Where You Are

by J.H. Trumble

Genres: LGBT Gay; New Adult Romance

Synopsis

Robert Westfall's life is falling apart—everywhere but in math class. That's the one place where problems always have a solution. But in the world beyond high school, his father is terminally ill, his mother is squabbling with his interfering aunts, his boyfriend is unsupportive, and the career path that's been planned for him feels less appealing by the day. Robert's math teacher, Andrew McNelin, watches his best student floundering, concerned but wary of crossing the line between professional and personal. Gradually, Andrew becomes Robert's friend, then his confidante. As the year progresses, their relationship—in school and out of it—deepens and changes. And as hard as he tries to resist, Andrew knows that he and Robert are edging into territory that holds incalculable risks for both of them.

J. H. Trumble, author of the acclaimed Don't Let Me Go, explores a controversial subject with extraordinary sensitivity and grace, creating a deeply human and honest story of love, longing, and unexpected connection.

Contains mature themes.

Release date: January 1, 2013

Publisher: Tantor Audio

Print pages: 336

Sample

You still here?

I’m giving a makeup test.

Crap! Stop by when you’re done.

I close Jen’s e-mail and check the time in the corner of my computer screen—ten minutes—then glance up at Robert Westfall again. He’s resting his cheek on his fist now and absently doodling in the margins of his test. My heart breaks for him, and I find myself wondering what’s showing at the cinema in his head. Memories of hanging out with his dad—maybe playing catch in the backyard, learning to swim at a neighborhood pool, pushing a lawnmower for the first time. Or maybe it’s the moment he got the news yesterday, an endless loop of shock, terror, sadness. Or is it some future flick about life without a father?

I pick up my red pen again and straighten the stack of tests in front of me, but I don’t grade any of them. I just watch him.

I knew something was going on. It was just a feeling, this sense that he was off balance and couldn’t quite get his feet under him. And now as I watch him struggle with a calculus test that he’d methodically tear up any other day, I’m struck with the desire to reach out to him; I’m just not sure how.

It’s funny really. I’m not usually this intuitive. While I’d like to believe that I’m in sync with my students, that I know when they’re having a bad day or when their hormones are raging and they’ve chosen to indulge their impulses instead of doing their homework or studying, I’m not.

My freshman Algebra kids are so squirrely that all my energy goes into maintaining order and keeping those classes moving forward. My senior AP Calculus students, on the other hand, have a laser focus on that end-of-course exam. I challenge them academically; they challenge me. If anybody’s having a bad day in that class, I guess they keep it to themselves.

But with Robert, I knew. He still turned in his homework. He paid attention. He even answered questions when I asked them. But he’s been quieter. More introspective, I think. Just not himself.

He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand and attempts to focus on the problems again, but he looks perplexed, as if I’ve written the test in hieroglyphics and he just can’t quite translate the problems.

Yesterday, his absence, that empty desk in the front row, pricked at my conscience. I thought about calling to make sure he was okay. I even retrieved his phone number. But I didn’t call. Kids are absent—they get sick, they oversleep, they skip. The motivation to make that phone call seemed pretty thin. But Robert’s not one of those kids. His absence was noteworthy and it bothered me more than it probably should have.

I turn back to my computer and scroll through the day’s e-mail—notices of meetings scheduled and meetings canceled, an it’s-still-not-too-late-to-sign-up invitation to Saturday night’s school Christmas party (No, thank you.), a few eleventh-hour pleas from parents for extra-credit work, and a reminder that grades are due at three o’clock Friday afternoon. The high priority makes Ms. Lincoln’s e-mail easy to spot.

Poor kid. I check the time again. Fifteen minutes now. I push back my chair and get up. It’s my day to pick up Kiki, and I have a feeling that I could sit here with Robert for another fifteen hours, and he’d still be doodling in the margins.

In fact, he’s so caught up in his head that he doesn’t notice me approach or say his name. When I place my hand on his shoulder, he jumps.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

His eyes fall on the test in front of him and he seems surprised that he’s only addressed a couple of the questions. “Oh, shit,” he mutters. Then immediately follows that with an apology for his language.

“It’s okay.” I pull a desk up close to his and sit. “A rough day yesterday?”

“Yeah. Pretty rough,” he says quietly.

“Anything I can do?”

He looks up at me, and his eyes seem to search mine like he’s measuring the sincerity of my question. Suddenly I have a feeling the one thing this kid needs is the one thing I can’t give him—a hug or maybe a friend he can really talk to.

“No,” he says, palming the back of his neck. “But thanks.”

“You look tired.” Depressed is what I’m really thinking. When he doesn’t respond, I decide to make one of those accommodations Ms. Lincoln spoke of. “You know, you don’t have to take this test,” I say, reaching for it. “I’m not worried about your mastery of this unit. You’ve mastered it. I can just double your last—”

“No. I can take the test,” he says, flattening his hand on the paper to hold it in place. I notice he’s not wearing a class ring.

“Okay. But, you know, I have a daughter. She’s going to be pretty upset if I don’t pick her up from her day care before dark.”

He drops his head and then, suddenly agitated, runs his hand over his short blond hair a few times, then sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mac.” He grips his pencil and punches down the lead a few clicks. “I’ll have it done in a few minutes.”

A few minutes? I don’t think so. Not even for Robert. “It’s okay.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “I have some time. How about I walk you through the test? Maybe that will help you focus.”

I don’t wait for him to answer. I collect a pencil and a few sheets of printer paper from my desk and sit back down. On the blank paper, I quickly review the first section, then wait while he works through the set of problems. I guess something about me sitting there with him chases away the distractions—he’s quick and he’s precise, making his marks with his distinct handwriting, which is tiny but highly legible.

When he’s finished, he twists his head up to me.

“Nicely done,” I say, smiling. It feels good when he smiles back.

I place a big check mark over the section, and we move on to the next. While Robert is working, I find myself studying his face—the straight line of his nose, the freckle at the base of his neatly trimmed sideburn, the stray blond hairs on his jaw that he missed shaving this morning—and I can’t help wishing that I’d known him when I was in high school.

Aside from the fact that he’s a stellar student and a nice-looking kid, here’s what I know about Robert:


And right now, I can’t not look at him.

When he finishes the set, he looks up at me, and I drop my eyes to the test and make a quick assessment of his answers.

Another big check mark and we move on. The next set is a little more challenging. I force myself to focus on this work. A couple of times he missteps, but a quick uh-uh from me makes him stop, rethink, erase, then move forward on the right track.

The last section is the trickiest, and I get a kick out of watching him wrestle with the problems. He looks at me a couple of times, but I just raise my brows and shrug. He takes that as a challenge. I don’t help him on this section, so when he missteps, he finds himself in a tangle and has to back up. I’m proud of him when he finishes the last problem and slides the test across his desk to mine.

“I knew you could do it.”

“You did, huh?”

I check that section, then close the test and scrawl a big 100 across the top before I look back at him. “Yeah, I did.”

We enjoy a moment of what I think is mutual admiration, and then I clap him on the shoulder and take the test with me back to my desk.

Robert stands, stretches, then grabs his letter jacket off the back of the desk chair as I enter his grade in the computer. I’d like to close out my grade book, but I have some Algebra kids who are under water and need a lifeline, which I will attempt to provide over the next couple of days before grades are due.

As he leans down to zip up his backpack, I take a quick inventory of the letters on his jacket—academics, band, guard, choir. They should give letters for courage too.

He grabs his backpack by the strap and shoulders it, but seems reluctant to leave.

“I’m really sorry about your dad. How are you holding up?” I ask, coming around the desk. I lean against it and slide my hands in my pockets.

He chews on his bottom lip a moment, then says, “I don’t even know how to answer that, Mr. Mac.”

How do I respond to that? I hate this. They don’t train us for this kind of stuff. There are things I want to convey to him: I’m here for you if you need to talk. I know what it’s like to lose someone. But all that sticks in my throat, because the truth is, I’m a teacher—not a friend, not a counselor. And I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone; my own parents are safe and sound in Oklahoma. I’ve not lost a single person in my life, not permanently at least. Besides, does he even want my sympathy? Kids can be so hard to read.

Jennifer Went makes my indecision moot when she chooses that moment to stick her head in the door.

“Oh. You’re done,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say as she steps into the room. Robert mumbles a thank you, hitches up his backpack, and slips past her and out the door.

“They’re making them big these days, aren’t they?” she says, sticking her head back out the door to watch him go. “Mmm-mmm. He’s a hottie.”

“You’re not going all Mary Kay Letourneau on me, are you?”

“I don’t know. I might be willing to spend a few years in prison for a few minutes in heaven with that one—”

“Arrgghh. Kidding, right?”

“—even if he is a little light on his feet,” she finishes, then laughs.

I ignore the slur.

“So, 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?

“I’ve got Kiki,” I say.

“Aaaah. Bring her too.”

“So? 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.

“I 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.”

“So, is that stuff true? I mean, aren’t both Philip and Liz married. . . with children?”

“That’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.

“And 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.

“Trust 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.

“So 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?”

“It’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?”

“Nope.”

“Come on. Why not?”

“Why would I want to spend my Saturday night with a bunch of people I hardly know? Besides, last year it was mostly couples. Awkward, you know. And borrring.”

“You could go with me.”

Don’t think so. “I have Kiki anyway this weekend. I’m taking her to see Santa on Saturday, and then we’re going to eat graham crackers and watch The Lion King again, right, baby girl?”

Kiki holds out her spoon, and I take a bite and wink at her.

“And then when she falls asleep, I’m going to write my plans for the next nine weeks.”

“Wow, your social life kind of takes my breath away.”

I wish it took mine away.

I turn my cell phone back on as I cross the parking lot. It vibrates immediately. Five new texts. All from Nic. I thumb through them as I walk.

I’m standing by your car. Hurry up.

Answer your phone.

OMG. Where are you? I don’t have all day!!!

WAITING!

I’m done. Leeeeaving.

I note the time stamps and estimate he waited a whole ten minutes. I reply, although I don’t know why I bother:

Had to make up test. Have group tonight.

He responds immediately. You could have told me that sooner.

I might have if I could have gotten past his posse of cheerleaders. Besides, we had no plans to meet after school. We never have any plans to meet after school. We rarely have any plans to meet anywhere. Sometimes I think Nic is my boyfriend in name only, when it’s convenient, when he needs some arm candy. Not that I consider myself arm candy, but I think he does the way he clings to me and parades me around on the rare occasion when we do go somewhere together.

Sorry. Text you later.

He doesn’t respond. I have about an hour before I have to be at Ms. Momin’s for my music therapy group—we’re playing “Jingle Bells” today—but I don’t have the emotional energy to deal with Nic right now anyway. And I damn sure don’t want to go home.

So I climb in the car, put my phone on silent, then tilt my seat back and close my eyes.

I allow myself to drift back to the classroom, to those gray eyes with the dark rings around the corneas, and that snug sweater over a striped, collared shirt, and the chest hair at the base of his throat that always shows no matter what he’s wearing.

I wonder if Mr. McNelis could smell it on me—the want to. Freshman year, in health (the sex ed unit, not the oh-my-god-that-feels-good unit as Coach Gideon liked to remind us, ha, ha), we learned that humans, like animals, give off a scent when they want to mate. I’m not saying I want to mate with Mr. McNelis, but I’m not saying I don’t want to either.

I’m pretty sure I don’t want to mate with Nic. Not that I haven’t tried once or twice. Nine months of dating and I haven’t touched him. In fact, the last time I tried, he followed his No with a That’s nasty. I’d be lying if I said that hadn’t hurt my feelings. I haven’t tried again. I do sometimes wonder why I tried at all. Yes, he’s cute. And, yes, he can be very sweet when he wants to be. But I don’t know him any better today than I did nine months ago, and he doesn’t know me. And I don’t think either of us really cares one way or the other.

On the other hand, I wouldn’t mind touching Drew McNelis. In fact, I’m indulging myself and imagining what that would be like when a sharp rap on the top of my car startles me. I turn the key and roll down the window. Luke Chesser sticks his head in.

“Hey, bro, no sleeping in the parking lot. People are going to start thinking you like it here.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He shivers. “It’s cold out here. Unlock the door.”

I do and he climbs in the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. I roll the window back up.

“I’m really sorry about your dad, man. Anything I can do?”

“You want to make out?”

He grins, then laughs.

He knows I’m kidding. Luke and I have a history, but mostly a platonic one.

“You want the wrath of Curtis to fall on your head?” he jokes. “He’s the jealous type, you know.”

“I do know.”

I study my good friend. Luke is the head drum major and my former pseudo-boyfriend. Long story. Curtis is a junior at Sam Houston State University. They’re crazy about each other, and I’m crazy with envy. He settles back in the seat, grabs the cuffs of his hoodie, and folds his arms tightly across his chest to warm up, then puts his feet up on the dash and rolls his head to me.

“So what’s going on with you and Nic?” he asks.

“Have I ever thanked you for fixing me up with Whore-Hay?”

“No, I don’t believe you have.”

“Then I won’t.”

He laughs. “That good, huh? Well, I never told you this, but remember when I set you two up? It wasn’t exactly the way I told you.”

“Exactly what way was it?”

“I told him you liked him and he should ask you out. He said—wait.” He sits up and takes on a prissy air, then says, “ ‘I don’t ask boys out; boys ask me out.’ ”

His Nic impression is so spot-on, I can’t help but laugh.

“Listen,” he says, “you should come up to Sam with me one weekend. Curtis has friends. Who knows, you might like one of them.”

“What’s it like dating an older guy?” I can’t resist asking.

This slow grin inches its way across his face, and he flicks his eyebrows at me.

“That’s just cruel,” I say.

He props his feet back on the dash and breathes a dreamy sigh. “So, um, what’s it like with Nic?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Really? Ha, ha. You know, one day you’re going to consider that a blessing.”

I already do. Reluctantly, I check the time on my phone. “I got to get going. I have my music therapy group in fifteen minutes.”

“You still don’t have all your service hours?” Luke asks, surprised.

“I just need a couple more.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out loudly. I do the same and he smiles. “You call me if you want to talk. Okay? Don’t worry about Curtis. I’ve got him wrapped around my little finger.” He winks and gets out.

“You sure you’re up to this?” Ms. Momin asks as she closes the front door behind me. She’s the facilitator of the group, an elementary school music teacher who does music therapy with special-needs kids on the side.

“Yeah. Of course.”

I wasn’t so sure about working with these kids when Ms. Lincoln first suggested it. I’d completed most of my sixty hours of community service—a graduation requirement—last summer working at the animal shelter, but Ms. Lincoln thought some diversity would look better on my college applications and hooked me up with Ms. Momin’s group. I’m glad she did. It’s the highlight of my week now.

From the foyer I see Patrick wrestling an ornery chair toward the living room. It tips. He steps back and utters a frustrated “Bah” as the chair falls over on the tile floor.

“Patrick,” I call out.

When he sees me, a big goofy grin takes over his face. He lumbers over and gives me an awkward hug.

“Hey, man. Thanks for starting to set up the chairs. You want some help?”

He bears down and concentrates hard before exploding with a big “Bah.”

“All right. Let’s do it.”

I right the chair and help him maneuver it into the other room, careful not to get ahead of him and pull the chair from his hands. When we position it, he steps back and throws his bent arms out to the side. “Bah.”

“Good job, man.”

“Ya. Ya.”

Patrick makes me smile. He’s fourteen and tall and lanky, with a sprinkling of acne on his forehead. But despite his physical challenges, which play out in exaggerated smiles and frowns and spastic movements, I think he is quite handsome. One in a million in fact, or perhaps one in seven hundred thousand to be more exact—the odds of being struck by lightning in any given year. He was only nine. Sucks to stand out sometimes.

By the time Sophie and Jo-Jo arrive, the chairs are set. Ms. Momin helps me settle everyone, then straps Jo-Jo into his chair so he won’t slide to the floor, and takes up her usual position behind them all.

I look at their faces, and I’m really glad I came.

“Who’s excited about Christmas?” I ask.

Patrick jumps up from his chair and spazzes a moment, then drops back in his seat. Sophie is staring off at something or nothing over my shoulder. Jo-Jo, the smallest in the group, is laughing. It’s an uncontrollable kind of laugh, but I find it infectious. Jo-Jo is the least physically capable of the three. In addition to some physical challenges I don’t fully understand, Ms. Momin says that, like Sophie, he has some form of autism. He laughs a lot, at nothing, and sometimes he whimpers, and sometimes he breaks down and cries. But he’s laughing right now, and that’s good.

“Me too, Jo-Jo. Soooo, I have a surprise for you guys. We’re going to learn a new song today. ‘Jingle Bells.’ ”

There’re a couple of beats of silence, and then Jo-Jo’s face contorts and he starts this snuffling crying.

“It’s okay, Jo-Jo. Let’s just try it. I think you’ll like it.”

Patrick looks like someone just farted. Sophie’s expression remains blank. Ms. Momin grins at me, then tries to comfort Jo-Jo.

“I’ll play it first.”

I’m hoping once they recognize the Christmas song their attitudes will improve. So far, we’ve only played “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” “Jingle Bells” requires only two additional notes. I mean, after three months I think we’re ready for a new song. And frankly, they aren’t really playing the notes anyway, so learning a new song is no big deal.

Despite their obvious displeasure, I place the recorder in my mouth and play “Jingle Bells”—chorus only.

With each note, Jo-Jo grows more distressed and is soon wailing.

And Patrick looks downright angry. He’s agitated and throwing his arms around and drops his recorder. Then suddenly he leaps up and tries to cover my mouth with his hand. His fine motor skills are rather deficient and he misses my mouth altogether, but succeeds in smacking me in the eye and knocking my contact off center.

“Bah.”

“Patrick!” Ms. Momin darts out from behind Jo-Jo and grabs his flailing arms and settles him back in his chair.

“Are you okay, Robert?”

I think I may have a corneal abrasion, but otherwise, I’m okay. I excuse myself and go to the bathroom to reset my contact. When I return, Patrick is sulking. I take my seat.

Ms. Momin smiles down at me and shrugs. “They don’t much like change,” she says.

Got that. I survey my charges. “All right, guys. I have a great idea. How about we play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?”

Patrick beams. It takes him a couple of tries, but he finally manages to get his mouthpiece in his mouth and grins with self-satisfaction.

Ms. Momin helps Sophie. Jo-Jo is gripping his recorder and sniffling and rocking back and forth. I lift his arms so the mouthpiece fits in his mouth. It’s like moving a toy robot. His arms will stay exactly where I put them until one of us moves them again.

“On three. Ready?” I smile to myself. Ready enough. “One. Two. Three.”

The racket that comes from the recorders sounds nothing like “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” It doesn’t matter. I ratchet up my own volume so they hear the tune and believe in their own performance.

We play the song maybe a dozen times, and I congratulate them after each one. And after each one, Patrick stands and spazzes because he’s happy, the kind of happy that is so pure and simple it breaks your heart, the kind of happy I don’t think I’ve ever known, or at least can remember. Sophie still stares off into the distance, but she played. I could hear her play, and that’s something of a triumph in itself. Jo-Jo is laughing now. It’s truly one of the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard, and I can’t help but smile back at him.

Sometimes it’s hard to say good-bye when the session ends. Today, it’s especially so.

I step in it when I get home, although I’m not exactly sure what it is. At first it looks like apple juice pooled in the grout grooves between the kitchen floor tiles, but it could just as easily be pee. I don’t really want to know. I pull some paper towels from the roll as I scan the rest of the kitchen—a soggy waffle with one bite out of it crowning a pile of dishes in the sink, a carton of milk warming on the kitchen counter next to an open jar of peanut butter with a knife sticking out of it, the refrigerator door standing open.

I close the refrigerator door, and I’m just about to wipe up the floor when Noah darts through the living room toward me. “Wobert!” he squeaks in a voice I know means he’s a little freaked out. “Aunt Whitney needs help.” He grabs my hand and tugs me toward my parents’ bedroom. I drop the paper towels on the counter, and with a feeling of dread, follow Noah. . .