School Ties Read online

  Titles by Tamsen Parker

  School Ties

  The Compass Series

  Personal Geography

  Intimate Geography

  Uncharted Territory

  True North

  Short Stories and Novellas

  Craving Flight

  Looking for a Complication

  (originally published as part of the For the First Time anthology)

  Needs

  (originally published as part of the Winter Rain anthology)

  Anthologies

  Winter Rain

  School Ties

  Tamsen Parker

  INTERMIX

  New York

  INTERMIX

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Tamsen Parker

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN: 9780399584343

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For Courtney. You’ve totally earned that cape, thanks for making my dreams come true!

  Contents

  Titles by Tamsen Parker

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Erin

  Whatever you do, do not think of them naked.

  It’s my first day at my new job. My heart is beating hard and my palms are sweating. Don’t. Panic. Fainting is not the way to show them you’re in control.

  The second hand on the clock ticks to seven forty and I take a deep breath. Here we go.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Erin Brewster. Miss Brewster to you, please, and we’ll be spending first period together this year.”

  My eyes skim over my audience as I make my speech, telling them my rules for homework and tests, my expectations for making up work and seeking notes when they’re ill.

  Teenage boys. Why did I think this was a good idea? They’re regarding me in polite silence, although if I could crystal-ball gaze into their adolescent skulls, I bet I’d see myself in revealing lingerie if anything at all, spread open in some pinup-worthy pose. I’m going to have to earn every inch from these boys.

  When they’d filed in, I’d noticed all of them are taller than I am. To be expected since I’m five feet tall and they’re seniors, but I hope I’ll have a few inches on some of my freshmen. Please?

  They’re a well-groomed crew on the whole: to-dress-code blazers clean and button-down shirts crisp. Whether because they want to make a good impression or because they haven’t had a chance to spill anything on themselves, I’m not sure. Most of them have the careless posture of kids who feel entitled to be here, a few the eager forward-leaning of perennial teachers’ pets, and one—whose intense gaze nearly sends me tripping over my wastebasket—sits ramrod straight. Dark blue eyes under heavy slanted brows and long lashes any cover girl would murder for observe me with a detached, cautious stare from the back row. He’s undecided about this new girl, but he doesn’t seem to be undressing me with his eyes.

  Jesus, Erin, get a grip. You’re twenty-two, not sixteen, and you shouldn’t be thinking of anything other than how to get these kids through their AP exam. That’s right. Kids. You are an adult. The line here is firm.

  I recognize most of the boys from going through the face book. It’s an old-school paper version the school gives out to faculty and staff to help us get to know the students before they arrive on campus. We’re to guard them with our lives. I can imagine the unsavory things that have been done with those booklets during the years they were passed out to students.

  Taking roll call, I confirm my guesses about the identities of my students. The boys raise hands to help me find them in the small sea of ironic thrift shop silk ties and athletic duffel bags slung around the classroom. When I call the last student’s name, Zachary Shepherd, it’s blue eyes who raises a hand in acknowledgement, expression still impassive. Mr. Shepherd, then.

  After introductions, I barrel straight into the textbook, drawing the graph of a simple parabola to illustrate the concepts of domain and range. Some of the boys exchange glances. They’re surprised our first class won’t consist entirely of inane pleasantries. Oh no, gentlemen, you’ve met your match in me. You’re all going to get fours or fives on the AP test if it kills me. It might.

  The bells sound off in the distance and I wrap up my thought before sending them on their way to second period. They punch each other on the shoulders on the way out, fists landing against flesh hard enough to make me wince, but they smile.

  The rest of the day is uneventful. My youngest kids, second period algebra, are sweet and as nervous as I am. I take it easier on them than first period, but not too easy. They may be fourteen, most scrawny, a few with bad skin, but they’re still teenagers. I need to establish my dominance in the classroom early and often. On one panicked night a few weeks ago, I’d watched a few episodes of Nanny 911 and Dog Whisperer for notes.

  Working at a boys’ boarding school probably isn’t everyone’s idea of a dream job. But my grandfather spent his whole career at the Hawthorn Hill School; teaching, coaching, being a dorm parent. My whole life I’ve wanted to follow in his footsteps more than anything else. To be honest, it’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted. My father booked it away from the Hill as fast as his feet could take him, wanting to escape to something bigger, less insular, somewhere he wasn’t Kent Brewster’s son. I don’t blame him. It’s a lot to live up to.

  Shep

  “Hey, Shep, wait up!”

  I glance over my shoulder but don’t stop. Lucky’s always late, and he’s not going to hold me back. He sprints to catch up and falls in beside me, his messenger bag bumping against his side.

  “How was your summer, man?”

  “Fine.”

  “Were you at home?”

  Yeah, I’d been at home. Working my ass off holding down three jobs, getting yelled at by my mom for not being around to watch my little brother, and ta
king crap from my father because I’d gotten “too big for my britches.” But Lucky doesn’t give a shit about all that and I have no interest in spilling my guts.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Nah. My parents made me go on this lame-ass immersion in Italy. The classes were a bitch, but Italian girls . . . Man, they are—”

  I block out his rambling about Italian tits and snatch. I like girls as much as the next guy, but he sounds stupid, and most of his bragging is bluster. I’d be surprised if he’d done more than get his hand smacked away when he tried to sneak it up some Catholic girl’s skirt. Not that I should talk. I was too busy to think about girls this summer, never mind hook up with anyone.

  Back at school where I’m not allowed to have more than a ten-hour-a-week campus job shelving books in the library, my mind isn’t too full of dangerous machinery, orders being shouted, and invoices to fill to find a stray thought during the day. I’ve recovered enough in the week I’ve been back that my head doesn’t go dark as soon as it hits the pillow. No. Now I’ve got room for thoughts of something other than what’s happening this very second and it’s been to one thing they’ve been wandering.

  The new math teacher. Miss Brewster. Erin. I hadn’t been so sure about her when Headmaster Wilson introduced her at opening convocation. She’s pretty. Not in a flashy way. In a girl-next-door kind of way. Except I’ve never lived next door to a girl who looked like that. I got stuck with the Donnelly brothers, all five of whom thought it was fun to pick on my brother and therefore all five of whom I’ve had to apologize to after punching. Nope, I’d trade their flaming red heads for Erin’s shiny brown any day.

  She’d been flustered and blushed like crazy when the Headmaster introduced her. I’d cringed, thinking some of the guys were going to have a field day with her. They could have her in tears by the end of the first class. I’d gotten this weird tightening in my stomach at the idea of her flushed with tears rolling down her face, but the idea of anyone hurting her feelings snapped it with rage.

  But she surprised me. She took control early on and didn’t demand respect, but let us know she wasn’t going to be a pushover. She didn’t seem in a hurry to befriend us like some of the fellows do. Maybe because she’s not technically a fellow? Even though she just graduated college, they hired her outright. It gets awkward with the fellows sometimes because they’re so much closer in age to us than most of the faculty. Some of them try to make up for it by being super-strict overlords, but she wasn’t standoffish either.

  I don’t know why, but I’d felt somehow, I dunno, proud of her? She’s little and soft and to stand up in front of a bunch of dudes who are trying to picture you naked . . . that takes some balls. The guys won’t fuck with her too much in class. We all know who her grandfather was and there’ll be hell to pay from Headmaster Wilson if anyone messes with her. But that’s only when grown-ups are around. It’s open season when it’s just the guys, but I’ll try to keep a lid on the smack talk about her. And just in time . . .

  “Did you see the ass on Miss Brewster? She’s a little on the chubby side for me, but I wouldn’t say no to—”

  I almost clothesline the guy with an arm extended across his chest. He bounces off and struggles to keep his balance so he doesn’t fall on his ass.

  “Off-limits, man. Don’t be a dick.”

  “Sure, Shep. Whatever.” Lucky eyes me, but shakes his head of any suspicions he might have. It’s not the first time I’ve called an end to that shit, and I hope he can’t tell it’s personal. Maybe.

  “Miss Davis is more my type anyway—”

  I roll my eyes but let him go on making crude groping gestures in the air. If he could ever talk a girl into getting into her pants, I doubt it would last long. I punch him on the arm to shut him up a dozen yards away from the history building. I’ve got Jeffries for Contemporary Issues in the Middle East and I’ve got to get my head in the game. Guy’s an asshole and it wouldn’t surprise me if he sprung a pop quiz on our summer reading. I studied last night, but when I’d shut off my desk lamp and fallen asleep to the sounds of Die Hard coming through the wall from the triple next door, my thoughts hadn’t been about Palestinians and Israelis but about Erin Brewster.

  Erin

  I survived.

  It’s Friday evening after the first week of classes and I’m on my feet. It’s a small victory maybe, but a victory nonetheless. At this point, I’ll take anything I can get. I’m standing awkwardly by a wingback chair in Uncle Rett and Aunt Tilly—or should I say Headmaster and Mrs. Wilson’s—living room, a glass of red in one hand and a plate full of mini-quiches and shrimp cocktail in the other. I’m dying to devour it all, but I can’t because I don’t have enough hands and I don’t want to spill on this dress. It’s one of the few I have that makes me feel pretty: knee-length and navy with a cream lace overlay. It manages to make me look at least a little sophisticated. Usually when I dress up I look like I snuck into my mother’s closet and no one noticed before I left the house.

  I’m about to give in to my natural urges and sit with the plate balanced on my knees while I hork my food down, but I’m surprised to see Will Chase coming toward me. I met Will during my orientation a few weeks ago. He’d been friendly and charming and I’d excused myself before I had a chance to look silly. He’s been here a few years and seems like a lifer. He looks the part: handsome in a bookish way, sandy hair thinning on the crown of his head. Though he’s a bit young for that, it doesn’t detract from his charms. Possibly adds to his paternalistic, professorial appeal. That and the tweed jacket with the elbow patches. I know I’m a dork, but, swoon.

  Looking around, there’s no one else he could be coming to see and my cheeks preemptively pink.

  “Good evening, Miss Brewster.”

  “Mr. Chase.”

  “Please, call me Will when the kids aren’t around. I’ve had enough ‘Mr. Chases’ to last a lifetime.”

  I flush further, hoping he doesn’t notice. Knowing I redden like a tomato, it’s unlikely. “Will.”

  My voice comes out breathy and weird. I’d pinch myself if I had an extra hand. I’ve always been shy with men because though I’m inclined to think they’re flirting with me, it’s not true. They have a passing interest, a brief consideration, before deciding I’m too . . . something. But the brilliant, toothy smile I get back when I say his name is encouraging.

  “That’s better. How was your first week of class? Hope the boys aren’t being too rough with you. Sometimes they get it into their heads that it’s a good idea to haze new faculty members.”

  “No, they’ve been fine. I’ve been trying my best to seem . . . formidable.” He laughs and I flinch, mumbling the rest of my thought. “But it doesn’t come naturally. I’m exhausted.”

  Not just from teaching, although that’s the lion share of it. The sheer number of people I’ve met over the past couple of weeks and the pressure for chatter is overwhelming. I’m glad I know half the faculty from when my grandfather taught here. I’d never survive otherwise.

  “I’m sure you’re doing great. You’re brave for standing up in front of a room full of teenage boys. They’re a tough audience. Although rumor has it they’re easier on pretty girls.”

  He winks and I almost drop my wineglass. Will thinks I’m pretty?

  “How would you know?” I don’t mean my question to sound petulant, but it comes out that way. His eyes widen before they slide over to where Lana Davis, his colleague in the English department who could be a supermodel, is talking to a small cadre of male faculty members. She’s been here maybe a year less than Will. I wonder if there’s history there, or maybe a rejection on her part. Will’s handsome, but Lana is flat-out hot with her jet-black hair flowing halfway down her back. I’m not as pretty as she is, but I don’t relish being someone’s consolation prize. “Excuse me.”

  I turn to leave, and Will stops me with hands on my biceps. My
bare biceps.

  “Come on, Erin. Don’t be like that. I was trying to flirt with you. You must be familiar with that, right?” The stomach-clenching smile is back, and I soften at the insinuation that of course men flirt with me all the time. It’s possible I’m overreacting. I wish people would walk around with tickers hanging on their chests that telegraphed their real thoughts. Maybe then social interaction wouldn’t leave me so dumbfounded. “Hey, what do you say we get out of here, just the two of us, go for a walk? I’ve heard all the war stories half a dozen times and I’m sure you’re sick of everyone talking about your grandfather.”

  I’m not, actually. I could listen to them all night. They make me feel like he’s not really gone. Like if I stay here, he’ll be with me forever because the memory of him is woven into the tapestry of this place. Even people who never worked with him refer to him as a legend, and his photo is on a plaque by the classroom some grateful students endowed in his name. Another reason I came here. To be under his wing again.

  On the other hand, the promise of getting some one-on-one time with Will is appealing. He’s cute, and above all, age-appropriate. I can hear the war stories whenever. Tomorrow night, in fact. I’m supposed to have dinner with Uncle Rett and Aunt Tilly. I’ve been proud not to slip, referring to them as Everett and Tilly like anyone else, but I’ll be glad when it’s the three of us sitting in their wood-paneled dining room and I can let my guard down and be myself. At least as much as I’m myself around anyone.

  I agree with a nod and set my dishes down where one of the circulating caterers will be sure to pick it up. Will makes a move toward the front door, but that way’s littered with blazers, beards, and canapés. Made bold by the glass of wine in my stomach with no food to soak it up, I grab his arm, getting a handful of elbow-patch suede.

  “Come on; this way. I know this house like the back of my hand.”

  I tug him toward the back of the house, making our way through the kitchen, where a harried cater-waiter is loading up yet another tray. Yanking at the polyester bow tie at his neck, he complains to a colleague, “These academics talk a good game, but they stuff their faces as much as Pats fans at a Super Bowl party.”