Page 12 of Rock Bottom Girl

My phone rang from somewhere in the room. In the summers, I had the tendency to ignore it, lose it, forget it existed. I didn’t have to be responsible Mr. Weston. I could be Jake the irresponsible badass. Or at least Jake the sleeps-’til-11-and-wakes-up-a-little-hungover badass.

But with preseason starting today it was probably better to dip a toe back into the responsibility pool.

I found the phone under a stack of books and newspapers. Yeah, I still read ’em. I blamed Uncle Lewis for that. Every Sunday brunch, he’d whip out theArts and Leisuresection and read it front to back. And while I didn’t have his snazzy wardrobe or his love of the artsy-fartsy, I more than embraced staying up on current events.

“What’s up, Floyd? Still on for poker?” I asked. Floyd was the high school gym teacher and self-appointed school gossip. If it happened within the walls of Culpepper Junior/Senior High, Floyd knew who, what, when, where, and why.

“Yeah. Yeah. Wouldn’t miss it. I’m feelin’ lucky.”

“You always say that. Gurgevich is still gonna fleece you,” I predicted. Mrs. Gurgevich had been my English teacher in high school, and she’d been ancient then. She’d spent decades terrifying students over diagramed sentences and dangling modifiers. But get to know her outside of class, and the lady had stories that started with “When Hunter S. Thompson and I were road-tripping to Tijuana…”

“You want me to bring the crab dip this week?” Floyd asked.

“Yeah. The theme’s Under the Sea.” It was an every other weekly game with a bunch of teachers. A while back, we got up the brilliant idea to start serving meals with stupid prom themes.

“Cool. Cool. So guess who was asking about you yesterday?” he said.

I couldn’t quite work my way up to caring. Gossip didn’t interest me.

“I couldn’t even begin to imagine,” I said dryly, giving Homer’s belly a scratch. He grumbled and gave his back leg a lazy shake.

“Marley Cicero.”

“Marley ‘Graduated With Me’ Cicero?” I asked. Now my interest was piqued. I remembered her. At least, teenage her. I’d found her…interesting. Interesting enough to plant one on her, if I recalled correctly. I’d kissed a lot of girls in my time. Still enjoyed a good lip lock now and then. But yeah, Marley stood out.

“The one and the same.”

“She back in town, or are you two Facebook pals?” I tried to keep the interest out of my tone. Floyd could pick up on a shred of something and turn it into a story that would entertain the whole damn town for a month.

“Back in town. She’ll be teaching gym with me and coaching the girls soccer team.” Floyd filled me in on Otterbach’s lesbian elopement. I scratched out a note to myself to send Otterbach and Jada a wedding present.

“Ouch. Does she know what she’s getting into with the team? The old coach?” I said. I wondered what kind of questions she’d asked about me, but showing Floyd any kind of interest now would only lead to the dramas. And I didn’t do drama.

“We didn’t get into it. Yet. She seemed shocked that you were a teacher.”

“I’m full of surprises,” I claimed, hinging forward to reach for my toes.

“She was even less happy finding out Amie Jo is teaching.”

Amie Jo. Marley. Vague memories of senior year started to click into place.

I believed they’d hated each other in high school. But I couldn’t remember if there was a specific reason.

“Oh, yeah?” I said casually. “Doesn’t Amie Jo live right next door to the Ciceros?” I asked the question that I already knew the answer to.

“Yep. Marley seemed surprised by that. I got the feeling she hasn’t kept up on much news from here,” he said.

“Some people move on,” I said vaguely.

Homer jolted at the knock on my front door and went into barking terror mode.

“Hey, I gotta go rescue whoever it is at the door from my ferocious dog,” I told Floyd. “I’ll see you Friday.”

I dropped the phone back onto the coffee table where I’d probably forget about it again and jogged to the front door.

I lived in the house my grandmother had left me in her will two years ago. Feisty, fun lady. Terrible taste in home decor. But there was a hell of a lot more room for me and Homer to spread out than the townhouse I’d lived in. I kept it, renting it out, and moved my shit and my dog to Grams’s.

Judging by the silhouette on the other side of the front door’s cut glass, I was about to get yet another lecture on home furnishings and linens.