Hate You Still by Lyssa Lemire
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EMMA
Today was the first day of the year that my cooperating teacher, Ms. Kimler, was out sick for the day.
Which meant it was, by far, the best and most productive day of the school year.
Somehow, I feel like the cooperating teacher is actually supposed to be helping me in this student teaching endeavor, not holding me and the rest of the class back. Oh, well.
I hate to be a bitch, but, well, maybe I kind of wish that Ms. Kimler’s caught something that takes a couple days to get over.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hope she’s on her deathbed or anything. Just that, maybe, she decides she needs two or three days, or a week, to get over whatever she caught.
I’m relaxing behind my desk, feeling pretty good after dismissing the students for the day. With the opportunity to be able to dedicate the entire day to actually, you know, teaching, I tried to cram in as much material as I could today, and I think I was pretty successful.
To my surprise, the kids were on their best behavior today. I guess even middle schoolers can grow so fed-up of drum circles and feelings sharing and interpretive dance that at a certain point they just want to learn some math, social studies, and language arts.
Ha. Maybe that’s Ms. Kimler’s strategy: get students so fed up and tired of non-traditional teaching that they jump at the opportunity to really learn something from regular classroom instruction.
Okay, not likely. But at least it paid off for today. We’ll see if it repeats tomorrow, if she’s still out sick.
Who really impressed me today was Bryce. Of all the students at the beginning of the year, he was the roughest. Even with his heavily involved and caring mom, it was next to impossible to get him to focus during class for an extended period of time.
But he was totally on the ball today. Paying attention, raising his hand, finishing all his work and doing well on all of it.
I wonder if it has anything to do with how often I see him staying late after practice, working one on one with Knox on the field …
I still feel mentally off-kilter after talking to Clare two days ago. She revealed a side of Knox I never knew. Not even four years ago, before he broke my heart. Before he earned my hate. Even back then, at his “best,” at least the best that I knew of him, he was a far cry from the type who would help old ladies cross the street – let alone help them with hundreds of things at their houses, day after day, which is the person Clare described him as.
I finish grading everything for the day, and finish making lesson plans for tomorrow – hoping that Ms. Kimler is out again and I’m able to use them. I pack up and head out to my car. As I walk across the parking lot, I feel the first light drops of a rainstorm that’s forecast for this evening.
The rain picks up heavily as I pull out of the parking lot and get on the road. I really left at the right time. Through the rain that pours onto my windshield, I notice a figure proceeding slowly on the side of the road in front of me.
Knox walking home.
I’ve seen him walking home a couple times now. Each time, I’ve gladly passed him by.
Frankly, sometimes I’ve downright giddily passed him by, taking a less than charitable pleasure in him having to pound the pavement back home in the unseasonable heat that’s been plaguing us lately, all while I’m relaxing in my nice air-conditioned car.
Today, though, a pang of sympathy tugs at my heartstrings. This rain is really getting bad. The downpour combined with the increasing wind, moreover, is starting to make visibility pretty bad. Walking on the side of the road like Knox is doing right now isn’t just uncomfortable – in this weather, it could be dangerous.
Not only that, but my conscience is also reminded of the stories that Clare told of him. When passing him by before, leaving him to the mercies of the hot sun and suffocating humidity, I’ve always consoled any guilt that might have threatened to creep up on me by reminding myself that he’s a big enough jerk to deserve it.
But the person who helps a nice old woman like Clare when no one else will, or who puts in so much work with the football team helping a troubled kid like Bryce …
I let out a sigh, knowing that if I passed him by like usual today, I wouldn’t be able to keep from feeling bad about it.
Looking in my rear mirror and making sure that there’s no one behind me, I stop my car next to him and roll down the window. “Hey, Knox,” I announce my presence nervously.
He turns his head to me. He’s totally drenched from head to toe. “Emma?”
“Hop in,” I say.
“Huh?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m offering you a ride. Get in.”
“What’s the catch?”
Ugh. Of course the first thing Knox would think about someone offering to do something nice for him is that there’s a catch. “This might be shocking to you, Knox,” I mockingly accentuate his name, “but sometimes people do nice and helpful things to other people, even people they don’t like, because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Really?” The smirk on his face makes clear that even when soaking and being pelted with rain, he can’t resist any opportunity to make a smart-ass remark.
“Three seconds before I take off and just let you walk home in this,” I say with the no-nonsense tone I’ve developed while trying to manage a rowdy class of sixth graders.
A momentary hesitation flashes in Knox eyes, but when the roar of thunder rumbles through the sky, he’s quickly opening my passenger door and sitting in my car.
The door closes and all my muscles tense. I’m now locked in a small, enclosed space with Knox – alone.
He’s sitting just inches next to me. I feel utterly dwarfed by him, his huge, muscular frame feeling like a mountain beside me. And his scent fills the car, too – masculine and rugged, but with appealing hints of cinnamon, maybe from his shampoo?
Knox breaks the awkward silence with a word I honestly never thought I’d hear uttered from him, unless dripping with irony. “Thanks.”
I peep a reply, unable to summon words. I push my foot down on the accelerator and we’re off, me and Knox, together.