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the whole damn world is just as obsessed // with who’s the best dressed and who’s having sex // who’s got the money, who gets the honeys // who’s kinda cute, and who’s just a mess
High School Never Ends – Bowling for Soup
After a nearly twenty-year career, one might think that the smell of stale, humid linoleum would lose its charm. But for Randolph Bell, there was nothing that compared to the sights, sounds, and scents of a school hallway during the summer. The first floor of the science wing was unchanged from its state in June, including the way the humidity made the lock of his office door sticky.
Looking down to the keyhole, he noticed a sliver of light coming from office door beside his own. The last occupant had retired last year leaving a gaping hole in the physics department, paving the way for a new neighbor in the wing. Randolph debated saying hello, but the administrative summit was starting in ten minutes and he did not have time to entertain small talk that would be repeated a few hours later during the department meeting anyway.
He balanced the coffee and his bag in one hand and struggled with the key when suddenly the other door opened and an unknown figure collided with his side.
“Whoa, watch it,” he said quietly. Randolph had managed to divert the mug of coffee away from the front of his shirt, only a few drops escaping to stain the navy fabric at his wrist.
“Oh, gosh. Oh, no. I am so sorry.”
The soft, strong tones of the accent were nothing like those of the gruff Mr. Zelinski he was accustomed to. Neither was the woman herself. Her height captured his attention first, long, slender legs that went on for miles, then the way her hair framed her face with soft curls. She looked to be a few years younger than he was, though not by much, and carried an aura of authority as she rummaged through the office and continued to apologize.
“Here, I must have some tissues in here to clean that up. Unfortunately, I cannot offer any coffee to replace what was lost, but hopefully this is enough to remedy the worst first impression.”
He politely accepted the napkins and glanced around the interior of the neighboring office. Stacks of paper and attendance sheets cluttered the desk, along with three physics textbooks and a Newton’s cradle. “You must be the new AP physics teacher,” he deduced.
“Kit Voss.”
She extended her hand and Randolph shuffled the coffee to his left hand. “Welcome to West, Mrs. Voss.”
“Oh, no, not Mrs.”
“Ms.?”
“Doctor.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Interesting,” he muttered as he finally shook her hand. “Randolph Bell. Introductory biology.”
Between moving cities and starting over at a new school, again, Kit had barely had time to think much less meet anyone new. Now that everything was beginning to settle down and her first week of lesson plans were written, she had additional space to focus outside of the classroom. Or rather, lose focus.
The man before her was roughly her age, with graying hair and piercing blue eyes. He did not fit the profile of the other younger teachers she had met, and the collared shirt and tie combination was far more formal than what she had seen the rest of the school wear. Summers in Atlanta were certainly not conducive to long-sleeved dress shirts, but Kit knew from experience that introductory courses did call for a certain level of discipline.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bell.”
He twitched a smile. “Just ‘Bell’.”
“Okay.”
There was more to the smirk and the monosyllabic name, but just as she was about to ask, another office opened and three more teachers spilled into the hallway. The remainder of the introduction would have to wait until after the administrative meetings.
…
Three weeks passed and Randolph had once again settled into the routine of early September. The three classes of students this fall were all unique in their own ways, and he was starting to learn more about the personalities of the ninth graders. Having finished grading the first true exam of the year, he dropped his bag in the back seat of his car as he did every day and turned the key to the ignition.
The engine sputtered and struggled to turn over. The key turned again. And again. And again.
“Come on, come on, don’t do this to me,” he muttered. He tried to start the car one more time before dropping his forehead to the steering wheel. “Great.”
Randolph tossed the tie over one shoulder and lifted the hood of the car, waving away the smoke that came from within. Smoke from any mechanical part was not a good sign. It was difficult to know the precise source of the problem without a deeper inspection, but his initial diagnosis pointed towards the transmission.
“Everything alright?” Kit’s voice carried across the parking lot.
Her shoes slowly appeared in his line of view and Randolph leaned against his forearm, still holding up the hood and staring at the smoking engine. A band of sweat had begun to form at his brow from the heat and he shook his head.
She did not wait for him to answer.
“Come on. I’ll give you a ride.” She placed a hand on his arm and nodded towards the sedan parked nearby.
Even with what little he knew of Kit Voss, it was clear that she was not the type of person to walk away from a person in need, and certainly not the type to accept a prideful ‘no’ as an answer. Besides, he would not argue when the heat index was in the triple-digits.
Reluctantly, Randolph retrieved his bag and followed. He could call the tow truck from home and address the issue over the weekend, or opt for the mechanic down the street to avoid working in the midst of a heat wave. He slid into the passenger seat and grinned when Kit spread her hand over the gear shift.
“Where to?” She asked.
He gave her the midtown address. Stifling a laugh, she turned to him and narrowed her eyes. “No, seriously. What is your address?”
“Ninth and Park,” he repeated. “It’s a condo complex called The Nines. Why are you making that face?”
“Sorry. No reason.” She cleared her throat and disengaged the clutch to pull out of the school lot. “Ninth and Park. Got it.”
The drive through the busy streets of Atlanta was punctuated by classic rock and light traffic. For someone who had only moved to the city two months ago, Kit handled the downtown streets with ease. Without navigation, she was heading in the direction of his building before he could say where to turn, like someone who had lived here her entire life.
“Take a… right… up here…” Randolph trailed off as she turned down the alley near Park street. The narrow street fed into the back of the underground lot and avoided the traffic from the main street, a little-known secret to occupants of the building, much less to outsiders. “How did you…”
The sedan pulled into a reserved parking space for unit 302, a few stalls away from his, and she put the car in park. Kit turned to her right and was met with a confused, disbelieving look. The lines of his brow scrunched in an endearingly childish way, clearly thrown off by the turn of events.
“Why are you making that face?” She teased.
By the time he could think of an answer, she had already exited the car and was walking towards the door to the residence. He scrambled to collect his bag and jogged to catch up before the back door locked behind her.
“You live here?” He asked once they reached the mailboxes.
“Excellent deduction, Bell.” Without looking up from the mail in her hands, she nodded. “Carpool leaves at 7:05 sharp tomorrow.”
“Wha— carpool?”
“Well you’ll need some way to get to work in the morning.”
“Yes, but…”
“7:05 am,” she smirked, knocking her shoulder against his on the way to the door. “7:05 am. If you’re late, I am leaving without you.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
A rush of heat flooded her core. All afternoon she had the upper hand but in a moment, with three rough, low syllables, he had taken it all back. She paused in the hallway and held the door open, unintentionally allowing him to pass right by while she collected her thoughts.
The sly grin on his face widened once he was out of view. He was not expecting her to freeze entirely when he said it, but thought the quip may earn a reaction. The precise reaction, however, was certainly one to file away for later use.
He disappeared around the corner and Kit let out a long breath. With it, some of the tension that had been rapidly building.
What the hell was that?
…
The first required outside-of-school-hours event was scheduled for two days later. Each year the district mandated three teambuilding activities and he dreaded having to attend, but finally he had a department chair with an ear for what teachers really needed. Unstructured conversation featuring cold beer and popcorn. The downtown happy hour was out of walking distance from both the school and his apartment, leaving him to arrange his own transportation both ways.
Kit nursed a beer and took in the sights and sounds of the small affair. The department chair was also aware of the demographics of science teachers, many of whom fit the stereotype of middle-aged nerds that grew increasingly chatty after a drink and a half, which provided some exceptional people-watching. To her surprise, she was actually enjoying the opportunity to know her new colleagues. Many had shed the teacher persona since arriving at the bar, but Bell had kept his tie on the entire time and lingering on the outskirts at a small table with another biology teacher.
Mrs. Leighton nodded towards their elusive colleague on the outskirts and said, “He wears a shirt and tie all year, even in the heat of the summer. Not one of us has been able to figure out why.” Kit took another sip of beer and hoped to calm the blush creeping up her neck. “We all assume it’s because he wants the kids to take him seriously, and he doesn’t want any of us to perceive him differently. Bell’s big on parity between students and adults. He won’t even let us use his first name.”
Her eyes remained on Bell as she nodded along. Kit knew that she had been caught staring by her colleague, but of all the teachers, Mrs. Leighton seemed the most harmless. Given that her fiancée was the French teacher, she was probably hyper aware of when glances between colleagues were shared for too long.
“If this weren’t required by the superintendent, he wouldn’t be here tonight.”
“Have you worked together long?” Kit asked.
“I’ve taught at West for sixteen years. Bell started nine years ago, but you would think that he had been here just as long. The students adore him even though the course is challenging. Actually, until you joined us this year, he was the only science teacher with a PhD.”
“Randolph has a PhD?”
The other woman grinned. Never had she heard anyone use Bell’s first name with such confidence. She had also never seen him accept a ride home from another teacher, like he had on Tuesday. There was something brewing between the two, and if she didn’t know better, she would call it chemistry.
“In biophysical chemistry,” Mrs. Leighton finally answered. “You should ask him about it.”
“Perhaps I will.”
Those with children dispersed first, followed by those who now required food to combat the afternoon alcohol. Her glass remained half-full and she was not interested in returning to the pile of quizzes waiting at her apartment. Another colleague left, and soon she and the introductory biology teacher at the end of the bar were the only ones remaining.
Kit slid into the chair beside him. “So. Biophysical chemistry.”
He leaned his elbows on the table and took a sip of whiskey. “Allison loves gossip even more than the students.”
“What are you doing slumming it with ninth graders?”
Bell shrugged and twirled the glass. The image he curated was contradictory to how he felt about education and often he found himself portraying a cold, aloof disciplinarian rather than the person he wanted to be. The shirt and tie did him no favors, neither did his refusal to answer the questions of his new colleagues.
“Okay,” she pressed, “allow me to ask a different question. Why don’t you go by ‘Dr. Bell’?”
Perhaps it was the alcohol, but he was drawn in by her persistence. “I prefer the students see me as a peer,” he replied.
Kit took the tie between her fingers and he rolled his eyes with a gentle smile.
“It’s a balance. Professionalism is important to maintain control of my classroom, but to them, I’m ‘Bell’. Some call me Mr. Bell, but I think the upperclassmen drill it out of them, because it never lasts long. You know that better than anyone.”
The halls of any high school were filled with chatter about everything, and one thing was true of every school: no one could keep a secret. Students nor teachers. Ordinarily he did not entertain the gossip, but found it hard to avoid the subject when it was her. The students saw her as one of the hardest teachers; tough, but fair, and never allowing distractions in the classroom. Bell was familiar with the way many students saw her as a hard-ass, but he knew from experience that she used her stature and confidence to her advantage in a way similar to how he did.
He also knew that half of the seniors had a crush on her, and that many of those enrolled in AP biology had spent the last three weeks wishing they chose AP physics instead.
Beyond her stature and grace, Kit had transformed the end of the science hallway into a place where students were actually learning about the world around them and not just attending lectures. Mr. Zelinski believed in test scores and aptitude, but she was about inspiration. It was admirable. At times, he even found himself slightly jealous of her impassioned approach.
Kit took another sip of the drink and turned to face her colleague. “Have you always wanted to teach biology?”
“No.” He scratched at the back of his neck and quietly added, “That’s, um, a long story.”
“I have time.”
The curiosity in the question was genuine. He often brushed the topic off, but this time, he wanted to share the story with someone who might appreciate the winding path of his career. Bell loosened his tie and settled in to the chair.
“I was on my way to an assistant professorship, and finishing a post-doc. Two grad students, no more than twenty-two, had just started, and they were the Daddy’s-little-angel type who paid their way into a master’s program so they could oust their competition. Anyway, our lab did a lot of work with antiretrovirals and one day they were talking about HIV in a way that you… shouldn’t.
“So I called them out. Told them to be professional and respectful while they were working on something that was killing so many people. One of them called me a word I will never repeat, and I punched him. I was ten years older and, in retrospect, should have known better, but I was overworked and underpaid and dealing with a lot of my own shit around the word they used that it just happened so fast. As it turns out, when you break a rich kid’s nose next to the autoclave, you get fired. The professor I worked with was a well-known immunologist and I couldn’t find another job in academia.”
“There were a number of private labs working with retroviruses, especially at that time.”
“I worked in one for about eight years, but what I loved about graduate school was the teaching. I wanted to work in science, but more than that, I wanted to introduce others to it. So I went back to school, got an Ed.D., and now we’re here.”
The man who began as an elusive stranger in the office beside hers was starting to reveal a more complex tapestry. Not unlike herself, he had a storied academic experience and was passionate about helping others, but still, he kept it so closed. She doubted that she would have ever gotten to know this if they were not sharing a drink at a bar.
It had been years since she wanted to know more about a colleague. Even if he were not a colleague, he was the man who lived down the hall, with a softness in his eyes, a gentle smile, and a dry sarcasm to his humor. He was unlike anyone she had met before.
“What about you?” His voice interrupted the thought.
Kit brushed the hair away from her face and let out a short sigh. “I was a professor for twelve years. It was a tenure-track position at a state school, but I was always writing grants and never got to teach.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Very. A few other things came up to catalyze the career change, but one hop, skip, and a jump later, I left post-secondary education. Now I am among the first to introduce young people to the beauty of physics and how it shapes the world around us.”
He twitched a smile. It was rare to find someone as experienced as he was who still had a genuine passion for teaching high schoolers. Years of dealing with teenagers every day for years was not for the faint hearted. He played his love for the profession close to the vest, but he loved being there the first time freshmen learned about chromosomes and genetics, and getting letters from the graduates who credited him as the reason they applied to medical school.
“Honorable,” he said.
“Please. You know as well as I do that it’s equally foolish. Most seventeen-year-olds are not interested in what Newton had to say. But they always light up during the applications of inertia and momentum.”
“Demonstrations?”
“Tangential velocity as the derivative of centrifugal acceleration is one of my favorites.” Kit explained the details of the activity that involved a tennis ball, a string, and usually one or two broken pieces of glassware when the spinning projectile was released. Casualties of scientific advancement, she called them. “I also take great pride in showing young women that they all have a future in science.”
He was right earlier. Honorable was the correct descriptor.
Outside, Bell said his goodbyes on the curb and lingered near the entrance to the bar. Rather than continuing to her sedan, she paused and watched him open the ridesharing app on his phone.
“How long will your car be out of commission?” She asked.
“No word yet. There aren’t any loaners at the dealership, so it looks like a week of Ubers until I figure something else out.”
“No.”
Randolph lowered his phone. “No?”
“No! Don’t be ridiculous. We live in the same building, we work in the same building, and a public school teacher’s salary is not conducive to spending $50 on daily transportation. I won’t drive you to the movies or to meet a date, but you are welcome to join me on Tuesdays when I go to the market and to and from work.”
He looked away and shuffled on his feet. “I can’t ask you to do that. Who knows how long it will be.”
“You’re not asking.” She raised her keys and unlocked the nearby car. “Get in, Bell.”
…
By the end of the week, things had taken a significant turn for the worse.
Transitioning to a new school always came with growing pains. Kit knew this well, but had forgotten how much they ached in the first two months of the fall semester. She put two hands on the steering wheel, turned her chin to her chest, and closed her eyes, blocking out the world from the sanctity of her car for a few minutes.
Two knocks on the window jolted her back to reality.
Before she could fully regain composure, she unlocked the car and allowed him to apologetically slide into the passenger seat. With no response to his presence, he tilted his head and took in the tired expression.
“Liquor or coffee?” Bell asked.
She closed her eyes again and fought off the headache. “Pardon?”
“You need a drink, and I’m buying.” He was by no means an expert in interpersonal relationships, but he knew the tell-tale signs of a long week and hoped that his understanding tone conveyed as such. “Bar or coffeehouse?”
She huffed a sigh. A drink was necessary, probably two, but having dropped her lunch on the way to fifth period, she was going to need food first.
“Know a good taco place, Bell?”
“Ah,” he grinned, “One with margaritas.”
“Lead the way.”
Late September and happy hour prices called for an afternoon on a patio. The taqueria was down a side street and sold two types of tacos, three cocktails, and eight varieties of salsa. Kit was thrilled to return to a city with culture after years in a midwestern suburb, and discovering restaurants like this was one of the many reasons why.
Bell had picked up on her quiet excitement about the limited menu, and had moved on from restaurants and craft breweries and to the summer concert series. He had loosened the tie and top button of the dress shirt long ago, just as he did at the happy hour, but this was the first time that she had truly seen him out of his element, fully free from the personality he donned for others. It was as though he wanted to be this man, but felt confined to the version of himself that everyone already knew.
Her heart sank at the thought. She wondered where he learned such a thing. Who must have told him that he could not show all of himself.
He was still going on about the various music venues on this side of town when he absentmindedly rolled the sleeves of the shirt up his forearm. Her hand stalled in midair and her eyes fell to his arms.
The dress shirt was not to instill discipline in the classroom, it was a dress code requirement.
Across his forearms were detailed tattoos. They covered nearly every inch of the space, stopping just above the wrist so they could be hidden by long sleeves, black ink a contrast to the tanned skin below.
“Oh. Yeah.” He continued to roll the other sleeve and noted her stare. Kit lowered the drink slowly and did not turn away from his arm, subtle as a brick through a window. They had been spending so much time together that he forgot she did not know about them. “Best kept secret at work, or the worst, depending on who you ask,” he continued.
“These are incredible.”
She reached for his wrist and tugged it closer. Turning his hand over, she followed the black and grey designs that swirled upwards and around the length of his arm. Some of the ink had faded over the years but the intricate designs had varying hues, like he had been adding more over the years. There were numbers and Roman numerals that must have carried meaning scattered over the empty space along with a few sets of initials and small designs that blended with the larger vines and thorns.
Her expressions changed as her fingers hovered just over the ink, and Bell hoped that she could not feel the increase in his heart rate beneath her thumb. Not only was she focused and curious, she admired the artwork. Kit pushed the sleeve farther up his elbow and her hair fell before her face, hiding most of it from view.
The remaining designs disappeared under the fabric but her hand followed up his bicep and the strength of the muscle below. He had been following her movements with her eyes and her cheeks reddened, suddenly aware of how much attention she had been paying to his body.
Kit released his arm slowly, whispering an apology before meeting her eyes.
“It’s alright. It’s a shame that I have to cover them so much during the day.”
“Did you do the designs yourself?”
He twitched a shy smile behind the rim of the glass.
“Of course you did. Unbelievable. They’re unbelievable, Randolph.”
Her voice lowered and her hand once again came to rest over his wrist. It had been years since he felt a connection like this, and it made him surprisingly nervous. Especially because she used his first name.
Randolph shrugged off some of the blush on his chest and raised his eyebrows. “Do you have any ink?”
“Well.” She sat back and took a slow sip of the margarita, holding his gaze the entire time. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
When she winked and took a chip from his plate, he was certain that in more ways than one, this woman was going to be his undoing.
…
The carpool arrangement continued for another week, then two. Two trips to the grocery store and two reimbursements for gas, but more importantly, five outings to a coffee shop, one to her favorite Thai place, and one to the bakery that he swore had the best bagels outside of the east coast before the day of standardized testing.
It was effortless, and had become a daily routine that he actually looked forward to. She was the first person he saw in the morning, and usually the last before he turned in for the night.
The extra ticket to the Braves game on Friday night hung on the fridge and tempted him every time he walked past. Ultimately, Randolph tossed it on his way to the game. As much as he wanted to see Kit over the weekend, they had a good thing going, and he did not want to screw that up by stepping over the line.
Not yet.
She had just moved to town two months ago, and they worked together. There were a number of complications but more importantly, he had a friend whom he enjoyed spending time with during and outside of work. He could enjoy the friendship for a while longer. There was no reason to do anything that could disrupt the routine and comfort. As long as she was still okay with driving to work and being reimbursed, he would do nothing beyond what they already had.
What he did do, however, was park his car with a brand new crank shaft and valve train a few blocks away.
…
The following Tuesday, he became a second set of hands on the way home from the grocery store. Bell followed closely behind as she entered the apartment and once inside, he realized this was the first time he had been in a space that was only hers.
The layout of the apartment was not unlike his but bore the signs of someone who was still moving in. Boxes were half unpacked and strewn about the living room. A couch was askew in the middle, like it had been dropped there by movers, and books were piled nearby.
“I haven’t had much time to put the place together,” Kit called out from the kitchen. “Thankfully the bedroom set arrived assembled.”
He ignored the thought of her bedroom interior and noticed some of the disassembled furniture along the wall, among them, a bookshelf and coffee table. Both would go a long way in making the space feel a bit more like home.
“Would you like a hand setting some of this up?”
“That’s very sweet, but not necessary.”
“You’ve been driving me to and from West every day without accepting anything in return. Putting together a bookshelf is the least I can do for you.”
“Truly, Randolph, I can’t ask —”
“You’re not asking.” He clapped his hands together. “Got a toolbox?” The dumbfounded look on her face was more of an answer than any words could have been, and he was already halfway out the door when he said, “I’ll be back in five minutes.”
The door reopened four minutes later, just a minute after she changed from the clothes of the day to a pair of leggings and a loose shirt. He had also changed, into a grey t-shirt that revealed more of the tattoos up his biceps, and carried a toolbox. An actual metal box of tools.
Ignoring her entirely, he began unpacking the boxes of wood and hardware, organizing a workspace in the middle of the living room like he had been waiting for a chance to put together a puzzle like this. Boys and their toys, she thought. A smile spread over her face as he continued to read the directions and put the first few pieces together.
Kit opened two bottles of beer on her way to the living room and stifled a laugh that had been threatening to escape since he walked in.
“What?”
She covered the laughter with the back of one hand and headed stood behind the couch. “A very attractive, heavily tattooed man just entered my home, offered to repay me with manual labor, and has already lost a layer of clothing.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” he muttered, storing the words very attractive in the back of his mind for later.
“It is far, far too late for that, Bell,” she grinned. He wrapped his hand around the screwdriver and Kit sighed dramatically, keening her chest forward as she handed him the bottle. “Oh, yeah,” she breathed, “Slower, handsome. Just like that.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Ooh. And keep saying that.”
At that, he turned his eyes upwards towards her. The blush spreading over her cheeks was genuine, and deepened when he raised his eyebrows. She may have started the tease, but the look on his face said he knew exactly what he was doing with that comment, and now he knew it was working. Especially when she crossed her legs and looked away.
Changing the subject, Bell asked about the recent move to the city. She relayed the events at the end of last school between sips of beer and the sounds of the drill, and it helped that he was looking away most of the time. Most of the last ten years had been in Iowa, but she had been wanting to move back to be closer to her daughter and grandchild.
“I didn’t know you had kids.”
“From my first marriage. Two baby girls, all grown up now.” She passed him a picture frame from atop one of the boxes. “Molly is a pediatrician in the west end, and her younger sister Amelia lives in Seattle.”
“Oh, wow. Look at you three.”
He smiled wide at the image of two young girls and their mother, taken twenty years ago at least. There was more to that part of her life, he could tell by the clarification of first husband, but he left it to her to fill in any more blanks.
“A lot has changed since I was last in Atlanta, but I am glad to be back.”
He finished setting up the largest bookshelf and the second beer at the same time. He placed the empty bottle beside hers on the end table and collapsed onto the floor in front of the couch, the back of his head falling against the cushions. His eyes were closed but he still managed a dramatic exhale.
Before she could stop herself, one hand spread over his shoulder and began kneading at the base of his neck. His chin fell forward and smiled, relaxing even further when her left hand joined on the opposite side. The soreness expected, but the relief was not. A few low moans escaped when she reached a troublesome spot, each involuntary noise pulling the corners of her mouth upwards.
“I’m glad you landed at West,” he said quietly.
His eyes were deep blue and soft when he turned to face her.
“I am, too.”
…
With the long weekend approaching, Kit was looking forward to leaving before traffic got bad. Two other teachers had entered the neighboring office a few minutes ago, one of whom had just left. It was likely the other would do the same soon enough, but Kit was anxious to leave and needed her passenger to do the same.
Bell and the other man were discussing something for the weekend, divvying up tasks for what sounded like an upcoming gig. She waited near the door, out of view, while the two men finished the conversation.
“So you can pick them up?” The other man asked.
“Yeah, Jack, I can pick them up.”
“I owe you one, Bell. My trunk isn’t big enough to fit the bass drum.” They finalized the distribution of the drum kit and the other man rounded the corner with a short, “Hey, Kit,” on his way out the door.
Bell froze with his hand halfway in the desk drawer, two words draining the color from his face. His back had been turned to the hallway so he did not know that they had company. He swallowed thickly and continued to pack up while he prepared to face the reality of parking his car on Eleventh street for two weeks.
“Did I hear that correctly? Your car is fixed?”
Her arms were crossed and Kit raised an eyebrow, but he did not rise to the bait. He zipped the bag shut and tried to pass by her through the door, but was stopped by a finger at his sternum, gently pushing him backwards into the office with a stern look to accompany the direction.
“Bell?”
“Okay, okay. Yes.”
He avoided her eyes and winced with the admission. It caught up with him quickly and a wave of shame washed over and through him. He had been a mooch, and exceedingly selfish with every day, and he had been letting it go on without a word.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
When he finally did look to her, the expression on her face was one of disappointment, not anger. As a teacher himself, he knew which was worse.
“I’m sorry,” he offered.
“Answer the question, please.”
He sighed and closed the door. “I… I liked the company. I should have told you the truth, but it was nice to have something to look forward to without any extra effort. I would have stopped the moment I thought I was becoming an inconvenience, but it… it seemed like maybe you were having a good time, too, and…” He scratched at the back of his neck and cut off his own rambling when her stance softened. “I am sorry that I didn’t say anything sooner.”
She expected to be frustrated or upset, and half expected to start hitting him, but instead found herself blushing.
“Don’t be.” She smiled gently and brushed some of the hair back from her face. “Truth be told, I had almost forgotten what it was like to have a life outside of work. To spend time with someone my own age.”
Bell chuckled under his breath. “Yeah.”
The tension had dissipated and was replaced by something much softer, underscored by a shared understanding of what the carpool had become. It was Friday night, a long weekend was about to begin, and she was about to spend at least part of the evening with a man who had become more than a neighbor and coworker.
She accepted the apology earlier, but perhaps it was time for a more active approach to their changing dynamic.
“There’s a new restaurant a few blocks over on Seventh,” she said. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”
Bell twitched a smile. “I would like that very much.”
…
Between the holidays, final exams, and the winter administration summit, free time was hard to come by at the end of the semester. The carpool continued with a balanced share of driving, and dinner and drinks after the carpool become dinners and drinks shared on purpose. A relationship was developing, but both had agreed to take it slow.
The last Friday of December, however, brought an end to that.
Winter break became a week and a half of takeout and pajamas and free labor to assemble the remaining furniture in her apartment. It was going to be near impossible to return to work knowing everything that hid beneath the dark dress shirts and the hard-ass persona.The way his laugh sounded when he was at ease, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when the smile was genuine made her want to see it all the time.
It would be even harder for him to face a classroom of ninth graders when he could be spending the day with a someone who kicked him under the covers, called him on his bullshit, and kissed him senseless against the kitchen counter.
The time spent together as friends had been a breath of fresh air but now it was different. In a way that made him wonder if everything he had done in his life was an opening act for a main event. Everything had changed since a gorgeous, sarcastic, brilliant woman moved in down the hall and offered him a ride home from the high school parking lot one day.
As he settled deeper against the pillow, he replayed the prior two weeks in his mind, culminating in the midnight celebration at the wine bar down the street. He thought Kit would have been asleep, too, but for five minutes had been tracing one finger over the ink on his back and shoulders, following the way it rose and fell with his breath.
Her lips pressed against the round of his shoulder when she whispered, “Happy new year, Randolph.”
This was definitely the main event.
…
The worst part of working in a high school was working in a high school.
Advanced placement testing preparations took up most of her time during the week, but seeing him at the beginning and end of every workday and over the weekends helped to keep the pace. Remarkably, it was enough. It was refreshing to have someone who fit in to her life exactly where she needed, and vice versa, while still carving out space for them.
It went surprisingly smoothly, given how hard it was to stay away from her outside of school hours.
The challenging part, however, was that they could not be involved. Not only to avoid incessant high school gossip from teachers and students, but because interpersonal relationships could result in administrative issues. They kept things quiet, and agreed to file the appropriate paperwork when the year restarted in the fall. Until then, the carpool was strictly for economical and environmental purposes. Voices whispered and heads turned in the parking lot, but their rehearsed lectures on the effects of carbon emissions were enough to revert the subject back to atmospheric science and away from a nonexistent relationship on school grounds.
One afternoon in May, he overheard a conversation in the office beside his.
The chair of the English department and organizer of the junior prom was recruiting the newest teacher to the cause, and he knew that his office would surely be the next stop. Somehow, he was always picked to chaperone. Every year since he started, they picked him.
It was like he had a sign on his forehead that said, “ask me, I’m single and childless and own a tuxedo.”
Bell glanced at his watch and waited for the conversation to end. Chaperoning was simpler for the junior prom because unlike the seniors, juniors were stupid enough to drink too much beforehand or in the parking lot, which made them easier to pick out when he had to do more than pose for the occasional selfie.
Plus, this year might have another reason for him to dress to impress, even if it was only a school-sanctioned event. He wondered if Kit would be doing the same.
After the final bell, he stopped by the AP physics classroom and squeezed into a desk in the front row. Her hair was tied back, a sign that today must have included some sort of demonstration, but a few loose strands fell around her face while she graded the papers on her desk.
She did not look up from behind the glasses when she asked, “What can I do for you, Bell?”
“Did Mrs. Alvarez talk to you?”
Kit nodded and flipped another paper. He stood from the desk, shoved his hands in his pockets, and paced around the whiteboard, keeping one eye on the hallway and one eye on her.
“Are you going to do it?” He asked.
“You have a vested interest.”
“No, I don’t. I — I don’t know. I just… if you were going, and I was going, then…”
Kit’s eyes widened with a smile and she put the papers down. “Oh. My. God.”
“What?”
The smile grew and she removed her glasses to see the full detail of his nervous shrug. He backed away as she stepped closer, until his back collided with the filing cabinet and left him with nowhere else to go.
“Randolph Bell,” she grinned, “Are you asking me to the prom?”
“No!”
His voice cracked and she hit his shoulder with a laugh. “You are!” Kit lowered her voice and double checked to make sure the door was still closed. “Good grief, Randolph, at least the juniors know how to ask properly!”
“It’s not like we’d be going together. I was just wondering!”
Her arms crossed before her chest. “Wondering what?”
He was cornered, stuck between a file cabinet and a brick wall of stubbornness, wedged between an embarrassing admission and an honest question. Opting for bravery, Bell stepped forward and whispered, “If you were going to the prom.”
“Well, now that a cute boy has asked me, I suppose I’ll have to think about it.”
“Cute.”
“Yes, cute,” she repeated. Kit took the end of his tie between her fingers and stepped to the side of the file cabinet, far out of view of the hallway windows. “Do you have a curfew, Randy?”
“Stop it.”
“Are you sure you want to bother with loud music and rowdy teenagers when we could just… make out under the bleachers instead?”
He ducked away and straightened the knot of his tie, desperately trying to regain composure before he ended up trapping her against the file cabinet instead. Stepping out of reach and more important away from the perfume that taunted him helped to settle the heat in his stomach and respond to the blatant teasing.
“Can we go back to being sixty and not sixteen, please.”
Kit returned to the stack of papers on the desk, hitting his shoulder on the way. “You started it. I’ll see you tonight?”
“Seven o’clock. My place or yours?”
“Yours, darling. It’s high time you showed me that guitar.”
“Ah, one of my many skills of ambidexterity.” He grinned and raised his hands, wiggling the fingers of his left. She crossed her legs below the desk, a sign that the tables had indeed been turned.
“Go.”
“See you tonight, Dr. Voss.”