Текст книги "Misconduct"

Автор книги: Penelope Douglas

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So he’d rather be doing work than schmoozing and drinking at a Mardi Gras ball? I dipped my head, breaking out in a laugh.

“What?” He pinched his eyebrows together.

I met his eyes, seeing the confusion. “You prefer work,” I stated. “I can relate to that.”

He nodded. “My work challenges me, but it’s also predictable. I like that,” he admitted. “I don’t like surprises.”

I instantly slowed, nearly stopping our dance.

I said the same thing all the time. I never liked surprises.

“Everything else outside of work is unpredictable,” I added for him. “It’s hard to control.”

He cocked his head and brought his hand up to my face, running his thumb along my cheek.

“Yeah,” he mused, leaning in while his hand circled the back of my neck possessively. “But there are times,” he said softly, “when I like to lose control.”

I closed my eyes. Jesus.

“What’s your last name?” he asked.

I opened my eyes, blinking. My last name? I had kind of liked keeping specifics off the table. I didn’t even know his first name yet.

“Easton?” he pressed.

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do you want to know that?”

He stepped forward, charging me slowly and pushing me backward. I had to keep backing up so as not to fall. “Because I intend on getting to know you,” he said. It sounded like a threat.

“Why?”

“Because I like talking to you,” he shot back, his voice thick with a laugh he was holding in.

I hit the wall behind me and stopped, glancing over at the people sitting at the table across the balcony.

He closed the remaining distance between us and dipped down until his face was a couple of inches from mine.

I locked my hands behind my back, instinctively tapping the wall with my fingers and counting in my head. One, two, three —

“Do you like me?” He cut me off, a playful tilt to his lips.

I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. I turned my head, but I knew he saw it anyway.

“I don’t know,” I answered casually. “You might be too much of a gentleman.”

The corners of his lips curled, looking sinister, and he threaded his hand around the back of my neck and through my hair, gripping my waist with the other and pressing his body to mine.

“Which means I’m still a man, only with more skill,” he whispered against my lips, making my breath shake. “And there’s only one place I won’t be careful with you.”

A whimper escaped, and I felt his hand tighten in my hair. He stared at my mouth, looking like he was ready to eat.

“I think you like me,” he whispered, and I could almost taste his hot breath. “I think you even want to know my name.”

He inched in, and I braced myself, so ready for it, but then suddenly he stopped and looked up.

“Tyler, there you —” A woman’s voice stopped midsentence.

I twisted my head to see a beautiful blonde, maybe seven years older than me with a slightly surprised but not angry look on her face.

Tyler.

That was his name.

And I shifted, forcing his hands to drop away from me.

Tyler straightened and looked at the woman.

“They’re about to start,” she told him, clutching her small purse in both hands in front of her. “Come inside.”

He nodded. “Yes, thank you, Tessa.”

She cast me a quick look before spinning around and walking back inside the ballroom.

Well, she must not be his wife.

Not that I thought he had one anyway, with no wedding ring, but she’d called him Tyler, which meant she was familiar with him.

I smoothed my dress down and touched my mask, making sure everything was in place.

“She’s a date,” he pointed out. “Not a girlfriend.”

I shook my head, finally looking up at him. “No need to explain,” I said lightly.

I was glad he wasn’t married, but if he wanted to misbehave while he had a date in the next room, that was on him. I wasn’t going to feel embarrassed.

But I was disappointed.

I looked around, avoiding his gaze, and hugged myself, rubbing my arms. The cold had turned bitter, and it sank into my bones now.

I hadn’t wanted the night to end, but it was over now.

I’d liked it when I didn’t know his name. I’d liked it when I was waiting to find out.

He leaned in. “I —”

But then he stopped, looking up with a scowl on his face, as a voice came over the microphone from inside.

“Give me your last name,” he demanded quickly, pinning me with a hard stare.

“Now, what fun would that be?” I replied with his same sarcastic remark.

But he didn’t see it as funny.

He shifted, tipping his head up and listening to the man on the microphone and looking hurried.

Why did he look so nervous?

“Shit,” he cursed, and then leaned in to me, planting his hands on the wall behind my head.

“If you leave,” he warned, “there will be nothing holding me back when we run into each other again.”

A shiver ran through my chest, and my thighs tensed.

But I hid it well.

“In your dreams,” I shot back. “I don’t like lawyers.”

He grinned, straightening and looking down at me. “I’m not a lawyer.”

And with a smug look, he walked past me, back into the ballroom.

I let out a breath, my shoulders falling slightly. Damn it.

I was both sick with disappointment and filled with unspent lust. What an asshole he was for leading me on when he had someone inside.

I’d acted like I’d known he hadn’t come alone, but I hadn’t really believed it. Perhaps he thought he’d get my number, take her home tonight, and call me tomorrow.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Sex happened where and when I wanted it. I didn’t wait for men who put me on a menu.

I felt my phone vibrate again, and I ignored it, knowing Jack was probably pissed I’d disappeared for so long.

Stepping into the lively ballroom, with glasses clinking and people laughing, I ignored the speaker on stage when I peered over the crowd and spotted my brother by the tall double doors.

He had on his coat and held mine in his hand, and he looked aggravated. I moved swiftly over to him, turning around so he could put my wrap on me.

“Where were you?” he complained.

“Playing,” I mumbled, not even trying to hide the teasing in my voice.

The speaker onstage droned on, slurring his words, and the audience laughed at his jokes, everyone else drunk enough to find them funny.

“Well, I want to get out of here before the NOPD parade comes down Bourbon,” Jack reminded me, and then turned to fiddle with his phone.

I’d forgotten about the parade.

At midnight on Mardi Gras, the New Orleans Police Department – in their fleet of horses, dogs, ATVs, cars, trucks, and officers – walked the entire length of Bourbon, clearing the streets, an act that signaled the end of Mardi Gras and the beginning of Lent.

Partygoers filtered down the side streets only to return as soon as the police had passed by. We had gotten a hotel room on Decatur for the night to avoid traffic back to school in Uptown, but we needed to hurry if we were to get through the crowd before the police blocked our route.

“Come on,” he urged, making his way out the doors while I began to follow.

“So, ladies and gentlemen!” the loud voice boomed behind me. “Please help me welcome a man who I hope will soon be announcing his candidacy for the United States Senate next year!” Everyone started clapping as he shouted, “Mr. Tyler Marek!”

I spun around, my eyes rounding as I saw the man who had just pinned me against a wall outside step onto the stage.

Holy shit.

“Damn, I didn’t know he was here,” my brother said, coming up to my side.

“You know him?” I asked, glancing at my brother before turning back to the stage.

“You’ve never heard of Tyler Marek?” he scolded. “He owns the third largest construction company in the world, Easton. Rumor has it, he’s running for the Senate next year. I wish I could’ve met him.”

A politician?

Jesus. I’d stepped into that one.

I should’ve been embarrassed. These people were clearly his friends – or associates – and the ball was, at least in some small part, in his honor. I’d insulted the food, the attendees, and while everyone seemed to know exactly who he was, I’d had no idea.

I tightened my wrap around my body, seeing him give the crowd a playful look I was already familiar with.

And just then, I stilled, seeing his eyes catch mine, and heat rose in my cheeks at the slow, self-satisfied smirk spreading across his face.

He started to speak, but I no longer cared to listen.

If you leave, there will be nothing holding me back when we run into each other again.

I arched an eyebrow at him and then leaned over to the empty round table next to the exit and blew out the small candle sitting there. Smoke drifted up, filling the air with its pungent scent.

And without a backward glance, I left the ballroom, my brother following behind.

TWO

EASTON

  Six months later

My brother was my best friend. Not many girls my age could say that, but it was true.

Most siblings fought at one time or another. Competition and grudges form, and you run the risk of treating each other like shit because you can. Family is family after all, and they’ll forgive and forget.

But Jack and I never had that problem.

When we were young, we trained together and played together, and as adults, nothing had changed. He had never not wanted to be around me, and I often joked that he liked me more than I did.

And he would agree, always hinting that I was too hard on myself, but he was the same way.

It was a learned behavior in our home, and we didn’t do anything half-assed. Although at the time I’d resented our parents pushing us as hard as they did, I supposed it nurtured qualities that would help us in any field we pursued in our futures.

“Come on.” My brother heaved at my side, pulling to a stop and shaking his head at me. “Enough,” he ordered.

I halted, sucking in air as sweat soaked my back and neck.

“Two more laps,” I pushed. “You could’ve made it two more laps.”

He gulped air and walked over to the edge of the path covered by the canopy of old oaks lining the trail in Audubon Park.

“It’s August, Easton,” he bit out as he put his hands on his hips and bowed his head, trying to catch his breath. “And we live in a semitropical climate. It’s too hot for this.”

Grabbing the T-shirt out of the back of his mesh shorts, he wiped the sweat off his forehead and face.

I followed, pushing the strands of hair that had fallen out of my ponytail back over the top of my head. “Well, now you don’t get your smoothie,” I grumbled, bringing up the bribe I’d offered to get him out here on a Sunday morning.

“Screw the smoothie,” he shot back. “I should’ve stayed in bed. School is already kicking my ass, and I need the rest.”

He dropped his T-shirt to the ground and gestured toward me.

“Go on,” he urged. “Lie down.”

I walked over in front of him, knowing better than to argue. He’d had enough and wanted to get the workout over with.

I dropped to my ass and lay down with my knees bent, while he stepped on top of my toes, safe inside my sneakers, to hold me in place.

Crossing my arms over my chest and clutching my shoulders, I tightened my stomach muscles and pulled up and then shot back down until my shoulder blades hit the grass. I pulled up again, repeating the crunches over and over as my brother stood above me texting.

He was always working – texting, e-mailing, organizing – and it always had to do with school or something related to his future.

He was driven, committed, and controlled, and we were exactly alike.

According to studies, firstborn children were reliable, conscientious, and cautious, and my brother was certainly all of those. As a middle child, I was supposed to be a peacemaker and a people-pleaser with lots of friends.

I wasn’t any of those things.

The only quality I shared with other middle children was a sense of rebelliousness. However, I hardly thought that had anything to do with my birth placement and, instead, had everything to do with my youth.

While many middle children often felt as if they didn’t have an identity or anything special about them that set them apart, I, on the other hand, had had more attention than I’d deserved and had gotten tired of being under a spotlight. Tired of being special, gifted, and prized.

I wanted more – or less. However you looked at it.

I pulled up and fell back, never releasing the muscles in my abs. “I’m proud of you, you know?” I breathed out, looking up at him. “This is your year.”

“Yeah.” He smirked, his eyes still on his phone as he joked, “What do you know?”

Jack had just started his final year at Tulane Law School. Not only was he busy with classes, moot court, and the pro bono requirement for his degree, but he was also looking for an internship to get a head start in the field. He’d worked hard and deserved every inch he’d gained, never expecting anything handed to him.

“I know you’re up at four a.m. every morning to study before class.” I winced as my abs started to burn. “You refuse to date, because it’ll interfere with your studies, and you take those insipid law journals everywhere with you: the streetcar, the coffee shop, and even to the bathroom —”

“Hey —”

“You’re the hardest worker.” I continued, ignoring his embarrassed protest. “And you’re in the ninety-eighth percentile. You didn’t get there by luck.” I smiled sweetly, getting cocky. “I may get a sunburn basking in the glow of your success.”

He rolled his eyes and stepped off my toes, dropping to the ground himself. We both turned to get on our hands and toes, immediately dropping and rising for push-ups.

We worked out together at least once a week, although it was usually more than that. Between finishing my degree and graduating last May and Jack’s demanding schedule, we had no set days or times, but we made it a point to keep each other motivated.

My brother had never really been an athlete, but he’d grown up helping me train, so exercise was as much a part of his life as it was mine.

“I love you, you know?” He stared at the ground beneath him as he dropped down and pushed back up. “I should say it more.”

I stopped and turned, sitting on my ass as I peered over at him.

He did the same, resting his forearms on his knees and looking solemn.

“It was hard growing up with you, Easton,” he told me, staring off in front of him, looking somber. “All the attention, the way our parents prioritized our lives around you…” He trailed off, stopping short, and I knew what he wasn’t saying.

Our parents had loved all three of their children – him, me, and our younger sister, Avery – but he knew and I knew, even though it was never talked about at the time, that I came first. My rising tennis career took precedence over everything.

Jack and Avery couldn’t take any extracurricular activities if it interfered with my training schedule, and they’d had to sit through countless matches, invisible because our parents’ eyes were always on me. Only me.

My brother shouldn’t have been my best friend. He should’ve resented me.

He popped up off the ground and reached out, offering me a hand. I took it and let him pull me up, my body vibrating with fatigue.

“You never let it go to your head, though,” he allowed. “You always acted like Avery and I were just as important.”

“Of course you were,” I stated without hesitation as I dusted off my shorts.

“Yeah, well, our parents didn’t always think so.” He sighed. “Thanks for letting me have this,” he said, referring to our choice to move to New Orleans five years ago, so he could attend Tulane, “and thanks for letting me feel like a big brother for a change.”

I laughed, raising my fists and jabbing at him. “Yeah, you’re capable of it sometimes,” I teased in a light voice.

“Sometimes?” He held up his palms so I could slap at them. “I’m three years older than you, Pork Chop.”

“Only physically.” I shrugged. “According to studies, men trail women in maturity by eleven years.”

He jabbed back, and I blocked, pushing his thick arm off to the side and seeing him stumble.

“You and your statistics,” he complained. “Where did you read that?”

“The Internet.”

“Ah, the infinite abyss of reliable information.” He threw a few more slow punches, and I bobbed and ducked as we danced in a circle.

“Why don’t you try getting out of your apartment and testing those theories out on your own?” he challenged.

I hooded my eyes, annoyed. “I get out of my apartment.”

“Sure.” He nodded. “For work. Or with me. Or when you’re on the prowl.”

I inhaled an angry breath, jabbing him harder and finally catching him in the chest.

He grunted. “Ouch.”

And then shit got real.

He straightened, steeling his body and moving in, punching faster and making me duck, swerve, and sweat.

On the prowl? He knew he shouldn’t have made a dig at me.

Everything else could be Jack’s business. We didn’t make decisions without the other’s input, and when our world had fallen apart five years ago, I’d let him hold my hand from time to time to make him feel useful, but my sex life was the one thing I kept private.

Most of the time I stayed so busy that I didn’t miss men. And I certainly had no interest in inviting one into my life for anything long-term.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t tried, but I didn’t like messy and unpredictable, and relationships made me feel caged.

But once in a while I started to miss being touched. I missed being close to someone and being wanted. Even if just for a night.

So I’d go out and get it out of my system and then come home, my feathers smooth again. Sometimes it was a “friend” who didn’t have any more of an interest in a relationship than I did, but occasionally, when I wanted to push the envelope for extra excitement, it was someone new.

Someone unknown.

“I mean, at the very least,” my brother complained, “try taking an actual self-defense class instead of testing out moves on me that you learned from YouTube.”

I grabbed his hand and bent his arm at the wrist, making him hunch over with the pain. His face twisted, and I stepped up to him, gloating.

“You don’t like being my tackling dummy?” I taunted, adding pressure to his wrist.

He twisted his lips in annoyance, and before I knew what had happened, he’d grabbed my leg out from under me and pushed me down onto the ground. I crashed to my ass, pain spreading up to my hips and down my thighs.

He shot down, coming to bend over me and pin my neck to the ground with his hand.

I squirmed and tried to pry out of his grip, but it wasn’t working. I could feel my face tighten and rush with blood. I probably looked like a tomato.

He lightened his grip and narrowed his concerned eyes on me, speaking sadly. “You’re lonely, Easton.”

I blinked, the sound of my breathing flooding my ears and echoing in my head. I felt like I wanted the ground beneath me to open and swallow me up whole.

Why would my brother say that?

I was alone, not lonely, and it wasn’t like he had room to talk.

And my life was good. My apartment was gorgeous, I’d graduated at the top of my class at Loyola, and I had just landed a great position as a history teacher at an elite private school here in the city.

I was going to be a part of the future, doing work that meant something.

And I was only twenty-three.

I’d been focused, and I was still very young. It wasn’t like there was any rush. It wasn’t like I was going to be alone forever.

He released me and sat back, pushing his sandy blond hair back on his forehead. “I just worry about you,” he explained. “I still think you should talk to someone.”

I sat up on my elbows and gave him a pointed look, staying calm despite the anger crawling its way into my chest. “I’m fine,” I maintained.

“Really?” he challenged. “And how many times did you go back to check that you locked your front door this morning?”

I rolled my eyes, looking away. I should never have told him. My little compulsions made my brother nervous.

Okay, so sometimes I liked to make sure everything was in its place. Sometimes locking my front door four times instead of just once made me feel safer.

And sometimes I liked to count things.

But the truth was I simply liked to be aware of my environment and the people around me.

And I managed my habit well enough that people didn’t notice. My brother probably never would have if I hadn’t told him.

“I’m not the center of attention anymore,” I reminded him. “Stop trying to keep me there, okay? I’m fine.” I pushed myself up and got to my feet, dusting off my butt as he also stood.

“My bathroom door handle broke,” I told him, inserting my earbuds in my ears before he had a chance to say anything else. “So I need to hit the hardware store.”

“Well, do you want me to look at it?” He slipped back into his gray T-shirt as I veered around him back toward St. Charles Avenue.

I shook my head, joking as I walked away, “You wouldn’t know what you were doing any more than I would.”

“You got something against just hiring a repairman?” he shouted after me as I walked.

I turned, dishing his attitude right back at him. “You got something against tutorials on YouTube?” I shot out, and continued with my life motto, which he knew all too well. “Always go to bed smarter —”

“– than you were when you woke up,” he finished in a mocking voice.

I smiled and turned on “Hazy Shade of Winter” by the Bangles before jogging out of the park.

I spent the hour after I returned home crouched down next to my bathroom door as I pored over the instructions on how to install my new doorknob.

Luckily I’d bought a general tool set when I’d moved into my apartment two months ago, after graduation, but the clerk at the store had suckered me into a cordless power drill, which I was enjoying way too much.

Knowledge made us stronger, and I liked being able to do things for myself. Every new challenge was a mental checkoff of something I wouldn’t need to learn later.

My brother, however, didn’t share my need for autonomy.

When I’d moved in, he’d bought me a coffeepot as a housewarming gift. I’d bought a fire extinguisher and a thirty-eight-piece handyman set.

He’d gifted me with a wine rack stocked with pinot noir, and I’d added two more dead bolts to the front door.

Our senses of self-sufficiency were different, but then they had to be. Our experiences were very different growing up.

I smiled to myself, embarrassment warming my cheeks as I drilled in the screws. I was glad Jack wasn’t here to see how this was possibly the most fun I’d had all week.

I may have gotten overzealous and split the wood in the door when tightening the screws, too.

And I may even have crawled around my entire apartment tightening any screw I could find before I decided to put my new toy away for the day.

He’d have me committed. Or at least send me on a forced spa day.

After eating a sandwich for lunch, I showered and combed my closet for an outfit for tonight.

The new academic year started tomorrow, and my students’ parents had been invited for an open house this evening at Braddock Autenberry, my new school.

Or my only school, as this was my first teaching position.

Having gotten my keys to the school a couple weeks ago, I had prepared the room, and it was all set for tomorrow. Tonight I could try to relax and tend to the parents making their rounds to the different rooms before school started in the morning.

Reaching into my closet, I picked out my red pencil skirt, which fell just above the knee in the front but was cut to drape just below the knees in the back, stitched with a slight ruffle there for flare.

Laying it on the bed, I dug back into the closet for my fitted black blouse. It had long, cuffed sleeves and buttoned up to the neck.

To finish off the outfit, my heels were plain black with a pointed toe. I twisted my lips at the sight of them, setting them on the floor next to my bed.

I hated heels, but tonight was “make a good first impression,” kind of occasion, so I’d suck it up. I’d filter in sneakers and flats throughout the school year, though.

The outfit was conservative but stylish, and after I did my light makeup and my hair in loose curls, pulling back the sides and fixing a clip to the back of my head, I dressed with care, making sure not to wrinkle anything.

This was a brand-new start, and I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.

Once I’d fastened my watch to my wrist and put in the diamond studs from my parents, I smoothed my hand down my shirt and skirt, brushing off lint that wasn’t really there.

Perfect.

I checked the windows, the stove, and both doors, making sure everything was secure – twice – before I left.

When I arrived at the school, in the heart of Uptown, I still had a couple more hours before the open house began. I checked my mailbox in the teachers’ lounge, made some extra copies of my parent letter, and double-checked my laptop and projector to make sure my PowerPoint presentation was set to run.

We were supposed to have a mini speech ready to go when parents arrived, but I’d gauged – hopefully correctly – that parents would filter in and out, visiting classrooms in no set order, so I’d just designed a presentation with pictures and captions to play in the background. They could watch it or not.

Student textbooks were on the desk for their perusal, and copies of my syllabus and calendar with my contact information sat on a table by the door.

Other teachers at our staff development days this past week had talked about bringing cookies and chocolate-covered strawberries to offer parents when they visited their rooms, but after the school nurse scared the shit out of us with the EpiPen training on Wednesday, I’d decided not to take any chances with allergies. Bottled water, it was.

I let Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” play lightly in the background from my iPod dock as I walked around, double– and triple-checking everything to make sure the room was ready to go, for not only tonight but for tomorrow, as well.

“Are you Easton Bradbury?” a voice chirped behind me.

I turned, seeing a redhead in a navy blue A-line dress hovering at my classroom door.

“I’m Kristen Meyer,” she continued, placing her hand on her chest. “I teach Technology and Earth Science. I’m right across the hall.”

I put a smile on my face and walked over, noticing that she looked only a few years older than me.

“Hi.” I shook her hand. “I’m Easton. Sorry we didn’t meet this week.”

Our staff meetings were mostly departmentalized, and since I was US and World History, she and I had probably been in the same room for only a few hours during our staff meetings before we’d split off into groups.

Her red lips spread in a beautiful smile. “This is your first year?”

I nodded, sighing. “Yes,” I admitted. “I’ve done observations and a practicum, but other than that, I’m” – I exhaled a nervous breath – “new.”

“You’ll get that crash course tomorrow.” She waved her hand, walking past me into the room and looking around. “Don’t worry, though. The first year’s the easiest.”

I pinched my eyebrows together, not believing that for a second. “I’ve heard the exact opposite, actually.”

She twirled around, looking completely at ease with herself. “Oh, that’s what they tell you to give you something to look forward to,” she joked. “Your first year you’re just trying to keep your head above water, you know? Learn the ropes, get paperwork done on time, spend countless hours preparing one thing only to find out the lesson bombed…” She laughed.

“What they don’t tell you,” she continued, leaning against a student desk, “is that college prepared you for nothing. Your first year, you’re learning to teach. Every year after that you’re trying to be successful at it. That’s the hard part.”

“Great,” I said sarcastically, laughing and putting my hands on my hips. “I thought I learned to teach in college.”

“You didn’t,” she deadpanned. “Tomorrow is baptism by fire. Get ready.”

I looked away, straightening my back. It was my brain cracking the whip, so I wouldn’t scowl.

Deep down I knew she was probably right, but I still didn’t like being knocked off my horse when I’d spent months preparing.

I’d done the work, taking all the classes I needed and even extra ones. I’d read up on the latest research and strategies, and I’d opted not to lesson plan with the other history teachers in favor of planning on my own – which I was allowed to do as long as I covered the curriculum and standards.

My lesson plans were done for the whole school year, but now I was worried about whether I’d done a lot of work for nothing.

What if I had no idea what I was getting myself into?

“Don’t worry,” Kristen spoke up. “It’s not the students that are the problem.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “The parents are very invested in where their tuition money goes.”

“What do you mean?”

She straightened, crossing her arms over her chest and speaking quietly. “Public school parents tend not to be involved enough. Private school parents, maybe too much. They can get invasive,” she warned. “And they bring lawyers to parent-teacher conferences sometimes, so be prepared.”

And then she patted me on the back, like I’d needed comforting, and walked out.

They can get invasive?

I cocked an eyebrow and stepped up to the large side-by-side windows lining the wall to rearrange the plants on the sill. Peering out the windows, I noticed that the sun had set and parents and students were stepping out of expensive cars, making their way into the school.

The manicured ladies meddled with their children’s hair, while the fathers conducted business on their phones.

I spun around, heading for my classroom door to prop it open.

I knew how to handle invasive.

Over the next couple of hours, parents and students filtered in and out of the room, following their class schedule to meet every teacher and learn their class route. Since my students would be mostly freshmen, I had a great turnout. Most parents wanted their sons and daughters to have the lay of the land before their first day of high school, and judging by the sign-in sheet I’d asked parents to fill out, I’d met almost two-thirds of my kids and their families. The ones I hadn’t met, I would try to call or e-mail this week to introduce myself and “open the lines of communication.”

I moved around the room, introducing myself and chatting with families here and there but mostly just watching. I’d adorned the walls with some maps and posters, while a few artifacts and tools used by historians and archeologists sat on tables and shelves. They moved from one area to another, taking in the clues I’d left as to what we’d study this year.