I hesitate but only for a minute because since moving to Virginia from New York, I haven’t had a single night out. Not even a glass of wine with a friend. Hell, I haven’t really even made any friends here.
With my voice low—because I’m pretty sure the school district wouldn’t be cool with this form of parent meeting—I agree, saying, “So much easier.” I backpedal when I see concern flashing across Mrs. Amarre’s face. “Oh my God, that’s not how I meant for that to come out. Tyler will be fine, but wine is never a bad idea.”
Somehow, between getting caught crying in my classroom and then implying her kid was a terrible student, Erin Amarre and I became friends. We leave formality behind us and climb into our cars to discuss Tyler and his math grades over wine at her house.
I follow Erin as she winds through town, turning into the driveway of a lovely house right on the beach. Since I don’t want to block anyone in, I park on the street between an SUV and a pretty, classic green pickup truck. The polished dark wooden side rails call attention to the beautiful restoration work. This truck is someone’s pride and joy.
I follow Erin inside the quiet house, where she pauses just long enough to grab a bottle of wine from the fridge and two long-stem glasses.
Erin leads me out on to her deck overlooking the ocean. It’s cool, almost cold, outside, but the setting sun dancing on thewater and the low rumble of the waves make it so there is no place I’d rather be.
“You pour, and I’ll go grab us some snacks,” Erin says, handing me glasses and the wine bottle. “I have a feeling I’m going to need sustenance to get through the bad news.”
She slips through the sliding glass door, and I set up our drinks.
It’s comfortable out here on the deck. Waves rumble softly in the distance, and saltwater scents the air. I wonder where everyone is. With all those cars out front, it looked like there should be people here.
Erin returns a few minutes later with a cutting board piled high with cheese, crackers, a variety of sausages and meats, and a pile of grapes.
My stomach growls at the sight, and I lean forward in my seat to pluck a piece of prosciutto and some cheese from the board.
With her glass clutched between her palms, Erin rests against the railing and surveys the beach before pausing on a group of guys throwing a ball. “Okay. Looks like they’re good for a minute. How underwater on his grades is Tyler? Are we looking at summer school? Is he going to get held back?” She scoots between two patio chairs and lowers herself halfway down before standing again. “He’s not going to graduate, is he?”
A laugh huffs its way out of me. “Not necessarily. He can pull up his grade easy enough, but he needs to actually do the work and practice the problems, and then the tests will be a piece of cake.”
She quirks a brow at me, finally taking her seat.
“Seriously. I can work with him if you have concerns, but he’s just got to put in a little effort. That’s all.” I shrug and savor the wine. White, crisp. It’s a nice change from the full-bodied reds I usually go for. “He’s a smart kid. He just needs?—”
“Focus? Yeah. I’m going to talk to his coach and see if he can help motivate Tyler.” She rolls her eyes and glances back down the beach.
The trio are jogging toward us, tossing an oversize football back and forth between them.
I think about the school newsletter I skimmed through this morning, scrambling to remember what sports were mentioned.
“Tyler’s on the baseball team?” That doesn’t feel right, but it’s the only boys sport I remember reading about.
“No, rugby, and it’s not sponsored by the school. Best decision ever though, suggesting he try it,” she says before standing to lean over the railing of the deck. She cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Clark, what’s the ruling on grades and playing time?”
Feet thunder up the steps, shaking the deck. I pluck another chunk of cheese and a cracker from the board and pop them into my mouth.
“Grades determine field time. Extra suicides for anything below a B.”
The voice delivering the edict skates through me, teasing recognition in the back of my brain, and a shiver runs down my spine. It’s familiar, but why? Deep. Smooth.
“Tyler, you heard what Coach said. And Mrs. Triplett is here, too, so there’s no weaseling your way out of math homework. You need to study, practice, and kick ass on your tests. Right, Chloe?” Erin lays it out there for everyone.
A groan filters up the stairs before Tyler lumbers onto the deck. The poor kid has senioritis just like every single other second-semester high school senior.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tyler says.
He’s a good kid, and he’s bright. He just needs to put in the time.
“Hey, Ms. T,” he says, politely addressing me with the shortened name most of the boys in class prefer.
“Hi, Tyler.” I smile encouragingly at him.
“Blake, Clark, this is Chloe. Tyler’s math teacher and the woman in charge of whether he plays or not.”
