Getting Played - Emma Chase Page 0,23

the video camera on my computer—focusing on my makeup free face, the freckles across my nose bare for all to see. I press record and talk in low, hushed tones.

“Hey Lifers. I don’t know when I’ll be ready to post this. It feels more real than it did yesterday, but still . . . surreal. I’m having a baby. It wasn’t planned, it’s totally unexpected, but with every passing minute, I’m happier about it.”

In my mind I imagine a little boy or girl, a toddler, with sun-kissed hair and ocean-blue eyes, and a great smile—with a talent for music. And it’s so bizarre that those could be the only things I know for sure they got from their father. But that may have to be enough.

I look into the camera. “You guys wanted to experience life with Lainey? Well strap in—it’s gonna get nuts.”

Chapter Five

Dean

I admit, I get a kick out of the first day of school—I always did. Maybe it’s the nerd in me, but there’s something exciting about a fresh box of #2 pencils, a clean notebook, a new, unblemished folder.

Okay . . . it’s definitely the nerd in me.

But that doesn’t change the fact that the first day of school is like New Year’s in September—the start of a whole new year—endless possibilities.

I have a personal dress code I stick to for work—it helps me compartmentalize, get into teacher mode and separate myself from the wilder, free-wheeling summer nights with the band. No T-shirts, sweats or hoodies allowed—it’s all button-downs, sweaters, jeans, suits and ties on game day Fridays, and . . . glasses.

I’m notoriously nearsighted. Woman are into the glasses—but generally not on a drummer. Contacts are for the summer, my dark, square frames are for the rest of the time.

They make me look smart—most people subconsciously associate glasses with intelligence. They make me look like a teacher. And when it comes to teenagers—perception is half the battle.

~ ~ ~

The first period final bell is still ringing as I close my classroom door, because my kids are already at their desks.

Standing at the head of the class, I greet my band of brainiacs.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to school. I’m sure you’re as excited as I am to explore the never-ending wonders of AP Calculus. It’s going to be a good time, people.”

I scan their eager, awkward, acne-cream tinted little faces as I pass out the syllabus and go through my PowerPoint presentation of how grades will be calculated. All the usual suspects are here—Louis, Min Joon, Hailey, Martin, Keydon, Daisy, Quinn and Diego.

Fun fact: Diego has a twin sister in regular math named Dora. His parents are obviously monsters.

There’s also one new face in the pack: Jason Burrows.

He’s got sandy-colored hair, and a 5 Seconds of Summer-ish, pretty-boy look that girls today really go for. After telling the class to take out their summer packets for review, I lift my chin at Burrows. “I don’t expect you to have it completed. You can—”

He pulls the packet from his folder.

“It’s already done, Mr. Walker. I found it on the school’s website and finished it last night.”

Oh yeah, he’s gonna fit right in.

I call the kids up at random to post their answers to the problems on the board. Most of the answers are close—but wrong. These kids may be the cream of the smart, but they still have a lot to learn.

Daisy Denton, a shy, bespeckled redhead who’s obsessed with butterflies, gets one right on the money.

“Good job, Daisy. You want to ask your question now or later?”

Any student who gets an answer correct in my class gets to ask me a question. Any question, nothing’s off-limits, and I’ll answer it truthfully, no bullshit. It’s a great way to establish rapport and hopefully trust.

“I’ll ask now.” Daisy blushes, merry and bright. “What’s the secret of life, Coach Walker?”

“Starting the year off with an easy one, huh?” I tease.

Her cheeks turn a darker shade of crimson, but she’s smiling.

I adjust my glasses. “The secret of life is . . . good friends, good food, and good music. You have those three—everything else falls into place.”

“What do you consider good music?” Daisy asks.

Technically that’s two questions, but since Daisy is basically a mute most of the time, I don’t point that out.

I hear a sweet, spellbinding voice in my head that, despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to forget. “I like songs that tell a story. That make me feel. That make me remember.”

“Good music tells