Santa's Playbook. Karen Templeton

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СКАЧАТЬ Jacobs,” Roland said, dozens of meticulously crafted braids quivering around his high, toffee-colored cheekbones. “Mr. Avilla, he gets real mad if we’re late.”

      “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Avilla, so you’re golden. And this won’t take long.”

      “But your next class—”

      “Sophomores. Assembly.” Claire indicated the desks in front of her. “So sit.”

      The two boys exchanged glances but trudged back to drop into their respective chairs, each one more slouched than the next. Claire, however, remained standing, scrounging for whatever psychological advantage she could get.

      “I suppose you both know your grades in this class are putting your places on the team at risk.”

      “Yeah.” Zach sighed, shoving a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “The counselor told us—”

      “It’s not right, man,” Roland said, shaking his head. “It’s only one class, it’s not like we’re totally failing or anything—”

      Claire held up a hand, cutting him off. “Not here to argue about school policy. Which you both knew when you signed up for this gig. So. Any thoughts on how to solve the problem?”

      Roland gave her the same smile Claire had noticed him using to his definite advantage on the girls. “You curve our grades? Hey!” he said when Zach smacked his arm. “What the heck—?”

      “You stupid, or what? Are you even looking at her face, dude? Besides, if she was gonna do that, she would’ve done it already. Right, Miss Jacobs?”

      “Since that was never even a remote possibility, Mr. Baker, your question is moot.”

      “Huh?”

      “M-o-o-t. Look it up. In any case, I promised Coach Nolan I’d do everything in my power to help you pass. But you guys have to do your part, too. Which means you actually have to read the material—”

      “It’s hard, Miss Jacobs,” Roland whined. “Nobody talks like that anymore—”

      “Yeah,” Zach put in. “I mean, that’s supposed to be English?”

      “As opposed to text-speak? Yes, it is. Although if you’d bothered to glance past the first page, you’d see there are footnotes on every page explaining the references most twenty-first-century American teenagers wouldn’t get. No, it’s not easy. But think how proud you’ll be once you’ve conquered this beast. So here’s the plan. First, I’m pairing you up with tutors—”

      They both groaned.

      “Zach, you’ve got Aimee Hernandez, and Roland...I thought Libby Altman would be a good fit for you.”

      The boys’ mouths sagged open in comical unison. And no wonder. Both girls were not only knockouts and smart as whips, but probably the only two people—other than Claire—in the entire school totally immune to the football bug. As well as the boys who played it.

      Roland found his voice first. “You serious, Miss Jacobs? Aimee and Libby?”

      “I am.”

      Zach frowned. “And the girls know about this?”

      “They do. And they’re both looking forward to working with you.” One of them, anyway. Poor Aimee nearly wet her pants at the prospect of sharing breathing space with the boy she’d been obviously sighing over since middle school. Took a little more convincing to get Libby on board, but Roland didn’t need to know that. “And second...”

      Claire reached behind her for a notepad, writing her cell phone number on two slips of paper, which she handed to the boys. “If you’re still unclear about any of it, call me. Anytime. I’m up until at least eleven.”

      Zach peered up from underneath his shaggy bangs. “For real? Anytime?”

      She smiled. “I may not ‘get’ football, although Coach Noble set me straight on how much it means to you guys. But he and I agreed it’s about balance. And thinking past now. You won’t be able to play football forever, but you will be able to use this,” she said, tapping her head. “If it’s properly trained. So...think of me as your brain’s coach.”

      The boys looked at each other, then shrugged. Again, in unison.

      “Yeah, guess that makes sense,” Roland said.

      “Good. Then we’re done here. And I fully expect you two to rock the test next week.”

      That got dual sighs, along with a pair of resigned smiles as they hauled themselves upright. “Thanks,” Zach said as he ambled out the door, but Roland hung back, just inside the classroom.

      “You honestly think we’re smart enough to do this?”

      “Hey. I saw those plays or whatever they were on Coach Noble’s blackboard. I’ve seen less-intimidating algebra problems. If you guys can understand those, you can understand Shakespeare.”

      That got a snort, followed by a slightly perplexed frown. “How come you care so much? About me and Zach, I mean. Whether we do good or not.”

      “I guess...because the teachers that made the biggest impression on me were the ones that made me grow, made me dig deeper and try harder. Made me feel better about myself.”

      “Like, more confident and stuff?”

      “Exactly. So I want all my students to do well.

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