“It’s stupid,Ms. Taylor. Why would they kill themselves for each other? They’ve known each other two days.”
This is the part of the job I love. When we go off script and the students delve into the material and tear it apart. While I think of the best way to respond, another chimes in and says, “No way I’m killing myself over some boy.”
The ninth-grade English class cheers, and a couple of the girls reach over and high-five each other. “Boys ain’t shit,” someone shouts. The girls agree, the boys boo and I do my best to keep my expression neutral.
“That’s not true love,” a young girl from the back of the class shouts out. “Maybe because it’s written by a man. Juliet was so unhappy at home that she grabbed onto Romeo as a way out. It’s a shame that her only option was marriage, which we all know was also doomed. My aunt Rhonda’s been married four times, and she still says men ain’t shit.” The class erupts, and I stifle my own laugh.
“Why are girls always popping that sexist ish? Romeo didn’t have many options either,” Desmond says. “Like boys had it so good. It’s not like he could bide his time until he turned eighteen to get out. They were gangsta back then. And maybe Aunt Rhonda just has crap taste in men.” Desmond stands and mimics dropping the mic. He runs around the room, high-fiving all the boys.
“Yeah, but—” someone says. I start to speak up, to keep this discussion from going off the rails. Normally, I love when we go off topic and have a good debate, but we have a unit test to prepare for and I want my students to do well.
“Hold on, guys.” The talking stops at the same time the door to my classroom opens. I almost fall over when Colt Chastain steps inside. His head practically touches the ceiling.
All the kids go wild and jump out of their seats. They crowd around my desk and circle around Colt like he’s the second coming of Christ.
“Holy shit!” someone yells out. Colt is handed notebooks, which he signs. Phones come out and pictures are snapped, and all I do is lean against the wall and watch as he disrupts my class. There’s no way anyone will be able to concentrate on the rest of the lesson.
He makes himself comfortable and sits on my desk, flashing me a mischievous smile. “Romeo and Juliet,” he says, picking up the book off my desk.
“I’ll be your Juliet,” someone yells. A couple of people sit on the desk next to him and start taking selfies. That’s how the next twenty minutes go. Total chaos inside my classroom until the bell rings, and I force the kids out so they won’t be late for their next class.
Once my classroom is empty, I close my door and look at my uninvited guest. He leans against the wall so smug that I fight with myself not to slap him. Good looking bastard.
“How did you get inside this school?” I ask him. They don’t just let anyone in. “And how did you know where my room is?” It’s a stupid question. The Manhattan Mischiefs have won four championship games in six years. They didn’t win last year, but they made it to the playoffs and lost in the seventh game. Dad did nothing but talk about the loss for the next two weeks.
Colt Chastain is like royalty in the city. He can go anywhere and do anything. I’m sure doors and legs automatically open for him.
“I told Gary we’re old friends.” Gary is one of our security guards. He’s an even bigger basketball fan than my father. I can imagine how he reacted to seeing Colt standing in front of him. “I told him I’d give you a signed ball for him.”
“You disrupted my class. I was prepping my students for a test tomorrow.”
Flustered to have him here, I turn my back and erase my whiteboard. My next and final class of the day starts in forty-five minutes, and we’re studying Macbeth. It’s been a week since he crashed our Memorial Day barbeque, and I’ve done everything to push him out of my mind. Which is hard since he texts every single day. I pretend not to hear his footsteps. Every time he takes a step, my heart pounds in my chest. Boom. Boom. Boom. He stands behind me, close but not touching. He doesn’t utter another word, but I can hear his breathing. It’s as if the room not only shrunk but has gotten one hundred degrees hotter. I erase until there isn’t a single word left on the board. He stands behind me the entire time and I wonder if he’s checking out my body.
Of course, he is.
I suddenly feel self-conscious in my fitted black slacks. I think I’ve recently put on a few pounds because they are snugger today than the last time I wore them. I push the thought away and convince myself they shrunk in the dryer.
But you get them dry cleaned.
Finally done, I put down the eraser and turn to face my surprise guest when all I want to do is leave this classroom and not return until he’s gone. But I’m not going to let him or anyone else run me out. This is my turf.
“You interrupted my class,” I repeat, still irritated by the intrusion.
“You didn’t accept my follow request on IG,” is all he says.
He sent that to me the day after he left my parents’ house, and I’ve ignored it. I don’t know how he found me since I don’t use my full name. IG is the only social media I have, and I keep my account private. I checked his out. Nothing but pictures of him and his fans, practice videos, and workouts with his personal trainer. There are no pictures of his son. That can mean one of two things. He’s a neglectful father or he’s protecting his son from the media. After spending time with them, I reluctantly admit that it’s the latter. As good as he looks in his jeans and plain black t-shirt, that’s nothing compared to how he looks shirtless and sweaty from a grueling workout. There’s one video where he was so sweaty that water ran down his forehead and into his eyes. He ran a hand through his curly hair, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I ran it back in slow motion several times.
“I’m not on there much.”
“And you haven’t returned any of my DMs.” I walk away and stand behind the chair at my desk, putting some more space between us. “I need to know when the dinner party is.”
“That’s because we said all we had to say.”
“Thought I’d come over here and take you out for an early dinner.” He speaks as if he didn’t hear my last words.
I make the mistake of craning my neck to look at him. Damn him for being so tall, especially when I’m in ballet flats. I pull out my chair but don’t sit down. He closes the small space I managed to put between us and sits on top of my desk. The space is too small for someone his size. His long legs practically reach the wall that holds my whiteboard.
“I’m not into the whole celebrity thing. And I don’t go out with athletes or people with kids. I made that clear the night at the club.” I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “I’m not going to say it again.” But I take a step closer to him. “And yet here you are, a single father, chasing after a woman who’s made it clear she’s not into the package deal thing. Evan deserves better.” I give him my back and reach for a marker. He stands behind me, takes the marker from my hand, and traps me between his hard body and the whiteboard.
