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28 Years Later
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Charlie Quinn walked through the darkened halls of Pikeville middle school with a gnawing sense of trepidation. This wasnāt an early morning walk of shame. This was a walk of deeply held regret. Fitting, since the first time sheād had sex with a boy she shouldnāt have had sex with was inside this very building. The gymnasium, to be exact, which just went to show that her father had been right about the perils of a late curfew.
She gripped the cell phone in her hand as she turned a corner. The wrong boy. The wrong man. The wrong phone. The wrong way because she didnāt know where the hell she was going. Charlie turned around and retraced her steps. Everything in this stupid building looked familiar, but nothing was where she remembered it was supposed to be.
She took a left and found herself standing outside the front office. Empty chairs were waiting for the bad students who would be sent to the principal. The plastic seats looked similar to the ones in which Charlie had whiled away her early years. Talking back. Mouthing off. Arguing with teachers, fellow students, inanimate objects. Her adult self wouldāve slapped her teenage self for being such a pain in the ass.
She cupped her hand to the window and peered inside the dark office. Finally, something that looked how it was supposed to look. The high counter where Mrs. Jenkins, the school secretary, had held court. Pennants drooping from the water-stained ceiling. Student artwork taped to the walls. A lone light was on in the back. Charlie wasnāt about to ask Principal Pinkman for directions to her booty call. Not that this was a booty call. It was more of a āHey, girl, you picked up the wrong iPhone after I nailed you in my truck at Shady Rayās last nightā call.
There was no point in Charlie asking herself what she had been thinking, because you didnāt go to a bar named Shady Rayās to think.
The phone in her hand rang. Charlie saw the unfamiliar screen saver of a German Shepherd with a Kong toy in its mouth. The caller ID read SCHOOL.
She answered, āYes?ā
āWhere are you?ā He sounded tense, and she thought of all the hidden dangers that came from screwing a stranger sheād met in a bar: incurable venereal diseases, a jealous wife, a murderous baby mama, an obnoxious Alabama affiliation.
She said, āIām in front of Pinkās office.ā
āTurn around and take your second right.ā
āYep.ā Charlie ended the call. She felt herself wanting to puzzle out his tone of voice, but then she told herself that it didnāt matter because she was never going to see him again.
She walked back the way sheād come, her sneakers squeaking on the waxed floor as she made her way down the dark hallway. She heard a snap behind her. The lights had come on in the front office. A hunched old woman who looked suspiciously like the ghost of Mrs. Jenkins shuffled her way behind the counter. Somewhere in the distance, heavy metal doors opened and closed. The beep-whir of the metal detectors swirled into her ears. Someone jangled a set of keys.
The air seemed to contract with each new sound, as if the school was bracing itself for the morning onslaught. Charlie looked at the large clock on the wall. If the schedule was still the same, the first homeroom bell would ring soon, and the kids who had been dropped off early and warehoused in the cafeteria would flood the building.
Charlie had been one of those kids. For a long time, whenever she thought of her father, her mind conjured up the scene of his arm leaning out of the Chevetteās window, freshly lit cigarette between his fingers, as he pulled out of the school parking lot.
She stopped walking.
The room numbers finally caught her attention, and she knew immediately where she was. Charlie touched her fingers to a closed wooden door. Room three, her safe haven. Ms. Beavers had retired eons ago, but the old womanās voice echoed in Charlieās ears: āTheyāll only get your goat if you show them where you keep your hay.ā
Charlie still didnāt know what that meant, exactly. You could extrapolate that it had something to do with the extended Culpepper clan, who had bullied Charlie relentlessly when sheād finally returned to school.
Or, you could take it that, as a girlsā basketball coach named Etta Beavers, the teacher knew what it felt like to be taunted.
There was no one who could give Charlie advice on how to handle the present situation. For the first time since college, sheād had a one-night stand. Or a one-night sit, if it boiled down to the exact position. Charlie wasnāt the type of person who did that sort of thing. She didnāt go to bars. She didnāt drink to excess. She didnāt really make hugely regrettable mistakes. At least not until recently.
Her life had started to unspool back in August of last year. Charlie had spent almost every waking hour since then raveling out mistake after mistake. Apparently, the new month of May was not going to see any improvement. The blunders were now starting before she even got out of bed. This morning, sheād been wide awake on her back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to convince herself that what had happened last night had not happened at all when an unfamiliar ringtone had come from her purse.
She had answered because wrapping the phone in aluminum foil, throwing it into the dumpster behind her office and buying a new phone that would restore from her old phone backup did not occur to her until after she had said hello.
The short conversation that followed was of the kind you would expect between two total strangers: Hello, person whose name I must have asked for but now canāt recall. I believe I have your phone.
Charlie had offered to meet the man at his work because she didnāt want him to know where she lived. Or worked. Or what kind of car she drove. Between his pickup truck and his admittedly exquisite body, sheād thought heād tell her he was a mechanic or a farmer. Then heād said that he was a teacher and sheād instantly flashed up a Dead Poets Society kind of thing. Then heād said he taught middle school and sheād jumped to the unfounded conclusion that he was a pedophile.
āHere.ā He stood outside an open door at the far end of the hall.
As if on cue, the overhead fluorescents popped on, bathing Charlie in the most unflattering light possible. She instantly regretted her choice of ratty jeans and a faded, long-sleeved Duke Blue Devils basketball T-shirt.
āGood Lord God,ā Charlie muttered. No such problems at the end of the hall.
Mr. I-Canāt-Remember-Your-Name was even more attractive than she remembered. The standard button-down-with-khakis uniform of a middle-school teacher couldnāt hide the fact that he had muscles in places that men in their forties had generally replaced with beer and fried meat. His scraggly beard was more of a five oāclock shadow. The gray at his temples gave him a wizened air of mystery. He had one of those dimples in his chin that you could use to open a bottle.
This was not the type of man Charlie dated. This was the exact type of man that she studiously avoided. He felt too coiled, too strong, too unknowable. It was like playing with a loaded gun.
āThis is me.ā He pointed to the bulletin board outside his room. Small handprints were traced onto white butcher paper. Purple cut-out letters read MR. HUCKLEBERRY.
āHuckleberry?ā Charlie asked.
āItās Huckabee, actually.ā He held out his hand. āHuck.ā
Charlie shook his hand, too late realizing that he was asking for his iPhone. āSorry.ā She handed him the phone.
He gave her a crooked smile that had probably sent many a young girl into puberty. āYours is in here.ā
Charlie followed him into the classroom. The walls were adorned with maps, which made sense because he was apparently a history teacher. At least if you believed the sign that said MR. HUCKLEBERRY LOVES WORLD HISTORY.
She said, āI may be a little sketchy on last night, but I thought you said you were a Marine?ā
āNot anymore, but it sounds sexier than middle-school teacher.ā He gave a self-deprecating laugh. āJoined up when I was seventeen, took my retirement six years ago.ā He leaned against his desk. āI was looking for a way to keep serving, so I got my masterās on a GI bill and here we are.ā
āI bet you get a lot of tear-stained cards on Valentineās Day.ā Charlie wouldāve failed history every single day of her life if her teacher had looked like Mr. Huckleberry.
He asked, āDo you have kids?ā
āNot that I know of.ā Charlie didnāt return the question. She assumed that someone with kids wouldnāt use a photo of his dog as his screen saver. āYou married?ā
He shook his head. āDidnāt suit me.ā
āIt suited me.ā She explained, āWeāve been officially separated for nine months.ā
āDid you cheat on him?ā
āYouād think so, but no.ā Charlie ran her finger along the books on the shelf by his desk. Homer. Euripides. Voltaire. BrontĆ«. āYou donāt strike me as the Wuthering Heights type.ā
He grinned. āNot much talking in the truck.ā
Charlie started to return the grin, but regret pulled down the corners of her mouth. In some ways, this easy, flirty banter felt like more of a transgression than the physical act of sex. She bantered with her husband. She asked inane questions of her husband.
And last night, for the first time in her married life, she had cheated on her husband.
Huck seemed to sense her mood shift. āItās obviously none of my business, but heās nuts for letting you go.ā
āIām a lot of work.ā Charlie studied one of the maps. There were blue pins in most of Europe and some of the Middle East. āYou go to all of these places?ā
He nodded, but didnāt elaborate.
āMarines,ā she said. āWere you a Navy SEAL?ā
āMarines can be SEALs but not all SEALs are Marines.ā
Charlie was about to tell him that he hadnāt answered the question, but Huck spoke first.
āYour phone started ringing at oādark thirty.ā
Her heart flipped in her chest. āYou didnāt answer?ā
āNah, itās much more fun trying to figure you out from your caller ID.ā He pushed himself up on the desk. āB2 called around five this morning. Iām assuming thatās your hook-up at the vitamin shop.ā
Charlieās heart flipped again. āThatās Riboflavin, my spin-class instructor.ā
He narrowed his eyes, but he didnāt push her. āThe next call came at approximately five fifteen, someone who showed up as Daddy, who I deduce by the lack of the word āsugarā in front of the name is your father.ā
She nodded, even as her motherās voice silently stressed that it was whom. āAny other clues?ā
He pretended to stroke a long beard. āBeginning around five thirty, you got a series of calls from the county jail. At least six, spaced out about five minutes apart.ā
āYou got me, Nancy Drew.ā Char...
