I had Tate. I had Shane. I had Fallon. I wasn’t perfect, but I also wasn’t alone.
Taking one last deep breath, I stood up and grabbed my box of journals out from under the bed. Picking out four, I stuffed them into Tate’s messenger bag and got ready for school.
“Morning, Ms. Penley,” I said, offering a smile.
“K.C.,” she chirped, looking up from the papers she was organizing. I saw her do a double take at my attire.
I wore white shorts and Tate’s native headdress skull shirt that I’d finally found after digging through her drawers this morning. I’d washed and straightened my hair, but I’d also braided little pieces of it, making it look a little punk. And I had on less makeup than usual.
She finally found her tongue. “Did you have a good weekend?” she asked.
I pulled out my earbuds. “Eh, the usual,” I joked. “Booze, broads, and bank robberies.”
She laughed. “Typical, then,” she agreed.
I leaned on the lab table she used as a desk. “You?”
She smiled and shrugged as if apologizing. “Reading.”
I narrowed my eyes on her as she pretended to work. It seemed sad that she spent her weekends reading alone. Penley was hot.
She was middle-aged—early forties—but still very beautiful. She had a great figure, a fantastic personality, and a steady career.
She needed a boyfriend.
I shook my head, smiling at myself. Yeah, right. Now that I was soooo happy, I thought I’d set everybody up, right?
I slapped the lab table, changing the subject. “So, do you mind if I do something different today?” I asked.
She peered at me through her glasses. “Such as?”
“I’d like to take them outside for a writing project.”
She twisted her lips to the side, thinking.
Tutoring was like pulling teeth. None of the students wanted to be here, and all the tutors were complaining. I was worried Penley wouldn’t like me diverging from the lesson plan, but other than a change of pace, I didn’t know what else to try. I needed to get their attention.
But then, to my surprise, she agreed. “That sounds fine.” She nodded, returning to her work. “Just make sure you stay on school grounds.”
I let out a breath. “Great. Thanks.”
I stuck my earbuds back in, bobbing my head to “Bones” by Young Guns, thankful to Tate. She seemed to know exactly what music selection I needed, and while most of it was angry rock, some of it was fun, girl music. “Cruel Summer,” Katy Perry, and a couple of eighties hits from Madonna and Joan Jett were on the playlist, too. The perfect mix of “hey, I really want to kick you in the balls right now” and “hey, I really just want to jump around and dance right now” type of music.
Sitting down at my usual table, I dug out a file folder of copies I’d made that morning and left my journals in the bag. I pulled out the packets of papers for each of the students in my group and waited for everyone to filter into the room.
Once Penley was done with her group lesson, she let us divide into groups, and that was when I stood up.
“Follow me,” I instructed as soon as my four had come over.
Not waiting for them to ask questions and ignoring their confused faces, I walked past them and out of the room. After about three seconds, I heard their scurried footsteps behind me, and I continued down the hallway, out the side door, and all the way to the outside amphitheater.
“K.C.?” I recognized Christa’s voice. “What are we doing?”
I took a step down into the Coliseum-like venue, and continued climbing down, bench after bench, until I got to the concrete stage.
“Taking class outside today,” I answered, looking up. “I wanted us to have some privacy.”
I gestured for them to take a seat, and other than the swelling balloon in my throat, I felt fine.
Someone tsked. “But it’s so hot,” Sydney whined. “I’m sure this is illegal.”
I smirked. “Cheer up. Lacrosse is practicing today. Maybe you’ll get a show for your trouble.”
She pursed her lips, looking snotty, but she sat down between Ana and Christa. Jake plopped down on the steps and then took his glasses from his bag and slid them on his face.
I set my bag down and clutched the papers in my arms.
“For now,” I started, walking toward them, “I’d like you to raise your hands. Who here likes to write?”
I looked around as I handed the first packet to Ana. “No one?” My eyebrows shot up with my surprised smile.
“Okay.” I handed the next packets to Sydney and Christa. “How many of you like to talk?”
The girls immediately raised their hands, giggling at one another. Jake was asleep, I think.
I smiled. “Well, writing is like talking, only it’s to yourself. I talk to myself all the time.” I looked around, handing the last packet to Jake. “And so do all of you. Admit it.”
Christa smiled to her herself while Sydney rolled her eyes.
“Come on,” I begged. “You talk to yourself in the shower, in the car, when you’re mad at your parents, or when you’re trying to pump yourself up. Right?”
I raised my hand. “I do.”
Jake raised his hand, giving me a lazy smile. Eventually Ana and Christa joined.
“So, if we like talking, we like writing. What we don’t like about writing is being judged. We don’t like the format, the rules, the editing, the need to make everything perfect. But writing can be a way to formulate your thoughts when you can’t say what you need to say or you don’t know how to say what you need to say on the spot. Writing lets you take time. Find the words. And express yourself exactly how you wish. And when we’re young, it’s a way to lose yourself as well as find yourself. When we get older, we find that drugs, alcohol, and sex can do that for us, but with higher consequences. Writing is always safe.”