Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love)

I settle myself in a chair, twirling the yellow rose between my fingers before tucking the stem back inside one of the outside pockets of my satchel.

I glance up, and Ronan’s eyes glitter.

“From Andrew,” I murmur.

“Really.”

“He always gave them to me. When I won homecoming queen—he was king—he sent me four dozen, for the four years I’d been in high school.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “You’re keeping it, then?”

“It’s a flower. I like it.”

“Huh.” He dips his head and shuffles around the papers on his desk. “I didn’t see you at lunch. How was your first day?”

I chew on my lips. “No one threw spitballs at me. There was a paper airplane, though. Do you know a student, Caleb Carson?”

“No.”

“His parents were killed in a car wreck back in April.” I shake my head. “Before that, he was a solid B and C student, and he wasn’t getting truant notices.” I chew on my lips. “Something about the way he left my room got to me.”

“Maybe life put him in front of you. You lost your mom; he lost his parents. I believe things can be interconnected.”

“You mean like destiny?” I capture his gaze.

“Mm-hmm.”

How absolutely fascinating.

“Do you mean like Tuck showing up at my bar, me being Leia, then us meeting again in Blue Belle?””

He looks away from me, grabs one of the notebooks, and walks to the door. “There’s a list of things for you on the desk. I wrote down the passwords to the social media accounts. My cell number is there. You good?”

I nod. “Sure.”

Without looking at me, he walks out the door.

Well. Talk about avoidance . . .

After answering calls and jotting down messages, I dust the filing cabinets and the TVs and straighten up his closet. I clean the helmets and the benches with a disinfectant, then let the laundry guy in when he shows up to collect last week’s uniforms and Ronan’s dress shirts. Feet aching from my shoes, I walk out to the field and take pics of them practicing, careful to not post any of their plays or formations.

By the time the bell rings, I’m exhausted. Sabine is going to soccer with Lacey, so I point the Caddy to a house near the entrance of the stone gate that leads to our neighborhood. I stop at Caleb’s house, a rambling two-story colonial, a bit newer than some, but weeds have taken over the yard and landscaping. I slip my shoes back on and walk up the sidewalk.

An older lady, maybe seventy, answers the door warily.

Caleb appears in the foyer, a scowl on his thin face. “I’ve got it, Granny,” he tells her, then steps outside.

I wave. “Hi. Remember me?”

Dressed in dark jeans and a Rolling Stones shirt, he crosses his arms and glowers at me. “What do you want?”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“Nope.” He flips around to head back in the house.

“Wait!” I catch the door before he can slam it in my face. “Caleb, I know what happened to your parents.”

His jaw clenches, anger flashing. “So? Everyone does! A drunk driver ran a traffic light and killed them.”

“Just give me five minutes, okay? Please.”

His throat bobs as he steps back out. I sit down on the steps of his porch while he stands in front of me. “You walked out of my class today, and you’ve missed six days already, which leaves a lot of work to make up.”

“So?”

Okay, he’s belligerent. I kind of get it.

“Your state scores are good; you used to play baseball and be part of the drama department.”

“And?”

“You’re a smart kid—” I stop and yelp when a foot cramp hits. I kick my shoes off and lean over to massage my foot. I groan, the pain rippling up my calf.

Caleb’s hazel eyes widen. “Um, are you okay?”

I throw my hands up, all professionalism gone. “No, I’m not. I really wanted to wear these . . . stupid freaking shoes . . . and I can’t because they hurt, but they look great . . . ouch!” I press my fingers into my foot. “And you know what? It’s been a doozy of a day. In case you’re the only person at BBHS that doesn’t know, I’m dating the football coach, and he’s freezing me out, and I think he might have left me a rose, which is dumb, because he didn’t—it was my ex. And then I had to deal with three classes of kids who don’t even care about Julius Caesar, and maybe I agree with them, but I want to be a good teacher and a good sister, and to top it all off, I’m still angry about my mama . . .” I blink rapidly at the rush of sadness.

Caleb’s brow furrows. “What did your mom do?”

“Nothing on purpose. She died.” My cramp eases away, and I let my foot fall back down to the porch. “Wow. You didn’t want to hear all that. I needed to vent, and you were available. Sorry.”

He uncrosses his arms. “You’re the first teacher to come to my house.”

“Here I am.”

“Eager much?”

“Sarcastic much?” I reply.

“You talked to us like we were babies.”

I wince. “Yeah, I need to work on that.” I pause. “I really am sorry about your parents.”

Emotion flits over his face, his eyes shiny. He sits down next to me.

“Death sucks,” I say, then lean back on the porch. “Tell me why you left today.”

He looks away from me. “I got mad. Miss Tyler just lets us hang out.” He shrugs. “They say I have anger issues.”

“I understand. Let’s do this again. Hi, Caleb. I’m Nova, and I’d really like it if you came back to my class tomorrow. I might not be a great teacher, but I think it might be entertaining to watch me try to teach Shakespeare. Don’t you?” I smile. “Truth? I’m holding out for the poetry unit. I was thinking we could draw or paint or, I don’t know, pick a song that hits the theme. What do you think? Is that a good idea?”

He shrugs.

“You’re angry about your parents. I’m there with you. And . . . and . . .” I’m not a counselor, but I have thoughts about what he’s going through. “There are some days when it’s overwhelming, and I get pissed that she was taken too soon, that I hadn’t talked to her in three days, that I don’t know how to do the things she did for my sister.”

He stares at the ground.

I sigh. It’s tough to talk when the other person doesn’t talk back. “How do you feel about Dairy Queen?”

“Um, it’s okay, I guess.”

“Wanna go?”

He grimaces. “I can’t be seen with a teacher, Ms. Morgan. Street cred and all.”

“Right, it’s just . . . ice cream solves a lot of problems. Break up with someone, eat an M&M Blizzard; get angry about a loved one passing, eat another one.”

He huffs. “Sounds like a you problem.”

“You’re right.” I rub my hands down my skirt as I stand and pick up my shoes. “Caleb . . . I don’t want to be a pest”—I kind of do—“but I live down the street from you. Every day that I don’t see you, I’m coming back to this house.”

He lets out an exasperated sound as he stands. “Why are you so weird?”

I lean in. “Mama always said, ‘Keep your heart open, even when it feels like breaking.’ Then she’d talk about opening our wings and sing ‘Little Sparrow,’ by Dolly Parton . . . I know that might be odd, too, but the point is . . . I’m where you are, Caleb. We have something in common. Loss. You have scars that people can’t see, but I can because I have them too. I’m on your side, you know. If you want to talk—”

“I have a counselor.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Don’t come back,” he calls.

“No promises! Bye!”

Then he’s gone, shutting the door in my face.