2. Finn
Finn
TUESDAY, AUGUST 12TH
“ T his is bullshit!”
“Watch your mouth, Alexis!”
“No! This isn’t fair! I don’t want to be in this stupid town and I don’t want to go to this stupid school!”
Well, that makes two of us, kid. But I don’t dare even hint that I’m thinking that because tween girls pick up on even the smallest signs of weakness.
They can smell fear.
We’re sitting in the Eagle View parking lot in my car. The windows are rolled up, thankfully, so my new coworkers can’t hear the tirade my daughter is on.
“Let me keep the rhinestones on!”
“You’re too young for makeup!”
“Oh my god, it’s not makeup, I told you that!”
I look at the small, shiny sparkles that she’s meticulously arranged on her cheeks and all I can see is images of her in five years, going to Coachella and surrounded by a bunch of leering assholes who I’ll have to kill.
She’s on the verge of tears now. Again. “I hate it here, I want to go back to Joliet. I don’t know why we had to leave.”
I sigh and try to breathe through the rising irritation. “We’ve been through this, Lexie, and you know exactly why. Sarice was moving to San Diego right after her wedding and I couldn’t find anyone else to replace her.”
“I’m almost a teenager, Dad, I don’t need a nanny anymore.” Cue obligatory eye roll.
“Well, you did in that part of town, okay? We did not live in the best of areas.”
That’s an understatement, actually. We lived in a terrible part of town thanks to my crippling student loan debt and, well, employing a nanny. But Lexie’s mom was long gone, and I had wanted her to have some sort of female role model in her life. One who could give her more attention than an after-school daycare program could.
“I could have stayed with Megan,” she objects. “Megan needed me, and I can’t be there for her.”
I honestly wish I could have brought Megan with us when we moved out here. Her parents are…um…let’s just say unsavory .
“Sweetheart, I know you miss Megan and want to be there for your friend, but I’m your father and I’m not going to put you in an unsafe situation. We won’t live over Grandma and Grandpa’s garage forever, okay? It’s just until we get on our feet and then I can buy us a house.”
“A house back in Joliet?”
I resist the urge to yell. “Stop focusing on Joliet. We are never going back to Joliet.”
“Oh, my god just stop talking!” she cries. She opens the door, leaps out, and slams it closed before I can collect my next thought.
Was leaving my job as a physical therapist in Illinois to move back in with my parents on my bucket list?
No, obviously not.
Neither was taking a job as a high school PE teacher because it was the only thing available in my strange little hometown.
But being a parent means making sacrifices.
I just wish that it didn’t mean Lexie having to make sacrifices, too.
Before I head into the building for Back to School Night, I take a minute for my usual regrouping ritual. It consists of five slow, deep breaths, followed by a silent gratitude for Lex being in my life, followed by an audible, “Fuck you, Scarlett,” to my ex-wife. It’s probably unhealthy, but it’s working for now.
When I first walked into Eagle View for my interview four months ago, a lifetime of memories came rushing back to me. Most of them good, a few of them bad, but all of them rooted in my total teenage dedication to having fun above all else. I’m still surprised they even considered me for the position, given my reputation as a “rabble-rouser.” According to legend, anyway.
Yes, I was a legend here.
Jonah Woodcock and I were no strangers to the principal’s office and spent plenty of weekends cleaning up whatever mess our pranks left behind. We never permanently damaged anything; we weren’t assholes. But I’m sure we caused the school board and our parents more than a few gray hairs.
Now he’s the Chief of Police and I’m a freaking teacher. The Nosy Pecker’s had a field day with it.
The first thing you see when you walk in the front doors of the building is the main office to the left, behind a wall of windows for transparency. Principal Field is back there, along with the nurse’s office. And then, walking straight down the hallway, the right side has the K-6 classrooms. Middle grade and high school are upstairs, so Lex is an entire floor away from me (which might be the only thing she’s been happy about in the last six months). Typically, I would take a left beyond the office to head back towards the gym, but I haven’t had a chance to look around the school since I got the job, so curiosity gets the better of me.
I wish I could say it looks different from what I remember, but it doesn’t. The shiny white tile floors are the same…the smooth gray walls covered in butcher paper murals and class projects are the same…the teacher on the floor with her very nice ass in the air?—
Wait, what’s this now?
My feet walk me into the first-grade classroom before I can think better of it and I can hear the owner of the very nice ass muttering from under one of the small desks.
“First graders are so much smaller than middle schoolers. I’m not used to it,” she says. Not that I’m paying attention to a whole lot beyond what looks like a nicely toned backside under those black pants. I clear my throat in an effort to clear my head, too.
It takes her by surprise and she hits the back of her head on the desk while she tries to stand. “Son of a bitch!” She’s squinting one eye while she rubs her head. “I promise I won’t swear in front…“
We stand staring at each other for an awkward moment. I have to admit I’m more than a little surprised to see that the black pants are the most conservative thing about this woman. Arguably the only conservative thing about her. The white top she’s wearing has a high neckline but puts her tan arms—and several floral tattoos—on display. Her hair falls just below her shoulders and looks almost black, save for the streaks of bright pink running through it. She can’t be a teacher, can she? Especially for first graders? She looks like the most unreliable person in town and that is saying something, let me tell you.
I run my fingers through my hair and find her dark green eyes settled on me. Her facial features seem delicate compared to the rest of—wait, is that a nose ring?
“Ta-da! I have one of those desktop vacuums—oh hey, Coach!”
Saved by the art teacher. “Lana. Good to see you. Is, uh, everything okay in here?”
“We’re good,” Bottoms Up replies. “Just a minor jitter glitter situation.”
Sounds like she’s definitely the new teacher. Callie...something. Her last name is complicated. Unfortunately, the minute she says “glitter,” all I can picture is an image of her stripping, so I make a hasty exit. But before I’m out of earshot, I hear her say, “He definitely catches the eye, doesn’t he?”
Man, they must pump something through the air ducts in this school to bring out my rebellious side. It’s pretty good stuff if I’m actually attracted to a woman with tattoos and a nose ring at this stage of my life.
I was told they refinished the gym’s floor a few years ago, but everything else looks just like I remember. Because of course it does.
There isn’t usually a big turnout from the high schoolers for electives, so I only have a handful of those students amassed by the locker room. But the middle school boys are running around the court trying to make their gangly, awkward bodies look good for the girls who are ignoring them from the bleachers. I spot Lex off to the side by herself and my heart aches. She must sense me watching her because she looks up and sends a top-notch glare my way before turning her eyes back to her phone.
“There he is!” A firm slap on my shoulder comes from Ernie, the elementary grade gym coach. Poor bastard. But Ernie’s good people, so I slap him on the back in response.
He’s greeted enthusiastically by most of the kids, who are rushing over to get their high fives in. He blows his whistle and directs them all to fall in line, which they quickly do, to my surprise. The six high school kids who showed up meander over as well.
“Great to see everyone!” he cheers. “Did everyone have a good summer?”
A raucous response answers his question.
“Awesome! Me, too! Have you guys met Coach Finnegan yet?”
Most of them shake their heads and glance at me while my daughter looks the opposite direction.
“This guy was a legend back in the day!” Ernie starts to talk about my status as the resident maverick before I cut him off. The last thing I need is Lexie having any more ammunition right now.
Or ever.
“Alllll right, Coach Ernie, thanks for that introduction. If I can see the high school and middle grade students over here?—”
“Coach Finnegan’s a bad boy,” I hear one of the older girls giggle.
Lexie gags.
“Just so we’re clear,” I announce gruffly, “the term ‘bad boy’ is completely and one hundred percent inappropriate, particularly when you’re talking to a teacher or other adult.”
The girl’s cheeks turn ten shades of red and her friends cover their faces to hide their laughter.
“And while we’re on the subject, just so none of you get any ideas, the defiant little punk I used to be back in the day is long gone.”
I pause to make sure I have all of their attention.
“I believe in hard work and harder work. If you’re not putting forth your best effort in every unit, then you’ll be doing laps. And push ups. And sit-ups. And more laps. I call it Tuft Swallow Boot Camp and trust me, it is always an option, so watch your step.”
There. That should keep them in line the rest of the year.
The rest of this long, unending, godforsaken year.