Under The Peaches (Teaching Love Series Book 1)

  Shana Vanterpool Under The Peaches © 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced whatsoever in any manner, including electronic or mechanical, photocopying, or by an information and retrieval system, without written permission from the Author/Publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s overactive imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual persons, alive or deceased, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 9781520552613

  Imprint: Independently published

  Cover stock photo © Shutterstock

  Fonts from Dafont.com

  Shana Vanterpool © Copyright 2017

  Other titles by Shana Vanterpool

  The Demise Series:

  My Sweet Demise

  My Vicious Demise

  The Crystal Gulf Series:

  Destroy Me

  Damage Me

  Stand-Alone Novels:

  A Beautiful Nightmare

  Novellas:

  Mr. Santa

  DEDICATION

  To all the little girls who stare up at palm trees and dream they’re fireworks, who yearn for so much more in their little hearts.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Copyright

  Other Titles

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Under the Peaches

  Teaching Love Series, book 1

  By Shana Vanterpool

  Prologue

  The trees look like green fireworks as Mama pulls me into the street.

  “Let’s go,” she hisses, tugging on my arm. “Waste of a brain. I never should’ve adopted you.”

  Mama’s always mad at me. She doesn’t like me. I think it’s because I’m a bad girl. That’s what she says.

  “You’re a bad girl, Kaelyn. That’s why I’m giving you away.”

  She drags me across the parking lot over to a dirty black car, where two people I don’t know wait.

  The lady says she’s my new mama, and when we drive away, I’m scared. I don’t know them. I want my old mama, even if she doesn’t want me.

  I watch her in the window as dust from their tires makes a brown cloud, and in my heart, I feel like something’s missing.

  That was the first time I learned I was unwanted.

  Chapter One

  I’m coming out of the side door, cupping my bloody lip, when I see him for the first time.

  He’s huddled on the bench as if he’s hiding from the cold. His back is bowed and his head is in his hands.

  For a moment, I’m confused. Typically, when I come out here, I’m alone—that’s why I do it. Having someone here throws me off. The emotions I’d hoped to expel revert back inside, like swallowing acidic regurgitation; they burn all the way down.

  I frown at his back before I let the door go.

  When it slams shut, he turns around. Our eyes lock the way strangers’ do, sudden and leery. His are rimmed in red, and his mouth is parted in surprise. Beyond surprise, I can sense his negative emotions. They’re heavy on his face, weighing his features down. He’s probably annoyed I’ve interrupted him. No one comes out here to be happy. I should know.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting.” I need some time to myself, to relieve the overwhelming pressure building inside of me. “I didn’t know anyone else was out here.”

  His eyes roam over me as I stand there awkwardly. I wonder how awful I look, although I don’t wonder long when his gaze widens. My eyes are probably cold and distrustful. My face is blotchy and pale. And the dark red strands of my hair have become gnarled and twisted on my head. To top it all off, blood seeps from the cut on my mouth. I wipe it, smearing it on my chin. When I look at my fingers, there’s more blood than I expected. My tongue shoots out to lick it up, and the taste of metal blossoms in my mouth.

  “It’s okay,” he says, resuming his previous position. “Come have a seat.” He slides to the other end of the cement bench and soflty pats it, leaving me a space.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to sit with him. He looks familiar. I run his face through my mind, comparing it to the few I’ve managed to remember. “Mr. Ean?”

  “Yeah,” he mutters, his tone uneasy. “That’s me.” He clears his throat and turns away, hiding from me now that I know who he is.

  I move to sit beside him, sinking down reluctantly. It’s cold today. I wrap my arms around my stomach, holding myself together at the same time I seek warmth. I hug my knees to my chest, needing to be as small as possible today.

  From where I sit, I can spot the teachers parking lot. Beyond there is the road leading away from the high school. Trees drenched in Spanish moss surround the perimeter, and though the sun is no match for the wind today, it sits high and bright in the sky.

  I sniff quietly and attempt to calm my breathing. I want to be alone. It’s so odd having someone with me. I come out here every day through the side door in the music hall. And every day since freshman year it’s been empty.

  Now Mr. Ean sits in my spot. In my way.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “You know, tripped and fell. What happened to you?” I shoot back.

  Don't try and see me now, I think bitterly.

  All my teachers see nothing. They turn a blind eye. Mr. Ean isn’t my teacher, but he is one nonetheless, and he’s as blind as the rest of them.

  “The same,” he mutters dryly, glancing at me.

  I don’t look directly at him, choosing to monitor him from the corner of my eye instead. I wipe my lip off with my collar, staining my white shirt. I don’t think about explaining the blood to anyone. There isn’t anyone to tell. I do my own laundry; the only person inconvenienced is me.

  It’s only ever me.

  “You need some ice for that.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He sighs and brings his legs on the bench, sitting cross-legged as he continues to stare at the side of my face. His gaze feels heavy, aggravating as it slides over me. It feels like he’s prodding me, poking at my thoughts and insides. I shift uncomfortably.

  “Who hit you?”

  “Mind your own business, Mr. Ean. Please,” I add more softly, trying to make up for my harsh tone. I don’t know why I do, but he hasn’t been hard with me, and I’ve had enough hardness today.

  “I’m a teacher who can help. You’re a student who looks like you need some. What happened?”

  He doesn’t seem to want to drop it. With a sigh, I give in. “Nessa Ferguson and Riley Bates think it’s fun to torture me.” I hug myself tighter, smearing my bloody lip on my kneecap; red stains my jeans.

  “I don’t know them.” He reaches over and gently grasps my chin, turning my face so he can see my mouth. “But it looks like they got you good. Did you get any licks in?”

  I meet his eyes, finding they’re pale and gray. Something painful lurks on the edge. “It kind of came out of nowhere. Nessa’s elbow has more bite than her fist.”

 
He turns, facing me, and touches my mouth, irritating the cut with his thumb; I hiss. “Sorry. Come back to my classroom with me? I have a first-aid kit.”

  I pull my face free and shake my head. “I’m fine. I am,” I insist, when his expression becomes doubtful.

  Dropping his hands into his lap, he regards me patiently. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since Nessa’s now boyfriend, but then crush, asked me to prom sophomore year.”

  His expression doesn’t change. He’s simply listening. Although I wonder how he does it. I probably sound girly and annoying to someone like him.

  “And you’re a … junior?”

  “Senior.”

  “She’s been bullying you for that long?”

  I look away from his concerned gaze. “What are you doing out here?”

  “That’s a yes,” he says, running a hand through his thick brown hair. “Let’s go to my classroom.” He stands and looks at me.

  “You go to your classroom.” I hug myself tighter. “I’m perfectly fine right here.”

  He looks down at me reproachfully. I look up at him defiantly. Together we stare, refusing to back down from the other. Our silent struggle feels uncomfortable. I don’t know him, but I lose enough as it is, and refuse to give him this victory.

  “I’ll have to inform the principal you’re being bullied. What’s your name?”

  I smile condescendingly, looking away, hiding my eyes and my name. Through the gap in my legs, I can see his shins and shoes, still standing there, still bugging me.

  I look up and seethe. “Leave me alone. You want to be here now? Where were you when they were beating me up in front of my locker last month? Or fifteen minutes ago, when Nessa elbowed me? You can’t do anything for me now, so just leave.”

  Pain and acceptance fill his eyes. He holds my gaze, brave enough to do so. Most would’ve looked away. Most barely bother to look in the first place.

  “You’re right, but I can do something for you now. I can patch you up.” He holds out his hand. “Lunch is almost over. Please,” he begs quietly. “I want to help.”

  I narrow my eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s going to leave anytime soon, and as aggravating as this is, I sense he can make it worse. “Fine,” I relent, taking his hand.

  We walk to the side door, fingers clasped. The heat of his hand in mine feels strange and foreign. I want to yank free and run, be by myself like I intended.

  As if sensing my thoughts, he tightens his grip. Now that he’s standing, he’s extremely taller than me. I’m rather short, coming in at 5’3; I’m not growing anymore at eighteen. Mr. Ean towers over me, easily over six feet.

  When we get to the door, he drops my hand and opens it, standing aside so I can enter first.

  The halls are empty; it’s lunch time. Lockers adorn the walls, and posters for an upcoming rally I will undoubtedly skip, hang from the ceiling. It’s quiet; our feet create a disrupting whisper. I fall into step a few behind him. His untucked dress shirt trails after him. We pass an open classroom door as a student is coming out, holding a roll call sheet. She’s a teacher’s assistant judging by the pass pinned to her shirt. Her lunch consists of brown-nosing the staff and doing their biddings. When she sees Mr. Ean, she skids to a halt and smiles, like she’s looking at something she’s been waiting for all day.

  “Mr. Ean,” she squeaks, cheeks flushing.

  He smiles back nicely. “Carmen. Let me guess? I’m next?”

  She takes a second to answer, staring blankly up at him. “Next for what?”

  “Roll call,” he replies patiently.

  “Oh,” she huffs. “You’re next if you want to be.”

  “Whatever’s easier?” He shrugs, seeming to remember I’m standing right there. “Actually, I’ve got something to take care of, make me last.”

  Her behavior makes me question why I remembered who Mr. Ean is out of all the teachers at South Rebel High. He’s extremely good-looking. And Carmen knows it. He’s not as old as the other teachers. I think it makes him seem more available to the girls at school. I’ve heard them on more than one occasion talking about these blue slacks he wears that show off his ass, and how sometimes when he wears white t-shirts they can see his abs.

  “Last but not least,” she teases, giggling.

  I roll my eyes at the lockers.

  He doesn’t seem to notice her giggle as he looks at me. “Let’s go.”

  I bite my lip to hide my smile and then hiss in pain when the action bothers my cut. I fall into step beside him. When we get to his classroom, he takes his key out from the front pocket of his jeans and unlocks it, holding the door open for me.

  I enter his class as he flips on the lights. Cheeky motivational posters decorate the walls and pre-calculus formulas paint the whiteboard.

  ‘Number 1 isn’t the loneliest number. Negative one is one less one.’

  I can’t believe how bad they are. He opens a door and disappears inside while I sit at a desk.

  When he returns, he has a first-aid kit. He pulls the neighboring chair over and sits backward on it next to me. He rolls up the sleeves on his dark blue dress shirt and starts ripping open gauze and rubbing alcohol.

  Our eyes connect as he pours some onto a swath of gauze. “This is going to sting.”

  “No worse than getting an elbow to the mouth.”

  “I guess so,” he says, frowning. He reaches over, hesitating with his hand between us, before he goes for it, and grabs my chin. He positions my face so he can dab at my lips with his other hand. I flinch slightly, but don’t overly react. “I wish you’d let me help you.” He pours more alcohol onto the gauze. When he meets my eyes again, his look sad. “At least tell me your name.”

  I blink in irritation, and beyond that, I feel a stirring of guilt over the sadness I put in his eyes. “My name is Kaelyn.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Kaelyn.” He smiles at the alcohol as he caps it. Next, he grabs some ointment and squeezes some onto his finger. Taking my chin again, he tilts it down, running the tip of his finger over my bottom lip. “You know I have to say something to the principal, don’t you? What kind of teacher would I be if I let you walk out of here knowing you’re getting bullied?”

  “The smart kind. If you say something they’ll make it worse for me. School barely started. I have the rest of the year to deal with them. Please don’t say anything, Mr. Ean. It’s not that bad.”

  His lips turn down disapprovingly. “I have to.”

  I reach between us and grab his hand where it rests on the desk, giving it a desperate squeeze. “The principal will call my foster parents and they’ll kick me out. I’m already on thin ice since I turned eighteen and the state isn’t paying them anymore.”

  His eyes widen and he sits back, taking my hand with him. “But you haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Nothing anyone could prove. “It doesn’t matter. They’re not good people. Any attention brought to them is negative.” When his fingers tangle absentmindedly with mine, I release him, frowning at his hand as it falls into his lap.

  He clears his throat. “Sorry.”

  “Please don’t say anything. I have nowhere else to go.”

  He groans, eyes suddenly churning. “Kaelyn, don’t look at me like that. How about I try talking to the girls myself? I won’t involve the principal.”

  I push away from the desk, but he grabs my elbow, stopping me.

  “All right, all right. I won’t say anything. But I’ll be watching you from now on, and if I see anything amiss I’m dragging you to the principal. Got it?”

  I ease back down in relief. “Thank you.” I’d have to avoid him now. Nessa and Riley aren’t going to stop torturing me anytime soon. If they hadn’t stopped since sophomore year, they weren’t going to now.

  He looks tired as he puts everything back in the first-aid kit. “I’d feel better if I knew you were safe.”

  “So would I,” I mumble.

  He looks up sharply. �
��It’s talk like that, that makes me want to say something.”

  “But you won’t?”

  “If I see anything else wrong, I will.” He pushes away and marches the first-aid kit back to the closet. When he emerges, he walks over to a mini-fridge in the corner of the classroom and pulls out a brown paper bag. “Did you miss lunch?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “That isn’t what I asked.” His eyes tighten sternly. “Did you eat?”

  “No.”

  He pulls out plastic containers and walks around to set one on my desk. “You get the pasta. I’ll take the meatballs.” He tears open a plastic silverware bundle, handing me the fork. He takes the spoon.

  “You’re so pushy.”

  He shrugs, taking a seat at his desk. “Maybe.” He pops a meatball into his mouth and he glances at me. “Why do you let it go on?”

  I sigh and open the plastic container. The smell of marinara sauce and basil waft up. It smells so good I dig in, taking a huge bite of penne pasta. “The same reason you got me into your classroom. The same reason I’m eating half your lunch. I’m a pushover.”

  He eyes me intently. “You’re no pushover. I think when we resign ourselves to something, fighting it doesn’t seem like a viable option anymore. But it is. It always is. Anytime you don’t like something the way it is, you can change it. I can help you, Kaelyn. One word and those girls will leave you alone.”

  He didn’t get it. Sometimes, neither did I. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Then you were in high school not that long ago. You know what it’s like. Unless you’re popular, you’re nobody. Unless you’re somebody, nobody cares. What can anyone really do about people like Nessa and Riley? Sometimes it isn’t about doing anything. It’s about dealing with it until it’s over.”

  He’s already shaking his head before I finish. “No. That’s wrong. That’s the victim talking. A lot can be done about Nessa and Riley. Everyone thinks bullying is this deep-rooted issue that’ll go on until we get to the root. It doesn’t. There’s no root, no magic cure. It must be stopped at the source. Unfortunately, there are too many sources out there to find them all. Like with you,” he continues, growing more agitated. “You’ve resigned yourself to this, and it’s like they’re punishing you for it. You’re letting them punish you. And for what? Over a date, that happened years ago?” He snorts. “It’s bullshit. I had a student last year beg me to give him detention after school just so he didn’t have to run into his bullies. Detention, Kaelyn.” He looks at the door and leans forward. “You want to know the worst part?”