Page 9 of The Write Place

“Not a pumpkin coffee,” he deadpans. I glare at him. “A token of my appreciation?” he tries again. I flop into my chair and pick up the cup to smell it. It smells like plain black coffee. I take a sip. I desperately want to be angry at this entire situation, but having coffee delivered to my desk is a definite perk.

“Did I guess right?” he asks. From the self-assured way he is regarding at me, I can tell my face must have softened a little as I drank.

“Yes.” I try my best to remain cold despite the warmth flooding me that I’m trying to convince myself must be from the coffee.

“Do you want to know how I guessed?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No.”

His lips thin as if he is trying to hold in some precious information, and I look pointedly at my computer monitor, checking my email and sipping my coffee in silence. I hear him rustling around at his desk, opening drawers and depositing things in them. Then it’s silent again.

“You just seem like the type of person who doesn’t do frills,” he finally says. My nostrils flare slightly as I glare at him over the top of my computer screen. “It’s a compliment,” he adds.

“It doesn’t sound like a compliment,” I say flatly.

“It is!” he insists.

“Says Daniel Frilly Evans,” I return. He scoffs, offended, and I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not.

“I’m not frilly,” he grumbles.

“I’ve seen you three times now, and each unique outfit you’ve worn has surely cost you over $800, including your dive bar ensemble.”

“My clothes aren’t frilly. They’re nice.”

“Okay. What’s your coffee order, then?” I look pointedly at his coffee cup. He doesn’t answer immediately, so I raise an eyebrow at him in challenge.

“Sugar free caramel latte, extra shot, extra whip,” he admits begrudgingly.

“It is not,” I say in disbelief. He shrugs sheepishly, and I laugh triumphantly. “No frills indeed.”

As if punctuating this exchange, the bell rings and the students start filing in. I move to stand in the hallway to greet the students, and Daniel somewhat awkwardly remains at his desk, his face turned to an open notebook, already furiously scribbling notes.

Most of the day passes uneventfully, and I’m not entirely surprised. My junior classes are not as lively as my senior class at the end of the day, though I did think they’d take a little more interest in Daniel than they do. Then again, I thought he would take more interest in them than he does, too. He barely glances up from his notebook all day other than to wave at the students when I introduce him. I find myself more than a little distracted by it, wondering every so often what he could possibly be writing in there.

When my seniors file in, though, I hear Justin McNamara’s voice before the bell even rings. “Who are you?” he asks as soon as he’s through the door. I don’t turn around right away, waiting to see how it plays out.

“I’m Daniel Evans,” he responds, and there is a little surprise in his voice at being directly addressed after students more or less ignoring him all day.

“Okay. But who are you?“ Justin asks again. The bell rings and I go back into the classroom to see Daniel looking at me a little helplessly, clearly not used to people not knowing him by name.

“Hello everyone. I see you’ve already met Mr. Evans,” I say, holding back laughter. I give him a look that I hope says, These kids aren’t going to go easy on you. He is a little wide-eyed, and I’m actually glad my seniors are seemingly primed to give him the third degree. He’s gotten off way too easy so far today. While I have to let him be here, and I should care about his comfort level, I don’t have to go out of my way to make it pleasant for him. He certainly didn’t care about my comfort level when he was clearly amused to see me in Ken’s office yesterday. I make my way to my stool at the front of the room and perch on it. “Mr. Evans is a writer, and he will be joining us for a few weeks to observe my classes and learn a little more about how schools work for his next novel.”

“Why you gotta come here? You never went to school?” Christian Gutierrez speaks up from the side of the room. Daniel looks at me, but I gesture for him to respond.

“Um, I did, yes, but I did not attend public school.” He clears his throat, and for a second, he seems like he’s going to loosen his tie in a fit of cartoonish discomfort, but he doesn’t. His speech is stilted like he’s never talked to a teenager before, and I’m still trying not to laugh.

“Oh, yeah. That tracks,” Christian responds. Daniel’s eyebrows pinch together.

“He means you don’t look like the public-school type,” I explain, and Christian nods.

“Yeah, no offense, but the suit is a dead giveaway,” Warren adds helpfully.

Daniel looks down at himself, then back to me and I shrug. I take a quick but meaningful glance at the coffee cup still on his desk. He definitely notices, and I see some redness start to appear over his collar.