Worried, I pull him aside for a private conversation. “Hey, Max. How’s it going? We missed you last week.”
He won’t make eye contact, looking everywhere else in the classroom but at me. “Fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. I miss your energy. I haven’t seen you smile yet today.”
He meets my eyes, then. They seem tired. Tinged red around the edges. “My dad said I’m not allowed to talk to you.”
I frown. “But I’m your teacher. How do you expect not to talk to me all day?”
He shrugs.
“Okay. Well, I don’t want to force you to speak to me. But just know that I’m always here, if you ever want to talk.”
He doesn’t respond, turning and walking back to his desk, slumping down in his seat once he reaches it.
I make a note to tell Oliver about Max when I see him after school. After Saturday, when I absolutely did not have a good time (despite the slight trauma hiccup), our coaching meetings have merged with our fundraising meetings and we’ve spent another full week together after school. It’s become somewhat of a routine. I stop by his office on the way out of the building for the day, and I end up staying. Something about ending my day with him makes me feel… settled. Calm. Safe.
It dawns on me that I’ve done a total one eighty in just a few weeks, and that it crept in on us out of seemingly nowhere. But I can’t seem to pull myself away from my chair in his office.
Oliver tells me to dial it back with the parental drama. He says that, for some reason or another, due to “compounding circumstances”, or whatever, that the district does not want to hear another complaint from a parent in my class. I tell him they can eat shit, and that Max’s dad deserved all that I gave him and more. I ask him to call and check on Max, and he promises he will try his mom. I tell him I will avoid any further direct confrontation, but if dad ever comes for me, Max, another student, or family in my class, I will not hesitate to step in.
“No,” he says, his beautiful caramel eyes wide with mild panic. “Absolutely not. You promised you will call Lina or me. We will handle it appropriately.”
I shrug. “We’ll see.”
“Georgia, both of our jobs are on the line here, and you’ve told me several times that you need to keep yours.”
“Are you threatening to fire me? Over defending a student and her family from a violent man?”
“No, but there is only so much I can protect you from if the Superintendent decides to make a move.”
“Okay. To me, for this, it’s worth that risk.”
On our lunch break, Mia and I decide to walk over to my best friend, the Bodega Man, to pick up a quick sandwich.
“Hey, you. Remember me?” I ask him, walking up to the counter.
He studies me. “No refunds.”
I wave my hand at him. “You did me a solid and made my backpack considerably lighter that day. It’s okay.”
He grunts.
“Can I get a baconeggandcheeseonaroll?” I ask him, switching into the familiar bodega based vernacular, common amongst the Brooklyn set.
“Make that two, Rajesh. Please,” Mia says behind me.
He grunts again and moves behind the grill to start our orders.
Amidst the sound of sizzling, I wander to the back of the store. I’m poking through the chips in the chip section (who am I kidding? Takis Fuego is the ultimate and only obvious choice), when I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
“Hey, Georgia,” that sinful, gravelly voice says behind me.
Turning, I’m shocked to find him standing closer than I expected. “Whoa. Hey, Oliver.”
Neither of us makes a move to step back. We look at one another. I’m close enough to count the freckles across his cheeks, to notice that his lips are equally sized in lush fullness. His arm reaches up, slowly, towards my face. I am frozen,watching his beautiful hand moving to touch me. I close my eyes, waiting…
…and hear the rustling of a chip bag next to my ear.
