DREARY UNDERTONE

Chapter 11

“Dude.” Maya slouches against the wall. “That sounds so hot.”

It does?

“You’re so lucky.” She plays with the ends of her hair. “You have boobs and experience and guys like that falling all over you. I want that. I guess I’ve been scared, but I’m definitely ready to…you know…with Alex.”

There must be something wrong with me, because boobs and s*x and everything she just said makes me want to puke my guts out. “Maya, don’t—”

“Between you and me, the girls around here are only mean to you because they’re jealous. I mean, look at you. Guys want that.” She waves a hand to indicate my body. “No wonder you’ve slept with half the school.”

Bile hits the back of my throat, and I swallow repeatedly to keep it down.

“Oh, look. He’s done.” Maya jumps to her feet, grabs her books, and rushes through the room, making a beeline for Alex.

Part of me wants to tackle her to the floor and beg her to stay away from him. But the other part, the selfish part, craves her acceptance. If she has s*x with Alex, she’ll be just like me. Maybe she’ll talk to me more, confide in me. Maybe I can share other things, scarier things, about men and their needs.

“Miss Carter.” Mr. De la Croix stands from his chair, fists on his hips and a chill in his eyes. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

I attempt to read through her student file, but the words run together. I’m too distracted, my every thought funneling toward the girl on the other side of my desk. I sent the other students home, and now it’s just Noemi and me and this inconvenient attraction.

Her slender fingers fold together in her lap, her back straight and dark hair falling around the graceful lines of her neck. A smile anchors her lips, an expression that seems to come naturally to her, but this one is smaller than its predecessors. Shakier. The kind of smile little girls wear when they’re scared.

I drop the file on the desk and lean forward, breaching her invisible bubble of tension. “What are you worried about?”

I know the answer, but I want to hear what it sounds like on her lips.

“Nothing.” She brushes a finger against her nose. A tiny, telling gesture. She’s lying.

I slam a fist down on the desk, hard enough to make her gasp.

“That was the last time you will ever lie to me.” I’ll whip the godforsaken truth out of her if I have to. “Tell me you understand.”

A vein bulges and flutters in her throat. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good.” My gaze dips to the V of her shirt, the deep line of cleavage, and the safety pin precariously holding it all together. Just as quick, I avert my eyes, training them on her face. “Now answer the question.”

She rubs her palms on her thighs and holds my gaze. “You, Mr. De la Croix. You worry me.”

Ahh, much better. I want her to spoon-feed her honesty to me, breath by trembling breath. “Explain what you mean.”

She nods to herself, as if summoning her courage. “You’re smart and strict like other teachers, but you have the approach and temperament of a barbaric di—” She clamps her lips together.

“Language is permissible in my classroom, Miss Carter.” I narrow my eyes. “As long as it’s used in a constructive manner.”

She narrows her eyes right back. “I was going to say dickhead, but I’m not sure that’s constructive.”

At least she’s thinking about a d**k.

“Give me an example of my alleged behavior, and I’ll decide how constructive it is.”

Her mouth falls open, as if flabbergasted by my response. “How about when we were out in the hall? When I told you my financial situation, and you…you smiled?”

Fuck, she saw that?

I can’t tell her I smiled because her vulnerability made me high on lust and hard as a f*****g rock. But I can give her sincerity.

“You’re right. I was wrong, and I apologize.” I pick up the file and flip through the printouts. “Let’s talk about your circumstances.”

I scan the bio page and confirm her Treme address. Skipping over the summary of her exceptional GPA and SAT scores, I latch onto the facts I care most about.

Date of birth?

She’ll be eighteen in the spring.

Parents?

Thomas Carter. Deceased.

Lisa Carter. Unemployed.

That explains her shortage of funds, but not how she pays for private school. Wait…

I jump back to her father’s name. “Thomas Carter?”

Her eyes drift closed. I look back at the page, trying to connect the details. Carter, dead, from Treme, daughter plays piano…

Jesus, I can’t believe I didn’t place her name earlier. “You’re Tommy Carter’s daughter?”

Her eyes flash open, bright and hopeful like her smile. “You’ve heard of him?”

“I grew up in New Orleans, sweetheart. Everyone around here’s heard of Tommy’s Piano Bar.”

Her gaze turns inward, her smile softening. “I hear it’s a cool place. Tourists love it.”

She says this as though she’s never been, which contradicts the image I have of her sitting behind Tommy’s famous piano after-hours and dreaming of filling his talented shoes.

I rest my elbows on the desk, angling closer. “Don’t you live down the street from there? You’ve never been?”

She raised her eyebrows. “It’s an eighteen-and-over bar. I can’t get in.”

My brain chugs through a cloud of confusion. “You don’t go there when it’s closed to help run the business? It’s still in your family, right?”

Except her file says her mother’s unemployed?

Her stare falls to her lap. “Daddy sold the bar when I was ten.”

I hate when I can’t see her eyes. “Look at me when you’re talking.”

She snaps her head up, her voice quiet, flat. “The new owner kept the name and let Daddy continue to play piano there until…”

Until a fight broke out in the bar, shots were fired, and Tommy caught one in the chest while trying to subdue the brawlers.

My familiarity with the story must be written on my face, because she says, “You know what happened then.”

“It was all over the news.”

She nods, swallows.

Tommy’s death garnered a shitload of attention. Not only was he a white jazz pianist in a black neighborhood, he was also adored and respected by the community. His bar brings a great deal of tourist dollars into Treme, and from what I hear, its popularity has kept the surrounding businesses afloat for years.

I specifically remember watching the televised reports of his murder while visiting New Orleans—that particular visit back home had been a pivotal point in my life. It was…four years ago? I’d just received my master’s from Lambert and was waffling on whether to keep my teaching job in New York City or look for work closer to my hometown.

That same week, I accepted a job offer at Coventry Preparatory. And met Dalia.

I was twenty-three then, which means Noemi was thirteen when her father was murdered.

She sits across from me, watchful and quiet. As the silence stretches, a subtle transformation works its way into her posture, curling her body into itself and making her appear smaller. She picks at a thread on her sleeve, bringing my attention to the stitching in her shirt and all the places the seams are unraveling. Her clothes are cheaply made, old, or worn from use. Probably all of the above.