Love Lessons

Chapter One

Valerie

“Hit me with your best moo, Kylie!” said Valerie, or Miss Valerie, as her class called her, while pointing to the adorable

six-year-old with the lopsided pigtails.

“Moo... Mooo... Moooo!” Kylie yelled, on all fours as if she were an actual cow, while the rest of the class joined

in on the singing. “With a moo moo here, and a moo moo there,” the class yelled together, with the loudest of all being Valerie,

kindergarten teacher extraordinaire.

“Pig next. Pig next,” said an excited student, while the class continued singing, “Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O, and

on that farm they had a—”

Valerie pointed to the student, who yelled, “ Pig! ”

A pounding on the connecting wall did not deter Valerie, who was mid-song with her class. In fact, it compelled her to sing

louder.

This had been going on for the past four years. She taught her class in her own style, while the grumpy teacher next door,

Andrew Wexler, pounded on her wall.

“Louder, kiddos. Kazoos, you’re up!” Valerie hollered, pointing to the round table where five students held up their plastic kazoos.

If there was something Valerie loved more than teaching, it was annoying the hell out of the Wexler. Never had she known anyone

wound so tight. How he was a kindergarten teacher was beyond her. Actually, kindergarten or otherwise, the man looked like

he loathed children. He was the Ebenezer Scrooge of teachers. She’d never seen his students smile. His teaching methods were

militant, in her opinion. Whereas he was structured and inflexible, Valerie flew by the seat of her pants. It was true that

during testing his children always scored higher than hers, but not by a lot. And it was her opinion that the marginal difference

was worth the joy and happiness that her students experienced during the school year with her.

The door flung open, and the devil himself was on the other side, seething. His perfectly parted hair was standing on end,

as if he’d been running his fingers through it. Which he surely had been. “Ms. Marquez, a word?”

“Nah, I’m good. We’re about to hit my favorite part.” As if she were the conductor in a twenty-piece orchestra, she swayed

her arms up, down, in, and out, encouraging the children to sing aloud. “And an oink oink here, and an oink oink there!”

She glanced at the door, but Wexler was already gone. She chuckled and continued conducting and singing. There were two weeks left of school, and she needed to kick it up a notch if she had any hope that this would be his last year at Gables Preparatory Academy, or GPA, as it was known. She’d been trying to get him to quit since they’d met. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true.

The day they met, four years ago, she’d smiled and extended her hand. He took it, clearly disgusted by what he saw: she was

wearing a teal-colored A-line skirt that had bright yellow goldfish embroidered all over, and she had paired it with a plain

white top and adorable little teal-and-yellow ballerina flats. She’d thought she looked pretty, but when his eyes roamed down

her outfit, she immediately realized they had very different definitions of “pretty.” At first glance, she’d thought his pea-green

sweater gave off similar vibes to her clothing style, but she’d been wrong. There was nothing whimsical about the man.

It had been the week before school was set to begin. He had started at GPA the year before, and due to the high enrollment,

they’d needed to add a second kindergarten class. After a series of particularly intense interviews with GPA’s board of directors,

she’d been hired. Truthfully, she hadn’t expected to be hired, since she didn’t exactly fit the mold of the stuffy private

school, but she’d received the call, and there she was, sharing a wall and a courtyard with Mr. Stuck-Up Sweater-Wearing Andrew

Wexler. He looked her over, head to toe, clearly unappreciative of her mixed-patterned skirt and top, and then he looked around

the classroom. “The Miami Dolphins?” he had asked.

“Yes. I’m a fan.” She smiled, cheerily taking in the orange-and-aqua décor of the classroom. It had taken her years to curate all her perfect classroom décor in that specific color pattern. She had a few smiling dolphins on the walls, the ABC banner was aqua and orange, and the pièce de résistance was her signed Dan Marino jersey. She should have hung it up in her home, but she’d been temporarily living with her mother, who wouldn’t allow anything of her ex-husband, Valerie’s father, in her house. So, until Valerie found a better housing situation, despite the ridiculous Miami housing prices, she had nowhere else to display her most prized possession.

“You know that they haven’t won a single thing since before you were born, right?”

“This is their year,” she’d said, smiling.

He’d guffawed, turned, and left the room.

And that’s how it’d been since they’d met. Except she had never again been as nice and as forthcoming.

Four years later, she still had the classroom decorated in orange and aqua, but it was definitely busier now that her knickknack

collection had grown. She was living in a small one-bedroom apartment and wanted to take some of the memorabilia home, but

she couldn’t bring herself to do it, because the knowledge that Wexler hated it was enough for her to leave it at the school—year

after year. Valerie knew it was petty, but that vein that ticked when he walked into her classroom, ready to blow, fueled

her days.

As the minutes pressed on, she noticed her students’ singing slowing down. She grabbed the sweater she always kept over her

chair and put it on. Was it getting colder? “What’s wrong? Why’d you all stop?” she asked the class.

“It’s freezing,” one student said with a shiver.

“I—I—I don’t want to s-s-s-sing anymore, miss,” another student whined through rattling teeth.

“Son of a biscuit,” Valerie whispered, mostly to herself. She opened the back door, the one that led to the shared courtyard. Wexler was outside with his class, reading a book. He hardly ever went outside. “You cranked up the AC, didn’t you?” She glared at him.

They not only shared a wall; they shared an AC, and the thermostat happened to be in his room.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Marquez,” he said with a smirk, then turned his attention back to his exceptionally

well-behaved class.

Two could play at this game!

“Hey, class?” she said, sticking her head back into the frozen tundra. “How about we switch it up this afternoon, since the

AC seems to be broken? I know we don’t normally paint on Tuesdays, but it’s such a beautiful day. Why don’t you grab all your

paint supplies and let’s go outside?”

“Yay!” they all yelled in unison.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Wexler asked as her class began pouring out of the room carrying watercolors and easels.

“I thought it would be a wonderful day for painting, plus it’s so nice and warm out here. In fact, children, let’s finish

the song while we paint. What do you say?”

“Can we sing too, Mr. Wexler?” one of his students asked, and Valerie had to purse her lips to stop herself from laughing.

“Well, it’s reading time today and—”

But it was too late. His class stood up, distracted by her students, and there was singing and painting and even some laughing.

“You play dirty, Marquez. My kids are getting ready for the national spelling bee next week, and they could’ve used the last

little push.”

“Then push them. Tell them to stop coloring and singing and to go inside, in the cold, and read the same boring book for the

tenth time with you. I’m sure it’ll be easy. You are, after all, Sergeant Wexler.” That was a nickname given to him by the

other teachers. “I shall teach and never have fun,” she said in a terrible imitation of a man’s voice.

“Is that supposed to be me?”

She lifted a shoulder and dropped it.

“Well, I’d rather be Sergeant Wexler than whatever artsy-fartsy disaster you have going on,” he said while motioning to her

colorful outfit with his forefinger.

“Mr. Wexler called Ms. Marquez a fart,” one of his students yelled, and all the kids began to laugh, which made Valerie laugh

in return. Laughing children was her favorite sound in the world.

“Give me that,” Wexler said, grabbing a big bottle of blue paint out of Valerie’s hand. “I’ll show you I can be just as fun

as the next person.”

Unfortunately, however, it turned out that finger painting and anger weren’t a great mix.

Andrew

This is the fourth time I’ve had to call you two into my office in the last month,” Principal Carmichael said from his chair. He huffed out a frustrated breath and ran his palm over his face. “You are both covered in paint. You’re worse than the children. What the hell am I going to do with you two?”

Valerie wiped at her cheek, causing a glob of blue paint to fall onto her lap. At least she had the decency to look contrite.

Andrew, on the other hand, could wring her small little neck if he didn’t fear getting even more paint on his white shirt.

“She started it,” he said, immediately regretting the childish words. This woman was drawing him into her world of immaturity.

He half expected her to stick her tongue out at him.

“There’s two weeks left in the school year. Two weeks! If you both hadn’t been nominated for educator of the year, twice,

and the parents didn’t all want their kids taught by one of you, I’d fire you both.”

“What?” they both said in unison.

“I can’t go through another year like this one. It’s been one thing after another. Every year that goes by, you two get worse.

Maybe one of you needs to go.”

“But who—” The usually always-chatty woman couldn’t get a full sentence out, which made him chuckle. “What the hell’s so funny,

Wexler? Why are you looking so smug?”

“We both know I’m not going anywhere. I mean, I don’t want to sound arrogant,” he began, ignoring her narrowed eyes, “but

I have a master’s in education from Stanford. My students win the national spelling bee every year for their grade level.

I’ve been here longer than you, and—”

“But the kids hate you,” she retorted, without hesitation.

“They do not hate me. Children need discipline. Order. Organization.” Perhaps the children didn’t love him the way they loved her, but they certainly didn’t hate him. They respected him. Big difference.

Plus, the parents adored him.

She put her fingers to her forehead in a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Sergeant Wexler. This isn’t military school, and this isn’t

college. These are five- and six-year-old children. It is a proven fact that children learn more by doing. The arts is the

best way to challenge them while still teaching them.”

“Oh, the arts?” Andrew had the bad sense to reach over to prove his point by tugging on a strand of hair covered in blue paint,

but she shoved his hand away so fast and hard that he hit himself in the face. “What the hell, Marquez?” He cupped his nose

through the throbbing pain.

“I didn’t touch you.” She turned to Carmichael. “You saw that. I didn’t touch him. That was all him and—”

“Enough, you two!” Carmichael reached into his desk drawer and took out a bottle of Tums and shoved a handful into his mouth.

“You are making my ulcer worse.”

Andrew felt a little guilty. He did tend to egg Valerie on, but she was such a huge pain in the ass, which made it difficult

not to add fuel to the fire.

The year Valerie began, Andrew was supposed to receive a big stipend for his classroom due to the award they’d received for winning the national spelling bee. The stipend was going to give him the opportunity to bring more technology into the classroom, buy better supplies, and maybe add a field trip to the curriculum. He’d spent all summer planning and budgeting. But then, because of the increase in enrollment, the board had reallocated the money to add a second kinder garten teacher. He’d lost his stipend, and then he’d met the quirky woman, whom the board and Carmichael kept calling “innovative,” as if he was—what was the opposite of innovative? Stagnant, boring, monotonous? Her puffy skirt had had fish on it. Fish! That wasn’t innovative or professional. He expected outfits like hers on the children, not the educator. As hard as he’d tried to give her a chance, it still pissed him off that she’d strolled in with a smile, as if she hadn’t just stolen all the money he’d worked so hard to secure for his classroom. Anyway, he just hadn’t been able to give her the proper welcome. He had immediately regretted the curt way he’d treated her. The next day, when he tried to go apologize and heard and saw her pounding on a kid’s’ drum set, they’d had their first argument.

“What are you doing?” he yelled, startling her. She dropped one of the drumsticks and looked back, doe-eyed. Her wide eyes

did something to his heart for a split second, but then he remembered that she was the reason his stipend had been ripped

from him, and also.... all those colors she wore were jarring.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t hear you. I like to make sure the kids have fun. I have instruments and art supplies, and you’re welcome

to borrow—”

“We share a wall, you know.”

“Oh, well, sorry,” she said, putting the other drumstick down. “My curriculum has a heavy emphasis on the arts and—”

“No. No. I’m prone to migraines and this will not do. Plus, the parents here are not—” He circled his arms at her, encompassing

her colorful mismatched attire. What the hell was she wearing? “Into that.”

She stood and placed her hands on her hips, annoyed. The wide eyes quickly morphed into slits. The smile and that sweet demeanor of the previous day were gone. “What do you mean, that?” She looked down at herself.

“This is a preparatory school, you’re not Whoopi Goldberg, and this isn’t Sister Act . The parents pay a lot of money, and they are not going to like all of this music and coloring bullshit.”

“And they like stuck-up sweaters and loafers? Is that what they pay for?” She took a step toward him while he looked down

at his clothes. What was wrong with his clothes? They were professional and welcoming.

“Yes, actually. They do.”

“Well, you do you and I’ll do me and let’s see what happens.”

He shrugged and walked out, making a mental note to double up on aspirin, although he was sure she wouldn’t make it a full

week at GPA.

Four years later, and for some unknown reason, there were a lot—more than he cared to admit—of parents who preferred her teaching

methods over his. He could not fathom why.

“If I hear even a peep out of you two, one of you will not be returning next year. Am I understood?” Carmichael said, and

when they both opened their mouths to protest, he hushed them up quickly by standing, placing his palms on his desk, and leaning

forward. “Not a peep!”

Andrew and Valerie nodded and quietly exited the room.

“This is all your fault, Wexler!” Valerie said once they were out of earshot of the principal.

“My fault? I don’t even own paint, Marquez.” They were both walking briskly back to their respective classrooms. Thank God the children had left for the day, because it would be almost impossible to hide his anger. He wanted to make her see that she was one hundred percent in the wrong. This was a prestigious school, not Chuck E. Cheese. Children needed education, not finger painting and kazoos.

“What kind of kindergarten teacher are you?” she asked.

“The good kind. The one who doesn’t coddle the kids with paint and flutes. My class is adding. Yours can draw a sun, whoop-de-do.”

“It’s a recorder, not a flute, you dimwit.”

“Same shit.” Did she call him a dimwit? That was another thing he disliked about her. She didn’t cuss. She said things like

“frack” and “shoot,” even when the kids were not around. At first, he’d thought it was all an act. This quirky woman who needed

a job and thought that being a kindergarten teacher was all fun and games. Like she had to seem like a Disney princess to

the students to get their attention. But as the years went by, he realized it wasn’t an act. She dressed like a nut even outside

of school. She didn’t curse even when they were at happy hour with the other teachers. She was... well, weird.

“Ugh. I hate you.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” he said. “And now one of us is going to get fired.”

“Someone’s worried,” she said. She may have been quirky and innocent-looking, but she sure knew how to goad the hell out of

him.

“I may not like you, but I’m not an evil man. I would hate to see you unemployed. Although, thinking about it, you could probably

land one of those gigs as a clown at birthday parties. I’m sure they pay well. Can you do balloon animals?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he had to stifle a laugh. She did know how to do balloon animals; he could read her like a book.

“I don’t even understand how they keep you around. Must be all the glitter messing with the board members’ brains,” he added.

“For your information, Wexler, they keep me around because I’m a good teacher. No, a great teacher. Just because I don’t go

around telling everyone how my class can add and spell doesn’t mean they can’t. We’re on the same curriculum as you, you...

you... jerk.”

“Oh... so you can curse.”

“ ‘Jerk’ is not a curse word, you jerk. But it does seem as if you bring out the worst in me,” she said, her hands on her

hips. She looked like a Smurf with all the paint coating her face. “I don’t think I need to explain myself to you, but my

class is adding too and they’re doing perfectly fine on all the state exams.”

“Bullshit,” he said, under his breath but loud enough for Valerie to hear.

She stopped abruptly and narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you even here? You hate kids. You’re like the witch in Hansel

and Gretel. At night, I bet you fantasize about throwing your class into the oven.”

That actually got him to chuckle.

“Oh my goodness!” She gasped and looked around. With brows furrowed, he followed her gaze around the room. She covered her

mouth with her hand. “You laughed! Hell must’ve frozen over. Are you okay? Did you break anything?”

Little witch, he thought. If she wasn’t such a pain in the ass, he would’ve laughed some more. Or maybe even kissed the shit-eating grin

off her face.

That would definitely shut her up.

Valerie

Valerie took a cautionary step back. The way he was eyeing her was disconcerting. He hadn’t stopped laughing, but his eyes

had a little knowing gleam she’d not seen before.

For the first time, Valerie noticed he had perfect white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. The stupid man was handsome,

even if she’d never admit that out loud. And she hated herself for noticing that about him.

“That’s morbid, even for you, Marquez. I’ll have you know I love kids. You don’t have to finger paint and sing nursery rhymes

to like children.”

“I’m tired of arguing with you,” she admitted, defeated. The man brought out the worst in her, and there were days when she

didn’t even recognize the things that came out of her mouth where he was concerned. “Aren’t you tired of being sent to the

principal’s office?”

“Of course I am. I don’t like arguing.”

“Ha. Yeah, right.”

“I don’t. You’re the one always provoking me. I’ll have you know, I don’t argue with anyone but you.”

“I find that highly unlikely,” she said, wondering if that was true. She let out a frustrated breath. “Can we just stop? I give up. It’s two weeks. We can be civil for two weeks, can’t we?”

“I can tone it down. Can you?” It sounded more like a challenge than a response.

“Of course I can.”

“So, a truce? Two weeks, and then we’ll have the summer to cool off and start the new school year in better spirits,” he said.

“You better book a colonic or something this summer to get that stick out of your butt, because otherwise this ruse will last

two weeks and next year we’ll be right back at it, and I don’t think Carmichael was bluffing. About firing one of us.”

“And I’m the instigator?” Again with the disarming smile and the teeth and the dimples. It was as if they’d spawned out of

nowhere. She’d never seen them in all these years, and now she’d seen them twice in a matter of minutes. Ugh, put them away , she thought.

She rolled her eyes. “Sorry. Sorry. Okay. I’ll be nice.”

“And you’ll tone down the music?”

She huffed for a moment. She had to be the better person here. He clearly wasn’t capable. “Okay, fine. I’ll tone down the

music inside the classroom, but you have to give me the courtyard for art time.”

“That’s my courtyard.”

“No, it’s our courtyard. We’re supposed to share it. Ol’ B is a communal tree.”

Gables Prep had been built almost a hundred years ago, and it was essentially constructed around a big banyan tree fondly known as Ol’ B. Originally, the school was only a kindergarten class. But as the city grew, so did the school. Except the kinder garten classrooms remained in the original building. Two large classrooms with a courtyard in the back, Ol’ B smack in the middle of the courtyard. The tree was thick with what looked like roots coming up and enveloping the trunk. The rest of the school didn’t have the historic flair of the original structure.

Valerie loved Ol’ B. It provided shade to the courtyard, and during spring, Valerie and her class planted flowers around it,

while learning all about colors, shapes, and nature. They watched birds build nests and came out every day to watch the mama

bird teach the chicks to fly. They greeted Harry the squirrel every morning and learned about the changing colors of the leaves

during the fall. Well, there wasn’t a real autumn in Miami, but the leaves did change colors and fall to the ground. Ol’ B

wasn’t just a tree; it was part of her curriculum.

“Are you going to get chalk all over the concrete floor?” he asked.

“Hey, buddy, I’m willing to squash my entire musical program for the next two weeks in exchange for hopscotch on the sidewalk

in the courtyard and some creative coloring time for the students. Don’t push your luck.”

He huffed a breath, dimple and teeth back in their holsters, and then stuck out his hand. If they couldn’t keep it together

for two weeks, how would they keep it together for an entire school year? She reached forward, and they shook on it. Unfortunately

for him, he forgot that she had blue paint all over her hand. He pulled away, and as soon as he noticed the paint he groaned.

She laughed. Evidently, pissing him off made her quite cheerful.