He looked at the syllabus Mr. Diaz had mapped out. Third period was Auto 101. From the looks of the curriculum, it wasn’t auto so much as small engines. Not one tire or exhaust to change out.
The kids took their seats. Most of them looked like they were twelve.
How bad could this be?
Ten minutes into class, his back was turned while he drew an illustration on the board, and something wet hit his neck.
If not for the laughter that followed, he would have thought the aging school had a leak.
Memories of his younger years surfaced.
Images flashed of him sitting back in his seat, acting like nothing happened. His friends all laughing along . . .
Cooper turned and watched as one by one the smiles slowly faded to snickers. The upright spines slid into chairs . . .
One student’s eyes narrowed on his, the straight line of his lips shouted in their lack of expression.
As their eyes fixated, the room moaned in silence.
“What’s your name?” Cooper asked.
At least one of the kids cut in with an audible ohhhh.
Cooper knew he had his man . . . or kid, as it stood.
The kid responded in Spanish . . . and with the delivery of his name, he added a slur he didn’t expect Cooper to understand.
When Cooper narrowed his eyes, the kid laughed and looked around the room.
His friends, the ones who knew exactly what he said, started to laugh.
Cooper returned to his desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared.
The longer he did, the more silence cloaked the room.
Slowly, eyes shifted between each other until all darted back and forth from Cooper to the kid that smarted off.
“You got somethin’ to say?” the kid challenged.
Cooper shrugged. “You and your friends obviously know the material. No need for me to teach it.”
The kid tossed his pen on his desk and sat back.
The institutional-style clock on the wall ticked.
Each.
And.
Every.
Second.
Cooper waited until the bell rang.
“Mr. Diaz is out for the next three months . . . give or take. There’s a test first thing tomorrow on today’s material.”
Cooper heard at least one f-bomb drop as the class grumbled in opposition.
As the one class funneled out, the next shuffled in.
Cooper silently apologized to every high school teacher he ever dissed, and moved into position to take his lashes of pushover substitute for the rest of the day.
CHAPTER SIX
One of the parts about being a graduate from a military school that had its students recruited for legit special forces units—and at the other end of the spectrum, criminal assassins—was extensive knowledge of communications.
Claire was fluent in English, German, Russian, and Mandarin and proficient in Italian and Spanish. Mandarin was the hardest one for her to tackle. It sounded like a mouthful to anyone from America. But since she’d spent years in Germany, German-English translation was easy, and her Italian wasn’t half bad. Russian was her first challenge and then Mandarin made Russian look easy. She added Spanish to her American college studies. It seemed only appropriate with the number of Hispanics living in the States.
Once Mr. Green dropped her off at her homeroom, and she took one of the only seats left, which sadly was right in the front row, Claire removed a notebook she’d purposely and literally run over with her car, and started to doodle.
Mr. Eastman was the homeroom teacher. Claire’s first impression: no nonsense. He called the students by their last names. Something retired military did. And her, if she was being honest. He was pleasant enough when Claire entered the room, but didn’t single her out for just walking in the door.
The students were primarily male. Many of them muttered behind her. She caught some of what they said, but because she was sitting in the front, she didn’t see who did the talking.
She doodled, or so it would look if anyone glanced over to see what she was doing. What she was actually doing was writing notes in the three languages she doubted anyone in the room could identify, let alone speak. To every voice she offered an adjective. Aggressive, vulgar, loud, chatty, rude. The handful of girls in the room she found an entirely different list of words to describe. Needy, shy, assertive . . . and all of that was assessed in the twenty minutes she had before the bell rang.
As the kids scurried out of the room, Mr. Eastman called her back, “Porter.”
Rebel.
She turned to the call of her fake last name and lifted her chin. “Yeah?”
“Homeroom is meant for homework and a place to ask for help in any subjects giving you trouble.”
She hiked her backpack on her shoulder a little higher. “First day,” she told him. “I don’t have any homework yet.”
He looked her in the eye. “Right. You know where your next class is?”
Claire pulled the printed schedule from her pocket and glanced at the paper. “Shakespeare?” Really?
Mr. Eastman offered a half smile. “It’s your English credit.”
“So B building.”
For a brief second, Mr. Eastman’s gaze narrowed. Then he nodded. “Yeah.”
Claire waved the paper in the air toward him and shoved it back in her jeans. “Great.”
As she walked out the door, he spoke again. “Welcome to Auburn.”
Instead of responding, she offered him her back and a wave of her hand. Just like a slightly rude, disrespectful teenager might do. Every step away from his room gave her a bit more confidence that she was blending in. Even though every kid she passed looked so young to her.
When the fifth period bell rang, signaling the end of Cooper’s first day as substitute sucker, he sat behind his desk and rolled his shoulders back to ease some of the tension the day created. What a shit show. Each class seemed to have its own smart-ass, know-it-all, or clown. Three of his five classes had pop quizzes the next day, which meant he needed to come up with something relevant to test them on.
He gathered the syllabus the teacher had left him and the class roster he had scribbled notes on with the details of the power struggle he’d played a part in all day.
Looked like he had homework after all.
He walked through the shop and locked the place up.
As he turned off the last of the lights, the door leading from the classroom to the shop opened.
One of the seniors he recognized from his better-behaved class stood there.
“Mr. Mitchel?”
“Yeah.” Cooper walked closer. “Sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
“It’s Kyle.”
“What can I do for you, Kyle?”
“Mr. Diaz usually opens the shop early on Tuesdays and Fridays so his trusted students can get some help with their cars. I’ve been his TA for two years now. Sometimes Mr. Diaz gets here a little late, and he’s allowed me to open it for him.”
Cooper nodded a few times. “I saw your first name penciled in on his schedule.”
Kyle sighed. “Good.”
“He was vague on the details.”
Kyle’s smile faded. “Oh, uhm . . . Can you get ahold of him? I’m sure he’d vouch for the early days. Especially if Mr. Diaz isn’t gonna be back for a while.”
“I see no problem with that. How many of you come in early?”