Page 5 of Working for the Teacher

Doesn't stop the part of my brain that's already decided finding out why she's back in Forge Creek is my new full-time job.

“Kane.”

Coach Reyes says my name the way he's said it since I was a student here, like it's a threat he's still deciding whether to follow through on.

“Yeah.”

“I said watch where you're setting that pile.”

There’s no real issue here, but I move the lumber anyway, because arguing with Reyes has never once worked in my favor.

“Heard about that thing last year,” he says. “Some equipment going missing off a job site.”

“That got sorted.”

“Did it?”

“Yeah, Coach. It did.” I keep my voice level, because I know exactly what he's doing and I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “You want to check with my boss? He'll tell you the same thing.”

“I might. You know I can't have you wandering this school unsupervised. Not with your history.”

“I'm not wandering. I'm working.”

“Dave's the only reason you're on this job at all. You remember that. I told the district I'd sign off because Dave Samuels vouched for you personally. That's it. That's the whole reason. Not because I think you've turned over a new leaf.”

I don't say anything, because there's nothing to say that won't make this worse. I stopped expecting people to trust me a long time ago. Dave took a shot on me anyway. Hired me on as a laborer when nobody else would return my calls, worked me half to death for two years, and made me foreman the second I proved I could handle it. I owe him everything, and Coach Reyes throwing that debt back in my face doesn't sit right with me.

“We done here?” I ask.

“For now.”

He walks off toward the gym, whistle bouncing against his chest, and I stand there working my jaw until it stops aching.

I think about Charlotte again, wondering if she remembers me at all. Then I go back to work because that's the only thing that's ever actually helped, framing out the new equipment shed behind the gym. It's good work. Honest work. The kind of work that doesn't care what you did as a stupid teenager.

I finish up at the school and head over to Whitfield & Sons Hardware for some supplies. Doris Whitfield is behind the counter, her expression permanently unconvinced by whatever you're telling her.

“Well look who it is,” she says, not looking up from the register tape she's fixing. “The prodigal foreman. You look like somebody ran over your dog.”

“Don't have a dog.”

“Then somebody ran over something.” She finally glances at me, sharp as ever, and I know I'm not getting out of here without an interrogation. “Spit it out, Kane.”

“It's nothing.”

“Uh huh.”

She studies me over the top of her glasses as I toss a few things on the counter.

“Who is she?”

“What? Nobody.”

Her eyebrows lift. Fuck. One look at Charlotte and apparently I’ve lost whatever ability I had to play it cool.

“Reyes give you trouble again?”

I nod, more than happy to let her change the subject.