18. Penelope
eighteen
penelope
It’s that rule of threes all over again. They should really just rename Murphy’s Law to Penelope’s.
I took Claire’s advice—tried to make peace with Anthony. I made dinner—slaved over the kitchen while he was out working on his house all weekend.
But did I tell him I was making us dinner? No. Did I tell him that I was maybe opening up to the idea of talking to him civilly about what happened in Florida? Nope. Instead, I got the embarrassment of a lifetime when he walked in after eight to my miserable self still waiting for him like a sad sack over cold chicken.
Okay. Fine. It was a recipe for “fuck me chicken.” He doesn’t have to know that though.
Strike one happened on Sunday night, and then with the fire alarm incident putting me in the path of Officer Unfaithful and detention duty with Ant, it has been a hell of a week.
I’m on my prep two days later, taking a much needed pee break from the monster Dunkin’ I got this morning. After I wash my hands and play woe-is-me with my past dating decisions, I go to snag a paper towel, and catch the side table that houses the extra soap and tampons out of the corner of my eye. On top rests a kitschy plaque from a craft store. In curly cutesy font, it says, In case no one told you today, you’re a great teacher!
I sigh. Think over my failed lesson from period two, and the one that didn’t even get a chance to fail during period one, after I had to break up a fight between two girls and put the rest of the kids on our online testing program instead.
“Thanks, bathroom sign,” I say lamely, high-fiving the cheap wood on my way out.
I crack my neck from side to side, rolling it out as I try to find my Zen. As I make my way back to my classroom, I mentally tab through my lesson plans to decide how I’m going to Tetris all of my classes back onto the same schedule—with out the help of my counterpart, who has been in the office more than he has the classroom lately. Crossing over the threshold of our room, the third side of this week’s torture triangle finally clicks into place.
My feet fly out from under me, and like a cartoon character slipping on a banana peel, I flip in a wide arc, barely catching myself on my left hand as I land on my ass.
“Shit!” I yelp, a searing pain immediately overcoming me from the impact. I can’t tell which hurts worse. My tailbone, my wrist, or my ego. Especially when, as I curse under my breath and gain my bearings, I find the culprit of my fall.
Teachers always joke that Stanley cups and their waterfall spills will be the death of us. In this case, one really is.
One of my third period students left hers behind to tip over on its side in the rush to lunch, leaving a forty-ounce river in its path. I sigh, hang my head, and try to gingerly get up, when he stops me.
“Oh my God, Pen.”
I’d say something crass, like, The last time he said my name all breathy like that, I’d had my head between his legs , but the way Anthony Ellis drops to his knees as white as a sheet drives all the humor from me.
“Are you… What the hell happened?”
When he crouches down beside me and his knee lands in the puddle, his face turns red. He lifts the cup, hardening his jaw, then looks at me.
“That’s it. My first official motion as a interim-administrator is banning these stupid things.”
I huff a laugh. I can’t do much more because he’s crowding my space and stealing my breaths. His knee is still soaking up the water, but it’s pressed between my spread legs, and the hand that isn’t holding the Stanley is shaking. But those are both second to the way his gaze has me captive. The absolute concern in the deep cerulean has me momentarily forgetting about my pain.
But then, he lifts the wrist I’m cradling, and it all comes flying back, because my hand actually hurts like a motherfucker.
“ Fuck , don’t touch it,” I wince, pinching my eyes closed to ward off the stinging bite because I don’t cry . But I do look down and see that my wrist is all sorts of fucked up. It’s already swelling and turning an array of fun colors. What’s worse though is the look on Anthony’s face.
I’d say it’s from me yelling at him, but he looks pained himself. By my pain. Like the fact that I’m lying on the floor near tears is doing things to him . My heavy breathing is no longer due to the pain, but from watching this man morph from empathy into action.
“Hey. Scale of one to ten. What’s your pain? What do you need next?”
Oh. I mean. If he keeps talking to me like that , all rough around the edges, the pain is going to disappear.
“Um…” I shift to sit up and remember that my ass—despite its thickness—caught a large brunt of the fall. “Like a nine point five. Can’t decide if my ass or my wrist hurts more.”
“Let me see.”
I level him with a deadpan stare, dipping my head and twitching my eyelids. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, dipping his head lower to meet mine.
“Your arm, Pen. I’m being serious. I need to see how hurt you are so that I can fix it.”
Annnnnnd those, ladies and gentlemen, are apparently the magic words to get me to do anything, because I lift my mangled wrist between us into his awaiting hands. Hands that hold me so gingerly, I can barely feel the pain as his fingers dance along the swelling skin. I’m too busy getting lost in the touch I once swore had finally stitched my pieces back together.
My body is a flame, and I will the fire in my cheeks to subside. He studies my wrist injury with his brows drawn together in a neat line, and his big hands cradling me like a butterfly has landed on him.
“What do you need to happen next?” he asks, with somehow more gravel in his throat than there had been before. I swallow around my own.
“I uh… I’m no baby, but this hurts pretty badly. I should probably get it checked out.”
He grunts and nods once, sending a call on the walkie to the nurse that he’s bringing me down, then a second to the janitor that there has been a major spill in our classroom. As we walk down the vacant halls, he puts in one last call for Nathan to meet us in the nurse’s office. The entire walk across the school, the hand that isn’t operating the walkie hovers over my lower back. I have to remind myself with every pained step in my tailbone that he’s just doing it for my stability.
While Nurse Cammie examines my wrist and gets me an ice pack, Nathan and Ant talk quietly. It happened on school property, which means paperwork will have to follow. I can hear them outside the doorway, and have to stifle a chuckle when Ant mentions banning water bottles. Eventually, when it has been decided that I need to go to the ER for X-rays, Ant and I are left alone in the small sick room.
He looks flushed. His shaggy, dirty blonde hair is mussed out of its normal chic style, like he’s been tousling it through his conversation with Nathan. His breaths are shallow, and when he puts his hands on his hips, I watch where they white knuckle, like he’s holding onto himself to stop from reaching out again.
“I’m taking you,” he says with a curt nod.
“What are you talking about?”
“To the ER. You can’t drive with a bum wrist.”
I exhale and shake my head.
“It’s fine. I can get Claire to come get me?—”
“ Please, Pen. Let me make sure you’re okay.”
I bite my lip. The desperation, mixed with his strangling grip and the hint of red creeping up his neck have me desperate to give in. But the scratching feedback of his walkie-talkie reminds me that this would be a terrible idea.
“Sounds like duty calls.” I shift to the edge of the sick bed and slip my phone out of my pocket—thankfully it didn’t sustain any damage. “I will call Claire. I’ll be fine, Ant. It’s seriously not a big deal.”
He huffs, biting the inside of his lip to keep his words at bay. It’s embarrassing how badly I want to hear them. But he tips his chin up to the ceiling, exhales, and levels me with his gaze.
“You’ll call me as soon as you get home?”
“Home?” I laugh.
“Yes. You’re not coming back to school today. Boss’s orders.”
“Oh, so now you’re my?—”
“Nathan’s,” he says more quietly. “I know better to assume I’m the boss between the two of us. You hold all the control when it comes to us, Penelope Jayne. I’m just along for the ride.”
My heart skips a beat. Maybe several. I’ll have to add that to my ER consult.
His walkie crackles, and he sighs, closing his eyes before bringing it to his lips.
“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”
Before I can let myself deflate, he steps forward and tilts my chin up with his thumb and forefinger.
My body is alight with electricity. I gasp, my eyes widening before they flutter up at his impenetrable gaze. His thumb swipes over my cheek, but before he can say anything, his walkie beeps again.
And once again, Anthony Ellis leaves me with my skin on fire and nowhere to put out the flames.