immediately I'm uncomfortable. I move the pancakes from the pan to a plate, then pour more batter. I make a mental note to put on some pants when I get up in the morning. I add that to my mental list of bad things about living with Maya.
I feel her behind me a moment before she slides her hands around my hips and gropes me. “I don't have to go. I can spend the day with you guys,” she says in my ear.
“Maya, don't.”
She doesn't remove her hand immediately as if a few more strokes will change my mind. It doesn't.
“Doug's waiting. You need to go.”
I feel her stiffen behind me. She removes her hand. Then, as if this isn't the most awkward minute we've ever spent together, her voice gets all cheery, and she gives Kiki a big hug. “You two have a good day,” she says. She kisses me on the cheek. I throw a half smile her direction and wish her the same.
As I pour the last of the batter into the pan, I'm thinking how different this would have turned out if that had been a certain seventeen-year-old's hand feeling me up through my drawers. The thought makes me hard in a way that Maya's hand couldn't, and I'm glad my daughter is only two.
Chapter 30
Andrew
 
Before the first bell rings Monday morning, I count the number of school days left—seventy-nine. I'm not sure I can even make it through today. When did this quit being fun? And now I have to tutor Stephen Newman. Lucky me.
He and a couple of his friends breeze into class about two seconds after the bell rings. They've been standing outside for three minutes or so. I'm writing the day's objectives on the board and pretend I don't notice. When I turn to look at the class, he's slouched back in his seat with that smug, self-satisfied expression. I refuse to be baited by this little jerk. I manage to get through class by biting the inside of my lower lip until it bleeds.
“Stephen,” I say as he gets up to leave.
He comes to my desk, but when I start to speak, he turns his back on me and fist bumps his buddies out the door. Then he calls out to Kristyn Murrow, “Hey, girl,” and waggles his tongue at her. She giggles and disappears out the door. When there's no one left in the classroom he turns to me.
I am not amused.
“I'd like you to come in for tutoring. You've got a sixty-eight average in Algebra for this nine weeks. I'll work with you until you get on more solid ground. I do algebra tutoring after school on Mondays—today. I can get you ready for your test tomorrow, and maybe, if you put in the effort, you can hang on to that eligibility.”
“I can't make Mondays. I have . . . other things to do.”
Sure you do.
“All right, then. I tutor calculus on Thursdays. I can work with you then on test corrections.”
“Nope. Thursdays are no good either.”
“Then why don't you just suggest a day,” I say, irritated.
“Wednesdays. After football practice.”
Wednesdays. Of course. That's the one day of the week that Maya works late. I'll either have to leave Kiki at Ms. Smith's Village late that day, or Maya will have to juggle work and a kid until I can get out of here. God, I am starting to hate this brat.
“What time are you done with football practice?”
He shrugs like I'm boring him to death. “It's off-season. Four thirty.”
So I have to stay at school an extra three hours to tutor a kid who not only doesn't seem to care one whit about his grade, but who is trying his damnedest to make my life miserable. I hear these stories all the time from other teachers. Somehow, I thought I was immune. Silly me.
“Then I'll see you Wednesday at four thirty.”
He looks me up and down like I'm a piece of shit, then ambles out of the classroom like he's got all the time in the world but wants to waste a few more seconds of mine.
It doesn't surprise me when he's fifteen minutes late Wednesday. I had already given up on him. I'm just shutting down my computer when he slouches into the room. His hands are empty. No paper. No pencil. No calculator. No respect.
So that's how we're going to play the game, huh?
I have some quadratic equations already written on the board. I stand and hold out a dry erase marker. “You made a forty-nine on yesterday's test. I'll allow you to do test corrections after we review. You can bring that grade up to a seventy. After that, with some sustained work, we can get your average above the failing mark.”
He stares hostilely back at me.
O-kay. “Why don't you come up here and we'll work these problems on the board together.”
“You're kidding, right?” he says to me and guffaws.
Don't take the bait. Don't take the bait. Don't take the
fucking
bait.
“All right. Then I'll walk you through them.” I review the different methods of solving quadratic equations, then talk through a few problems. But I might as well be talking to the wall. He stares out the window the entire time, mouthing what looks like a rap song. I stop midproblem and wait until I have his attention. When it becomes clear that I'm not going to
get
his attention, I return to my desk and finish packing my things.
Stephen gets up and sneers at me. “Guess I'll see you next Wednesday.”
 
Robert
 
“He's back, guys!” Ms. Momin closes the door behind me and ushers me into the living room where my group waits.
They are already seated in a semicircle. Patrick is the only one who gets out of his seat. He extends his bent arm out to me. It wavers and I have to grab his fist and steady it for a fist bump. “Hey, Patrick. How you doing, man?”
“Bah!”
“Yeah. I'm back. Have you been practicing?” I pull my recorder from the velour slipcase.
“Yah. Yah.” The words explode from his mouth in a staccato burst.
He drops into his seat again as I squat in front of Sophie. Her eyes are fixed on something or nothing behind me. “Hey, beautiful. I missed you.” She doesn't respond, but I know she hears me.
Ms. Momin coaxes her to look at me and say, “Hi, Robert.” It takes a lot of coaxing, but eventually her head swings sharply my way and bounces a little like a bobblehead. She fixes her eyes on me briefly and says something that approximates “Hi, Robert.”
I pat her knee and crab walk to the chair next to her. Jo-Jo. He's whimpering.
“Hey, Jo-Jo, you ready to play some music?” He draws in a deep, deep breath and lets it out with a shudder. He's going to burst into tears; I back off.
I pull my chair up close and I look up at Ms. Momin, who's wrapping Sophie's fingers around her recorder. “What have y'all been working on?”
She smiles over Sophie's head. “ ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.' ”
“That's a great song!” I say to my group.
As Ms. Momin explained to me in December, these kids don't do well with change. I learned that lesson the hard way when I tried to introduce “Jingle Bells.” They like the familiar. They like the repetition. And every time we play it, it's like the most beautiful thing they've ever done, like it's the first time.
“Okay, everybody put your mouthpiece in your mouth.” After a few tries, Patrick manages on his own, but Ms. Momin and I have to help the other two. And when they're ready, we play.
You'd think I'd get sick of this after months of the same old routine, but the look of triumph on their faces each time we finish the song leaves me humbled and grateful for the experience. I've missed these kids.
Parents are just arriving as we wrap up. I help the kids get the recorders back in the slipcases tagged with their names and then stack them on the table for Ms. Momin to put away later.
This is the first time I've seen the parents since Dad died, and I have to endure a few minutes of sympathy and promises to let them know if there's anything they can do for me.
“You are so good with them,” Ms. Momin says as I help her return the chairs to the dining room table. “How are you doing?”
Ms. Momin is beautiful. She's young, with these huge brown eyes and long dark hair. I think if I were into girls, I'd find it very hard to be in the room alone with her right now.
“I'm okay,” I say.
“We only have two more sessions before your service hours are complete. Honestly, I don't know what we're going to do without you.”

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