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  “It's okay. You're not an Arnie. I know what the difference is.”

  Hammerstein stares at me, and his eyes become sad. Kinda like Mama’s, but somehow different. I might be dumb, but I'm really good at seeing sad in faces. Actually, I'm really good at seeing a lot of different stuff in faces.

  “You're not a stupid boy, Brett.”

  I look down at my sneakered feet.

  “Hey, listen to me.”

  Lifting my chin, I can barely meet his eyes. I know he's on our side because Mama told me so. But he said the stupid word.

  That usually means I got to fight when that happens. I don't like to. But I've been made to.

  It's all I'm good at.

  I don't want to fight Hammerstein. He made the judge listen. I don't have to go to jail and leave Mama unprotected. That knot in my chest isn’t tied as tight now.

  Hammerstein might be a friend.

  “I told a small white lie in the courtroom.”

  My eyebrows hike. “You lied? I thought you had to tell the whole truth or—”

  Hammerstein lifts his hand in a gesture that means silence, and I shut my mouth.

  “About your IQ.”

  Heat suffuses my face. The blood rushes in my ears with a dull, thumping river-like roar.

  IQ is a number that measures how smart someone is. I bet mine is low.

  His eyes study my expression. “I didn't give the number of your actual IQ because it's higher than I wanted the jury to know. Your shortcomings stem from environment and are not grounded in intelligence.”

  My eyes bug a little. “Are you saying that I'm not dumb?”

  My heart starts to beat faster. A warm feeling swells around that tight spot in my chest, and I rub at it, thinking maybe it'll go away.

  “Definitely not. You might be illiterate and have suffered mightily in your young life, but you're not a dumb kid. You just need the right person to teach you.”

  I like what Hammerstein is saying. Not sure it's true, though.

  But there is one thing I can be sure of. “And no more Arnies.”

  Hammerstein's return grin takes up his entire face. “Absolutely no more Arnies.”

  But my smile fades.

  There are always more Arnies.

  Chapter 2

  Krista

  Present day

  I set the ruler directly beneath the sentence and wait.

  Ian places his tiny finger on top of the ruler in line with the first word in the sentence.

  “Let teacher keep your place with the ruler while you sound out the words, ’kay?” I brush a strand of my scattered hair behind my ear.

  Ian nods and begins, bouncing around in his chair as he reads. “And the mow-se… findz his how-se in…” He pauses, giving me an inquisitive look I know well.

  “Hard,” I interject then smile. Ian continues, “The,” he looks for affirmation again.

  I nod encouragement.

  I’m so proud of him. Those hard and soft consonants are buggers.

  “Wall!” he exclaims, brown eyes popping with excitement at nailing the end word perfectly.

  “And?” I prompt.

  He props his chin in his hand, nose scrunched.

  Come on. You can do it.

  “Maggie said.”

  He didn't say “say-d.” It's a win!

  I go against professional decorum and hug Ian.

  He squeals in delight.

  We break apart, and he says. “I did a good job, Miss Glass.”

  I sweep his hair off his face. “Yes, you did. You got a hard consonant and tackled a sight word.”

  Ian nods and announces, “I'm hungry now.”

  Laughing softly, I stand, pushing my chair away and pulling his. “Well that's good timing because your mom is picking you up in…” I glance down at my huge brilliant white wristwatch. “Five minutes, partner.”

  “Yes!” Ian says, his freckled face lighting with anticipation.

  He runs toward the swinging glass doors of the school, and I holler after him, “Wait for me.”

  “Ahhh,” he says, slowing to a trot and dragging his little feet behind him. Kids always act like it's a crime not to be able to do everything at sixty miles per hour.

  “Miss Glass?”

  I turn, and the headmistress at our exclusive private school is standing in the threshold to the door leading to the catacomb of offices that is the beating heart of the building.

  “I'll need to speak with you once Ian's mother fetches him.”

  My stomach does a delayed flop. Typical reaction to being called to see the boss.

  I assume a neutral expression. “Of course.”

  With a phony smile plastered on my face, I march to the front of the building. My high heels echo as I move quickly before Ian decides to escape outside alone.

  As soon as he sees me coming, Ian bursts out of the doors, backpack slung on a narrow shoulder, and hops down each broad concrete step.

  Ian turns with a wide smile. It wilts around the edges a little when he sees my expression.

  “What's wrong, Teacher?”

  Truth with children, no matter how raw. It's my motto. Keeps things real.

  After all, they're just little people. Just like the rest of humanity, only smaller.

  “My boss wants to talk to me, and it makes me a little nervous.”

  He cocks his head, carrot-colored hair like a bright halo of fire around his face. “Why?”

  Seeing his mom pull up in a sleek silver van, I shrug. “She's in charge of my work, and I want everything to be okay.”

  Ian walks forward, and I sink to my haunches, tucking my skirt behind my knees.

  He cups my face.

  The gesture makes me want to cry. Comfort sometimes comes from the most unlikely places.

  “You're in charge of you, Teacher,” he says simply. Hearing a faint beep, I stand, blinking away tears. Ian's hand is warm in mine as I lead him to his mother's car.

  This is why I teach people to read.

  I watch the horizon long after their car has disappeared into it.

  *

  Smoothing my skirt over my knees, I try not to let my confusion show, but I’m losing that battle with my nervous hands.

  Ms. Rowe is a matronly woman, the quintessential headmistress stereotype—complete with glasses, hair pulled up into a steel-colored bun, and sensible pumps. “You're an excellent special needs teacher, Ms. Glass. And in the year you've been with us, I've had no complaints and want to retain you.”

  However…The unspoken word is like a ginormous pink elephant ready to launch onto my chest.

  Rowe does a strategic fiddle fest, her restless hand moving a pen about five times. Finally, she spits out the unspoken but. “The State of Washington requires that special needs teachers take a sabbatical every third term for a period of one month. In which time, they teach a completely divergent group of learners.”

  I nearly stand.

  There's no way I want to leave Alisa, Ian, Gregory, Mabel, and my other kids out to dry for a month! Is she insane?

  “I'm sorry,” Rowe says, reading my expression with a precision that speaks of her years of experience. Giving her readers a tense shove, she pushes the glasses higher up the bridge of her nose.

  “Sorry,” I seethe through my teeth, “but those kids need me. I can't just toss them aside for some teacher's union political bent!” In an effort to fake a calm I don’t feel, I add, “It's destabilizing.”

  Rowe frowns.

  I try to rein it in and can't. Tears threaten. I'm not a crier, but I'm so frustrated, I could scream.

  What the actual fuck?

  “It's a new law, but it was implemented just before your hiring.” She gives a little shrug, and I sort of collapse against the chair.

  I try for reason. “It's the end of the school year.”

  Rowe nods. “I know, I fought for the timing so you'd be winding things down, instead of gearing them up. It could have been arranged for mid-te
rm.”

  Good Lord. I cross my arms beneath my breasts, eyes flung toward the ceiling to veil my disgust for a system I have such terrible control of. We're teachers. We're the first line of defense and learning for the nation's future, and they jerk us around because of what? Some political ideal? Some person who's never been in the trenches doing the job thinks they have insight. Pfft. They don't have any. Doing is knowing. Everything else is educated guessing.

  Or uneducated guessing.

  Finally, I look back at Ellen Rowe. She sits quietly, and I suddenly notice how tired she looks.

  “Does it affect everyone?”

  She shakes her head. “Just teachers who are considered high-risk for burnout, or what they call ʻover-teaching.ʼ”

  What a crock. The committee of “they” who decide stuff like an armchair god should have their collective asses kicked. How dare they presume to know what it means to teach fragile minds? They can’t possibly understand the reward of seeing those kids’ gain a skill with myself as the vehicle in reaching their potential.

  Shit.

  None of them will know what it takes for a dyslexic child to work around that small flaw in her brain.

  Or how a kid suffering from Aspergers feels when he can't learn the way the masses can because he doesn't fit into the square box that society has made for them. I’ve seen plenty of enormously intelligent round pegs running around, and I'm glad to be able to help them in their journey.

  Taking a deep breath, I unclench my fists, feeling the crescents my nails leave behind. “So who do I teach, and where is it?”

  Mrs. Rowe’s five-second pause tells me it’s definitely bad.

  “Well, here's where it gets tricky.” She leans forward, lacing her slender fingers together. Her eyes sweep up. Her lenses magnify the unusually vibrant slate color. “Troubled juveniles, now adults, who cannot read.”

  Oh, boy. So easy. “So they just decided to be lazy? I'm trained to help special needs people, not those who fooled around while others educated themselves.”

  I'm ranting. I know this.

  Rowe gives me the stare down. I fight fidgeting in my seat like a caught schoolgirl.

  Finally, she says, “I think that's vaguely elitist, Krista. I don't want to lose you for a month.” Rowe leans back, giving me a critical eye, and curses wearily, “Hell, I don't want to lose you for even a day.”

  “Damn,” I say softly.

  “Yes.” She waves a casual palm around. “All of that.”

  Ellen folds her hands on her desk. “It's a small class, only three students. One-on-one, not all taught together. And they're lucky to have you. If they show progress, and you so choose, you have the option to continue their lessons through the summer.”

  “How old are these kids, again?” I ask, suddenly interested, in spite of being torn out of my element. The familiar.

  Away from kids I know—and love.

  “Oh, they're not children. They were troubled juveniles who couldn't read because of various circumstances. They're all between the ages of eighteen to twenty-three.”

  I'm twenty-three. I've never taught anyone close to my own age. Though my degree allows me to teach an expanded age range for reading, I'm strictly early elementary by choice.

  “Okay,” I say slowly.

  “Good. I was hoping you wouldn't quit me.”

  All I can manage is a sad smile. “No offense, but I'm not quitting them.”

  “None taken.” Ellen puts up her hands, and we stand at the same moment.

  “When?”

  Her exhale is softly frustrated. “Monday.”

  I have the weekend.

  “Who's covering for me?”

  “Lynn Doyle.”

  I love Lynn. She'll do her best.

  “I can't say goodbye,” I say, sudden tears burning my eyes again.

  “You don't have to, Krista. You'll be back next year. The kids will all be four months older. That's all.”

  It's never all.

  I turn around and walk out the door. Somehow, my leaving feels final.

  “I'll email you the particulars,” Ellen says to my back.

  I nod but don't turn around. I want my last memory to be Ian telling me to be who I am.

  The words of an almost-six-year-old are some of the wisest I've heard.

  Chapter 3

  Trainer

  Eighteen months ago

  Gotta good buzz goinʼ.

  Feeling fine.

  Meeting with my bud, tossing some brew. Friday night, and my job as a mechanic is finito.

  I don't think about how I haven't seen Mama in three weeks. ʼCause if I do, I'll have to kick the latest Arnie's ass.

  My eyes scan the dim interior of the bar, seeking out the ladies. Gotta have me some of that.

  They're all so beautiful, it's hard to choose just one. Then my eyes land on a small blonde.

  None of these skinny chicks are for me. I like a little meat on the girls. Tits and ass, as the bros call it.

  “Brett, toss me a five. Gotta get myself another brewsky.”

  I frown. Todd is always mooching.

  He's funny, though. Wish I had real friends, instead of these guys that just sort of hang around and offer nothinʼ.

  I think of Mama again. Worry creeps in, spilling into the edges of my mind like sludge. I remember Hammerstein telling me I'm not dumb.

  I think about the three and a half years I spent working hard without being able to read a word, the hassle of trying to get work. The lack of confidence.

  The only thing I feel good about is chicks and fighting.

  I love fucking. Because girls like me fucking them. I got a big dick, and that's good, but secretly, I just love the smell and taste of them. Their skin is so soft; they're so small and fragile. Takes the edge off me to just have them, to protect them, even if it's just for a time or two in the sack.

  They never call me dumb. A complete bonus.

  “Hey, dumbshit! The five!” Todd hollers, being his normal turd self, when I don’t hand him the cash fast enough.

  I flip him off.

  He snorts and whacks me on the back of my head, making my longish hair sort of explode at the crown of my head.

  A lot of the Arnies did that.

  Turning smoothly, I sucker punch Todd in the gut.

  Gasping, he sorta slides gracelessly off the stool and falls to his knees then his ass.

  I toss the five on the floor in front of him and walk over to the blonde I pegged with my eyes five minutes earlier.

  Just as I'm making my way, three biker guys walk in.

  How do I know they’re bikers?

  They wear those cool-ass leather vests with patches. One in particular catches my eyes. It's a red diamond with a small number one and a percent symbol.

  I can't read what's on the back in brilliantly and precisely done lettering, but it looks tight.

  They move like restless jaguars, wild and slightly unkempt, prowling through the bar, not having to push people away. The crowd instinctively parts for them, letting them flow through like a river of muscled and leathered flesh.

  Eyes missing nothing, they catch sight of me.

  I don't look away. Not afraid of nothinʼ. Death will find me when it will.

  I survived the Arnies—lost count on how many—so I don't scare easy.

  There are three of these biker dudes. One has blondish-white hair and ice chips for eyes. Tall. Built. The other has black eyes and dark hair. He’s also really tall and built. The third has dirty-blond hair and eyes that are light enough to pierce the haze of smoke in the murky bar. Built a lot like the other two, he’s tall like me, but maybe a hair shorter.

  His light-pewter gaze scrapes over me like I'm dog shit.

  I've seen that look a hundred times—a thousand. I know I'm dog shit. But I won't back down no matter what.

  Never have.

  Backinʼ down would've gotten me killed.

  This last guy is a problem. Unlike the ot
her two, he reeks of the potential to be a dangerous fucker.

  “Hi!”

  Startled, I look down.

  It's the blond.

  I get an insta-boner. Shit.

  One second, I'm thinking about getting my ass kicked over staring. The next, my dream girl of the night is right in front of me.

  “Wanna dance?” She flutters long eyelashes over pretty brown eyes.

  Ah-huh. Pouting, she slides her hand up the front of my shirt. It has pearl buttons, and I'm wearing my cowboy boots. Like the look a lot. Nicest clothes I got.

  “You're hot, cowboy.” The corners of her ruby lips turn upward.

  I capture her hand and begin towing her across the dance floor. Not much of a talker. Gets me nowhere. I don't miss a month without talking to Hammerstein.

  He's retired now. He became a judge after he helped me with Arnold Sulk.

  And he still tells me I'm smart.

  Every month.

  “Don't visit your mama too much, Brett. There'll be an Arnie,” he says.

  He's right. There always is. They're different men, but they’re all the same.

  “You won't be able to hold back, son.”

  He's right. I won't.

  So now I see Mama when I can stand it. Her birthday. Some of the holidays she made special for me when I was a kid. Nothing more.

  I can't.

  Can't stand the bruises. The withering of her body—and her soul.

  I look at the blond and flatten my hands on the small of her back.

  “God damn, you know how to touch a girl,” she purrs, laying her small face against my chest. I'm tall, so she's kinda between my pecs.

  I cup the back of her skull, and we rock to the music.

  Feels good. My mind can't stop the spinning of anxiety it always has goinʼ on.

  After a few minutes, the song changes to another one. Hot. Slow.

  She moves the space between the buttons of my shirt apart and kisses the skin revealed there.

  I bite back a groan like a hiss.

  Love the ladies. Love what they have even more.

  “Hey,” she says softly.

  My mind is already in bed with her. I forgot the bikers. My asshole friend, Todd.