Learning Curve. Terry McLaughlin

conversation had ended up precisely where she’d meant it to end. With a subtle warning to steer clear of any involvement with a man who was completely wrong for her daughter under any circumstances.

      Emily had already figured things out for herself: Joseph P. Wisniewski was bad news. As a master teacher…well, she was prepared to give him another chance. Or two. After all, he hadn’t wanted her in his classroom. But as a prospect for a romantic relationship outside the classroom? There was no evidence he was capable of anything resembling romance or a relationship.

      Not that she should be entertaining thoughts about a romance or a relationship in the first place. Either one would jeopardize this assignment. And she couldn’t disappoint her family again, not with another failed attempt at a professional career, and not with a questionable choice for her personal life.

      She flicked a glance at the pig and tried not to wince. Half past time to drag her mind away from tattoos and tackle tonight’s university assignment.

      If there was one thing Kay could field like a major league champ, it was a social cue. She peeked at her watch and gasped. “Look at the time! I’ve truly overstayed my welcome. And I’ll be lucky to make it back to the city before that awful rush hour traffic starts up.” She stood to smack a little air kiss near Emily’s left ear. “You’re such a gracious hostess, dear, putting up with this interminable visit from your mother.”

      “I enjoyed every minute.”

      “Yes, the gossip was delicious.”

      “So were the cookies. Thanks.”

      Kay turned at the door. “Don’t be a stranger, Em. Let’s get together again, soon.”

      “Okay.” Emily gave her mother a quick squeeze. She was pumped up on butterscotch and gossip now, ready to take on Piaget. She could even face the prospect of a discussion on decorating. “How about a shopping trip the weekend after next?”

      “Call me.”

      “I will.”

      Emily stepped out on the crooked little porch and waved as the silver sedan backed into the county road. “I will,” she promised them both.

      JOE HEADED THROUGH the main doors of Caldwell High the following week and made an immediate about-face, hoping to escape Volunteer Friday before anyone noticed. No such luck.

      “Hey, Wiz!” Sophomore Lindsay Wellek waved him toward a card table wrapped in gaily painted butcher paper and stacked with pamphlets in more somber, politically correct recyclable shades. “A lot of people have been checking us out. I think the Garden Project is really going to take off this year.”

      The Garden Project—the sole survivor of his misbegotten attempts at service learning, and the one extracurricular commitment he’d kept to ward off the possibility of a more strenuous assignment. “That’s good to hear,” he said.

      He recognized the light in Lindsay’s eyes, that heady mix of altruism and activism that fired the soul with strength and confidence in cause and self. He’d seen it in the mirror, not that many years ago. But now, surrounded by all this energy, with the scent of pledges and possibilities wafting through the corridor and the bustle at the tables humming like the soundtrack for Norma Rae, he felt as if the last embers of his fire had gone cold a lifetime ago.

      When had he become more concerned with logistics and permission slips than with the basic joy of being a part of something good? When had he lost the ability to bask in the contentment of counting for something, of mattering to someone?

      At what precise moment had he turned into one more member of the establishment?

      Hell, he wasn’t even a good bureaucrat. He’d forgotten about this morning’s activities.

      “This looks great,” he said. “Did you paint this sign yourself?”

      Lindsay’s blush clashed with her red hair. “Yeah.”

      “Hey, Wiz.” Matt stopped at the table, shrugged his backpack higher on his shoulder and reached for one of the pamphlets. He studied the information with great care, ignoring Lindsay’s wistful glances.

      Joe rolled his eyes at the teen angst tableau. He wanted to say something, to shove Matt off the curb and into the rush of oncoming female traffic, but he reminded himself that matchmaking was against one of his religions.

      Besides, he’d nearly been sideswiped himself recently.

      He settled a hand on Lindsay’s shoulder. “You need to get yourself into Mrs. Mazza’s art class next semester. I’m sure she’d appreciate having a student with some natural talent for a change.”

      Lindsay’s blush deepened, and he gave her shoulder a tiny squeeze before straightening to level a long stare at Matt.

      “What?” Matt asked.

      “Get your nose out of that pamphlet and enjoy the scenery.”

      He turned and started a zigzag path through the crowd, checking in with the club officers stationed at other tables. And noting Emily’s bold, spiky signature on far too many of the sign-up sheets. She was probably deep in chirp heaven this morning, spreading enthusiasm like pepper spray at an Earth First protest. Spreading way too much of her energy far too thin.

      She’d learn her lesson soon enough. Extracurricular activities were education’s answer to Chinese water torture. They wore teachers down, drip by time-consuming drip.

      He hoped she wouldn’t cry on his shoulder when the going got tough, or expect him to bail her out when she started to sink. One more reason he didn’t want a student teacher.

      There she was now, pausing at the table advertising winter term cheerleading tryouts, scribbling in the bulging organizer that seemed to be a detachable part of her anatomy. There was no way in hell he’d help her with a cheerleading commitment.

      “How’s it going, Wiz?”

      He turned in time to catch Mitch Dornley’s admiring glance at Emily’s legs, and he shifted position to block the athletic director’s view. “Fine. It’s going just fine.”

      “Wish I could say the same.”

      Mitch hesitated, waiting for a response, but Joe let him sweat. He knew what was coming. It was the same routine every year.

      “We’ve got another vacancy on the coaching staff, Wiz.”

      “That’s tough.”

      Mitch hesitated. “It’s a tough one to fill, all right.”

      Foreign languages like Innuendo lost a lot in the translation for Mitch. He scratched his bald spot and stuck to his game plan. “It’s the JV girls’ basketball team. They’re a little low on talent this year, since we had to promote a few to fill in the gaps on Varsity. And those girls’ JV teams are always kind of touchy. All those hormones and stuff.”

      “Nasty things, hormones.”

      Mitch nodded, obviously relieved to have escaped the ravages of estrogen. “I was just thinking…well, you did play hoops in college.”

      “I played, Mitch. I didn’t coach.”

      “You coached track. The first year you were here.”

      “The post-traumatic stress episodes are finally tapering off,” said Joe. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

      “Good morning, Wiz.” Emily breezed into the conversation. “Hi, Mitch.”

      “Hey there, Emily.” Mitch arched back and sucked in his gut. “I was just trying to talk The Wiz here into coaching JV girls’ hoops.”

      “Really?” Emily seemed surprised. “Why?”

      “He played hoops in college.”

      “Playing isn’t the same thing as coaching, Mitch,” Emily pointed out. “Coaching takes special skills. Not everyone