I pause. “Did he really?”
Stella nods. “Yup. It’s important to him that everyone gets a fair shot at a great education. That doesn’t mean he takes it easy on anyone, because he doesn’t, but he still is quite aware that we’re a rich school in the suburbs of Chicago.”
“I see.” I chew on that information, sort of wishing he was more of a dick. I still feel angry that he judged me so . . . fiercely. I graduated top of my class and received excellent referrals from my student-teaching mentors. For that reason, I’m trying not to take his words to heart. But . . .
“He’s still an asshole.” Stella nudges my shoulder.
Perking up, I nod. “One hundred percent.”
“And I think you should continue to teach the way you know best.”
“Agreed.” I lift my chin. “And if it drives him crazy, then that’s his problem.”
“Honestly, him coming to your classroom today, telling you—”
“He said he’d tell Dewitt.”
Stella pauses and slowly turns toward me. “He didn’t.”
I nod. “He did.”
“Well then . . .” She puffs out her chest. “It’s one thing to be an asshole, it’s another to threaten my friend. With Gregory, he went to Dewitt as well—I mean, it was justified, but I think we need to get Mr. Turns Me On to loosen up a bit so he’s not associating you with Gregory.”
“Why do you have that conniving look on your face?”
“He needs to learn to have some fun.”
“What’s your version of fun?” I ask.
“This means war.”
“War?” Uh, that doesn’t sound good, and I am the new girl. Is this a risk I shouldn’t be taking?
“Yup. War . . . and I know exactly who to ask for help.”
“I fail to recognize how irritating Arlo Turner falls on my shoulders.” Keiko adjusts her goggles before measuring out a blue solution into a thin beaker.
Exasperated, Stella says, “It doesn’t fall on your shoulders, Keeks. We’d like your assistance. And we’re not irritating him, we’re just . . . having fun.”
“Why, precisely?”
“Because he needs to learn to have fun, and we’re asking you for help, because you’re really smart and you have fun things in your lab that we could use to our advantage.”
She straightens, and that’s when I get a good look at her slight shoulders in a boxy white lab coat, her safety goggles perfectly covering her green-rimmed glasses, and her long black hair tied into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wears science well. “My lab is meant for education, not for the purpose of a row of the sexes.”
“This isn’t a row of the sexes.”
I’ll be honest, what Stella is considering as fun doesn’t seem fun for Arlo—it might only piss him off more—but . . . the immature side of me can’t help but think he was a mean jerk face and he deserves Stella’s version of fun.
He might have the school’s best interests at heart, but the dude has been a dick to me from the get-go. Instead of getting to know me, he’s prejudged me—ahem, Mr. Darcy—and that’s not fair.
And also, I’ve read quite a few research papers about a positive work environment and the effects of a happy teacher in the classroom. A bright, cheery, and relaxed teacher encourages open minds, broadens the comfort level, and helps kids absorb more material. It’s time we help pull the stick out of Arlo’s ass and maybe show him what loosening up can do.
Leaning on the table with her elbows—we’re both wearing safety gear as well, per Keiko’s demand—Stella says, “He was rude to our dear friend, Greer.”
Cocking her head to the side, confusion laced in her brow, Keiko asks me, “Are we dear friends?”
“Uh . . . aren’t we?”
She studies me, and I have this tiny inkling that, in her head, she’s calculating my worth. She then turns to Stella. “Are we dear friends too?”
“Hell yeah, girl. We always eat together in the teachers’ lounge. And remember that time we went to the bar together after our teacher fun league? You told me all about the gases on planet Earth and I actually learned something instead of going home with another ape of a man.”
“I do recall those events but was unaware of the amplified attachment that materialized post ‘bar hang.’” Looking sincere, Keiko says, “We bonded.”
“We did, Keeks. Why do you think I always hang out with you?”
“Never gave it much consideration.”
From across the science table, Stella nudges Keiko. “Well, consider us bonded. And because Greer is my friend, that automatically makes you friends, too.”
Keiko shakes her head. “Not necessarily. There are circumstances to consider when bonding yourself with another human being. Just because you chose Greer to be part of your wolfpack doesn’t mean that, by default, I choose her as well.”
Isn’t that nice?
Turning to me, Keiko asks, “What do you have to offer me in friendship that’s different from what Stella offers me?”
Uhhh . . .
“Choosing cronies to associate yourself with is critical in the image you plan to portray to society. If I were to accept the comradery of everyone, what would that say about my character?”
“That you’re a people person?” I ask, rather than state, wondering how on earth we got to this point in the conversation.
“Precisely. And I’m not a people person. Therefore, it is within your best interest to acquaint me with your savviest attributes so I can formulate an educated decision if we should adhere ourselves in agreeability.”
Exhausted from Keiko’s choice of words, I look to Stella, who’s now leaning on the table with one elbow, enjoying herself way too much. “Tell Keeks why you’re worthy of her friendship.”
Okay, didn’t think this was going to be an interview, but I guess if I want her help, I’m going to have to convince her why . . .
“Well, I know how to keep secrets. I never gossip about my friends, which is important to me.”
“Trust, don’t find that often in a world full of social media,” Stella says, while . . . oh Jesus, while Keiko is jotting down notes.
When finished, she looks up at me and nods. “Proceed.”
“Okay . . . uh . . . I know how to cook.”
“Love a good homemade meal, don’t you know, Keeks?” Stella asks while rubbing her stomach.
After writing something down, Keiko looks up and answers, “My attempts at being an accomplished hand in the kitchen have been feeble at best. Having a friend who is consummate in culinary dexterity would be quite favorable. What would be your most polished dish?”
“Boxed mac and cheese,” I answer. She frowns and starts to write a note. “Wait, I was kidding. That was a joke.”
“Ah . . . uproarious.” She makes another note.
I hope that’s a good funny. She didn’t laugh, just let out a soft snort.
“I can make a ton of different things, ranging from enchiladas to the classic meatloaf with accompanying sauce and mashed potatoes, to homemade pasta.”