Page 36 of Troublemaker: The Big Picture Edition

She turns around, taking a little girl’s hand before grabbing a handful of the skirt as she and Mrs. Torres lead the group over to the sidewalk in front of the school building. She’s not wearing glasses today, and her big blue eyes are glowing with heat. When she’s looking at me, anyway. So pretty.

“What areyoulooking at?” I ask the bus driver, who is also gaping at her.

I mean, I’m not gaping at her.

I was just witnessing that beautiful event in a totally cool and professional way. Because I need to catalog the image in my photographic memory and use it someday. Not in a spank bank kind of way. Like a respected film director. Who wants to bend Miss Stiles over a desk, grab that perfect peach of an ass with one hand, the ponytail with the other, and eat her out until she sees stars before drilling some sense into her.

“Hey, Dad! You’re my buddy!”

“Yeah I am.”

Ryder lets go of a girl’s hand—Cheyenne’s, I think—and runs over to me. It’s only been like half an hour since we’ve seen each other, but I’ll never get tired of seeing that happy face coming at me. He holds his hand up for a high-five.

Keep me in line today, buddy. Don’t let me get into trouble with Miss Stiles. Yet.

“I just farted,” he tells me conspiratorially.

That’ll do it.

“Nice. Try to hold it in when we’re on the bus, okay?”

“I will. That’s why I let it out just now.”

“Good boy.”

“Mr. Vega… Here is the rest of your group. Cheyenne, Nikki, Milo, and Beckett. Stick with Mr. Vega today, okay? He’s in charge of you while we’re on this field trip.”

“Hey there, Cheyenne, Nikki, Milo, and Beckett. Stick with me.” I give them a wink. “We’re the fun group.”

Miss Emilia Stiles narrows her eyes at me, but she can’t stop grinning.

“And the responsible one. We’re the fun, responsible group that sticks together.”

Miss Emilia Stiles lets go of her bunched-up skirt so she can push loose strands of hair behind her ear, and here comes that wind again.

She manages to keep most of her legs covered this time—good reflexes, unfortunately. But she’ll be working awfully hard to keep things under control today. These warm Santa Ana winds are steady and persistent. Like me. And we’re both capable of flipping your skirt when you aren’t expecting it. At least I wait for the appropriate moment to do it.

“Did you bring sunglasses?” I ask her, glancing down at her cross-body bag.

“I think I left them in the car.” She frowns. “I’ll be fine.”

“What about your regular glasses? It’ll help protect your eyes. From the wind.”

“I don’t have time to get them,” she says, waving me off.

“You want to borrow my sunglasses?” I pull my Ray Bans off my face and hold them out to her.

It takes her a moment to tear her eyes away from my hand, but she says, “No. Thank you,” and then whips around to face the giggling school children. “Kids! Let me have your attention, please! Let’s get into the bus in an orderly fashion! Those of you in front will go all the way to the back, and we will all buckle up! It’s not a long drive, but we won’t leave until everyone has their seat belts on and is sitting very quietly, right?”

“Yes, Miss Stiles!” some of the kids, including my son, yell out.

And then we all file into the relatively small bus, one by one.

I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a school bus that doesn’t smell like a laundry hamper in a fart cave, but if there is, the Los Angeles Unified School District does not own one. It’s the opposite of sexy. Which is good—I don’t want to have sexy thoughts now. But when we’re on Los Feliz Boulevard, halfway to Griffith Park, I pull my phone out of my pocket and type out a text when Ryder’s staring out the window and counting all the Priuses.

ME: Just making sure I entered your number correctly, Miss Stiles. For field trip-related purposes.

“Who are you texting?”