Asking for Trouble Read online

  “But I don’t understand why I can’t talk to her!” I parked my Kia in the teacher’s parking lot. Yellow busses were already lined up out front, letting kids off.

  “It’s just part of the treatment. Remember what Sarah told you?” His hand moved in my hair, brushing it out of my eyes as I sighed and sat back in the driver’s seat.

  “I hate this addiction stuff.” I closed my eyes, feeling a wave of nausea starting. It was always worse in the mornings, although Daisy’s ginger drink helped. She’d given the recipe to Rob and he got up every morning to make me one before I left for work.

  “Me too.” His hand moved to my neck, massaging.

  “The only thing I’ve ever been addicted to is you.” I opened my eyes and smiled over at him. “Unless you count sugar.”

  “That white stuff will get you every time.”

  “Come on, the kids are so looking forward to this.”

  I’d been preparing them for the past two weeks since Rob had agreed to come in and play for my classes. We’d listened to some of Trouble’s songs and I’d been answering questions all week about every aspect of the music industry their active little minds could come up with. I loved my kids so much and I often thought of them as “mine,” in some Socratian or Platonic sense. I was “the teacher” and I loved it.

  Unfortunately, I worked with a lot of jaded teachers with tenure who saw themselves more as babysitters than anything else. And I got it—it wasn’t easy teaching in a low-income district. I could have moved to the suburbs and made double the money and probably had half the headaches, but despite its problems, I loved this city. I’d grown up there.

  Rob carried his guitar with him down the quiet hallway. The kids were lined up outside, out in front of the building, waiting to go through the metal detectors. People were always shocked when I told them I worked in an elementary school with metal detectors, but this wasn’t a Columbine reaction. Detroit had used metal detectors since the eighties.

  “How many kids?” Rob asked again as I opened the door to my classroom.

  “Twenty to thirty.” I laughed. “You give concerts to thousands and you’re worried about thirty elementary school kids?”

  This was the first year we were offering music full time for all the kids. The year before, I’d only taught music part-time and had team-taught a second-grade classroom the rest of the time.

  “This is different.” He grinned sheepishly. “Kids are perceptive.”

  “You’ll do fine.” I patted his arm. “Just play the guitar and answer their questions. It will be easy.”

  “It’s the questions I’m worried about.” He pulled his phone out of his leather jacket when it rang, frowning as he looked at who was calling. “I gotta get this.”

  He walked over to the corner of my room, over where I stored the soft mats I’d purchased with my own money for all the kids to sit on. I didn’t have any desks, but I didn’t really care about that. We couldn’t do much in desks anyway. My class usually consisted of half music, half gym. We played a lot of musical games and mostly had fun. I liked teaching them new things, but I also wanted them to always associate music with fun.

  I went to my desk, stashing my purse in a drawer and locking it—unfortunately, that was one thing you quickly learned in any Detroit school. You had to lock up your valuables. It wasn’t even just the big kids who stole things. The little ones would take things without a second thought too.

  I pulled out a stack of “happy notes” to work on. I’d already stenciled each quarter note onto construction paper and cut them out. Now I peeled off stickers and pasted them in the middle of each one. I handed three of these out after every class. They were a strange little incentive for kids to behave and pay attention. They all loved getting happy notes.

  “Okay, Celeste, I got it.” Rob leaned against the wall, listening, nodding. I couldn’t help admiring him, still wondering just exactly how all of this had come about. He was still the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life. “Yeah, I’ll call him... right now? Really?”

  Obviously, it was his assistant, Celeste, with some sort of news. She’d called every day since he arrived, which I knew shouldn’t annoy me, but it did anyway. He spent a lot of time on the phone dealing with things long-distance. I’d suggested just once that he might want to consider going back, but he’d been adamant about staying, and I didn’t really want him to go. In the few weeks we’d been in Detroit, I’d gotten used to having him there when I got home.

  Mostly I found him barefoot and shirtless, wearing just jeans and sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa with his guitar, his music spread out in front of him, a pencil tucked behind his ear. He was writing songs for the next album, deep into it, but he always looked up and smiled when I walked in the door, abandoning his endeavors for the day to make dinner or take me out—the Thai restaurant waitresses knew him by name now—and then cuddle with me on the sofa. I usually fell asleep far too early, during MasterChef or How I Met Your Mother.

  And then he’d take me to bed and we’d wake up all night long to make love.

  If I thought I was tired before? I was a walking zombie now. A very satisfied, starry-eyed, pleased zombie. And I couldn’t even drink caffeine!

  “I have to make a call.”

  Rob dialed while continued to put stickers on my happy notes, putting the completed ones in a special box I’d purchased with lines of music all over it. The kids loved seeing the box appear at the end of each class session and I always made sure it was full, even if it meant spending way too much money on stickers and far too much time cutting them all out.

  “Hey, it’s Rob.” He bent low to peer out the windows. My room faced the front of the school and we could see all the kids, the line growing out front as the busses let them off. “What’s up?”

  I’d finished pulling off the last batch of scratch and sniff stickers and reminded myself to get more. I’d found them online and they were reminiscent of my own childhood. The kids thought they were the best.

  “She wants what?” Rob pulled the phone to stare at it for a moment, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Then he put the phone back to his ear, his eyes darker than I’d seen them in a long time. Maybe ever. They always got dark like that when he was angry, or when he was determined.

  “Tell her...” Rob swallowed, glancing over at me. “You know what to tell her.”

  He obviously didn’t want me to know who he was talking to or what he was talking about. But of course, I knew it was his lawyer and the “she” was Catherine. I just didn’t know the “what,” exactly. He was still listening, eyes growing even darker, like a sudden storm moving in.

  “No.” He shook his head, adamant. “Nothing. I’m not budging on this. I don’t care what she’s threatening.”

  The first bell rang, and I glanced up at the clock. They’d be letting the kids in now.

  “Tell her I’ll see her in court.” Rob slipped the phone back in his pocket, glancing over at me. I raised my eyebrows in question but there was no time. The kids were trickling in, saying good morning, running over to the corner to grab a mat.

  “Hey, I know you!” Trevor, one of my favorite second graders, piped up when he saw Rob standing in the corner. Trevor recognized him, of course, since I’d been talking about Rob’s visit, but they’d already met back in February, when I took Rob to the Detroit Institute of Arts. There’d been a puppet show there that day for the kids, and I didn’t know who liked it more, Rob or Trevor.

  “Hi Trevor.” Rob winked, and I smiled when he remembered his name. “How’s it going?”

  Trevor was the first student who noticed him standing there, but the rest quickly caught on, crowding around and looking up with big eyes, already peppering him with questions, vying for his attention. This quickly became a competition, each kid trying to one-up the next with their attention-grabbing story.

  “Well I got to get my tonsils out next month!” Trevor announced, crossing h
im arms as if this was the definitive story to end all stories. He looked around at his classmates like “Beat that!”

  For a moment, no one could. Rob opened his mouth to make a comment, but then he was interrupted by Mikhala Watson, who looked at Rob like he was a god walking around on Earth. Of course, I was familiar with the feeling.

  “Big whoop!” Mikhala scoffed, flicking one of her beaded braids over her shoulder. “My dog had his tonsils removed.”

  Rob looked over at me, our eyes meeting, and I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh.

  “Um, I didn’t know dogs got their tonsils out,” Rob replied, keeping a poker face, although I don’t know how.

  “You dummy!” Trevor rolled his eyes. “Those aren’t tonsils. Those are technicals. My dog had his cut off, so he couldn’t make babies.”

  I snorted laughter, covering it by clearing my throat as I walked over to the assembled group surrounding Rob. I couldn’t meet his eyes, or I would burst out laughing and Rob clearly felt the same, because he turned to lift his guitar case up onto a table.

  “Don’t call names, Trevor,” I admonished, as Rob fiddled with his guitar, his shoulders still shaking with laughter. “Let’s all get our mats and sit on the floor, so we can listen to Rob sing.”

  The kids grabbed their mats and started gathering in the middle of the tile floor and I finally dared to meet Rob’s eyes. We both burst out laughing at the same time. I just kept hearing Trevor’s righteous indignation, “Those are technicals!” and every time I thought of it, I laughed harder.

  We finally calmed, wiping tears from the corners of our eyes, and I went to shut the door. The other teachers often complained about the noise coming from my room, even though we were tucked at the other end of the school from the classrooms, on the other side of the cafeteria where the janitor and storage closets were. In fact, if it didn’t have windows, I would have sworn my room had once been a closet.

  Rob sat on a stool I pulled over to the front of the room and the kids sat on the floor, their faces turned up, expectant.

  “So what song would you like to hear first?”

  There were a few dissenters but most of them agreed that Trouble’s biggest hit, and my favorite song—Can’t Break a Broken Heart—should be first on the list.

  Rob nodded, indulgent, and began to play. I grabbed my own mat and sat on the floor with the kids, tucking my long, wrap-around skirt under my knees. For me, it never got old, the sweet, dark notes of his voice, the lick of the guitar, like a tongue trembling along my skin, giving me goose flesh. I had never understood how the man could move me so much, from a million miles away, a stranger, but of course, I wasn’t the only one. He had hundreds of thousands of fans who felt the same way. The man was a musical god and even a group of second graders knew it.

  He fielded questions in between songs, some of them quite amusing. I’d seen him in concert repeatedly and he always entertained the crowd, even in between the music, and today was no exception. He had them eating out of his hand, me included. It was strange to still be star struck by this man, who I was coming to know so intimately, but I couldn’t deny the way he made me want to get on the ground and worship him. I doubt that feeling would ever go away, especially when he played and sang.

  Old habits died hard, maybe. But it was more than that. He had an incredible power in his fingertips, his voice, and he proved it with every song he sang. We were all disappointed when our hour was almost up, and he asked what song he should play last.

  “Play a new song!” Trevor chimed in, waving his hand in the air as if we could miss him. “Something no one has ever hear before.”

  “A new song?” Rob hooked his boot in the stool support, strumming idly, looking thoughtful. “Hmm... let me think...”

  His strumming morphed slowly into a pattern, then into something more—the beginning of a song. A new song. I’d heard the melody already. He got up in the middle of the night sometimes and grabbed his guitar, sitting on the edge of the bed, strumming and humming, working something out, scribbling in a notepad he always kept on the night table. I would smile to myself and drift off, knowing I was the only one in the world so privileged to hear his earliest creative endeavors.

  “I just wrote this song in the past couple weeks. It’s mostly finished, I think...” Rob strummed, his fingers moving back and forth on the frets.

  “You write your own songs?” Mikhala piped up, looking impressed. “The words and everything?”

  “I sure do.” He gave her a smile that would have melted any little girl’s heart. Mikhala was clearly crushing. “I’ve written all the songs we’ve ever recorded.”

  Of course, I knew that. Rolling Stone once said Rob Burns was the creative genius behind Trouble and the article author went on to postulate that he could probably have gone on to a long and fruitful solo career, like Sting or Eric Clapton. But Rob had never left Trouble, had never expressed an interest, as far as I knew, in leaving the band.

  “I hope you’re all ready for a treat.” Rob looked directly at me. “I don’t usually play new songs for anyone until they’re recorded.”

  “A treat?” Jeremy Brown piped up, his eyes widening even more behind his fish-eye lens glasses “Are we getting candy?”

  “No, shhh.” I laughed. “Rob is going to play his guitar and sing a new song for you.”

  “Oh, that kind of treat.” Jeremy frowned. “I was hoping for licorice.”

  “Ewwww licorice.” Mikhala made a face. “My taste bugs hate that stuff.”

  I snorted laughter and covered it with a cough and Rob grinned back at me. Then he started playing earnest, words replacing the humming melody I’d been listening to for weeks. It was the first time I’d heard them, and I sat, enthralled.

  You got me locked out, tripped up, and I don’t know what to do—

  Every breath since we met, girl, I’m fallin’ so hard for you—

  I’m in a love so deep, can’t sleep, I hope I never hit bottom—

  Those desires that light your eyes, girl, just ask and you got ’em—

  I can’t stop sayin’ your name...Sa-brina...and I don’t wanna

  The kids didn’t even look at me when he said my name, although my heart skipped in my chest like a little girl jumping rope. Of course, they didn’t. To them I was just Miss Taylor.

  But I was Rob’s Sabrina.

  My, my Sa-brina—

  You know I love ya’ and I need ya’—

  You got me fallin’ down the stairs, you got me starin’ at the stars—

  My, my Sa-brina

  On the road all the time, girl, I walk the white paint line for you—

  Straight as the arrow through my heart I’ll keep on provin’ that my love is true—

  Gonna drive it till I drop, can’t stop, cuz you got my engine runnin’—

  Light the home fires in the kitchen cuz we’re gonna do some cookin’—

  I keep on sayin’ your name...Sa-brina...I’m comin’ for ya’

  Any man mess our happy home you gonna see this man get evil rude—

  Ain’t nuthin’ worth protectin’ more than you, girl, and I know that’s true—

  Fight for ya’ till I’m dyin’, no lyin’, I’ll keep em runnin’ with my gunnin’—

  I’m the Dark Knight of your soul that guards the light that you keep shinin’—

  I keep on callin’ your name...Sa-brina...I’m singin’ for ya’

  My, my Sa-brina—

  You know I love ya’ and I need ya’—

  You got me fallin’ down the stairs, you got me starin’ at the stars—

  My, my Sa-brina

  My, my Sa-brina

  Rob’s Sabrina. The song ended, the last note of my name hanging in the air, hovering above us. Rob met my eyes and I instantly melted under the heat of his gaze. Everything I needed to know was in his eyes in that moment. He’d written a song for me, for me. I had goose bumps all over. I probably would have embarrassed the hell out of myself by running
up and throwing my arms around him right in front of a room of stunned second graders, but the bell rang, startling all of us. I’d completely lost track of time. I saw the teacher’s aide peeking through the window. She would escort the kids back to their regular classroom.

  “Okay, kids, stay seated!” I instructed in my best teacher voice, hopping up and getting the happy notes box. “I still have happy notes to give out.”

  They sat up straighter, folded their hands in their laps, eyes shining. It was hard, on good days like today, to choose just a few. On bad days, though, happy notes were my saving grace and it didn’t make sense to decrease their power.

  Today, though, I didn’t care.

  I handed a happy note out to every single shining face.

  ~*~

  “I’m either going to have to move here, or I’m going to just buy this restaurant and move it to California.” Rob ate his Pad Thai with chopsticks, a feat I had yet to master.

  “One of the many things I’m going to miss.” I was still on my hot and sour soup, savoring it. I glanced up to see him paused, noodles halfway to his mouth, his eyebrows raised.

  “I mean, if...” I flushed, wondering if I’d presumed too much. God, this was so complicated.

  “There are no ifs.” He smiled, putting the chopsticks on his plate and reaching for his water. He got his Pad Thai hot enough to make him sweat, something I could never understand. I wanted to taste my food, not just heat.

  Although, heat wasn’t always bad, at least in some things. The way he looked at me made me warm all the way to my toes. I still couldn’t believe he’d written a song just for me—and I was sure the band wasn’t going to be so thrilled about it. But Rob was their songwriter. What choice did they have, in the end?

  I’d heard it several times that morning already, before we’d taken a break and come to Bangkok Café for lunch while the kids stayed and ate spaghetti, salad and peaches—unless they’d brought a cold lunch, of course. Most of them ate “hot lunch,” though. Our entire school got lunch “free” through a state program for low-income kids.

  “There are a million ifs.” I sighed, sipping soup out of the bowl, watching as one of the oriental waitresses bussed a table, sliding the tip into her pocket.