Just My Joe. Joan Elliott PickartЧитать онлайн книгу.
game players who knew the rules. No one got hurt, and a good time was had by all.
Enough mental talking to yourself, Dillon, he thought. If he didn’t get this show on the road, he’d have a mutiny on his hands. The natives of Lincoln High were definitely getting restless.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, speaking into the microphone, “settle down, please.”
“Bring on the Bird Lady, Coach,” a boy yelled. “We want the Bird Lady.”
The students cheered and stamped their feet, obviously in favor of the hollered request.
Oh, dear heaven, Polly thought, the building was going to fall down. All those stamping feet pounding on the bleachers was creating a deafening roar. Well, Joe Dillon, who must coach something or other, better not make her speak before the others, because she had absolutely no idea what to say.
“Chill,” Joe said, slicing one hand through the air. “Now.”
Silence fell so quickly it was as though someone had pulled the plug on a boom box.
“All right,” Joe said. “This career day is being presented for you, and I respect the fact that you should have some say in how it’s conducted. Therefore, please welcome Ms. Polly Chapman.”
Joe turned and smiled at Polly, who glowered at him and stayed glued to her chair. Joe closed the short distance between them and bent over slightly to speak to her.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “If I try to cram this program down their throats they’ll tune out from word one. You’ve peaked their curiosity and that’s terrific.”
“Terrific?” Polly said, raising her eyebrows. “What am I supposed to say?”
“Just tell them what you do and the kind of training it required to be able to do whatever it is you do.” Joe shrugged. “Wing it.” He chuckled. “That wasn’t a pun, Bird Lady.”
“Cute,” Polly muttered.
Joe smiled his best hundred-watt smile, picked up Jazzy’s cage and returned to the table, placing the cage in front of the microphone.
“Oh, dear, dear,” Polly mumbled, getting to her feet.
Joe stepped back to allow Polly access to the microphone. Polly moved to the table, then out of the corner of her eye she saw Joe settle onto the chair she’d vacated.
Her eyes widened as she remembered the clear view of Joe’s tush she’d had while sitting in that chair. She was going to have enough difficulty talking to this rowdy audience without knowing that Joe Dillon was probably indulging in a thorough scrutiny of her bottom.
Polly spun around. “You can’t sit there.”
“Why not?” Joe asked, confusion evident on his face.
“Because you’re making me nervous by sitting there.”
“Why? A chair, is a chair, is a chair.”
“Shoo,” Polly said, flapping her hands at him. “Go somewhere else.”
Joe planted his hands on his thighs and pushed himself to his feet.
“Yes, ma‘am,” he said. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Polly said, then turned back to the microphone.
Joe sat down again in his chair.
“Good morning,” Polly said, sweeping her gaze over the students. “I’m Polly Chapman and I’d like to thank you for inviting me here.”
Ho-ho, Joe thought. No wonder Polly was all in a flutter about his having taken up residency in her chair. The pretty lady had executed a perusal of his butt, and figured he’d do the same to her.
How right she was.
And what a nice, feminine bottom Ms. Chapman had.
An instant later Joe frowned as he felt that heat again, that damnable heat, coiling deep and low within him.
This was ridiculous, he thought, with self-disgust. His body was reacting to Polly Chapman the way one of his students with a hormone rush might.
He wasn’t a randy seventeen-year-old, for Pete’s sake. He was a mature, in control, thirty-three-year-old man. The absurd effect Polly was having on him was becoming very, very tiresome.
So, quit staring at the woman’s delectable rear end, Joe ordered himself.
He shifted his gaze to the back of Polly’s head and immediately wondered what those silky-appearing, blond curls would feel like sliding through his fingers.
That’s it, he thought, getting to his feet. He’d definitely had enough of sitting in this chair.
Joe moved to the end of the table and crossed his arms over his chest. Polly looked at him questioningly.
“Carry on,” he said. “Ignore me.”
Oh, right, she thought dryly. About the last thing a woman would be able to do in regard to Mr. Masculinity Personified Dillon was to ignore him. He was so male and so incredibly there.
“Yes, well,” Polly said, directing her attention to the students again, “ever since I was a little girl I wanted to be a veterinarian. I was always toting home dogs, cats, birds, frogs, anything and everything that I was convinced needed my tender loving care.
“That dream for my future career didn’t dim as I grew older, but I had to face reality. The amount of money it would take to become a vet was far beyond my reach. Even with the numerous resources available for student loans, my dream was not obtainable.”
Joe swept his gaze over the students, seeing their rapt attention, hearing the total silence as five hundred pairs of eyes remained riveted on Polly.
She had them, he thought. These kids knew, they understood, about dreams that would never come true. Keep talking, Polly. They’re listening to every word you’re saying.
“To my utmost joy,” Polly continued, “I discovered a program of study at the University of Arizona that would enable me to become a veterinary technician in half the time and less than half the cost of the veterinary medicine program.
“So, I looked at the bright side, saw a way to be included in the career arena I’d dreamed about, even if it wasn’t in the capacity I had initially hoped for. For several years now I’ve been employed by Dr. Robert and Dr. Nancy Dogwood, a husband-and-wife veterinarian team who have an office on the northwest side of town.”
“So what do they let you do, Bird Lady?” someone yelled. “Poop scoop after the dogs and cats have been there?”
Polly laughed. “Sometimes. But I’m capable of giving examinations, inoculations, doing follow-up treatment of animals who have had surgery—and the list goes on. It’s very rewarding, very fulfilling.”
“That’s cool,” a girl said. “So, what’s with the bird?”
“This is Jazzy,” Polly said. “In addition to their regular practice, the Dogwoods also offer a boarding service for pets. I thought it might be fun to bring Jazzy with me today. His owners are in Europe for six months.”
“Oh, ain’t that a shame?” a boy quipped.
Be careful, Polly, Joe mentally directed. Don’t cross over the line into a world where these kids will never go. Don’t lose them now.
Polly flipped open the door of the cage and Jazzy hopped out onto the table.
“Jazzy is a macaw,” Polly said. “Some of you heard him speak earlier. He has an uncanny knack of saying things that fit the moment, making a person believe, at times, that he’s carrying on a conversation. That, of course, is impossible. Anyway, I took extra classes in the care of exotic birds after the Dogwoods hired me, because they board an amazing number of them during the year.”
“Give