School Ties Read Online Free PDF Page B

like a kid saving the best for last, and maybe I’m her best. I’m such an arrogant douche bag. But when the purple herringboned shoe peeks around the corner, I’m on high alert. If I’d stayed in Shamokin, I don’t know that I would’ve ever learned what the fuck herringbone is, but here I’ve acquired more knowledge about preppy attire than I’ll ever need to know. Tweed, popped collars, Nantucket red. Even if I didn’t know what that pattern was called, I’d know those shoes anywhere. I stare at them at least once a week because they’re her favorites, and I stare at her feet so I won’t stare at her face. Or other things. But she’s here and I can’t wait to see the look on her face.
    Her ready smile melts, her chin wrinkles and her eyebrows fall, shadowing her brilliant brown eyes. Confused is not what I was going for. She stands there looking like she might drop the cup of punch she’s holding. It’s tipping and I don’t want her to spill on her shoes and ruin them. I reach out and right the flimsy plastic, not able to help the contact with her soft skin when I do.
    Her eyes fly wide to mine and her wrist that had been drooping snaps up in a reflex. The cup I’d been trying to steady gets crushed between us as she turns, spilling bright red liquid down my white dress shirt and blue-and-red-striped tie.
Shit.
Guess I’ll be throwing a load of wash in tonight and hoping it doesn’t stain. I have one extra shirt, and it’s nice to have a cushion in case I can’t get laundry done on a Sunday. But if this gets ruined . . .
    â€œOh, god, Shep. I’m so sorry!”
    Shep? She’s never called me Shep before. It’s always Mr. Shepherd. I’d let her spill a rainbow of punch on me, have to do laundry every day, if I could hear her call me that again.
    She’s grabbed a handful of napkins from a pillar nearby and is sopping up the washed-out blood color that’s seeping through my undershirt to my skin. Jesus Christ. I’ve stopped breathing, and I’m standing stock still as that stupid pillar. If she doesn’t stop touching me . . .
    I grab her wrist and clear my throat. “It’s okay. Miss Brewster, it’s okay.”
    Even though I’d like to shove her up against the nearest wall, drag her hands over her head and kiss her silly, another teacher, Mr. Connelly, has walked into the alcove.
    â€œHad a collision, I see?”
    â€œYes. God, I’m so clumsy.”
    I drop Erin’s wrist and we step back from each other. Erin backs into the pillar and almost spills what’s left of the napkins and a bowl of popcorn. She’s not usually clumsy at all, but it’s a convenient excuse.
    â€œThis building with all its nooks and crannies isn’t helping,” Mr. Connelly says. Then he launches into a lecture on how the original building was built the year the school was founded and has been added onto so many times there are at least half a dozen architectural styles incorporated into it. I bet he can name every single last one of them.
    He’ll yammer on about this for another twenty minutes. I don’t want to abandon Erin to his boring spiel, which I’m sure she knows already, but, “I should rinse this out. I’ll be right back.”
    I hurry to the nearest bathroom and strip to my T-shirt. If I button my jacket over it, you can barely see the red. I hold my button-down under cold water and most of the juice comes out under the stream. It might be salvageable. When I’ve done all I can do, I walk back out. Mr. Connelly’s gone but Erin’s still there, staring, no cup in her hand.
    I toss my shirt under a bench and wipe my damp hands on my dress-code khakis.
    â€œDo you like them?”
    She turns to me, hugging her elbows and a sweet smile on her face. That’s better.
    â€œI do. I’m sorry about earlier, I . . .