Where You Are Read Free

the door to watch him go. “Mmm-mmm. He’s a hottie.”
    â€œYou’re not going all Mary Kay Letourneau on me, are you?”
    â€œI don’t know. I might be willing to spend a few years in prison for a few minutes in heaven with that one—”
    â€œArrgghh. Kidding, right?”
    â€œâ€”even if he is a little light on his feet,” she finishes, then laughs.
    I ignore the slur.
    â€œSo, how about I buy you a Frappuccino?” she asks brightly.
    I already know that buy you a Frappuccino is just code for read my next chapter . Jennifer fancies herself a romance author. Her college roommate put herself through school writing erotica. Jen sees no reason she can’t get herself out of school writing romance.
    I suspect she fancies me as well. I mean, what could be more attractive than a twenty-four-year-old, divorced high school teacher with a two-year-old, a student-loan debt that rivals the GNP of any number of small nations, an efficiency apartment, and a six-year-old Civic with a crack in the windshield?
    â€œI’ve got Kiki,” I say.
    â€œAaaah. Bring her too.”
    Â 
    â€œSo? What do you think?” Jennifer asks. “Juicy, huh?”
    Kiki is sitting on her knees and eating a yogurt parfait. I wrinkle my nose at her and she wrinkles hers back. I stack the pages neatly together and hand them across the table to Jen.
    â€œI think you’d better change the names and maybe a few other details, or someone’s going to sue your ass one day.”
    She laughs. “Ah, they’re just placeholders. Once I get the story down, I’ll run a global search and change all the names.”
    â€œSo, is that stuff true? I mean, aren’t both Philip and Liz married. . . with children?”
    â€œThat’s really sweet, Drew. You actually believe in that stuff, huh?” She flicks a bit of ice at me with her straw. “You know, if you’d ever come out of your classroom, you might learn all kinds of things. Like, for instance, that those two leave for lunch together every day. Every day. Different doors, different cars, but they follow each other out of the parking lot. Like that isn’t obvious.
    â€œAnd then last week, I went into Philip’s office to ask him to show me how to use Audacity. He was on the phone. So he says, ‘Gotta go. I’ll see you later. Love you.’ All that crap. So then he opens Audacity on his screen, and he’s showing me stuff, and a few seconds later this e-mail pops up in the corner from Liz. I’d have to be blind not to see it. And stupid not to add up two and two.
    â€œTrust me; they’re doing it. And everybody knows it.”
    I wonder if Philip Moore has any idea whatsoever that his colleagues are talking about him behind his back, that his little subterfuge is not nearly as covert as he thinks it is. He’s one of two technology liaisons on our campus, the go-to guy for everything software related, from converting YouTube video files to getting our contacts groups to show up in Outlook. Everybody knows him. It’s his job to respond to technology crises or last-minute queries about how to incorporate some little gizmo into a lesson.
    But even I’ve heard rumors that Liz Masters seems to have more crises and queries than most. Not that I care. What they do is their business.
    â€œSo is this how you get your jollies?” I ask. “Speculating about what those two are doing in the backseat during their thirty-minute, duty-free lunch every day?”
    â€œIt’s twenty-seven minutes now, and hey, a girl’s gotta get it somewhere,” she says coyly.
    I laugh lightly and pretend I don’t notice the subtle suggestion.
    She throws a quick glance at Kiki. “So,” she says, “are you going to the Christmas party Saturday?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œCome on. Why not?”
    â€œWhy would I want to spend my Saturday night with a bunch of people