choice of a name by my parents that I've suffered with for years. There's nothing cute, cuddly or honeyish about me. My parents had been wowed by a character in some police drama on TV with the name Honey, so that's what they named me. Thanks, scriptwriters of the eighties.
“Hey yourself.” I cradle my books and stand out of the way of the hall foot traffic. “How was your first day?”
“Same old. How about you?”
I'm in honors classes, where Ryan could be if he'd take school more seriously. “It's going to be harder this year.”
“If anyone can do it, it's you.”
I love basking in his attention. “So what's up today?”
“Joel's picking me up and we're going to my place for some thumb exercises.”
“A new video game? No homework?”
“Don't nag.” He waggles his finger at me.
“You seen the new teacher?”
Now his grin widens. “Seen her! I have her. Academically speaking, of course. World history.”
I'd seen her in the lunchroom, where every male in the place leered when she walked through to buy ice tea. I guess they were out of tea in the faculty lounge. “Please don't say obvious things about taking a tour of her body.”
“I'm crushed that you would even think me so shallow and insensitive.” He widens blue eyes, feigning innocence. “It doesn't have to be an entire tour, you know.”
I slug his arm. “You're bad to the bone, Piccoli.” Then I add, “I think she looks like a hooker.” It's mean, but teachers should wear cute baggy sweaters and not flaunt their bodies.
“I think she looks hot,” he says. “Not your usual female for a high school faculty.”
I feel my face turn red. To me, his saying that means I am not hot. “But she's supposed to teach, not look hot.”
“She can't do both?”
I'm digging a hole for myself but don't know how to get out of it.
“You going to the game Friday night?” Ryan changes the subject.
“Probably.”
“Then sit with me and Joel.”
His magic smile appears again and I melt. “Jessica and Taylor will be with me.”
“That's fine.”
“Then okay.” I shrug, knowing that our time together for today is over. I long for the days of elementary when Ryan would come home with me after school and we'd spend the afternoon together climbing trees and building forts. I was a pretty good dragon slayer in those days. Now all I'm good for is basketball. I'm the center, and I make a good one because I'm so tall. Another un-honeylike trait.
“I'm out of here,” he says, and I watch him take off. By now the halls are empty and I know I've missed my bus. Mom's not going to be thrilled about coming to pick me up, either. I retrieve my cell from my locker and dial her up.
“Oh, Honey…how'd you miss the bus?” She sounds irritated.
“First day and all,” I say. “Tons of confusion. Sorry.”
She sighs. “I have to pull Cory away from his TV shows.”
“I said I was sorry.” My nine-year-old brother, Cory, is autistic. Not bad autistic, but enough to be a problem. Kids like him love ritual, and breaking his routines can mean a tantrum.
“Where should I meet you?”
“Out front. No hurry. Let Cory watch the rest of his show. There's a bench and I can sit and read.”
“I'll be there soon as I can.”
We hang up and I go outside. I hate being fifteen. Too young to drive without some adult in the car with me. Too old to ride the stupid school bus and feel good about myself. I think of Ryan again. One more thing I can't have. I should start a list.
ever let them see you sweat. The old sports adage is my first thought as my classroom fills up with young bodies. New faces turn to each other; they ignore the room and me, and all the work I've put into making it student friendly, smart, not too schoolroom-ish. I check them over as they come inside—tall ones, short ones, pretty ones and the not-so-pretty, the ones with skin scarred by acne and the overweight, the shy, the loud, the teases—all fresh in their youth and vitality, unable to see what they possess simply by being young. I envy them. And I'm drawn to them. I covet their innocence, their youth.
I became a teacher because I wanted to make a difference in kids' lives. A simple objective. But it is they, the students, who over time have made a difference in mine. I watch a girl settle into a front-row chair. She'll be a studious type, eager to please and make good grades. In the back, a row of boys—big, gangly boys—plops down. They're probably of the “I hate school” mentality, and hunch over their desks, some already dozing off, too bored to care. First-period classes suck. Research shows that teenagers don't really wake up until midmorning. They come alive at night, when their parents are sacked out.
I come alive at night too.
The bell rings and I introduce myself, begin my spiel about world history ancient and modern. Their eyes take me in, sweeping me with expressions that ask, “Is she for real?” It's what I want from them, what I've come to expect. They won't forget me, of that I'm sure. I ask for texts to be passed around. A few of the males fall over themselves to comply.
I stand in front of my desk for effect, the old oak surface rough and pitted against my hands. Not like at the private school where I last taught. There the furniture was smooth and polished, dark with age and prestige. I ask my series of questions to the upturned faces. The class sits mutely, staring. My psyche sinks. Ordinary. How can they all be so ordinary?
Then one speaks out. A wise-guy answer that makes the room laugh. He's beautiful. Dark hair, blue eyes, dimples—not yet a man, yet more than a child. Yes, I know that too in an instant. It's a gift, being able to see inside them. I stare at him and the room seems to recede. A halo of light encircles him and suddenly, I know …he'll be the One.
Ryan
Dad comes in Thursday evening from his road trip. He sells hospital equipment—big, expensive, one-of-a-kind units. His territory is the East Coast, and his typical week is out Monday morning and back home to Atlanta on Thursday. He's hired us a housekeeper, who cleans once a week, and she has a sister he pays to cook us meals ahead of time and freeze them so we never go hungry. Plus, we never have to cook.
“How's school?” Dad asks.
He starts all our conversations this way.
“Fine.” And I answer this way, but he never seems to notice the sameness.
“Any good classes?”
Sure, he calls home when he's gone, but just to check in, make sure nothing major has gone wrong. He doesn't know about any of my new classes yet. He doesn't know about Ms. Settles—Lori's her first name. What should I tell him? That she's a babe? That I sit in front of her desk every day and drool? That I watch her every move? Her legs are long, and she always wears heels that make them look even longer. Sometimes when I see her unexpectedly, like in the halls or in the lunchroom, my heart races and the crotch of my pants gets tight.
“Classes are all right. A lot more homework than last year,” I tell him, because I have to say something, and I sure don't feel like telling him about Lori Settles.
“Any of your friends in your classes?”
