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I passed the stack to the first row. Only a few grumblings as they handed them back to the rest of the students. Then Heather Doucet burst into the room, a beaming smile on her pretty face.
“I amsosorry, Ms. Mouton.” She handed me an office memo marked excused.
Not wanting to think abouthimfor another second of my crappy Monday morning, I focused on better things. Literature.
“It’s fine. Just get seated, Heather. We have a lot to cover on last night’s homework reading ofJaneEyre.”
When she sat, her friend Naomi giggled and whispered something to her. Heather giggled right back.
“Do you ladies want to share what’s so amusing?”
They both stiffened and faced forward.
“No, ma’am,” said Naomi.
Trace, one of my favorite students in the whole wide world, rolled his eyes and said, “They were talking about how hot Mr. Broussard is who opened that new grocery store.”
“Trace!” squealed Naomi, reaching over to swat his arm.
He inched away, grinning like a fiend.
Sarah in the front row snorted. “Like that’s new news.” She turned to her friend Caroline. “Did you see him in the BPAL production ofChicagolast year?”
“Omigod. Did I.” Caroline pretended to wipe away drool from her chin.
Time to move on.
“Question numberone,” I snapped.
Everyone jumped and straightened, pencils up and ready for the quiz.
I didnotneed the reminder that Bennett Broussard was, in fact, quite drool-worthy. Especially when there was a chance—a slight one, but still there—that I might be spending a lot of one-on-one time with him very soon.
A millennium later, my lunch break arrived. I met Finn in his office next to the auditorium, as always. As the Fine Arts Department chairperson and the director of all the school plays, he earned a ten-by-eight-foot room that could barely fit a desk, much less the wall-to-wall coat hanger where costumes were hung.
I plopped down on the loveseat across from him. It had been donated for one of his first shows but became part of his office décor. Such is the glamorous life of a public-school teacher.
Opening my lunch bag, I pulled out my turkey sandwich on wheat and tore into it, then heaved a sigh while I chewed.
Finn stared at me with wry amusement. I was accustomed to receiving this expression, so I ignored him and kept chewing.
“So,” he said, pulling his container from the mini-fridge squeezed in behind his desk. He opened his container of cold pasta salad. “Bad Monday?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Then I took another huge bite of my sandwich to prove my point.
“Nonsense. Tell Uncle Finn. I’ll give you the advice you need to remove that demonic scowl from your face.”
I took another bite of my sandwich.
“Is it that you’re still unpacking in the new house? Couldn’t find a clean bra or something?” he asked in all seriousness while taking another bite of pasta salad.
Heaving a the-world-is-ending sigh, I let my hand with my sandwich fall to my lap and took a big swig from my water bottle.
“It’s that Bennett Broussard.”
Finn grinned.
I glared.
