Robin Wasserman - Lust

“I hope I’m not keeping you from something important,” Mr. Powell told her, looking concerned.

He looked so-dashing was the only word for it-when he was concerned. Who knew that there were real-life British people who looked like they came out of a Jane Austen novel? Or, more accurately, a Jude Law-Christian Bale Hollywood remake of a Jane Austen novel. But here he was, sitting only a couple of feet away, poring through the old newspapers along with her, actually listening when she talked, actually seeming to care what she had to say. Not that it was easy for her to make much sense, not when she couldn’t take her eyes off the curly brown lock of hair that kept slipping over his left eye no matter how many times he impatiently flicked it away. She wanted to reach out and smooth his unruly curls, straighten the silk tie that was loosely knotted at a rakish angle… she just wanted to touch him and assure herself that he was real.

“What?” she asked, suddenly realizing that he had asked her something and was, apparently, waiting for a response.

“I said, if you’ve got somewhere else to be…,” he repeated.

“No, don’t worry about it,” Beth assured him quickly.

“ This is the most important thing right now” She tossed one of the old editions of the paper away from her in disdain. “It’s like I’ve been saying, I really want to make this paper something . I want us to publish regularly and investigate stories and challenge people’s preconceptions-I want it to be more than just a few pieces of paper that the kids laugh at and then use as a place mat on a monthly basis. And I think that-”

“Whoa, whoa,” Powell cut in, laughing. “You’re preaching to the choir here. Aren’t I ordering us some food so we can get to work and stay at work on this thing? Trust me, you’ve sold me.”

“Sorry,” Beth said, blushing. It was easy to get carried away-she’d never had a teacher like Mr. Powell, so young and energetic and-well, she didn’t even know that they made teachers like Mr. Powell.

“I hope I’m not keeping you from something important,” she said, suddenly realizing that a guy-man-like that probably had a number of better things to do.

He laughed again and began ticking off Grace’s social limitations on his fingers. “Let’s see. I’m new in town, don’t know anyone, and from what I’ve been able to tell, tonight’s social options range from Wet T-Shirt Night at the local bar to Bingo Night at the local church.”

Beth sighed quietly in relief and tried her best not to picture Mr. Powell parading across a makeshift stage wearing only a clingy wet T-shirt and a pair of boxers. Her best was far from good enough.

“I suppose you should be very honored I’m willing to pass it all up for you,” he continued. “So, what’ll it be? Chinese? Indian? Thai?”

Beth rolled her eyes.

“You are new in town,” she scoffed. “The only place that delivers around here is Guido’s Pizza Shoppe-where the pizza’s guaranteed to come in fifteen minutes or ‘whenever the hell Guido feels like bringing it.’”

“Sounds like a real customer-friendly operation,” he said. “I’ll take it. A medium cheese should cover us, I think-do you know the number?”

“Yeah, it’s in my phone.” Beth pulled it out and made the call. “Thanks again for working with me on this, Mr. Powell,” she told him once Guido had answered and, with a surly growl, put her on hold.

“It’s just wonderful to have a student who’s so engaged,” he told her, briefly placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m here for whatever you need.”

Beth flushed with pleasure. “Thanks, Mr. Powell,” she mumbled, dipping her head and tucking her hair behind her ears.

“I should be thanking you -you’re saving me from Wet T-Shirt night, after all.” He winked at her, then turned back to their stack of work, all business once again. “Oh, and Beth?” he asked, after they’d spent a quiet moment sorting through the papers.

“Yes?” she looked up and, despite the temptation to dart her eyes around the room lest he read her expression and the embarrassing thoughts that lay behind it, met his gaze.

“It seems like we’re going to be spending a lot of time together this year, working pretty closely and all-so at least when we’re out of the classroom, why don’t you just call me Jack.”

“Remind me again why I ever agree to drive you anywhere?” Adam asked, bemused, as Harper flung herself into the car, still bleary from sleep and clutching a cup of coffee as if it were a life preserver. Two weeks into the school year, and dragging herself out of bed each morning still took every ounce of willpower she had. Some mornings-the ones where she showed up at school two hours late with a forged note about a lingering migraine or unavoidable dentist appointment-it took more.

“Because you love me?” she suggested sweetly, buckling herself in. “Because you can’t get enough of me?”

“Because I’m an idiot who keeps forgetting that you’re incapable of being on time?”

Harper gave Adam an affectionate slug on the shoulder.

“Just drive, Jeeves,” she instructed him. “Or do you want us to be late?”

Adam shifted the car into gear and took off toward the school, while Harper played absentmindedly with the radio. It only got AM stations-but given the overall state of the car, with its clanging exhaust, its nonexistent suspension system, the front doors that would never open, and the back doors that would never quite close, Harper was always pleasantly surprised when the pile of junk managed to make it from point A to point B. A fully functioning radio seemed too much to ask.

Not that she would ever insult Bertha (the car was named after a golden retriever that Adam had been forced to abandon when he and his mother moved here from South Carolina so many years ago)-at least not in front of Adam. He was just a little… sensitive when it came to the car, which he had lovingly restored. (It was now only half as much of a piece of shit as it had been, which was saying very little.) But, ugly as the Chevy was, it got her where she needed to go, which was more than she could say for her family’s Volvo. Her parents’ car never broke down, it had an FM radio and an untarnished paint job-and she wasn’t allowed to touch it.

Adam had been giving her rides to school ever since tenth grade, when, courtesy of an early birthday and a generous mother, he’d gotten both a license and a car long before Harper had been able to even imagine a life liberated from parental chauffeuring and bicycles. Now that she didn’t get to spend much one-on-one time with him anymore, she’d come to look forward to these rides to a ludicrous degree. (Especially now that she was waging her thus-far-unsuccessful campaign for his affections, a depressing thought she preferred not to dwell on this early in the morning.)

“So, any exciting plans for tonight?” she asked, as they sped through the streets of Grace and all the sepia-toned hot spots whizzed by-bar, pool hall, gas station, liquor shop, bar. Any quaintness the main drag may have had in the past had leached out over the decades. It was hard to be quaint when all you had to work with was neon, bankruptcy, and decay. “Hot date?”

Adam shook his head ruefully.

“Yeah, hot date with my TV. Beth has another newspaper meeting this afternoon, and tonight she’s got some job interview.” He sighed and rolled open his window, letting a rush of arid air sweep into the stuffy car. “Dating someone lazier might have been a little less brutal on my social life.”

Tell me about it , Harper thought. Once he kicked Little Miss Do-It-All to the curb, Harper (Little Miss Have-It-All?) would be only too happy to remind him of the joys of slacking off.