Jaded (4 page)

We stood outside his room, and I pointed again. “The Family and Consumer Science kitchen is three doors down.”

“That could be interesting.”

I smiled without pausing. “The cafeteria is at the end of the hall, on the right, and if you exit the door at the end, the field house is around the corner. The weight room is in a separate, smaller building adjacent to it.”

My gaze fell to his bicep, where I noticed a bruise, but his loose shirtsleeves prevented me from assessing his muscles.

For crying out loud.
Why would I want to anyway? This man was the preacher. The last person on earth I should be casing. I glanced back to his face—a safe place to rest my gaze—but his eyes seemed to be making a slow circuit from my forehead to my ear to my chin. I might not have dated often or lately, but I recognized that look.

Disgust welled inside me, and I had the urge to spit in his face. Did he think because of Momma's reputation, I would melt into his arms like common trash? I gritted my teeth.

He took a step back and coughed. “Thanks for the tour, Miss Turner. I'd better look over my lesson plans before the students arrive.”

“Probably a good idea.” I spun on my heel and marched back to the office.

Chapter Six

My jack-of-all-trades job at the school kept me running across our small campus, sometimes from the elementary building all the way to the middle school, but at lunchtime I always made it back to the high school teachers' lounge to eat my sack lunch with JohnScott. Typically, only a handful of teachers joined us, since most ate in their classrooms, but on that day, at least eight showed up to check out the new math teacher.

When Dodd entered the room carrying a Dr Pepper and a cafeteria hamburger, he glanced at me. His eye contact sent a shiver across my shoulders, but I ignored it and unwrapped my tuna sandwich. The preacher's pretty face may have given me a gut reaction, but his alleged faith rendered a much stronger negative one.

My idiot cousin called to him. “Hey, Dodd Cunningham, new math teacher. Meet Lonnie Lombard, old ag teacher.”

“I'm not that old.” The ag teacher, sitting across from JohnScott, reached up to shake Dodd's hand. “Not much older than you, JohnScott. And even if I was, I look younger by a long shot.”

JohnScott rubbed the top of Lonnie's bald head. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Lonnie laughed. “Dodd, have a seat, why don't ya?”

I glared at my tuna. If Dodd sat down with us, I would fabricate a stomachache and leave.

He hesitated. “Thank you, but I believe someone's keeping an open seat for me at the back table.”

“Well, don't be a stranger,” JohnScott said. “Come back and visit occasionally.”

As Dodd walked away, JohnScott gave me a disapproving frown. I knew what my cousin was thinking. Even though the preacher somehow reminded me of thirteen years of animosity with the church, JohnScott would insist I treat the man civilly. I didn't intend to be rude, but I certainly planned to keep a comfortable distance, so I looked straight into JohnScott's eyes and bit my sandwich forcefully.

Dodd sat at the back table, surrounded by women, only one of whom was single. Maria Fuentes, the thirty-something Family and Consumer Science teacher, appeared to be working a plan. The rest of the women exhibited curiosity laced with self-control that prevented them from gawking.

Sipping my canned Sprite, I studied the man. Maybe he was more attractive than I'd given him credit for. His hair had that nice, almost-curly look—even if it did need a trim—and his clothes suited him. The black polo set off his dark hair.

The preacher's eyes met mine, and he returned my smile.

Horrified, I immediately scowled, but much to my irritation, his demeanor only faded slightly and took on an amused tint.

Turning to JohnScott and Lonnie, I focused on their discussion with rapt attention. My cousin and I spent many lunch hours with the ag teacher, who loved to needle our conservative views, so it only took a few seconds for me to catch the gist of their debate. Today's topic was World War II Germany.

“… but the Nazis thought they were doing the right thing.” Lonnie laughed as he spoke to JohnScott. “They had good intentions and were honestly trying to make the world a better place. They were nuts, of course, but you have to give them credit for sticking to their beliefs.”

I shook my head. “That's absurd. The Nazis lost all concept of right and wrong, trying to boost themselves to a higher status.”

Lonnie scrutinized me out of the corner of his eye. “But, Ruthie, who are you to say what's right and wrong?”

“I don't have to say it.” I gripped my sandwich baggie. “There's an unspoken authority dictating moral values. Any six-year-old would know what the Nazis did was atrocious.”

He shrugged. “I don't believe in all that God stuff.”

“I didn't mention God, but I see you recognize it for what it is.”

JohnScott whistled. “Now you've got her wound up. We'll never get her to hush.”

I stuck out my tongue at my cousin as the crowd at the back table burst into laughter. They passed a cell phone around, looking at something on the screen, but Dodd paid no attention. In fact, he seemed lost in thought. And he was studying
me
.

Surely this wouldn't be my high school nightmare all over again. Fawn snubbing me in the cafeteria. Dodd snubbing me in the teachers' lounge. I crumpled my paper sack as Lonnie left the room.

As soon as we were alone at our table, JohnScott leaned toward me. “The Cunninghams don't look like a typical preacher's family, do they?”

“What do preachers' families look like?”

“Dorky, I guess.”

“Coke-bottle glasses?”

He smiled and shook his head. “The Cunninghams appear almost normal.”

“Almost?”

“Well, I don't know if Grady's playing football.”

I shoved him and thoughtlessly glanced to the back of the room. The Family and Consumer Science teacher seemed to be trying to keep the preacher's attention, but he paid her no mind. Instead, his gaze traveled back and forth between JohnScott and me as though he were analyzing a trigonometry problem.

 

“Hey there, Ruthie-the-checker-girl.” Grady Cunningham took the computer next to mine in Mrs. Steen's fifth period Information Systems class, and I cringed. Working as a teacher's aide, where I quietly graded homework, was usually a welcome respite, but as Grady slid into the station next to mine, dismay pressed on my shoulders like Aunt Velma's polyester shawl. I jiggled the mouse until my old monitor crackled to life, but Grady continued. “The teacher says I should sit here so you can help me catch up with the rest of the class.”

I reached for a file folder containing the teacher's grading sheet and jerked the paper so briskly that it sliced the tip of my finger. “Why are you even in this class?” It didn't come out like I intended, but Information Systems was generally for freshmen and sophomores, and Grady was a senior.

His mouth curved in an easy smile. “We lived in a small town in Mexico my freshman and sophomore years, and computer classes weren't an option.”

I studied him silently, putting all the pieces together.

“Well, not Dodd,” he added. “He never lived in Mexico.”

I dropped my gaze to the answer sheet, but when Grady didn't turn away, curiosity compelled me to ask, “Why did you live there?”

“We were serving as missionaries. My dad had a love for the Mexican people.” A dismal expression fell over him, but then he perked up again. “I guess you heard my ugly brother is Trapp High School's new math teacher.”

My face warmed, and then the warmth slid down to my shoulders.

Grady chuckled. “Or don't you think he's ugly?”

The bell rang to begin class.
Thank God.

After Mrs. Steen lectured, Grady began his assignment but soon stretched his legs and positioned his high-dollar sneakers on the edge of my chair as though settling in for a comfortable interview.

I concentrated on grading.

“This school is different from my old school, but I like it. How long have you lived here?” He talked as funny as his brother, enunciating every word.

“Always.”

“No kidding? It would be great to live in one place your whole life. We've moved around, what with my dad's work and all.” He cleared his throat. “Have you ever been to church?”

Did he truly just ask me that? By now he'd undoubtedly heard about my past with the church—the accusations against Momma, the informal expulsion, the mounting rumors—so his question rubbed like a saddle sore. I met his gaze. “I've been there.”

“I guess in a town as small as Trapp, everybody comes to church sometime, right?”

While he finally focused on his assignment, I stared blindly at my computer screen and contemplated the kid. He and his brother couldn't be more different. Grady chattered nonstop like a lifelong friend, but Dodd spoke deliberately and observed my reactions.
And watched me.

With a sigh, I shut out all thoughts of the preacher and his brother. One more hour, and I could leave the high school and head to my evening job. At least at the United, I'd be free from the Cunningham frenzy.

Or so I thought.

Chapter Seven

When I arrived at the store, Aunt Velma stood in the produce section in her seersucker housedress, and I rubbed my hand across her back, inhaling the scent of Pond's cold cream.

“Girl, you coming to our house this weekend?” she asked.

“I've got to work Saturday morning, and besides I don't want you to make an extra trip to town, just to bring me in.”

“Don't have much else to do.”

That wasn't true. Aunt Velma and Uncle Ansel had a farm with more than enough work, even with JohnScott's help. Besides, my uncle was pushing seventy and moved slower than a horned lizard on a cold day.

I smiled at Velma and consented. “Pick me up after work on Saturday.”

“Bring your momma, you hear?”

A nice thought, but we both knew it wouldn't happen. Every evening, Momma came home from the diner, plopped in front of the television, and watched reality TV until bedtime. But I wasn't complaining. She'd been waitressing at the diner for five months, and I thought maybe she'd finally found a good fit.

Emily Sanders, one of Fawn's churchy young groupies, pushed a cart past us, checking items off her mother's list. Her eyes slid over me, but she grinned at my aunt.

Velma pointed with a banana. “Emily, honey, those peaches over by the water fountain are nice and ripe. You get some so your mother can make you a peach cobbler.”

“Thanks, Ms. Pickett.”

“But watch out for the cantaloupe 'cause they're squishy. Won't last till suppertime.”

I tied my apron around my waist. “Time for me to man the register. See you in a minute.”

When I turned, I almost collided with a woman in a light-blue pantsuit.
A pantsuit?
I instantly recognized the stranger as Mrs. Cunningham. Even if I hadn't been able to identify her by the process of elimination, I would've known her because she looked so much like Grady. I excused myself and strode to the register twenty feet away, where I grabbed a handful of coupons and pretended to be busy.

My aunt scanned the woman up and down. “Bless your heart. You must be the minister's mother.”

“Yes.” The woman stuck out her hand, but Velma didn't notice. Women didn't really shake hands in Trapp, and Mrs. Cunningham was bound to figure that out soon enough.

“Velma Pickett,” my aunt said with a nod. “My husband Ansel's a farmer-rancher. Your boys will know my son, JohnScott, from school. Coach Pickett? Anyhow, I've got eight more kids grown. We're not churchgoers but don't begrudge those who are.” She stretched the truth with that last statement, but Velma always said what people didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

Mrs. Cunningham had Grady's smile, but her speech wasn't as attention-deficit as her son's. “My name is Milla Cunningham,” she said. “We're from Fort Worth, but my husband and I worked as missionaries for several years.”

“Husband?”

Milla rustled her shopping list. “He died last year.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Velma's attitude softened, and she lowered her head in condolence while the preacher's mother seemed to force a smile.

“Things sure are different here.”

“That so?” Velma said. “I bet you'll get used to it directly.”

I peeked over the edge of a coupon and watched as Milla Cunningham steeled herself.

She leaned toward Velma and was about to say something when Emily charged around the corner, sending an apple rolling across the floor.

“Mrs. Cunningham, how are you?” Emily bubbled. “Are you getting settled?”

Velma shoved her grocery cart toward the okra and away from the ensuing hugs.

“Well, the boxes are unpacked.”

Emily stood so close that I thought she might knock the lady down. “My parents raved about the sermon yesterday. They said Dodd made the Bible easy to understand.” She giggled. “Dad said he's going to be a better preacher than Brother Dunbar.”

“Oh my.” Milla fumbled with her necklace.

“Is it all right for me to call him Dodd?” asked Emily. “Because if you think I should call him Brother Cunningham, you say the word. Or Mr. Cunningham, if that's best. Though Mom insisted we know each other well enough to go by first names. But whatever you think is what I'll do, Milla.”

The woman's silence accentuated Emily's rant, and I almost laughed. To cover, I studied an expiration date on a Tide coupon.

Milla seemed sorry to rain on Emily's infatuation parade. “I suppose ‘Mr. Cunningham' might be more appropriate, since he's one of your teachers now.”

“Oh my goodness, you're right. It's just that I don't think of him that way, you know?”

Milla's expression was utter patience, but the way her left hand gripped the shopping cart made me think she wouldn't mind grabbing Emily by the shoulders and giving her a shake.

The teenager blubbered on. “I heard you and your husband went to college with Charlie Mendoza back in the day. He and his wife are so sweet. And now you've met the Blaylocks, too. Mom says Neil Blaylock is as close to an apostle as you can get—”

Fortunately, another shopper came to check out, providing a reason for me to ignore the rest of Emily's drivel. By the time I had the customer out the door, Milla Cunningham had disappeared into the depths of the store, and Emily stood in front of me.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “Did you find everything all right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Not so talkative now.

Emily craned her neck to search out the window at nothing and then studied a pack of gum as if she was memorizing the content label. When her gaze bounced from the label to me, I pretended not to notice.

I felt sorry for her in a way. She didn't have a mean thought in her empty head, but she had always been a follower, and she'd jump off the Caprock Escarpment if everyone else decided to. She habitually ignored me, of course, but I always felt her heart wasn't in it.

“That'll be seventeen dollars and twelve cents.”

Emily handed me a twenty and mumbled, “Keep the change.”

She scooped up her plastic bags and sped out the door before my brain processed what she had said.
Keep the change?
That would be almost three dollars. Enough for a burger from the Dairy Queen. As I stuffed the money in the front pocket of my jeans, I considered whether Emily was trying to be nice or simply wanted to get out of the store and away from me.

“That girl's a mess.” Velma rattled her shopping cart toward me. “Talked the Cunningham woman's ears clean off.”

I scanned a can of pork and beans as Velma lowered her voice. “The preacher's mother seems like a nice lady, but you can't judge the buttermilk by the color of the cow. Could still be soured.” She leaned toward me. “What are the sons like?”

I pictured Dodd sitting on the corner of my desk, but I forced the image away with a shrug. “The same.”

“Boy hidy,” Velma muttered. “I bet they caused fruit-basket turnover up at the school.”

“You'd have thought they were painted fluorescent orange the way everyone carried on.”

She dug through her handbag. “You heard whether the kid's playing ball?”

“No idea.” Her groceries filled six plastic bags. “You want me to call Luis to take these out for you? He's hiding in the back.”

“That boy …” Velma reached across the counter to push the Talk button on the intercom. “Luis Vega, you get yourself out here and help an old woman with her bags, you hear?”

At the back of the store, the swinging metal door slammed against the freezer case.

“Coming, Mizz Pickett!”

Velma snapped her purse closed. “I'll see you on Saturday, Ruthie. Peach cobbler.” Then she swept out the door, with Luis running to catch up.

What would I do without Aunt Velma? Since my childhood, she had comforted my tears and praised my successes. She taught me to cook, enlightened me about the birds and the bees, and educated me on proper dating etiquette. My heart warmed as she stomped across the parking lot in her Crocs, and I turned to smile at my newest customer.

Milla Cunningham eased her basket onto the counter, then clasped her hands at her waist. “You must be Ruthie.”

A muscle on the side of my neck twitched.

None of the employees at the United wore nametags—why would we?—so I wondered at her knowing my name. “Yes, ma'am.” I hurried with her groceries, setting my face in an expression of deep concentration as though I couldn't be interrupted. It didn't work.

“I'm Milla Cunningham.”

She waited for me to speak, and I racked my mind for something to say.
You make me uncomfortable. What have you heard about me, other than my name? Would you mind shopping when I'm not on duty?
I opted for something more civil. “Hi.”

“I've heard about you.”

That much was obvious.

“From my sons,” she added. “They said they met you Friday night.”

Her groceries fit into two bags, and I positioned them on the end of the counter. “That'll be twenty dollars and seventy-six cents.”

She scanned a debit card and punched in her PIN. “See you later, Ruthie.”

“Have a good evening, ma'am.”

I fiddled with the plastic-bag dispenser until she was out the door, and then I watched her walk to her car, a dark-red SUV. She was a pretty woman with a stylish haircut that immediately put her out of place in Trapp, but she wasn't made up fake, and her pantsuit wasn't overly fancy.

She seemed harmless enough, but I wasn't about to trust her. I couldn't help remembering Velma's buttermilk comment.

Time would tell.