I’m not stupid. I know the shaded signals, what the meaning is behind her touch, the look in her eyes, the smile that she only gives me. She’s falling in love as fast as I am. And, if I truly love her, and I’m inclined to think I do, I can’t ask her to make that choice.
Twenty-Five
Lance
My bag hits the chair with a thud.
“Brandon, you sit over there,” I say, pointing to a little table in the corner of the Family and Consumer Sciences Room. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you unless it starts with, ‘Excuse me, Mr. Gibson’ and is followed by a question pertinent to the subject matter you should be studying as defined by the State of Illinois. Got it?”
“This is gonna blow,” he groans.
“It’s detention. It’s supposed to blow. That’s the point.”
He tosses his books on the desk and collapses in the seat like he’s been sentenced to the electric chair. I toy with the idea of pointing out he’s being a baby and cause and effect and all that jazz, but choose to pick my battles with this kid instead. This isn’t the one to fight.
I left the door to the room open on purpose. With each squeak or tap of soles down the hall, my eyes flicker to the opening to see if it’s Mariah.
It’s funny how routines become your norm. Then when change comes to your habits, even simple little differences, you feel thrown off in every aspect of your life. Tugging at my tie, I keep my gaze on the empty the hall and hope she walks by. She does not.
I haven’t had a drink since the night with the tequila and Peck, yet I feel drunk. Or hungover. Just a cloudy-headed haze that I can’t clear out. Decision making skills are one of my finer assets. I pick a direction and go. But I’m so unsure about what I should do with Mariah right now that I question my sanity.
As my tires hit the asphalt parking lot this morning, I was adamant I was backing off. Not being a dick, just giving this thing between us some time to cool down. Then as my ears picked up the lunch bell this afternoon, I found myself standing outside of the library warring about whether I should go in or not.
I did, but by the time I made that decision, half of the lunch period was over. It was just enough time to wet my whistle. I left her office needing to see her again but knowing more than ever I really, really shouldn’t.
“Ollie,” I say, spinning around. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t sound so excited.” Patting his shoulder as I walk by, I enter one of the little kitchenettes lining the back wall. Each kitchen station is separated by a counter top. “Did Ms. Holden give you a recipe or something to go off of?”
“It’s right here.” He points at an index card on the counter.
“You mean the instructions to bake a cake fit on that thing? She did give you instructions, right?”
Ollie grins. “That’s all I’m allowed to use. No online resources, no video tutorials.”
“She’s hardcore,” I say. I slip my phone, that I’d pulled out to look up a cake baking how-to, back in my pocket.
“My ma cooks,” Brandon calls out from the corner. “You have to get out all your ingredients first.”
“That did not start with ‘Mr. Gibson,’ Brandon.”
“I’m trying to be helpful,” he contends.
“Doing the history assignment I gave you today would be helpful.”
He rolls his eyes, but goes back to the paper in front of him.
Ollie fumbles his way around the little island, checking the index card and pulling various items from the drawers and mini-fridge. Next, he goes to the cabinets and pulls out measuring cups and spoons.
I hop up on the counter, pretty certain this sort of thing is against the health department codes, and watch him try to figure out what to do.
“First step,” he says, running a finger down the card, “is creaming.”
“That’s what she said!” Brandon shouts from across the room.
I look at Brandon with a sigh. “Really?”
“Mr. Gibson, that was funny as hell,” Brandon laughs. “He walked right into that one.”
“Just do your work,” I tell him. “Focus.”
Ollie goes back to work, digging around under the sink until he finds the stand-up mixer. He lugs it to the counter. He then searches in the drawers for the paddles.
Silverware clamor together as he makes the simple task sound like a bull in a china shop. Brandon starts to comment on it, but wisely refrains and goes back to what is most likely drawing inappropriate images on his notepad.
Ollie pounds around for a while longer until the paddles are snapped into the mixer. He drops the butter into the bowl and plugs it in. Nothing happens. “Mr. Gibson? Do you know how to turn this thing on?”
Hopping off the counter, I head his way. “I’m not supposed to help you, but that thing should’ve come with an owner’s manual.”
“It probably did,” he shrugs. “And we were probably taught how to use it in class.”
This straddles my teacher conscience. Thinking it over quickly, I turn to him. “Ollie, do you have any plans to go into baking?”
“No.”
“Cooking? Chef school—culinary school?”
“Um, no.”
That’s enough for me. I search the thing all over and can’t find the switch. Next thing I know, Brandon is at my side looking too.
“How can it be this complicated?” I mutter. “Didn’t either of you pay attention in class?”
“No,” the say in unison.
“This is ridiculous,” I sigh. “Look, people made cakes long before they had mixers. Read the instructions. Does it explicitly say you have to use the mixer? Or can we get out of this on a technicality?”
“Beat in the mixer on medium-to-medium high for three to four minutes,” Ollie reads.
“Naturally,” I groan.
Brandon lifts the cord and the red light on the front of the machine turns on. “It was right here,” he says proudly.
“I wondered how many of you it would take to get that thing on.” Mariah’s voice rings from the doorway.
My head snaps in that direction to see her leaning against the door jamb, a coy little smile on her lips. Her bag is hanging at her side, her hair falling around her shoulders. I wonder if this is how she looks coming home after working all day. That thought gets shoved right out of my mind for all of our sake.
“This is unnecessary,” I say, knocking the top of the machine with the back of my hand. “Just another overpriced gadget.”
“Like the stereo system in your car?” She shoves away from the door and struts into the room.
“No, not like my stereo system,” I say, looking at the boys like she’s crazy. They laugh. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“It looks like Ollie needs help.” She drops her bag at the station next to us. “What are you working on?”
“Hey. He’s supposed to do that on his own.” I shake my head at her.
“I’m not doing it for him, but I think I’ll supervise. You know, since it took three of you to turn on the mixer.”
She tosses me a wink before turning back to the students. “Chocolate cake?”
“I haven’t had chocolate cake in forever,” Ollie sighs. “This is a butter cake recipe. Can we make it chocolate?”
They all look at me.
“Talk to the supervisor.” I throw my hands up before hopping back up on the counter.
Mariah moves effortlessly around the kitchen, giving Ollie tips and chatting with the boys while she takes inventory on what’s already out and what’s yet to be done. They laugh at her jokes and lend her a hand when she tries to reach the vanilla from the top of the cabinet above the sink.
There is a bundle of papers I need to sort in my briefcase—a stack I planned on going through while Ollie made his cake. If it were just him making the cake, maybe I would. But there’s no way I can take my eyes off her.
“Add your sugar and get it creaming,” Mariah says, pushing her sleeves up.
I watch them for a minute, Brandon specifically. He’s paying less attention to the baking than he is the curve of Mariah’s hips.
“Brandon,” I call out. “Head back to your desk.”
“But I really want to help,” he grins. It melts off his face quickly as he sees my reaction. It takes just a few steps for him to make it to his seat and slink back in.
I remind myself he’s a teenager. Mariah’s not interested in him. Still, he has testosterone and my natural reaction is to get him away from her.
I’m so fucked.
Mariah helps Ollie measure the sugar. I’m pretty sure he could’ve done it himself, but he seems more than delighted in a very innocent way at having her help him.
“Does your mom bake with you?” she asks, handing him a spatula.
“I’m a foster kid, Ms. Malarkey.”
“Oh.” There’s a squeal in her voice before she composes herself. “Does your foster mother bake with you?”
“I’ve been in six foster homes in the last ten years. I can only remember one doing that kind of thing with me,” he shrugs.
There’s a sense of defeat in his tone, a finality that shows he accepts this is the way things are. This is the way they’re meant to be. I glance over at Brandon and he’s watching too.
“That must be rough,” Mariah says. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that.”
“Better than staying with my sister. The last time I remember seeing her she had a needle sticking out of her arm.”
I have to turn my head so they don’t see me cringe. Rubbing at my forehead like I have a headache, I try to wrap my head around his situation.
“Well, I can kill two birds with one stone.” The baritone voice rumbles through the room. The football coach stands a few feet into the room, a collared shirt with the team logo on the chest. “How long is detention, Brandon?”