Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64727 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
She was a middle-aged woman with short brown hair, a small nose, and intense eyes that glinted with the capacity for humor. I liked her instinctively. And according to Coach Finley, Ms. Callisto had the final say regarding new hires. If I wanted to be the varsity assistant coach, I needed her on my side.
So far, I thought it was going pretty damn well.
“Understood. I lean more toward Steinbeck and Bradbury myself, but I also like the idea of incorporating lyrical poetry by Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan, too. Kids connect with music, and it’s a good way to get their attention. At least…it worked for me in high school.”
Whoa, Langley. Do not bore a potential new employer with tales of teenage angst. Ms. Callisto didn’t need to know that the guitar I’d begged for in my retro Nirvana era had been collecting dust in the closet of my childhood room for a solid decade.
“I think that’s an innovative approach. The key to reaching young minds is to spark collective interest. In an Internet era, that changes on a daily basis, and not all educators are good at adapting.”
In a show of incredible self-control, I didn’t brag about my Internet savvy or tell the story of how my brother had hacked into our local junior high’s mainframe in an attempt to change his D in Physics to an A. I doubted Ms. Callisto would appreciate the irony that Mikey was a med school resident now.
Nope, I just smiled. And when she concluded the interview, walking me to the door with her hand on my elbow as if we were old friends, I had a good feeling.
Two days later, I received a formal job offer from Smithton High.
I was thrilled. No, I was beyond thrilled.
I could stay in town, coaching and teaching. Maybe someday I’d take over as head coach at the high school…or hell, the college. I’d need to continue my master’s if I had my sights set on Smithton. No problem. It would be good for me, keep me out of trouble.
Rafe went bonkers. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! Congratulations.”
He jumped into my arms, clung to me like a koala, and kissed every inch of my face; then he insisted on making a congratulatory dinner.
We sat outside on the deck, enjoying the mild spring evening with grilled steaks and easy conversation about books we read in high school, memorable teachers, and teenage crushes.
“I had a crush on Mr. Mooney, my ninth grade English teacher,” I shared. “He was kind of nerdy, wore glasses and cardigans, and he had a thing for sci-fi. I read The Martian Chronicles on his recommendation and became obsessed with stories set in space. I think I confused my folks. I was a bruiser on the ice who read until midnight…for fun.”
“They might not be as surprised that you want to teach and coach as you think,” he hedged, gaze fixed on the cows grazing in the pasture beyond the bluff.
“Hmph. Yeah, that’s not gonna go over well.”
Rafe twisted in his seat. “It’s your life, Gus. You get to choose.”
I reached for his hand, unthinking, and smiled.
Sure, it was my life, my choice, but there’d be fallout and disappointment. And telling my mom I wouldn’t be accepting any lawyerly internships or applying to law school would cause a mini ice age or a war. But I’d milked every ounce of college for all it was worth, and the time was up.
My friends were happy for me, but a little confused.
“Congrats. That’s awesome. I just…I thought you were going to be a lawyer,” Brady said, cracking open a beer and handing it to me.
“You have to go to law school first, Brade-ster.” Ty tapped his bottle to mine and pulled me in for a one-armed bro hug. “Do we have a law school here or would you have to commute?”
“What does it matter? I’m not gonna be a lawyer,” I huffed, clandestinely setting the beer next to a dying plant on a bookshelf.
“Dude, you’d have to go to like…Syracuse or Buffalo or something,” Regan chimed in. “Hey, break out the tequila. Getting a real job with benefits before graduation calls for the good stuff.”
Brady winced, sliding the half-full tequila bottle on his kitchen counter. “Sorry. We only have Jose Cuervo.”
“Plebes.” Regan sighed. “Are we using glasses or just taking swigs?”
“Use a fucking glass.” Ty riffled through a cupboard and unearthed four shot glasses. He wiped them on his T-shirt to be sure they were clean and motioned for Brady to pour.
Conversation continued around me. Regan had a feeling his girlfriend was breaking up with him, Ty thought he was overreacting, Brady made a snarky comment about Cassie leading Regan by his nuts, which pissed Regan off. Sometimes I thought Brady had a secret crush on Regan—not that I’d tease him about it.