A Look Behind Lightning

By Sharon D. Ballentine

When high school English teacher, Jocasta Westgreen, performs a ritual so that she can make spiritual visitations to her students to plant subliminal messages of self-improvement into their dreams, Watchers affix themselves into her life. Jocasta, the Watchers, her students, and her boyfriend become entangled in a battle of survival.

Desperate to save everyone from monstrous transformations or even death, Jocasta enlists the assistance of a voodoo queen and a gypsy to help her to sever the bonds of the Watchers.

As a result of their struggles, Jocasta and two of her students, Miranda and Amanda, are transformed into super humans. Can the three compel the Watchers and save them all?

Readers will jump onto a thrilling rollercoaster ride of heights and plunges with high school seniors who battle for survival against dark forces.

Can humans stop Watchers?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Dec 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642377064

Book preview

characters.

PROLOGUE

The moon—an intense eye—gazed through the open window as Jocasta stepped before the altar. Watching and waiting was over. The moon, a multiple potency in the mirrors behind her, rested on a velvet, star-sprinkled sky. Jocasta and the room were adorned—both transparent in the night. She raised her hands and spoke to the night. The moon watched. The stars glittered. The altar waited in breathless anticipation.

"The first waters. Seven days to produce each.

Seven waters they are.

Full at twenty-eight. Four times seven.

Each independent, in characteristic succession, increasing potentiation.

Power multiplied—final water, now.

The vapor, fatal and annihilating, to all but the child linked to the night’s largest luminary.

Blend me to you. Oh, moon!

I embrace God and good intellect. I reject demons and bad intellect.

Dissolve my solid self, free my spirit—translate me, unseen—a wraith in the lesser light.

My touch to bear fruit."

Not sure that she had done it right, but hopeful, Jocasta inhaled deeply. The moon and stars multiplied in the mirrors behind her—they transmuted. She translated. She became one with the night; a waif, free on the wings of the night, and she walked. But something else walked behind her.

CHAPTER 1

Jocasta shot up in bed. Her eyes were sleep-glued shut and her mouth had that nasty morning taste. All the while, her alarm clock was a complaint in her ears. She rubbed her eyes open. Jocasta had been stretched out on the bed in a cattycorner position of distressed sleep. The covers were twisted beneath her. She was naked underneath her ceremonial robe, and the gold and silver chain necklaces were twisted about her neck. She shook her head, untangled herself, and tried to kick-start her groggy brain, but the alarm clock continued its demand into her thoughts. Her fist, like a hammer, slammed on the snooze button. She had ten minutes to lie there and think.

There was a strangely sweet, syrupy, awful smell in the room. The air smelled like the room was drunk, or like it had regurgitated some kind of nasty cold medicine. She wondered whether the ritual had poisoned the air. If it had, then she would be dead. But she didn’t feel dead, but then again, she didn’t know what it felt like to be dead. Was this how it felt to separate body from spirit? She didn’t know. She wrinkled her nose and pushed the idea out of her head and resolved that it was just one of those sour morning smells.

She forced wobbly legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold beneath her feet. She sighed as she looked around the nearly naked room—the altar, the mirrors behind it, the bed, a chair; this made up her altar room.

She stumbled on weak legs, like a baby taking its first steps. Her body ached. She snatched the window up to let the cold, clean country air force its way in to cure the sick bedroom smell. As quickly as she could, she stumbled back to the bed and pulled back the covers and slid underneath them, wrapping herself in a cocoon.

She stared at the altar. The melted candles looked like small twisted ghosts. Around her, the room sighed in the twilight. Dawn had not yet pushed away the darkness. The darkness was a stubborn animal that protested annihilation, but, at least, the room began to feel better.

What had happened last night? She tried to remember, her mind backtracking to the end of her workday. She had grabbed her purse and bags, then walked out the door not one minute past her end-of-the-day duty period. There had been two students with earphones in their ears and cell phones in their hands. They both opened the double doors for her, while saying goodbye to the air, not to her. It was a ritual. They were always at the door after school, always listening to music, always on phones, always waiting for a ride, and always saying goodbye to the air.

She had gotten into her car, excited that the last item she needed to complete the ritual had arrived at the apothecary shop. It had taken her weeks to find this shop. It was a strange little store, filled with dried indistinguishable things in jars and hanging from the rafters. The street was lined with other strange little stores too. It was a thirty-minute drive without traffic from where she worked. What she needed from the shop had arrived at the exact same time that the final water was ready. The formula for the ritual was exact; timing of everything to coincide with position of the moon was crucial. As best as she could, she had followed the books and notes on alchemy down to the letter.

She took a deep breath. The clean country air made the curtains flutter as it pushed through the screened window and filled the room.

Let me see, she said aloud. I drove to the shop and got my package after showing my driver’s license. She had wondered why she had to show her driver’s license, and she asked the clerk.

He had said, Oh, we have to log in many items. You can only purchase this every thirty days. I can’t sell you any more until the thirty days are up. This is how we keep up. We have to follow rules to stay in business.

Then, she had prepared the altar, making sure each item was in place. She remembered touching everything, her fingers cataloguing each item. She had put the last item into its urn on the altar space and made sure it was in the right spot. She had done it all as best as she could. The directions she followed had come from an ancient source, from one of the descendants who had survived the flood. She had read many translations, and they all said the same thing—and as far as she could tell, she had it all right. She had done it all and not skipped one single thing.

She shook her head, trying to physically shake away nagging thoughts. Why should she doubt herself? She wasn’t crazy. She was intelligent. The night was over and something important had happened. She had done everything. The altar was in place. She had put the robe over her clean, naked body. She had put on both the silver and gold chain necklaces. She had faced the altar, the moon in front of her, high in the sky but reflected behind the altar as well, the final water ripe 4X7. She had repeated the verses as best as she could piece them together. She had studied them for weeks—paying attention to the smallest word, making sure she translated correctly. She had done everything she knew how to do.

I can’t remember anything, she said aloud. The alarm clock replied, the final word of the morning. She hit the clock and jumped out of bed to begin her walk into the reality of the day.

She didn’t pay attention to her reflection in the bathroom mirror, nor in her rearview mirror, as she backed her car out into the peaceful country morning. It was like a still-life painting: grass, trees, an abandoned pump in the distance—barely distinguishable—a bridge that went over nothing anymore; green country grass which went on for acres, kept intact by wild grass-eaters and trees, many trees, sentinels to things people had done for centuries. She didn’t notice that she had dark circles under her eyes that looked like bruises.

Justin Finnegan rocketed straight up in his bed, bare-chested, in his boxer shorts. Miss Westgreen, he said aloud. Why had he dreamed about his English teacher? That was just sickening!

Two girls stood in the hallway in front of her room, portable music devices in hands, ear phones in their ears, thumbs moving quickly across their smart phones. Good Morning, Miss Westgreen, they both said simultaneously. It was the same ritual, same bored, who-really-cares look.

Good morning, girls, she mirrored their response, as always. Whether their morning was good or not was of no importance to her either.

She opened the door to her room, switched on the lights, and walked from the back of the room to the front, where her desk was located, dropped her stuff on her desk, and switched on the computer—all mindlessly. She was still concentrating on trying to recall whether she had been successful in doing what she had wanted to do the night before. She also wanted to find where she had dug a hole and buried her dream. Jocasta wanted to believe—but couldn’t believe—that she had done what she had set out to do. Actually, it was all so insane, and she—as a rule—was a sane person, at least she had been. What if she had messed up part of her brain?

Stop it! she said aloud. Jocasta took several deep breaths as she looked at her computer screen. Her eyes swept across her desk at the familiar things—papers she needed to grade, papers she had kept as prompts to remember things she planned to do, a cup holding pencils and pens, a huge blue paper clip that she’d bought only because it was cute, a calendar—her eyes went to the clock on the wall as its hands moved steadily towards bell time. It mocked her with the way its red arm jerked forward.

The laughter of children brought her mind back to the reality of her day. The warning bell sounded. She was aware. She was alert. Students began filling the room with the noises of their existence. Their chatter, the movement of desks, and shuffling of feet filled her ears. She was aware and sane. She sighed deeply. It was refreshing. Her students began settling in their seats. The last bell rang. Time had caught up with her, but she still could not remember the night before—but it was okay now. She was a teacher, their teacher, and she was okay.

Good morning, teachers and students, a disembodied voice filled the building with verbal meaninglessness. Would you all please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance? Everyone in every room and office in the building stood in one shared movement of attention. The entire building was quiet. Someone coughed. Someone sneezed.

Still, Jocasta tried to think. "I pledge allegiance to the flag" She mindlessly recited the pledge, right hand over her heart, facing the flag. of the United States of America She said all the words right. She had gone over the ritual so many times. and to the republic So many times.

She thought about the incantation at the altar. The moon was high. The time was right. She faced the moon. for which it stands. She stood in front of the altar. one nation under God God, yes. She was good. God knew her heart. What she did was to help. Indivisible. With liberty That’s right. She was free. God had granted her free choice. and justice He would judge her heart pure. But her head hurt. "For all."

We will now have a moment of silence. Students may pray, reflect, or meditate, the disembodied voice said. Everything had to be politically correct. Yes, yes, she thought. The water was made ripe. She had read the formula correctly and followed it to the letter. It always took water to cross, the right kind of water. She had crossed. But she did not know—it was coming to her, like an insect bite. She scratched at it. She had gone. She had separated.

Thank you. You may be seated for the morning announcements. The disembodied voice continued. Her mind raced. "The football team..." She had separated from her body.

The varsity choir will be... Mindlessly, Jocasta went to the whiteboard and wrote the day’s objectives. She finished writing on the board and started taking attendance silently. It was all so automatic. She made eye contact with all the students who were watching her. She noticed no one was preparing for class. Two were putting on makeup. One was texting on a cell phone, trying to hide behind the person in front of him. Three had their heads down. One clandestinely ate. The rest were just sitting like it was the morning of The Living Dead, energy drinks on desks. She continued with attendance and the voice over the intercom droned on. Did anyone actually listen? The math club... Someone got up and sharpened a pencil. The pencil sharpener made a distinct grinding sound. "The PTO is..." Two students smiled at each other. Jocasta knew that smile. They shared some illicit secret, and it had nothing to do with the Parent-Teacher Organization.

Justin Finnegan walked into the room. He had never been late before. He never did anything in class, but he was always on time. He looked at her as if he knew something that she herself should have known. He seemed unsettled and even a little bothered as he took his seat. She was sure that he didn’t know what was going on, but she was now sure that she did. Even if she couldn’t remember, she could tell by looking at him that something had worked—that she had actually done it!

These are your announcements. Thank you and have a positive, productive day.

Okay, take out your homework, Jocasta said quickly, taking back her classroom. If she didn’t take charge of the class in the very beginning, she would never gain control.

Almost everyone came to life: unzipping book bags, taking out notebooks, books, pens, and pencils. Some searched and found crumpled papers. One student remained in a sleepy stupor, head on the desk, no doubt slobbering. She clapped her hands sharply. Let’s wake up. We’re at school now. Time to put away our teddy bears and get ready for work. Although the students made an attempt to pay attention, it was clear that most were not. Put away your makeup, Holly. There is nothing you could do to improve on that beauty. Holly smiled and grudgingly put away the makeup.

"You read Young Goodman Brown and answered the questions at the end of the story, Jocasta said. Even though she knew that most had not, the purpose of the statement was to get them focused. Okay, first question, what is the setting of the story?"

Hold on, someone said frantically. The sound of shuffling papers crescendoed.

It always amazed her that no one ever took things out of their bags before the announcements began or even during the announcements—except cell phones, which they weren’t supposed to have out or on during schooltime, anyway. They managed to get energy drinks or food or makeup or who knows what else out of their bags, anything but classwork.

The usual hands shot up, but so did a new one, one that never answered questions, let alone volunteered to do anything in class. Everyone looked in amazement as Justin Finnegan’s hard bench-pressed arm shot upward. He, too, looked at his treasonous appendage. It seemed that he wanted to withdraw his hand, but the offending limb was in control and worked against Justin’s Cease and Desist Order. Horror crept across Justin’s lightly freckled face.

Justin Finnegan, Jocasta acknowledged him.

Only then did he lower his hand, and to his dismay his mouth was just as treasonous as well. Salem, Mass—during the Puritan times. It was late evening when the story started. Young Goodman Brown was about to leave his home and his wife. Justin’s voice was a part of the betrayal. He recited in rhythmic precision the answer to the question as if he had rehearsed it to certain perfection.

Very good, Justin, Jocasta replied. And where was he going? She held captive the smile that wanted to surface because, at that moment, she knew that she had done what she had intended to do.

Hands shot up again, but Justin’s was first. He was as fast as he was on the football field.

Well, Justin. It seems you did your homework, but let’s let someone else have a chance. Amanda, Jocasta said, acknowledging another student.

He was leaving his home to go into the forest, but it didn’t say for what reason, she replied.

Very good. Let’s draw some conclusions. Based on what you know about the forest, what kind of trip do you think it is?

Fewer hands responded. Holly’s compact found its way back on her desk. Justin’s hand went up; a constant flag, a symbol of knowledge.

Justin.

It doesn’t say. But we can conclude by the nature of the forest itself and his wife’s being symbolic of his then-young faith, and their being married only three months that the forest represented the sinful world. Where all have to test their faith, whether we want to or not, indicated by his statement that he had to go, when his faith asked him to tarry. He finished speaking and raked his hand through his red hair.

The classroom shared a collective gasp. First, because probably only the teacher understood his answer or even cared about Young Goodman Brown, and second, because the reply had come from Justin, someone who usually had no interest in English or reading or anything other than his girlfriend, athletics, and his car, and not necessarily in that order. Everyone looked at Justin, including Holly, who tore herself away from the mirror. The kid who had been asleep was shaken from his slumber. They all looked from Justin to the teacher, waiting for a reply. Everyone was sure he didn’t know what he was talking about and that he was just shoveling bullshit for whatever reason. After all, it was Justin. Justin, though, knew that his answer was good, as he calmly awaited confirmation.

Man, Will said. Who are you, dude, and where is my friend, Justin? The class laughed.

Justin’s been doing his homework, one of the girls who had been sleeping said. Of course, her head went back down on her desk after she spoke.

What did you do? Catch a whipping from your old man? one of Justin’s other teammates said.

Call the Child Protection Agency! someone else yelled out.

"Call Men in Black! This is not Justin Finnegan. He’s an alien! They’re here! They walk among us!"

Everybody laughed. That will be enough, Jocasta said. Justin sees the importance of doing his homework, a lesson you could all learn.

The fact was that Justin believed no such thing—but Justin, the twisted new Justin, silently concurred. Jocasta saw turmoil crawl across his face. It looked like he wanted to throw up. She didn’t want to humiliate him in front of his friends.

Okay, very funny. Let’s continue. I want to fast-forward to the end of the story, so we can talk about Young Goodman Brown at the end of the story, and compare him to the beginning. The ending helps us to understand the trip.

But was he right? Will asked.

Everyone looked at her for confirmation. Yes, but let’s move on. Let’s talk about the ending.

He is not Young Goodman Brown at the end of the story, Justin volunteered the answer. "He is called Goodman Brown. The diminution of his name indicates a drastic change. Young is dropped because it means that he has emerged from the forest knowledgeable of the sinful world, and his faith is experienced. He is no longer young. He is still a Puritan, so the Goodman part is not gone. He has the birthright of redemption. He rejects his kinsman for their sinfulness—indicated by what he says to them and how he acts towards them. Nothing hopeful is put on his tombstone at his death, which means that Brown has rejected his faith, though it, she, never leaves his side. He is not a happy man. He cannot live with what he saw in the forest and what he knows. He can’t handle that the world, in its fallen state, makes everyone sin. It is man’s nature to sin," Justin finished.

The class was silent. Everybody had listened to every word that he said. This would be a class period they wouldn’t forget. It rated up there with a fight, but not because they cared about English or anything like that.

What the hell! someone said aloud.

What did you do last night, man? Swallow a literature book?

No, he swallowed an English teacher!

Jocasta could see that Justin looked miserable and that he wanted to reply in an equally sarcastic way, but he kept his mouth closed because based on everything he’d said that morning, she knew that he figured that if he opened his mouth, he wouldn’t say what he wanted to say. He would mean to say one thing, but something else entirely different would escape his mouth. All morning, he had been talking on an English teacher’s level. He looked green as if he were going to throw up.

May I have the pass? he asked almost too loudly. He was surprised he could get those words out. Everyone stared at him.

Jocasta got the pass out of her drawer and put it on her desk, which was an indicator that he could leave the room. Justin walked up to her desk in the parting hush of the room just like the trees had parted to admit Young Goodman Brown into the forest.

The class period continued, but Jocasta did most of the talking. Young Goodman Brown crossed a threshold, Jocasta said. Thresholds are symbolic of change. We talk about thresholds in our everyday lives and each threshold is at a point of no return. Grooms carry their brides across the threshold. Patients in the hospital have a threshold of pain. The list goes on.

When the bell sounded to release students from first period, Jocasta dismissed the class and plopped down on the desk. She couldn’t remember anything, but it had worked. It was an amazing first period.

The period, of course, was not amazing for Justin. It was the class of the damned!

Doors gaped open and students spilled from classrooms into hallways. They moved like hot lava. Sizzling conversation moved with them. Whether they talked face-to-face or by forbidden cell to cell, they spoke of sex, violence, vampires, zombies, and war video games, every conversation colored with sharp pellets of profanity. The halls were stuffed with words that formed an indigestible living blob.

Teachers, and whatever administrators stood in strategic spots in hallways, using chastising tones and gestures to move the hot stream along. Students restrained themselves as best as they could until they reached unmonitored places and then, true to their nature, let loose. Yelling, laughing, tussling, cussing, and running prevailed until the warning bell sounded, stirring up a communal yell as teenagers scattered to find the next accepting doorway of fragile academia underpinning. Some students entered their next destination and started preparing for class. Some waited until the last bell rang and yelled and pushed into an accepting classroom, where tardies were or were not recorded, depending on the temperament of the instructor.

This organized-disorganized flow of teenagers continued until the last bell of the school day opened the exit doors, and students were no longer encouraged to remain, nor were they even welcome on the educational premises—and they didn’t want to force a welcome. They spilled through doors in whatever chaos they could manage without getting into trouble and headed towards waiting buses, cars, and SUVs. Drivers went to the student parking lot and walkers crossed the school grounds, but they all went towards streets and sidewalks where traffic lights controlled their exodus from the state educational facility.

After all the afterschool practices had ended, Justin, Caitlyn, Will, and Brittany discussed their drink order at their favorite coffee house. Usually the decision was easy, but the turmoil of understanding Justin’s bizarre behavior followed them from the car to the coffee house.

You and Caitlyn find a table. Me and Brittany’ll order, Will said, taking control.

Whatever, Justin said as he walked away, Caitlyn in tow. He tried to sound annoyed, but he wasn’t. He was relieved. He was glad to be away from school. Glad to be in their company. Glad not to have to say anything he didn’t want to say.

Their usual booth was available. Justin plopped down after Caitlyn slid into the booth. He rested his head against the soft brown leather. He put his arm around her. At least I haven’t forgotten how to do that, he thought. He let his body sink down and submerge itself in the easy atmosphere. The coffee shop was filled with the afterschool practice group. The conversations were subdued because everyone was tired from a full day of school and then strenuous afterschool activities. The piped classical music filled the air, and it filled him. He didn’t really like classical music, but nobody paid attention to it. He began to relax for the first time that day as he looked at the colorful murals of flowers and pastural settings painted on the walls.

You okay? Caitlyn asked.

Yeah, just a little headache, he replied.

Want an aspirin? she asked as she began digging into her purse without waiting for a reply. Oh, I only have Midol. Maybe Brittany has something for a headache. She looked at him, indicating that she wanted to get up.

That’s okay. It’s getting better. Just being away from school and sitting here makes it better, he replied.

Well, that’s a nice thing to say, she said. She looked at him quizzically.

He knew that she wanted to say more, but that was what he liked about her. Sometimes she was so nice, so sweet, and she didn’t push him. They both knew that there was a big hippopotamus sitting in the booth with them, but they didn’t need to talk about it. Caitlyn was just that way sometimes. She didn’t need to talk about it. She was uncomplicated. That’s what he liked about her most. He looked into her big brown eyes. That’s what he liked most.

What? she said and smiled.

He squeezed her shoulder. Nothing. Everything is good.

They sat quietly until Will and Brittany returned.

Cinnamon latte, Brittany said as she set the drink down in front of Caitlyn.

Thanks, Caitlyn said.

Mocha peppermint frappé, Will said to Justin. I spit in it.

He did not, Brittany said.

The chances of you doing that are slim, Justin said as he took a big sip.

Are they? Will replied.

Gross, Brittany said.

Why do you pay attention to them? Caitlyn asked.

Because they make me sick, Brittany replied.

Good answer, Brit, Will said. Okay, so what was up with you in English today? Justin shrugged. You were a wild man.

Yeah, and Miss Westgreen was all over it. You are correct, Mr. Finnegan. What do you think about blah, blah, blah? Brittany said, mimicking Jocasta.

She’s so into it, Caitlyn reflected. She talks about those people in stories as if they were real people.

I thought she was going to have an orgasm, Will said.

Yeah, she was pretty happy, Brittany reflected.

Was it good for you too, Justin? Will said, his voice whiny and sarcastic.

No, but it was good for your old lady, Justin replied. She called out my name.

Are you two in a book club? Everyone laughed, but Justin’s smile was a gnat on his lips. I mean, Justin, Will continued. What was up with you?

I don’t know. I just felt like answering is all. Can we talk about something else? School’s out, jerk.

I just want to know why you and Miss Westgreen are book club friends. Caitlyn, you better watch out. Justin is into cougars now.

I’m not worried, Caitlyn replied.

What are you into? Justin asked Will. Brittany, seems like Will’s the one into cougars. He can’t stop talking about Miss Westgreen.

I’m not worried either, Brittany said.

Naw, that’s your book club woman. Caitlyn, he likes educated women. You’d better read your work. Your man’s into intellectuals—older ones.

Justin knew better than to interrupt when Will went on about something. It was best to let him go on until he got tired of it. Justin sipped his drink and ignored Will.

Anybody hear about the menu for the prom? Brittany asked, changing the subject.

I heard that we were going to have a chocolate fountain, Caitlyn said.

Yeah, Justin can feed Miss Westgreen chocolate-covered strawberries.

Will you stop it? Caitlyn said to Will. Justin’s got a headache.

His head’s going to explode from all that studying, Will said.

I don’t have an aspirin. Do you have any? Caitlyn asked Brittany.

Yeah, I have something. Brittany pulled an Aleve bottle from her purse. Aleve works real good. Here, Justin. She handed the bottle to him. Justin took the pill bottle, opened it, and shook two pills into the palm of his hand, and slapped his hand to his mouth, rocketing the pills into his mouth, followed with a gulp of his drink.

What’s up with you? Will asked.

Just a headache.

Did you sleep last night? Caitlyn asked.

Not really. I had this stupid dream. You know the kind where you run and can’t get away but you try running all night and you can’t wake up either and you can’t stop dreaming?

Yeah, I hate those dreams, Brittany reflected. And when you wake up, your hair’s wet with sweat from struggling.

So, is that what you did when you woke up? Will asked.

What? Brittany and Caitlyn said at the same time. Justin looked at him.

Got up and read your English, Will said.

Oh whatever, Caitlyn said. Would you stop it? Drink your coffee. Didn’t he say he had a headache?

CHAPTER 2

Jocasta and Mark sat in their favorite restaurant looking across the table at each other. It was a quiet, little locally owned restaurant that specialized in California cuisine. They even wrote the daily specials on a chalkboard every evening and not more than thirty people could fit into the restaurant. It was a pricey restaurant, but it was comfortable and the food was always good. They liked the restaurant so much because it had a homey feeling.

Jocasta smiled at Mark. It was a soft, gentle smile. He smiled back. His was an easy smile. She was thinking about how she had gotten into her car after school and started for home, but luckily, she hadn’t driven all the way home. This was the first time she’d almost forgotten their weekly dinner date. All she’d thought about all day was going home—not that she didn’t want to be with Mark because she did. She was glad that she hadn’t gotten too far before she remembered. Truth be told, if she had gotten all the way home, she would have turned around and come back anyway.

What do you feel like this evening? Mark interrupted her thoughts.

I don’t know, but I’m hungrier than I thought. Maybe I’ll have one of everything, Jocasta replied as she scanned the menu, but she paused and looked up at him. She thought about how lucky she was to have him. Besides being a tall good-looking man with blue eyes that you could swim in, he had a head full of dark brown shiny hair, and with all that, he was kindest person she had ever met.

I brought my platinum. But you have to stay and finish everything on your plate, little girl. She looked at his dimples, when he smiled at her. What? he asked, after he noticed that she was staring at him.

What are you, my father? Her voice was a playful rubber ball bouncing off him.

No, I’m the guy who’s paying.

She smiled at him again. Okay, I’ll start with a salad. That’ll tame my hunger.

Wine?

No, just water.

Really? You?

Just trying to eat better.

A glass of good wine’s not bad.

I know. I’ll just have water. Water’s better. That’s what I need today.

The waiter came over. Ready to order? he asked Mark. He was a statue with his pen and pad.

We’d like two salads. A glass of Cab for me—Mondavi. A glass of water for the lady.

Dressing? the waiter asked as he wrote on his little pad without looking up.

Balsamic vinaigrette, Jocasta said to Mark.

Even though the waiter heard her, and was probably writing it on his little pad, Mark repeated two balsamic vinaigrettes and told the waiter that they’d be ready with the rest of the order when he returned with the salads. The man departed unceremoniously.

So, how was your day? Mark asked.

No one fought. No one cussed each other out. No one cussed me out. I didn’t have to talk to an uninformed, irate parent. Conclusion: it was a great day, she replied as she continued to peruse the menu. How was yours?

Nobody dropped the ball. Everyone came to work. Most were on time. Most stayed off Facebook. I didn’t have to reprimand or fire anyone. I wasn’t reprimanded or fired. We met our quota. I turned off my cell after work. It was a good day. The sounds of the quiet restaurant surrounded them.

I wish I could say everybody did their work or even most. I’ll tell you those kids are something else, though. You have some who don’t give a damn about anything but themselves. They’re mean and destructive and try to destroy every other kid around them. Then, you have some who are on drugs and alcohol—how did they get like that anyway?—and you have some who are dumber than a sack of hammers and they know it. So, they copy every chance they get, which is what made them dumber than hell in the first place. And then, you have some you wish you could help but can’t because you’re too busy putting out stupid fires in the classroom or doing some meaningless dumbass administrative job that some brainless asshole in the office came up with because they figured that teachers don’t have enough to do. I’ll tell you; I went to school and got all these degrees so I can stand in the hallway and monitor the bathroom or watch people take state tests when the school could—and should—get volunteers or pay parents to watch bathrooms and doors.

Jocasta focused on buttering a piece of bread for a moment. And, she continued, then, you try so hard in the classroom to teach what you went to college to teach, but you have some administrative asshole, who has probably never been in a classroom in their life or was in the class less than a year. Or who taught the perfect kid— she inserted air quotes, —design classroom strategies that don’t work on kids who won’t wake up in class. Or who are high. Or who couldn’t give a shit. Or who wants to learn but you don’t have time to teach them. Or who wants a mother but you can’t be their mother. Or who is pregnant and don’t know what to do. Or who has a girl pregnant and don’t know what to do. Or who’s hungry. Or who got the shit beat out of them either by a parent. Or some kid. Or a boyfriend the night before. Or has to go home to a parent who has sex with them. She stopped abruptly and shoved the piece of over-buttered bread into her mouth and chewed violently.

Well, Mark said. I would tell you to quit and do something else but I know you love the job. She nodded as she continued to chew. I think you might be a little burned out and just need a vacation—a getaway. She nodded again. Maybe we could swing a weekend or better yet, take a long weekend—a three-day weekend. I have a meeting coming up in Vegas. You could go with me. She nodded and swallowed.

I love it, Mark, she said. When?

Can you hold on until next month?

Just the thought alone is enough to make me hold on, she replied. I’ll sleep all day while you are off meeting.

Not shopping?

I have three days. Maybe I’ll read a good book at the hotel pool.

We can fly in together and you can leave that Monday evening. I have to stay the whole week.

I don’t know. Maybe I’ll take off the entire week too.

I’d like that, but what about your kids?

For the little bit I do for them, you could get a jackrabbit in there to sub.

Cassie, you know that is not true, he said. She replied by beginning to butter another piece of bread violently. He eyed her. You’re going to spoil your appetite. What did that bread do to you?

Huh? she said absently, as she continued to butter her bread. I think I’ll have the fish, she concluded.

Which one?

The salmon.

He read the description. It does sound good, he said and put the menu down on the table. I think I’ll have the same. I started to have steak.

Fish is better for you.

I know. That’s why I need you around.

You know, Mark, I have this student in my class, a girl who looks tattered and disheveled every day. She obviously has no one at home to care about her or see what she wears to school or how she looks. She seems to be such a nice girl, but you couldn’t tell. She puts on a show of being a nasty person, but she’s not. You can just tell that the problem is she has no one at home. I wish I could help her.

Maybe you could give her some clothes or refer her to some center that would help her.

I could, but you know she wouldn’t want any of my clothes.

Some of the stuff you don’t wear to school is pretty hot.

Be serious, Mark.

What’s wrong with jeans? Everyone wears jeans, and you have designer jeans, the kind anyone would wear, even a teen.

True. Jeans and tops and tennis shoes. Anyone would wear them. What bothers me is why don’t the counselors do anything about students like that? Oh, wait a minute! They are too busy doing tests and scheduling and administrative bullshit. You know, the kind of shit they didn’t study child psychology for. Silly me. She stuffed another piece of buttered-to-hell bread into her mouth. The sounds of soft voices and clinking glasses surrounded them.

I’m glad you put that bread in your dirty mouth, Miss Westgreen, he said. She smiled as she continued to chew. So, what are you going to do about this girl?

I have something in mind, she said, thinking about Justin Finnegan.

A smile? What are you thinking about?

A student in my first period.

Someone who makes you smile?

Yeah, you should have been in first period today.

I guess I should if it makes you that happy.

He had read his work and thought about it. We had a classroom discussion that every English teacher dreams about. The surprising thing is he has never ever done that before.

So, some good things come out of your guidance.

Yes, they do, she added quickly. And I know just what to do for that girl student. Miranda is her name. She took a deep breath.

Her tirade had run its course. They always did, just like his. They had an unspoken agreement that they both wouldn’t have tirades at the same time, which worked out pretty well. Sometimes they bumped tirade heads and one would say to the other, It’s my turn. You had the last turn.

Are we done now? Mark asked.

Yes, I feel better.

I’m glad because I don’t think we have anymore butter.

She looked at the empty butter dish and laughed out loud. I don’t think I’ll have any more butter.

That might be a good idea. It’s a good thing you decided to eat light, he said. She laughed again. Well since you got it all off your chest, maybe we can talk about something else, he said.

What’s on your mind? She waited for him to answer as she thought about how good the butter tasted in her mouth.

You have dark circles under your eyes, he said. She touched her eyes. Yes, they’re puffy too. What’s up with that?

Nothing. I just tossed and turned last night. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She didn’t like lying.

Is that all? he asked.

Yes, I almost drove home. I forgot about dinner.

Um, he replied.

What does that ‘um’ mean? she asked.

Nothing, just listening. Have you thought about what we talked about? Mark never got sidetracked.

Yes, she said, without elaborating.

And I take it you think it’s not a good idea?

I didn’t say that.

It would shorten your drive time.

I like the country.

I like the country too. We could keep your house as a weekend getaway. There’s nothing like fresh air and quiet and fishing. It could be our vacation home.

You don’t fish, she said.

I haven’t fished since we’ve been together, he corrected her. But I like fishing.

Yeah. Her mind seemed to float around her.

Well? he asked after a while.

How would it work? I’ve never lived with anyone but my parents.

Just like it does when you spend the night over at my place or I spend the night over at your place, only you don’t go home and all your girl stuff will be all over the bathroom all the time. I’ve never lived with anyone but my parents either, except in the dorm, but that doesn’t count.

Why would you want that?

What?

My girl stuff all over your bathroom.

Your girl stuff would be all over your side of the bathroom.

Girl stuff doesn’t know a side of the bathroom. It multiplies and migrates.

Well, that does sound intriguing, but if that’s all I have to worry about, that’s a little problem. Besides, you have to get used to taming my boy stuff. Then maybe you’d see marriage ain’t so bad, either. Some of my best friends have done it, not to mention our parents. He knew that she was thinking and wondered whether she would turn him down. He waited.

And there are the papers I have to grade. Sometimes they’re all over the place.

There’s the den.

They multiply and move around with me.

Okay, I still don’t see a problem.

And I’m not always neat.

I’ve been to your place. You are not messy. You’re making excuses. We can afford a maid to come in weekly.

I’m scared, Mark.

Now we get to it. I know that.

What if I don’t know what to do? What if we mess it up?

What do you mean you don’t know what to do?

It’s one thing to stay over and get up and leave the next day. It’s another thing to wake up and you’re living with someone.

I agree, he said. It’s new for me too, but we know each other pretty well, and Cassie? She liked it when he called her Cassie. No one ever had before. It made her smile. I can say with certainty that I care a great deal about you and when I wake up in the mornings and turn over and see you in the bed with me or hear your quiet breathing as you sleep next to me, I know I don’t want you to go home. I want that every day. I bump around an empty apartment every day, glad to go to work to be with people. I don’t want to be glad to go to work to be with people because I have no one at home. I’m glad when you stay over. And when you leave, I wish you didn’t have to.

Oh, Mark, she said softly. I know what you mean. I am always yours.

Somewhere during the course of the conversation they had joined hands. That was their way. Somewhere during the course of every conversation their hands found each other or he kissed her or she kissed him and, when they were in a place where they couldn’t touch, their eyes always connected and they knew each other’s thoughts. They were sure about how they felt about each other at all times.

The waiter came back. They released hands but the connection was not severed. The waiter placed more bread and butter on the table and arranged their salads and drinks, offered them pepper, and took the rest of their order. He moved away without any unnecessary talk. He was a good waiter.

Mark, Jocasta said. Their hands found each other again. I’m not saying no. Of course, you know that, but—

No buts, Cassie. Let’s stay together at my place for two weeks and if it doesn’t work, you can go back to your place. No problems. No questions.

We’ve had extended stays before.

Knowing that the other would go home. This is different. It’s out there. We know the purpose of this extended stay.

What if we mess it up so badly, we don’t want to be with each other anymore?

"Life is full of what-ifs. If we lived our lives and didn’t do anything because of a ‘what-if,’ we wouldn’t do anything. But can you really believe that will ever happen? I can’t imagine