“Here we go,” Ivy murmurs as Cal ducks inside.
I’ve never been here before, but it’s a good spot for stealthily following someone. The space is large and industrial, dominated by exposed pipes in the ceiling and abstract paintings on the walls. Some kind of bluesy music plays in the background, mingling with the buzz of the crowd. Cal pauses, scanning the room, then makes his way toward a corner table. A blond girl wearing a baseball cap is sitting there, and she lifts her hand in greeting.
“I knew she was blond,” Ivy says through clenched teeth. “I knew it.” Then her expression changes from annoyance to puzzlement. “Wait. Is that…”
The girl tilts her head, giving me a good view of her face, and a couple of things stop me in my tracks. One, we know her. And two, girl is the wrong age category. “Yup,” I say.
Ivy pauses beside me. “Why is he meeting her?” she asks, clearly confused. “Is this a school thing? Or do you think she knows Cal’s mystery girlfriend? Or maybe—” Then Ivy’s jaw drops as Cal grabs both of the blond woman’s hands in his, twining their fingers together. He presses a kiss to her knuckles and she pulls away, but not like she’s shocked by Cal making an unexpected move. The look on her face doesn’t say, What are you doing? It says, Not here.
What. The. Hell.
I sink into an empty table and Ivy drops next to me. The impatience I felt toward her on the train vanishes, and all I can focus on is the odd couple in front of us. “Was Cal just holding hands with our art teacher?” she asks.
Yeah, he was. Our young, crazy-hot art teacher. Ms. Jamison started working at Carlton High two years ago, right after she graduated from college, and she made an instant impression. Most of our teachers are middle-aged, or straight-up old. The only female teacher who people have ever thought was even a little bit attractive before Ms. Jamison showed up was Ms. Meija. She’s one of the Spanish teachers, at least thirty, and looks like someone’s mom on a TV show. Good, but not I’m going to take this class even though I don’t have to good.
Ms. Jamison looks that kind of good. Art has never been so popular.
I’ve never spoken to her. The closest I came was last August, when my dad was in town on break from his roadie gig and decided to take me back-to-school shopping. I didn’t need or want anything but figured I’d humor him and save the receipt so I could return everything later. So we were in Target, and he was looking at lava lamps like I was going off to college and needed to furnish a dorm room, when Ms. Jamison walked by. She was checking something on her phone and didn’t notice us, but Dad definitely noticed her.
“I have a sudden need for towels,” he said, watching her head down that aisle.
“No,” I said shortly. That’s how roughly sixty percent of conversations with my father go: me trying to shut down something embarrassing and/or obnoxious. It’s made worse by the fact that ever since I turned fifteen and got taller than him, he’s treated me like his wingman.
“Why not?” Dad asked, already pivoting our cart.
“She teaches at Carlton,” I hissed. “Autumn takes her class.” Thank God that stopped him, because Ms. Jamison came back into the main aisle then and would’ve bumped into us otherwise. She smiled politely at my father, glanced at me with a spark of recognition that didn’t catch—I’d gotten a lot taller over the summer—and kept going.
I thought I’d dodged that bullet until Dad loudly said, “They didn’t make them like that when I was in school.” That earned us a lingering backward look from Ms. Jamison before she finally, mercifully, disappeared from view. To this day, I couldn’t tell you whether she was angry or amused. All I knew was that I was horrified, and I’ve avoided Ms. Jamison’s classes like the plague ever since.
I’m the exception, though. Half the guys in school take it in the hopes of getting friendly with Ms. Jamison, and at least a few of them—the jocks, mostly—brag that they’ve done more than that. But they’re the kind of guys you can’t take seriously, so I’ve never paid attention to them. Plus, last winter Ms. Jamison got engaged to Carlton High’s lacrosse coach, Coach Kendall, who’s the human equivalent of a golden retriever. Cheerful, friendly, and liked by everyone. From what I’ve seen of the two of them together, they look happy.
But now here’s Cal—Cal, of all the damn people—leaning as far forward as the table will let him, looking like he’s two seconds away from kissing her.