He was in a bad mood, and a run usually helped. Release endorphins, increase neuron growth, increase phenylacetic acid. But biochemistry was failing him tonight, and he knew why.
It was more than a week since he'd last seen Kate at the carnival. For a few
days, it was fine, no problem. He'd thought she'd probably be back by the weekend to continue working on her proposal at Nitrovex. Maybe he'd ask her out to dinner this time.
But she hadn't come back over the weekend. Her terse text said she wasn't sure when she'd be back in town.
The reality was, he hadn't wanted to face that fact. Surprising, right, for someone who was supposed to love the scientific method? Ask a question, do background research, construct a hypothesis, test with an experiment. Procedure
working? No? Yes? He grunted.
The facts were: Kate lived in Chicago. She loved her job. He (still) lived in
Golden Grove. And he loved his job?
He glanced down at the locker room bench where his budget-request sheet,
covered in red strikethrough lines, jeered at him.
How was he supposed to love this job when he was being hamstrung by
budget cuts? When he couldn't give his students what they needed to learn, to succeed?
That Science Teacher of the Year banquet he'd attended in Des Moines
almost made it worse. Lots of smiles, clapping, smacks on the back. Great job!
You're a credit to your whatever, and all the other platitudes that seemed to be worth about as much as the paper this budget sheet was printed on. Then it was
back to reality.
One that now might no longer include visits from Kate.
He began unpacking his running bag, sifting through his street clothes.
“I thought I saw your car here.”
Peter finished pulling on his shirt and saw Lucius, hands in pockets, leaning
against a locker. He saluted him. “Yup. That's me. Conscientious Clark, here to
the bitter end.”
“Oh. I'm guessing you saw the budget report, then.”
Peter tapped the paper. “Looks like they'll had to replace the red toner cartridge in the printer after this one.”
“Actually, there's no red toner cartridge in a printer.”
Peter scowled. “I know. But please let me have at least one sardonic
comment? Or has that been cut from the budget, too?”
Lucius gave a small grin and sat.
“So, what're you doing here?” Peter asked.
“You weren't in your office. I was worried.”
Peter stood, found his belt and began threading it through the loops on his jeans. He glanced at Lucius. “I don't need checking on, Dad.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh, what?”
“I only see that look when something's wrong.”
“I told you. Budget cuts.”
Lucius stared at him, waiting.
“Nothing's wrong,” Peter reaffirmed.
“Mm-hmm. You lose your lucky calculator again?
“No.” Peter sat down, pulled on his right shoe.
“Dent in the Mustang?”
