Cal kneads her shoulders with his hands and then says, “How about you take that upstairs? Miss Springer and I have got some talking to do.”
Maddie obediently leaves, taking her drawings with her up the stairs to where I assume her bedroom is. I watch her walk away, stepping over discarded shirts and bottles. Cal notices my disapproving look and adds defensively, “I know this ain’t what you teachers want to see, but it’s our reality.”
“It’s, uh, different. But I don’t usually make house calls, Cal.”
“Something tells me someone like you doesn’t do any type of house call…”
I get his implication almost immediately. I’m surprised at how quickly he can turn that smooth charm on. He’s an easy, horrible flirt. But I take the bait. “I make enough house calls.”
“Really? When’s the last time you did one?” He sits down at the table, and I join him in the seat across from him.
Defensively, I respond, “It’s been awhile, okay? But I made them.”
He leans back, his arms still crossed as he studies me. After a long moment, he leans over and picks up Maddie’s backpack. Fishing for a notebook, he pulls a black one out and hands it to me, “My girl’s smart, you know. And she doesn’t deserve to be in remedial classes. Maybe she’s bored and acting up because you don’t challenge her enough.”
It’s a fair point. And he has the evidence. The notebook is full of perfect spelling and English tests. My handwriting marks them all. “Maddie is brilliant, a hard worker, a creative mind. But she still struggles. I don’t see any social studies tests in here. If you had those, you’d see that she's failing to pick up on important facts and figures that is important for junior high.”
I hand him back the notebook and he thumbs through the papers quickly. Maddie cleverly forgot to put those tests in the pile of perfect performances. He growls towards me, “She still doesn’t deserve to be in that classroom.”
“No, she doesn’t. But it wasn’t her learning or test grades that got her there. It was her behavior. Maddie cannot act like – like a—”
He finishes what I want to say, but don’t dare to, “Like me. She’s acting like me.”
I stiffen my lip and nod in agreement. “She can’t act all big and tough. It’s not gonna get her anywhere in school except in the principal’s office where I can’t help her.”
“That’s bullshit. You know she was just fucking standing up for herself. You expect her to get pushed around by some bastard’s son?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t expect that at all. But she should've told me instead of running to him.”
Cal stands dramatically, the papers on his lap falling to the ground. “I didn’t raise no rat!” he fumes.
“And I don’t teach barbarians,” I return simply.
That shuts him up. I’d crossed a line just there, and it amps the tension up a hundredfold. Something has shifted between us. I stand as well, grabbing my purse from the tabletop. My eyes search for the door, but how he's breathing heavily, terrifying and enraged, keeps me in place.
He takes a step towards me, just as he did earlier today. And then, I feel it. His hand wraps around my head and under my ponytail. He pulls me in close and up, finding his lips. My arms hold in their place at my side as he locks me in. I don’t dare to move. I’m too overcome with the power of his mouth and his breath in mine.
Cal takes another step towards me as we embrace, and my hand lands on his hard, steely chest. I give in, placing the palm on it, feeling the vibrations of his heart underneath his shirt. It’s the same frantic rhythm of mine. My other hand wraps around his neck for balance as he lifts me up to my toes, putting me face to face with him and his mouth.
Then, it happens. A bang. A shout. Glass breaking. Cal pulls me down to the ground, breaking the table under our weight. He’s on top of me, holding me firmly in place as I scream into the darkness.
Chapter 9: The Run
CAL
Glass covers my back as I press into Michelle. I hold my jacket over her head, praying it will be enough. There’s screaming. Not just from her, but from the room next to me where the boys were playing cards just moments ago and the girls were waiting on them. One of the girls, in particular, is shrieking and panting, and I can only imagine what just happened in that room.
Finally, I hear it. Engines revving up and the squealing of tires on the pavement. I stand towards the broken window where the bullets shot through and pull out my own gun from my waistband. I quickly fire off a few shots towards where I can still see the back end of their bike’s tire, but they’re already gone into the night. There’s no use even attempting going after them.