4. Kent

FOUR

"Wait, you went back to his apartment?" Ruth asks from her usual position, a half step in front of me.

Her braids swing back and forth, framing her sepia skin. The tiny beads click-clack, creating a symphony of sound in the silent, frosty morning. With the spring of the newly installed track beneath her, Ruth glides even faster than she would on pavement. In only a tracksuit zipped to the top, the December chill has set in, but Ruth runs hot—no heavy coats for her.

"I mean, he offered dessert."

The cold air stings my throat as my body warms up. After the first lap, I'm ready to unzip my jacket and attempt not to be a sweaty mess for the day ahead. Ruth has to be the fittest person I know. Yes, she's almost my age, but thirty years ago she was on the women's Olympic speed-walking team. I'm trying to keep pace with a roadrunner.

"Dick for dessert?"

I trip on a pebble. Or stone. Or air.

"Ruth Parrish, watch your mouth. I literally just met him," I say, shaking my head.

"So what? Two men. All that testosterone flowing through your bodies. Gay men hook up all the time."

"But, I'm bi."

"Okay, men. Generally speaking, men are horny. All the time. It sounds like you experienced insta-lust. And good for you. For getting some."

Getting some. Oy.

"What?" she asks, glancing back. "Am I wrong?"

"No." Even in the brisk air, heat radiates from my face. "He wanted me to … talk. And your ideas for … bedroom talk were a hit. Or I think they were. Surprisingly, I fell right into it."

"You dirty dog." Ruth pauses and looks me up and down. "I like this side of you, Mr. Lester."

"It happened so quickly. He asked and I remembered our conversation and your … suggestions."

"Auntie Ruth will never steer you in the wrong direction. You had a good time." She pats my back. "There's nothing wrong with that, Kent."

"Yeah. It's just …" Walking into the restaurant and seeing Vincent's face. His sweet hazel eyes. The skin of his beautiful bald head. My heart whispered to me, "You found him."

"Just what?" Ruth slows her gait enough to tilt her head, sending her beads dancing.

"When I saw him … after I got my bearings, I felt something."

"In your pants."

"No. Maybe. I mean inside. Something about him. His energy. The chemistry. I knew."

"Knew what?"

"There was a connection." My hand finds my stomach. "It was like when you take a sip of champagne, and the bubbles travel up your nose and everything's tingly."

Ruth's arm wraps around my shoulder. With pursed lips, she squeezes, and a hint of her warmth breaches my coat.

"It doesn't matter." Brisk air leaves my nostrils in a huff. "It was a disaster."

"The date? Dessert? The dick? What exactly was a disaster?"

My head shakes, the sting of leaving Vincent's apartment dejected still fresh.

"I thought we hit it off. At dinner. Back at his place. He was so sweet. So sexy. Completely bald."

"Ahhhh. Mr. Clean vibes. Regina shaved her head. Super sexy." Ruth nods approvingly.

"Yes. Exactly that." Glancing down at the top of Vincent's head, my dick sliding into his luscious lips. Oy.

"What happened?"

"He has OCD."

"So? Everyone I know has ADHD or OCD."

"No," I say. "I think it may be clinical."

Ruth shakes her head. "Red flag."

Her hands shoot up like she's making a call in a game, and somehow, she's still ahead of me. My chest burns with the effort required to keep up.

"I'm a fifty-two-year-old divorced bisexual man whose only encounter with another man barely happened. Thirty-five years ago. I'm in no place to judge anyone's red flags."

"Kenneth Lester, you are a complete jaddy, and the sooner you accept that, the happier you will be."

"Jaddy?"

"A Jewish daddy. Jaddy. Sexy AF." She kisses her fingers one at a time.

"I'm not sure it's okay for you to call your principal and immediate supervisor a ‘jaddy,' but I'll overlook it."

"You are so not my type, Kent."

"But you just said I was a jaddy."

"Exactly."

Another glance, her deep brown eyes peering, emphasizing her remark with a stare. Ruth was the first person I came out to at school. Being married to a woman, everyone assumes you're straight. Nope. Bisexual the entire time. When I told her, Ruth shouted, "Hot damn. Yes. More queers at Lear. Welcome to the club." Besides Theo, the custodian, Ruth is my only real confidant at school.

"And the talking …" I pause, taking a deep inhale.

"What?" Ruth's eyes widen.

"It wasn't just the dirty talk. He wanted me to …" Even though I know we're completely alone, I give a quick glance behind us. "… call him a ‘good boy.'"

Ruth stops walking, pulls her head back, and stares at me.

"Praise kink? On the first date? Damn. Go, Mr. Lester."

"Is that weird?" I ask. Did I go overboard? Say too much. Maybe that's why he asked me to leave so quickly.

"Hell no. It's fucking hot. People love it for several reasons. Some want to feel valued. Desired."

I picture Vincent on his knees, looking up at me with his rich hazel eyes, lashes fluttering, and I stumble on the track's rubber surface.

"Did you like it?" Ruth asks.

"I … think so? Honestly, I was so caught up in the moment. It kind of just happened. I was … filthy." Even in the frigid air, my face flashes hot.

"Yeah, you were." She pats my back and resumes walking, gently prodding me along.

"Well, I'm not seeing him again. He made that clear."

"That's too bad. He sounds hot." Ruth shrugs. "You put yourself out there. I give you props for that," she says.

"Yeah, being rejected on a first date … not exactly magnificent for my confidence."

At the restaurant, Vincent was sweet. Charming. His willingness to share so much about himself so quickly had me swooning. Maybe I shouldn't have gone home with him.

"Don't give up. This guy may not have seen you're a total package beyond a ‘jaddy,' but someone will."

Corrine pushed me to sign up for SWISH—the irony. One benefit of divorcing because you've become more companions than anything else? Keeping my best friend.

We walk in silence for a few minutes, and I notice a pensive look on Ruth's face.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask.

Ruth's signature smile skates over her face.

"Okay, who are you thinking about?"

"Regina. Her shaved head." Ruth takes a deep breath, clearly reminiscing.

"Call her," I say.

"Mr. Lester, that ship has sailed. It's out of port. Lost at sea."

I shrug and hook my arm in hers, attempting to keep pace.

"Are you ready for today?" she asks, changing the subject from completed to impending disaster.

"To learn entirely new software from someone who knows nothing about teaching or education? To convince the entire staff it's critical only to discover it doesn't work and/or something better comes along in a year? To do all this by spring break? Sure, why not."

"That's the spirit." She slows her pace and hooks her arm in mine.

"If I'm unable to demonstrate our kids are learning, I mean in the way the board approves of, well, my contract is annual. They'll have no problem finding a new principal."

"I know you know this, but listen carefully," she says, gripping me closer, the heat from our bodies warming us as our pace slows.

"I have the unique perspective of seeing every child in the school. And I hear the teachers in the staff room. The children and, dare I say, the teachers here, are happy. Kids are learning. They're thriving. No data, and certainly no fancy software, will change that."

I know Ruth is right. But Dr. Cutler and the school board care about one thing. Scores. For them, testing data is the barometer to judge a school's efficacy. Hopscotch is supposed to help teachers collect information more frequently and capture more successes. I know I'm a damn good leader, but a tiny voice taunts me. Maybe I don't actually know what I'm doing. What if this all reveals I'm a fraud? Having no choice, I do my best to press forward with optimism.

"I know. It will be fine," I say. "And maybe it will help instruction. Teachers having more frequent and accurate data might not be a bad thing."

"There's my Pollyanna." Ruth pats my belly affectionately.

We head toward the school—and even with her tiny, compact frame, as usual, Ruth buoys me.

"Mr. Lester, Good Morning! Your mail is on your desk, and I bought snacks for the meeting."

Helen greets me, her glasses slightly askew against her fair skin. We both tend to be disheveled, and I'm grateful she assures I'm not the only one falling apart at the seams. While Helen Hall may lean a tad chaotic on the outside, her brain and a bevy of sticky notes hold all the critical information for running the school. I may be the principal, but as our secretary, Helen is the heart of the school.

"Thanks, Helen. What time do we begin again?"

"Nine. You can do arrival and check-in but be back by 8:55." She dips her chin and stares over her glasses. "Please."

"Yes, ma'am."

I'm not exactly sure how old Helen is, and I'm not asking. She's definitely younger than me. And I will still call her ma'am every single time. She's in charge. Full stop.

Walking into the conference room, I spot bottles of water and a basket of snacks. Helen stopped at the store on her way in. She didn't have to do that. She never has to, but she always does.

I was told two people from Hopscotch would be coming. Shreya Shaan, our school's STEM teacher, will join us. Her role is to work with Hopscotch's technology person to make all the back-end pieces work. But Shreya will also help me understand how to explain all this to the staff. In her midtwenties, Shreya has a verve and understanding of technology I attempted to grasp when flip phones were all the rage but soon lost. The children adore "Miss Shaan" almost as much as I do, with her wildflower tattoos and nose ring a constant source of questions from them.

"Mr. Lester," Shreya says. There's a bounce to her step, and I don't know if it's the platform sneakers or simply the adrenaline that comes from being in your twenties.

"Miss Shaan, how are you this morning?"

"Well, I was up until four this morning checking code, so I'm running on a cocktail of coffee and energy drinks." That'll do it. She shakes her head and smiles, jutting her shoulders back. "How are you?"

Besides being our school's STEM teacher, teaching basic programming, tech, and engineering skills to the entire school, Shreya spends her free time with a group of college friends creating a fantasy video game filled with dragons, elves, and magic.

"Is everyone in the world still alive?" I ask.

"Avandia? So far, yes. I mean the main characters. But Philiador is fuming, and it's never smart to piss off a dragon." Shreya moves a stray piece of hair behind her ear and her thin gold bracelets twinkle against her skin.

Young people. I smile and nod, not knowing enough to engage more.

Realizing I'm out of my comfort zone, Shreya deftly changes the subject. "Anyway, I've read the documentation, and it's a fairly basic system. It's a massive, complicated spreadsheet. That's it. They've designed a slick front end allowing teachers to enter data in the simplest way."

"Wait, all this for a spreadsheet?"

"I mean, technically, yes. But there are formulas, pivot tables, and flashy graphics. It's not your basic budget." Shreya shakes her head a little, knowing I'm once again about to be underwater.

"Do you think …"

"Yeah, it could help," she says, reading my mind. "It's going to be way easier for teachers. Hopscotch's concept appears to hinge on simplicity combined with usability, leading to more data collected. More data usually favors higher averages and overall results."

Higher averages. Hopscotch might actually help. Shreya knows technology, and I trust her. If she thinks it could boost our scores, the smartest decision is for me to trust the process. Dr. Cutler's warning last week rings in my head.

"If the trend line doesn't swing up soon, we'll have to make some tough decisions." Florence Cutler's voice echoes.

Usually, I'd have pushed for clarity. What tough decisions? But in this case, I'm afraid to find out. The thought of leaving the one place that still needs me makes my heart sink.

Florence Cutler, with her short, cropped gray hair, puts a friendly smile forward, and by no means is she unkind, but behind closed doors, her earnestness comes out. Most people don't understand the superintendent works for the board. If the board is unhappy, it falls on her. And Lear's diminishing test scores have the bonus of dragging down the district average. The board is not amused.

"Listen, Kent," Shreya says, "these tech guys can be a little … cocky. If you start to feel overwhelmed, shoot me a look; I'll be happy to jump in."

Shreya's confidence and protectiveness impart a wide smile on my face.

"Thank you," I say. "I love having young people around."

Interrupting our pregame chat, Helen pops her head in to announce, "They're here."

A tall, slender white man with blond hair clutches a briefcase. He's wearing a green dress shirt tucked into dark jeans. His face barely moves, and a seriousness permeates from his pores. I extend my hand, and he takes it.

"Geoff Cozen, lead architect," he says.

"Kent Lester, principal." We shake and I turn my attention to Shreya. "This is Shreya Shaan, our school's tech integrator."

Shreya stands but doesn't move from her seat.

"Pleasure," Geoff says.

"Indeed," she replies, and I'm fairly certain she meant for him.

"My partner needed the bathroom. He'll be here in a moment," Geoff says, taking one of the empty seats around the conference table.

Geoff opens his briefcase and takes out a binder and folders, so many folders. When I look at Shreya, she lifts her left eyebrow and smirks. My face warms as my lips turn up, knowing she's got my back.

"Sorry about that," a voice calls, entering the conference room. Breaking eye contact with Shreya, I turn my attention to the door.

"Your bathroom sinks weren't cooperating and …"

Vincent Manda, squirting his hands with sanitizer from a small personal-sized bottle, marches over to the empty seat next to Geoff. He's wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and khakis that appear to have had their crease bullied into them. The minute my eyes scan him, my heart trips in my chest. I never thought I'd hear from him again, let alone see him in the conference room at Lear.

Looking up from his hands, Vincent's gaze meets mine. Oy.