That earns me the ghost of a wince.Good.A pulse of accountability under the grin.
I stand.“Let’s get you introduced.”
The gym is loud, almost deafeningly so.Laughter ricochets off cinderblock walls; a ball thuds against the rim; the ping of an ancient foosball table sounds like a wind-up toy wheezing its last breath.On one side, two tutors coax fractions out of seventh graders who look personally betrayed by math.In the corner, a pair of sisters hunch over a laptop, arguing about whether their coding project should feature a pink background or a glittery pink one.
“Hey, Miss O!”Malik calls, dribbling a basketball so fast it’s a blur.“We got next?”
“You’ve had next twice,” I say, and his friends hoot because fairness is a currency here, and I try to keep it stable.“Give the little ones a turn.”
Malik rolls his eyes and then notices the man beside me.“Yo.Is that?—”
“Language,” I say automatically.
“—CJ Morgan,” he finishes, eyes widening.“For real?”
“The one who chugged the death shake,” another boy adds, awestruck.“My brother showed me the video.”
I look at CJ.
He lifts his hands.“In my defense, it seemed like a good idea before it got warm.”
“Nothing seems like a good idea when it gets warm,” I tell him.“Welcome to the gym.”
CJ spends the next thirty minutes proving me wrong about some things and very right about others.He’s effortless with the kids, too effortless.He flips a puck from his pocket into his palm and shows two fifth graders how to angle their wrists as if he’s been teaching forever.He laughs with them, never at them.He crouches at eye level with a kid who has a stutter and waits patiently until the words come.He remembers names alarmingly fast.
He also turns everything into a bit, a dare, a gag.When he starts hyping a “half-court Hail Mary for a king-size Snickers,” I step in.
“No wagers,” I say.
“It’s a candy bar.”
“It’s the principle.”
He sighs theatrically.“You must be fun at parties.”
“I’m excellent at parties that pay for our electric bill,” I say, and nod toward the storage closet.“Come help me with the chairs.”
“Is that a metaphor?”he asks hopefully.
I ignore the way my whole body warms.“No,” I say dryly.
We lug folding chairs across the gym for the family reading night we host on Thursdays.He takes three stacks to my one like he’s showing off, and I refuse to be grateful for how quickly that finishes the job.Gratitude can be as dangerous as any crush if you let it slip its leash.
“Hey, Miss O!”A small figure skids to a stop near us.Bea is eight, hair done in a dozen small twists that jut like exclamation points around her face.“Kayla won’t let me use the computer, and I need it to email my teacher because I got my book report, and she said it needs more conclusion.”
“More conclusion,” CJ repeats solemnly.“I hear that a lot.”
I give him a look before turning to Bea.“You can use my office computer for five minutes.Then you share with Kayla.Deal?”
She nods and looks at CJ like he’s a constellation.“You’re the goalie.You blocked that guy’s slap shot with your face.”
“Mask,” he says, hand over his heart.“Very important differentiation.”
“You’re funny,” she announces, like she’s discovered something useful.“Do you know how to type fast?”
“I am the fastest typist in all the land.”
“Faster than Miss O?”
