Page 8 of Burning Skies
“If we get the funding to buy it, yes.”
“Is that Quaid Turner’s old farm?”
“That’s the one.” Mr. Turner’s looking to retire and wants to sell as soon as possible, but he hasn’t maintained his five acres in over a decade. The weeds have practically overtaken his house, which likely needs to be demolished.
But that means he’s selling it for a song.
So far, my father has only agreed to lease some cattle to my students, but he’s always bragging about how much he donates to charity. So I’m hoping he’ll see the value in the club that helped me win a scholarship to college. Turner’s farm is already zoned for agricultural use. I’m lucky it’s an eyesore and farenough from downtown that it hasn’t caught the attention of any developers.
When I reach my desk in the office, I break out my planner so I can add the committee to my calendar before I forget. There are six English and History teachers, and we’re all crammed in one prep room, which has its pros and cons.
I’ve gotten close to most of my colleagues in the last two years. Except Trish Cox. That woman gets on my nerves.
With a clownishly wide grin, she claps her hands as we all rush around preparing for first period. “Don’t forget our meeting at lunch. We need to plan our professional development for the second quarter.”
I love when we have to get together to plan a plan. Plus, I was hoping to use that time to work on my proposal.
My irritation has worn off by the time we reconvene a few hours later. We all move to the wide conference table at the front of the room. My friend Laura, another fellow English teacher, leans close and whispers, “I wonder how many times she’s going to mention the principal hand-picked her for this role?”
“At least once.” I break out my chicken salad and the cookies one of my students baked me. After I unwrap the platter, I set it out to share with my colleagues. “Help yourselves. Compliments of one of my students.”
Everyone reaches for a sweet treat except Trish, who wrinkles her nose. “Thanks, but you know what they say. A minute on the lips, a year on the hips.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t say something snarky. Because that would be unprofessional.
While we eat, Adrian, who’s sitting on my other side, nudges me. “How’s your new place?”
“Great.” At least I think it’s great. My parents, not so much. “I’m still clearing out stuff the previous tenants left, but I love living on my own.”
“And you’re so close.”
Behind the school, and it’s amazing. “The commute is going to spoil me.” My dad hates that I won’t live at the ranch, but I feel suffocated there, and it makes me snap at everyone. I already have a resting bitch face, and if I stay at the ranch, I’m pretty sure my parents are going to disown me because of my sour attitude.
But I was mostly pissed because of my father’s new rules. What’s the point of living on a ranch if I can’t ride our horses and help out? He won’t even let me compete in ranch rodeos anymore with my older brothers, Cash and Trig.
Being on my own is better. Even if it is a little lonely sometimes.
“How’s the newspaper going this year?” I ask as I take a bite of my sandwich.
“I think it’s going well, but my father says our stories are boring. There’s no pleasing that man.”
I know firsthand how tough dads can be to please. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Your students love you, and they’re learning a lot. That’s all that matters.” Adrian’s father is a former broadcast journalist on a major network. I can see how he wouldn’t care about our little dramas. “And look at all those awards your students won last year.”
He gives me a grateful smile. “We did kick ass, didn’t we?”
I chuckle and hand him another cookie because chocolate chips always soothe your soul.
Trish claps her hands again. “We need to pick a professional development option for the next quarter. I have a list of topics Principal Erickson gave me when she personally picked me for this job.”
Next to me, Laura chuckles, and I bite my cheek so I don’t smile. As Trish circulates a handout, one of the other teachers scoots back to throw something in the trash.
That’s when the rattling starts.
I know that sound. I grew up on a ranch. Of course I know a rattlesnake when I hear one.
Trish’s eyes grow comically large before she shrieks, jumps on her chair, and crawls onto the conference table. “Snake!”
I roll my eyes. “Calm down. It’s probably more freaked out than you are right now.”
