1
HARRY
I’m not entirelysure how I ended up on a stuffy chartered motorcoach surrounded by Sharks. That would betheSharks, the boisterous fifth-grade boys’ hockey team from the school I teach at. Yet here I am.
The less-than-luxurious bus chugs down the interstate, transporting us to picturesque Warwick, Rhode Island—site of the New England Peewee Hockey Division Three semifinals. The fact that I know any of those words is something my father would take pride in. Mainly because the only sport I ever entertained as a child was hiding in the back of gym class, hoping to be picked last for any team and then knowing I’d be placed in whatever position required the least amount of athletic skill. Way back in right field, staring at the clouds? Keeping the bench warm while the taller, more svelte guys played basketball? Collecting the misfired and out-of-bounds balls on the tennis court? I’m your guy. I have zero knowledge or interest in hockey and would prefer to keep it that way.
As a fifth-grade language arts teacher at Crossroads Elementary, my only extracurricular duties include working with Christine Wong, the music teacher, on the musical each year. We closedInto the Woods JR.two weeks ago to rave reviews. It’s identical to the regular version, except it completely removes the entire tragic second act. Nobody missed the death and despair. Go figure.
“Peterson, you alive?” Darius Hill—Coach Hill to the boys on the bus—asks. He’s the PE teacher at Crossroads and the one person who makes my life uncomfortable at school.
“All good,” I say.
I force a grin and hold up my worn copy ofLord of the Flies. Regardless of my previous interactions with Darius, William Golding’s classic will be the only tension between civility and chaos on this overnight hellscape of a trip I was roped into.
I’m not sure what I ever did to him, but the tension in the air is palpable whenever he’s around. Maybe it’s my lack of sports knowledge beyond women’s figure skating and the occasional leer at men’s tennis because of those thick thighs in short shorts . . . or my disinterest in his lunchtime fantasy football conversations in the teacher’s lounge . . . or the fact that I love to suck dick.
From the moment I was hired, Darius Hill has made it abundantly clear he doesn’t like me.
“Thanks again,” he says from three uncomfortable inches away.
We’re crammed into the only vacant seats near the back of the bus, him against the window while I’ve gotthe aisle—right next to the bathroom that vaguely smells like an overused outhouse at a hot dog eating contest.
“No problem.”
Except it is a problem. I’m not supposed to be here. I should be home in bed, eating ice cream from the container while watching the new season of that show about a ridiculously attractive American woman who moves to Paris and spends her time eating delicious food and fawning over gorgeous French men—none of whom have any interest in sports.
“I never took you for a guy to take a dare,” Darius says.
My eyes are fixed on the screen four seats ahead of us playingDespicable Me 4, which is completely lost on me since I’ve never seenDespicable Me 1-3or any of theMinionsmovies. It’s really all drivel that works well, even without my headphones plugged into the seat for sound, and I try to get lost in the Minion playing a banana like a saxophone. As my grandmother would say,this isn’t great theatre, Harry.
But I can see Darius in my peripheral vision, wearing the Bruins cap that’s apparently superglued to his scalp and burning a hole into the side of my head with his light hazel eyes. His face is adorned with scruff that seems to defy time, always maintaining the same perfect length by some inexplicable straight-boy sorcery.
“I’m not here for a dare.” I keep my eyes focused on the chaotic little yellow people.
“Oh? Why, then?”
I face Darius, taking in the athletic suit with his nameemblazoned on the chest. My eyes dart down to ‘Coach Hill’ stitched over his firm pec, taunting me.
“I’m here for the kids.” I nod at the group of boys on the bus.
Most of them are plugged in, laughing at the immature animated antics. Fifth-grade boys are interesting animals. Developmentally, they’re typically behind their female counterparts. Smaller. Less aware of the world around them. In a few months, the total onslaught of body odor will be in full effect, and I’ll be forced to deliver my dreaded ‘personal hygiene’ chat to them. It’s that or cosplay as Esther Williams and wear a nose plug to avoid the ripe onion smell while attempting to teach the intricacies ofTreasure Island.
Darius raises his right eyebrow. He’s a cocky motherfucker. I refuse to lower myself to his level and take the bait. As Michelle Obama says, “When they go low, we go high.”God, I wish I had her arms.
I lift my chin, meet his gaze, and continue.
“Without another staff chaperone, the trip would be canceled. It’s not the boys’ fault Mr. Applegate’s dog went into labor and he had to take her to the emergency vet in New Hampshire. He didn’t even know she was expecting. A surprise poodle pregnancy. You can’t make this stuff up.” I shrug. “And I was . . .”
“Available.”
As Darius smirks, a surge of frustration pulses through me, my hand involuntarily twitching with the overwhelming desire to wipe that smug expression off his face.
“I was in the office. Mrs. Stephen was infull panic mode. I wasn’t letting her take the hit. She’s mere months away from retirement. There was no way I was making her ride the bus to Rhode Island with a group of fifth graders and . . . you. It was my civic duty to step up.”
“And you were available.”
“Yes. I didn’t have any plans on a Friday night. Sue me.”
