Page 5 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

ERIC

On my back in the crawl space of a farmhouse built in the early nineteen hundreds is not the ideal place to be when my phone rings. My first inclination is to ignore it. Most of the calls I get these days are spam anyway.

Except I’ve given the main number of the high school its own ringtone—”Living on a Prayer.” It’s an old-school classic, but the sentiment works for me. I can’t imagine why the high school would be calling in the middle of the day unless my nephew is in trouble.

I’d like to tell you I wouldn’t expect Rhett to have a run-in with the rules, but that’s a lie—and leans a little too hard into wishful thinking. However, this is his third day at Skylark High School. How much hot water can a kid end up in on day three?

I guess I’m about to find out.

I scramble to pull the phone out of the breast pocket of my canvas jacket, answering it on the fourth ring.

“Mr. Anderson?” a polite female voice asks.

“Call me Eric,” I say automatically. I’ve never been comfortable being Mr. Anderson .

“This is Suzanne Kenkel, one of the assistant principals at the high school. I’m calling about your nephew.”

“Didn’t figure you were asking me to prom.”

Silence greets my lame attempt at humor.

Even though only a thin layer of plastic separates me from the cold ground of the crawl space, I lift my hand and touch the rotting foundation beam above me, needing to be grounded to something natural.

A fine layer of dust rains down on my face, because that’s just how this day is going.

Trying not to choke on the potential particles of black mold I’ve just ingested, I ask “What can I do for you, Assistant Principal Kenkel?”

“There’s been an incident with Rhett that involves an assault on a teacher.”

“What the fuck?” I jackknife up, then let out another explosive curse when my head slams into the beam. “Sorry for the language,” I say quickly. “What happened?”

She clears her throat. “I think it would be better if we spoke in person. A couple of staff members are involved, with differing accounts of the incident.”

I rub the heel of my palm against my forehead. “Is there a version that involves Rhett not getting in trouble?”

“How soon can you be here?” she asks instead of answering my question.

I have no idea if this is what normally happens when my nephew causes trouble.

There must be a typical way this goes. Although my sister was in no shape to focus on anyone other than herself by the time I got to her house in Denver—it took nearly twenty-four hours and three layovers coming from Munich the day after Christmas—Jen found it necessary to warn me about Rhett’s issues at school.

But she made it sound like most of it had to do with grades and his lack of effort.

I mean…that’s relatable. When I suggested pulling him from his current high school and transferring him to Skylark for th e last half of his freshman year, the relief on her face was palpable.

Rhett had been less excited by the prospect but played it off under the guise of being too cool to care.

It was a defense mechanism I’d also perfected at his age.

Grunting, monosyllabic responses, and silence has greeted most of my attempts at conversation with him since then, and I’m embarrassed to admit I haven’t minded much.

“I can be there in ten minutes,” I tell her, already flipping over and army crawling toward the opening to the first floor of the house I’m working on.

“I appreciate that, Mr. Anderson,” the administrator tells me, and I don’t bother to correct her again.

Until I figure out exactly what my nephew has gotten himself into, the less I say, the better.

When I walk out, Marty Maxwell is standing in the front yard of the dilapidated house, barking orders into the cell phone that’s almost always plastered to his ear. He ends the call as I approach.

“How bad is it?” my temporary boss asks. I know he’s not talking about Rhett, even though that’s the first place my mind goes.

“One of the beams needs to be replaced, but we can sister the damaged joists. I get it if you want one of the other guys to confirm it.”

He shakes his head. “I trust your judgment, Eric.”

Something sharp pings across my chest at his words. It’s an emotion I don’t quite recognize, but if I had to name it, I’d go with gratitude.

“Appreciated.” I draw in a deep breath. “Hate to follow it up by asking if I can take off early, but…”

Marty chuckles and gives me a knowing wink. “Hot date your first Friday in Skylark?”

“Not quite. Someone from the high school called. There was an incident ”—I put air quotes on that last word—”with Rhett. ”

His smile disappears. “What’s going on?”

I can’t bring myself to mention the word assault. “Unclear at this point. She wants me to come to the school to talk in person.”

I expect Marty to look disappointed or judgmental, the typical reaction I remember from parents of high school classmates when I got into trouble with friends. Instead, the smile he flashes is almost wistful.

“Victoria and I spent way too much time in that principal’s office when the older two were in high school,” he says, scratching his gray beard.

“Toby was the biggest handful, as you’d expect, but Elise had her moments.

The only thing that kept either of them from really stepping out of line was the threat of pulling them from sports. ”

I massage a hand along the back of my neck. “Someone should have taken a harder stance with me. My coach always found a way to circumvent the school’s consequences if he needed me for a game.”

“It wasn’t the school administering the punishment.” Marty chuckles. “Victoria and I benched them. Toby and Elise were wild, but they wanted to win championship rings more than they cared about rebelling. Take whatever time you need. I imagine your nephew’s dealing with a lot right now.”

“Thanks, Marty. I’ll remember the advice about benching him. I doubt Rhett’s going to swing up to varsity as a freshman, but the kid loves hockey.”

“Smart kid,” the older man answers.

I start to step away, then pause. “What about Taylor?”

He looks confused.

“Your youngest daughter? Did Taylor get in trouble?”

His craggy features soften a bit. “Tink was as good as a girl can get. She has the coordination of a newborn foal, but we didn’t worry about her for a second.”

I nod, unsurprised, as he continues, “Despite the gray hairs Toby gave me, he turned out fine. As far as I can tell, so did you. It’s a real good thing you did, coming home to help your sister and bringing your nephew to Skylark. This town is a great place to grow up.”

“I hope Skylark works its magic for Rhett.”

I know what it’s like to see things growing up that no child should, and I’m guessing my nephew has experienced more than his share of trauma.

Of course, Rhett’s not exactly unburdening his soul around the dinner table. Hell, he pitched a fit when I told him he couldn’t eat in front of the TV. But I recognize the shadows in his dark eyes. I know what they mean. And I won’t stop kicking myself for letting him down—both him and my sister.

“Bring the boy over for Sunday supper,” Marty tells me. “I’d like to meet him.”

His tone sounds slightly ominous, but I nod. Rhett could use a dose of Marty Maxwell tough love. My variety doesn’t seem to be making a difference.

Marty takes another call as I climb into my truck and point it toward Skylark High, letting my mind wander as I drive.

It doesn’t surprise me that Taylor Maxwell was a good girl growing up. She’s got the look even now—creamy skin, a healthy glow in her cheeks, shiny hair, and big Disney-princess eyes.

She’s the type of girl who gave me a wide berth in high school, even when I caught them staring as I came out of the locker room after a game.

And it was clear from her comments at the bar Sunday night that good girls grow up to be better women.

Women who are smart enough to stay away from bad boys—even the reformed kind.

“Manwhore” is how Toby described me. Even though it hasn’t been true for a long time, I didn’t bother to contradict him.

Would he believe me if I said I got tired of the bar scene and random hook-ups?

Does it matter since my time here has a built-in end date?

Although despite Taylor’s opinion of me, I can say for certain I never gave an STD to any of my partners. I’m way more careful than that.

Christ, I’m practically a monk at this point. The hard-partying days of my youth got old several years ago. Yeah, I’m one of the most successful players in the German league, but there are always younger guys coming up the ranks looking to be crowned the new king.

I might not be a manwhore, but Toby was right about warning his sister away from me. Good girls aren’t my thing.

I find a parking space near the school’s front entrance and take the steps two at a time. The security guard spends an inordinate amount of time studying my ID, like Rhett’s an apple that doesn’t fall far from the troublemaker tree.

Glancing down at myself, I figure that’s a good thing.

I’m coated in dust, my canvas jacket streaked with dirt.

Who knows what kind of critter scat might be streaked across me after wriggling through that cramped crawl space?

Maybe I should have stopped home to wash my face and change into a clean shirt, but it’s too late now.

I run a hand through my hair to tame it and grimace when my fingers come out gritty.

I’m buzzed in, and a nice lady at the reception desk explains that the assistant principal will be with me in just a moment.

School offices all have the same smell—a mix of coffee, teenage bodies, and the candle that some optimistic staff member is burning to try to mask the sweat stink. It’s an odd sense of nostalgia I try not to dwell on as I await my, and my nephew’s, fate.