Page 44 of Embracing the Beat
“Michaela. I remember now.”
“Michaela? Michaela King? Here?”
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I pretend not to eavesdrop. They don’t see me behind them, and I can’t wait to tell Michaela she has a couple of fans in the school.
“Yep.” The P pops loudly in the emptying halls.
“Ew,” the other one says, disgust evident on her face even in profile. “You’d think after filming a porn with Tucker Winston she’d hide out forever. What was she doing here?”
Her friend shrugs. “No idea. I only saw her by the office earlier.”
“Gross.”
The two girls walk through the doorway, and I lose track of the conversation. But one word burns itself into my brain.
Porn.
No, I shake my head. Not possible.
Is that why she’s been so hesitant to share details of her life? No, she had. She had just gotten back from a tour.
She’s been slow to open up, but she wouldn’t outright lie. Right?
But isn’t a lie by omission still a lie?
“West? Everything okay?” Mary is standing outside her classroom, studying me with concern.
I blink myself back to reality, back to the hallway, now empty of students since the final bell for the period has rung. “Fine. Sorry, I’m fine.”
I give her a smile, and she returns it before stepping into her classroom. Following her lead, I walk into mine. Whispers come to a stop, and I’m suddenly reminded of why I would never want to be a teenager again. The level of scrutiny from twenty-four pairs of eyes is unnerving, and sweat builds between my shoulder blades as I make my way to the front of the room.
What class am I even supposed to teach now?
A book catches my eye.
American History: Colonial Revolution – Industrial Revolution.
Thank god, something I could teach in my sleep. I manage to make it through the lesson, pairing them off much the same way I did the juniors. With over-the-top groans, the students scrape the chairs and desks into pairs, and I drop to my seat. Pulling open my laptop, I open a browser window, hesitating for a moment before clicking out of it and into the lesson plans I built. I’ve always prided myself on being a patient person, but the fact that I can’t Google Michaela right now eats at me.
By the time the final bell rings, I’m anxious, raw. Sick to my stomach. But a thought did occur to me while in the last class. Not to use my work computer. So when the last student leaves and silence surrounds me, I close the lid of my laptop, powering it down. My phone rests heavily in my hand.
Don’t do it. Just ask her.
Because she’s been so open and transparent?
She told you about the lawyer.
Only after I pressed her.
I swallow slowly, unlocking my phone, my finger hovering indecisively over the Safari icon before I finally press down, bringing up a fresh search window.
Better to find out now.
Last chance.
I ignore the final warning my conscience gives me, pausing as I consider what search words to use.
Michaela King. Tucker Winston.
