Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sayla
I’ll spare you all the suspense.
The district turned us down.
Of course, they didn’t tell us that on the spot. After all, Dr. Dewey and the rest of the school board were up in the stands, and Dex and I were standing on the track at the fifty-yard line, surrounded by the theater kids and the football team.
So while the crowd clapped for us, Dr. Dewey came out to the track and took the mic, thanking everyone for coming to support the school.
Then she thanked the teachers for their phenomenal presentation and the students for all their hard work.
Finally, she took credit on behalf of the district for making this visitation from the Southern Accreditation Committee for Secondary Schools the best one yet.
Quietly, off mic, she told Dex and me the school board would convene to discuss “the other matter” the following week.
So. Dex and I went ahead and spent every waking minute together in the meantime, waiting and—I’ll be honest—we were pretty much celebrating. There was no way they wouldn’t see our side, right?
Wrong.
Yesterday, the school board and Dr. Dewey came back with the same argument they had before: There’s simply not enough money in the FRIG to fully cover two big projects.
They told us if we have hope of eventually funding both, we’ll have to do one now and wait for future grants from the state.
So our request to share the money in the ultimate collaboration was a no-go after all.
I suppose it was foolish for me to believe our enthusiasm and hard work would be enough to shift that course. But I’ll never regret putting faith in what Dexter and I can accomplish. And after we got shot down, he didn’t feel nearly so bad telling Dr. Dewey he’s staying at Stony Peak.
Meanwhile, spoiler alert: We did not get rejected by the Southern Accreditation Committee for Secondary Schools. In fact, the SACSS gave us a glowing appraisal and a four-year reprieve before they visit again.
Still, I’m right back where I started. In second place after Dexter. My coworker.
Adding insult to injury, we’re here at school. On a Saturday.
The rest of the campus is deserted, but Mr. Wilford asked us to make hard copies of the SACSS report for the entire faculty, even though we already received an electronic file with their assessment and recommendations for next time.
Nevertheless, he wants a printed report in everyone’s mailbox by Monday morning.
If you ask me, this is a glorious waste of our time, not to mention the world’s paper supply. But no one asked me. Which is why Dex and I are in the teacher workroom now, standing at a long table, collating and stapling and grumbling.
More specifically, I’m stapling and grumbling. Dex is just collating.
“I should be at home carving pumpkins,” I say. Although, if I’m honest, it comes out more like a whine. “Loren and I always roast the seeds after.” I staple the pages of a SACSS report a little harder than necessary. Slam. Slam. Slam. “We put cinnamon and sugar on them.”
“Sounds fun,” Dex says.
“I could be warm and dry by a roaring fire. Instead, I’m here in wet yoga pants.”
“Yeah.” Dex glances out the window at the sheets of rain and endless gray. At least he was smart enough to wear a waterproof jacket. I should’ve known better when all practices were canceled due to soggy fields.
“Sorry.” I send him a tiny smile. “I know I’m preaching to the choir.”
“Nah. No choir for me anymore.” He adds a freshly collated report to the stack. “I’m off performing arts director duty, remember? The accreditation’s over, and we go back to our usual roles on Monday.”
“I remember.” I pick up a new report to staple. Slam. Slam. Slam. “But I really think all the sportsball people are going to miss me.”
“Well, you’re much prettier than I am, and you smell way better. So trust me. They’ll definitely miss you.” He sends me a look. “The question is … will I?”
“Will you miss me?” I huff a laugh. “You’ll have to answer that for yourself, mister.”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m talking about whether or not you decided to stay at Stony Peak. I didn’t want to bring it up, but are you still thinking about going to that arts magnet school?”
“Oh, right. That.” I flash him a frown. Slam.
Slam. Slam. “Well, let’s see. I didn’t get the FRIG, and you aren’t transferring to Harvest High, so if I keep working here, and we try to date, I’ll have to accept that I’m going back on every promise I ever made to myself about not getting involved with a coworker. Is that what you’re wondering about?”
“Maybe.” He lets out a soft chuckle. “But at least you’re not making the situation sound dire.”
“I’m a drama teacher,” I say. “I have a flair for the dramatic.”
Dex sets down the pages he’s holding. “Actually, we prefer the term theater.”
I look up at him. “I know you’re only joking around, and I hate being all serious, it’s just …” My voice trails off, and I fight the tears stinging at the corner of my eyes.
“Hey, hey. Come here.” He takes my hand and guides me over to the couch. “I get it.” He drops into one corner and pulls me down next to him. “You’ve had to be a grownup since I don’t know when. Kindergarten?”
I sniffle over a laugh. “Pretty much.”
He reaches out to stroke my cheek. “It must’ve been exhausting, always being the biggest adult in the room. The one thinking through all the consequences. The sheer volume of clipboards.” He lets out a whistle. “I can’t even imagine.”
He’s still trying to keep things light, but my eyes well up for real. “I’m just so tired, Dex.”
“I know you are,” he murmurs, gathering me in his arms. I nestle into his chest, wiping my tears on his sweatshirt. He smooths a hand over the top of my head. “But I’ve got you now. I’m here.”
I raise my chin, blinking up at him, and I know he’s waiting for my permission. Again. He’s always so patient with me. When I nod, his mouth dips toward mine and we both draw in great gulps of air, like we’re storing up oxygen for the barrage of kissing that’s going to steal our breath.
“You can let go now,” he whispers, and the deep rumble of his voice is a promise I can believe. With those few calm words, he erases the messy whiteboard in my brain with one big swipe.
In his arms, I finally feel like I might be able to rewrite my own history.
I used to think the riskiest thing I could do would be to want—or worse, to need—other people. But now I want Dex Michaels more than anything. And I need him even harder.
While I give him all of my breath and all my hopes in tiny sips, Dex drinks me in like he won’t ever get enough. We’re lost in each other for a while, and it’s the best kind of losing. That is until a siren-like blare suddenly sounds from our two phones simultaneously.
We both startle, then the siren sounds again.
A Wireless Emergency Alert.
Dex detaches from me, fumbling for his phone. With a sigh, I reluctantly check my phone too. The warning is for thunderstorms in our area. Sometime in the next half hour. I know Dex is quick to catastrophize—and with good reason—so I want to counteract his worst-case scenario brain.
“At least we’re not looking at a hurricane or tornado watch,” I say. “A thunderstorm’s not too bad, right?”
Dex grunts. “Not too good, either.”
I duck my head, waiting for him to make eye contact. “I’ve lived in earthquake zones. There’s zero warning for those. And wildfires can spread so fast, you have to evacuate on the spot. At least we’ve got a heads-up here, thanks to the WEA.”
His expression is grim. “Your underwhelm is showing, Kroft.”
“I’m just saying we aren’t going to be dragged out to sea by a riptide or blown to Oz in a funnel cloud.” I reach for his shoulder. Give it a squeeze. “We have time, Dex. We’ll be fine.”
“Fine. Right.” His jaw ticks.
I wince at the poor choice of words. Fine doesn’t exactly bring up memories of calm for him. “I’m sorry. I meant we’ll be okay.”
“Sure.” He huffs. “Except for possible hail. And the straight-line winds and potential microbursts and downbursts.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what those things are.” I wrinkle my nose. “Well, besides hail. I have heard of that.”
“They aren’t great,” he says. “We get hundred-mile-an-hour winds with our thunderstorms around here.”
“So let’s make a plan and make it smart.”
He lets out another grunt, but the wheels are spinning behind his eyes. I get the feeling he’s not thinking straight. So I take the lead.
“First, we should do a quick sweep around campus and the parking lots to be sure there aren’t any students or parents around,” I suggest. “If we find anyone, we can decide then whether it’s safer for them to shelter somewhere here or send them home. Depending on how bad the rain’s gotten.”
“Not rain,” he says. “Thunderstorms. And we aren’t going to do any of those things. I will.”
“What are you suggesting I do, then? Stand around and show everyone how pretty I look in my yoga pants?”
A vein at his temple pulses. “I don’t want you here, Sayla.”
“So you think I should drive home?”
“Not alone.” He grits his teeth. “Not in your little car.”
“So you don't want me here and you don’t want me driving home. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of options.”
“I just want you safe.”
“Then let me stay with you.”
“Stubborn woman,” Dex mutters, starting for the door. “Stick close to me. Right by my side.”
“Roger that,” I say, following him out into the quad.
The rainfall is heavy and steady, the sky darkening by the minute.
Together, we patrol the property, checking the lower parking lots and the buildings on the south side of campus.
Since all practices and meetings were canceled due to early-morning rain, we find no signs of students or parents anywhere.
The winds pick up while we search, though, making visibility a challenge, which is why we almost plow right into Gordon coming around the side of the humanities building. He’s wearing a hooded raincoat and boots.
Smart.