uncomfortable. It was how I always felt in new work situations. But at least I knew this situation was just temporary.
“Five-minute warning,” one of the teachers announced, and everyone groaned.
“We better get going, Cicero. It’s a long walk back,” Floyd said, packing up his food pantry.
“It was nice meeting everyone,” I said. Jake winked.
“Whew. I thought Amie Jo was going to tear into us about Milton,” Floyd said when we were in the hallway. “She rarely eats in this lunchroom.”
“Marley, do you have a minute?”
Floyd’s face drained of color. “Shit. Evil Queen alert.”
Amie Jo tottered out of the lounge on her heels. Seriously, how did she even teach in those? My feet would have been bleeding by second period.
“I know you’re new here, but I really think you need to understand that my boys are angels. They are handsome, athletic, popular boys, and there is never a reason to discipline them.”
“He was being a dick, Amie Jo,” Floyd intervened.
She held up a manicured hand. “Zip it, Floyd. Never. A. Reason.” She poked me with her Barbie Corvette pink talon to emphasize every word. “Got it?”
I was working up a response somewhere between “get your weird bird hands off of me” and “your son is a moron who’s too entitled to treat people nicely” when the bell rang.
The hallway instantaneously flooded with bodies and BO. I could hear the staccato click of Amie Jo’s stilettos on the industrial tile floor as she marched back to whatever ring of hell she occupied.
16
Marley
“Lunch duty and parking lot duty?” Floyd asked when I headed in the direction of the student lot. “Somebody hit the jackpot this semester.”
Grimacing, I bumped the exit door with my hip as I shot him pistol fingers. “Lucky’s my middle name.” The late August swelter took my breath away when I stepped down onto the asphalt. I could bake a frozen pizza on this slab of parking lot.
Parking lot duty, as it had been mirthlessly described to me, entailed making sure students didn’t light up their cigarettes or run each other over on school grounds. Apparently there was something about liability insurance. I was to report to the top of the practice field hill that overlooked the student lot and yell disciplinary phrases if necessary.
There was a cute, petite Asian teacher in a flowy skirt and t-shirt already waiting at the top of the hill. I huffed and puffed my way to her.
“Hey,” I said, wheezing a bit.
“You must be Marley,” she said, holding out a hand to me. “I’m Haruko Smith. French teacher.”
I shook and tried to catch my breath. “Nice to meet you.”
“And yes, it is ironic that I’m a Japanese-American teaching French.” She tucked her blunt bob behind both ears. “Now that that’s settled, how did it feel to discipline that Hostetter punk?”
I laughed.
“Does he really get a free ride?” I asked.
“He and his brother, Ascher.”
“Ascher?”
Haruko sighed. “Yep. Named after Amie Jo’s favorite diamond cut. You’re the unsung hero of the day. We’re all terrified of her, but you had the guts to tell that wannabe surfer moron where to stick it.”
“Technically I just made him run laps.” I didn’t need some overblown story of my Amie Jo defiance blowing up in my face.
“Still,” Haruko said. “It’s more than most. Rumor has it you put her in her place in high school, too.”
A blaring horn in the parking lot captured our attention and saved me from having to answer.
“Blaire Elizabeth! Get away from that Camaro!” a woman yelled out of her open minivan window.
A girl in denim shorts and a Katy Perry tour t-shirt stomped away from a much-older-looking boy leaning against a rusted-out Camaro, its body panels a variety of colors including primer, red, and orange.
“Moooom! You’re embarrassing me!”
“Embarrassment is better than teen pregnancy! Trust me!” There was something vaguely familiar about that voice. A Pennsylvania twang wrapped around expensive education.
I peered down the hill trying to see through the glare on the windshield.
The horn honked again as the girl climbed in through the sliding passenger door. “Marley Cicero? Is that you?” The driver was hanging out of her open window and waving at me.
“Holy shit, Vicky?”
I jogged down the hill. Vicky Kerblanski—now Rothermel—my best friend through all twelve years of Culpepper schooling, popped out of the van, arms open.
She was wearing pajama pants, a tank top, and a baseball cap over her fire engine red hair.
“I can’t freaking believe you’re here!” she said, yanking me into a violent hug. Vicky always had been largely unaware