The Right and the Real by Joelle Anthony Page B

said.
    “Yeah, well, this whole undercover relationship blows,” she said. “You’re better than that, chickie.”
    She just didn’t understand because I hadn’t told her everything. If she knew how much Josh was trying to balance—the church, his dad, our relationship, school—she’d be more sympathetic. But Icouldn’t explain everything to her or she’d freak out about the motel and get her mom to call my mother. I was going to have to live with her disapproval.
    I wrote Josh’s name on my English folder again, making the
o
into a heart, and continued to ignore Mr. Lazby’s lecture. It was no secret how much he hated teaching his two English classes. He used to hold them in the drama room until the vice principal found out he was just assigning everyone time to read to themselves and disappearing into the costume shop like he did during drama class. After that, he had to teach English in a regular classroom so the department head could check in on him. I think the only thing that kept him from getting fired was he’d taught here for twenty-two years, and they knew he’d retire eventually. Plus all the drama kids loved him because the shows he produced were so good, it made them feel like they were almost professionals.
    For about a millisecond, I considered telling Mr. Lazby what had happened with my dad, but then I dismissed it as stupid. He pretended not to notice us hooking up in dark corners, but he was still a teacher. Besides, if there was an issue in the theater, Mr. Lazby could handle it like a pro. But real life? He’d hand off my problems to the school counselor so fast I wouldn’t know what happened. And she would definitely turn me over to social services, who would find my mom.
    The bad night I’d had, coupled with Mr. Lazby’s droning voice, must’ve put me to sleep because the next thing I knew, he was standing over my desk, nudging me with his big hand.
    “Would you care to join us, Jamie?” he asked.
    I snapped to attention. “Sorry.…” The class snickered.
    “Late night?”
    “Something like that.”
    Mr. Lazby had once been tall, dark, and handsome (I’d seen his acting headshot), and he still had broad shoulders and looked pretty okay for his age, but not great. His crushed Hollywood dreams had completely soured him on the acting profession, though. I wouldn’t call him bitter, exactly, but he was definitely jaded, and mostly he tried to discourage us from studying theater in college. I was the exception, which is how I knew I actually had talent.
    I managed to stay awake for the rest of class, but when the bell rang, Mr. Lazby called after me. “Walk with me, Jamie,” he said.
    As usual, it wasn’t a question. I think all his years of giving orders directing high school students in plays had made it impossible for him to actually ask someone to do something.
    “But I have—” I stopped talking because Mr. Lazby was already out the door.
    When I caught up to him, he glanced down at me and said, “Oh, there you are.”
    I had to take three steps for every one of his strides, but he plowed through the hallway, and everyone gave him plenty of room, so at least I didn’t get swallowed up by the crush. We’d reached the top of the stairs that led to the drama room before I could tell him I needed to get going and change for dance class.
    “Mr. Lazby, I—”
    He’d stopped walking to look through a file folder of typewritten pages.
    “Can you believe they’ve got me teaching Applied Language Arts again?” His sigh echoed down the stairwell. “You wouldn’t want to skip your next class and correct these atrocious essays for me, would you?”
    I’d done that for him before, and believe me, I didn’t want to read those papers any more than he did. The only good essays were the ones kids bought off the Internet.
    “I have dance class,” I said, “right now.”
    Mr. Lazby finally gave me his attention. “Dance? With Ms. Fitzpatrick? I don’t know why you bother