“That’s a good question,” I told him, walking around my desk. “Why do you think we don’t use the textbooks?”
He laughed to himself and then pinned me with a look. “What I think is that you give me more questions when I just want answers.”
I stiffened, my smile falling as students in the room either tried to cover their laughs with their hands or stared between Christian and me wide-eyed and waiting for whatever would happen next.
Christian had a self-satisfied look on his face, and my blood heated with the challenge.
I swallowed and spoke calmly. “Everyone open up to page fifty-six.”
“Ugh.” Marcus groaned. “Nice job,” he shot over his shoulder, not looking at Christian.
Everyone dug their books out of the compartments under their desks, and the sounds of pages flipping and students grumbling filled the classroom.
I picked up my teacher’s manual and cleared my throat.
“Okay, this chapter covers the contributions of Patrick Henry, Benjamin Franklin, and Betsy Ross,” I went on. “I’d like you to read —”
“But we already learned about them!” Jordan Burrows, the girl sitting next to Christian, called out.
I pinched my eyebrows together, cocking my head and feigning ignorance. “Did we?”
Another student jumped in. “We did the book study in groups two weeks ago and the virtual museums,” he reminded me.
“Oh.” I played along. “Okay, pardon me,” I said, moving on. “Turn to page sixty-eight. This chapter covers the presidencies of George Washington through Thomas Jefferson —”
“We already learned that, too.” Kat Robichaux laughed from my right. “You uploaded our campaign posters to Pinterest.”
I looked up at Christian, who hopefully was getting the idea.
We had been learning everything in the textbook, even though we hadn’t learned it from there. Students absorbed more when they sought knowledge themselves and put it to practice by creating a product instead of merely reading from a single text.
“Ah,” I replied. “I remember now.”
Christian shifted in his seat, knowing full well the point had been made.
“So,” I went on, “on page seventy-nine, there are twenty questions to help us prepare for our unit test tomorrow. We can spend the rest of class answering them silently on paper, or we can take ten minutes with the responders and then move on to start researching slave ships online.”
“Responders,” the students cut in without hesitation.
“We could take a vote,” I chirped, not really trying to be fair but to drive the point home for someone in particular.
“Responders!” the students repeated, this time louder.
The class picked up their remotelike devices. For the next ten minutes, I displayed multiple-choice questions on the board, giving them about a minute to answer on their devices, and then, once their responses had been recorded in the program, I displayed the bar graph showing how many students answered a certain way.
Afterward, we jumped on our laptops while I continued to project on the Smart Board as we dived into the next unit with some questions and research online before the end of class.
As the students walked out, moving on to their next class, I watched Christian inching slowly along and peering out the window as he made his way out the door.
“Christian,” I called as he passed by my desk.
He stopped and looked at me like he usually did. With boredom.
“Your questions are important,” I assured him. “And very welcome in this class. But I do expect you to use manners.”
He remained silent, his eyes staring off to the side. I knew he wasn’t a bad kid, and he was certainly smart, but the curtain over his eyes lifted very rarely. When it did, I saw the kid inside. When the curtain was drawn, he was unapproachable.
“Where is your phone?” I asked. “You need it for class, and you haven’t had it.”
He’d also failed to return my battery.
Not a big deal, since we used the same brand of phone, and I was getting by with his, but the students were allowed to use their phones in class – kept in the corner of their desks on silent and facedown – to access their calculators, random number generators for our activities, and other apps I’d found useful for engagement.
I’d found the more you allowed them their technology, the less they tried to sneak it. And since all of these students carried phones, I didn’t worry about anyone feeling left out.
“If there’s a problem, I can speak to your father,” I offered, knowing Christian probably wouldn’t choose to be without his phone himself.
But Christian broke out in a smirk, meeting my eyes. “You will speak to him.” He jerked his chin toward the window. “Sooner than you think.”
And he turned, walking out and letting the heavy wooden door slam shut behind him.
What had that meant?
I twisted my head toward the window, and stood up to head over to the window to see what he’d been referring to.
But I stopped, hearing the intercom beep.
“Ms. Bradbury?” Principal Shaw’s voice called.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Would you please come to my office?” he asked, the fake nicety in his voice turning me off. “And bring your lesson plans, as well.”
I raised my eyebrows, my legs going a little weak.
“Uh,” I breathed out. “Of course.”
It didn’t matter if you were fourteen or twenty-three, a student, a teacher, or a parent – you still got nauseous when the principal called you down.
And he wanted my lesson plans? Why? They were online. He could see them anytime he wanted to.
I groaned, slipping off my jacket and tossing it over my chair – which left me in my slim-fitting black pants and long-sleeved gray blouse. I grabbed the hard-copy plans we were instructed to keep on our desk in case of an impromptu observation.
Thankfully, I had second period free, so I wouldn’t have students for close to another hour.
I walked down the hall and through the front office, past the students either waiting for the nurse or waiting to be disciplined. My heels fell silent as soon as they hit the carpet in the hallway.
I tucked the binder under my arm and knocked twice on Mr. Shaw’s door.
“Come in,” he called.
I took in a deep breath, turned the knob, and entered, nodding at Mr. Shaw with a small smile as he stood up from behind his desk.
Turning to close the door, I immediately halted, spotting Tyler Marek standing in the back of the office.
I looked away, closed the door, and turned back to my superior, tensing against my racing heart.
What the hell did he want?
“Ms. Bradbury.” Mr. Shaw held out his hand, gesturing to Christian’s father. “This is Tyler Marek, Christian’s —”
“Yes, we’ve met.” I cut him off in a stiff voice, stepping forward to stand behind one of the two chairs Shaw had in front of his desk.
Marek stayed behind, hovering like a dark shadow in the corner, and I knew what I was supposed to do. Shake hands, greet him, smile… No, no, and no.
Shaw looked uncomfortable, and it was my fault, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t like what was going to happen.
He regained his composure and cleared his throat, gesturing. “Please sit down,” he suggested, looking to both of us.
I rounded the chair and took a seat, but Christian’s father continued to stand instead of taking the seat next to me.
“Mr. Marek has some concerns regarding Christian,” Shaw told me, “and his performance in your class. Can you enlighten me as to what problems you’re having?”
I blinked, sensing Marek stepping forward and approaching my back.
Suddenly I felt as if all of our roles were reversed. Shaw was the concerned, neutral parent, Marek was the displeased teacher, and I was the student being put under the microscope. How dare he treat me as if I didn??
?t know my job?
“Sir, I…” I tried to rein in my temper before I said something I’d regret. “Sir, this is the first I’ve heard that Mr. Marek has concerns. I’d like to know what they are as well.”
I couldn’t hide the discomfort from my voice. I was far from friendly, but at least I hadn’t sounded curt.
Christian was having problems, but it was still early in the year, and I was still trying to create a relationship with him. I’d sent home – even mailed on one occasion – reminders about the social media groups and highlighted copies of the syllabus with important dates. I may not have called, but it wasn’t as if I hadn’t done anything.
Shaw looked up, offering Marek an uncomfortable smile. “Mr. Marek, your support of this school has gone above and beyond, and we are so grateful to have your son here. Please, tell me your concerns and how we can help.”
I let my eyes drop as I waited, his presence making my back tingle with awareness.
He stepped up to my side and lowered himself into the seat next to me, unbuttoning his suit jacket and relaxing into the chair, looking confident.
“On the first day of school,” he started, looking only at Shaw, “my son came home and informed me that he had to have his phone in Ms. Bradbury’s class. Now, I purchased an expensive laptop, like many of the parents in this school, because we knew what tools were needed for a school of this caliber. Those expectations are very reasonable,” he pointed out, and I braced myself, knowing where this was going.
“However,” he continued, “my son is fourteen, and I’m not comfortable with him on social media. I’ve gone into this Facebook group the students frequent, and I don’t particularly like where some of these discussions venture. Christian is expected to maintain three different social media accounts, and he’s conversing with people I don’t know,” he stated. “Not only is his safety and those who influence him of greater concern now, but also the amount of distraction he contends with. He’ll be doing his math homework, and his phone will be going off due to notifications for Ms. Bradbury’s groups.”
I bit my tongue, both figuratively and literally, not because his concerns weren’t valid, but because this had all been addressed if he’d cared to take interest weeks ago.
I cleared my throat, turning to look at him. “Mr. Marek —”
“Call me Tyler,” he instructed, and I shot up my eyes, seeing the devious amusement behind his gaze.
I shook my head, annoyed that he kept working that into our conversations.
“Mr. Marek,” I continued, standing my ground, “on the first day of school, I sent home a document explaining all of this, because I foresaw these concerns.”
His eyebrow shot up. I was calling him out as an absentee parent, and he knew it.
I kept going, straightening my back and feeling Shaw watching me. “I requested that parents sign it and return it —”
“Mr. Shaw,” someone called behind me from the door, and I stopped, grinding my teeth in annoyance.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but there’s an issue that needs your quick attention in the front office.”
It was Mrs. Vincent, the secretary. She must not have knocked.
Mr. Shaw gave us an apologetic smile and rose from his desk. “Please excuse me for a moment.”
I let out a quiet breath, frustrated, but thankfully no one noticed. Shaw walked around his desk and across the room, leaving me alone with Marek.
Wonderful.
The door clicked shut behind me, and I couldn’t ignore the feeling of Marek’s large frame next to me – his stiffness and silence telling me he was just as annoyed as I was. I hoped he wouldn’t talk, but the sound of the air-conditioning circulating throughout the room only accentuated the deafening silence.
And if he did say anything that rubbed me the wrong way, I couldn’t predict how I would react. I had little control of my mouth with my superior in the room, let alone with him gone.
I held my hands in my lap. Marek stayed motionless.
I looked off, out the window. He inhaled a long breath through his nose.
I checked the cleanliness of my nails, feigning boredom, while heat spread over my face and down my neck as I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t his eyes raking down my body.
“You do realize,” he shot out, startling me out of my thoughts, “that you don’t have a union to protect you, right?”
I clenched the binder in my lap and stared ahead, his thinly veiled threat and tensed voice not getting by me.
Yes, I was aware. Most private school teachers were hired and fired at will, and administrators liked to have that freedom. Hence, no benefit of unions to protect us like the public school teachers enjoyed.
“And even so you still can’t stop yourself from mouthing off,” he commented.
Mouthing off?
“Is that what this is about?” I turned, struggling to keep my voice even. “You’re playing a game with me?”
He narrowed his eyes, his black eyebrows pinching together.
“This is about my son,” he clarified.
“And this is my job,” I threw back. “I know what I’m doing, and I care very much about your son.” And then I quickly added, “About all of my students, of course.”
What was his problem anyway? My class curriculum didn’t carry unreasonable expectations. All of these students had phones. Hell, I’d seen their five-year-old siblings with phones in the parking lot.
I’d thoroughly reviewed my intentions with the administrators and the parents, and any naysayers had quickly come around. Not only was Marek ignorant, but he was late to the game.
He’d been well informed, but this was the first time I’d seen hide or hair of him since the open house.
“You’re incredible,” I mumbled.
I saw his face turn toward me out of the corner of my eye. “I would watch my step if I were you,” he threatened.
I twisted my head away, closing my eyes and inhaling a deep breath.
In his head, we weren’t equals. He’d put on a good front last Mardi Gras when he’d thought I was nothing more than a good time, but now I was useless to him. His inferior.
He was arrogant and ignorant and not even the slightest bit interested in treating me with the respect I’d earned, given my education and hard work.
I liked control, and I loved being in charge, but had I told my doctor how to do his job when he’d ordered me off my ankle for six weeks when I was seventeen? No. I’d deferred to those who knew what they were talking about, and if I had any questions, I’d asked.
Politely.
I gnawed at my lips, trying to keep my big mouth shut. This had always been a problem for me. It had caused me trouble in my tennis career, because I couldn’t maintain perspective and distance myself from criticism when I thought I’d been wronged.
Kill ’em with kindness, my father had encouraged. “Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?” Abraham Lincoln had said.
But even though I understood the wisdom of those words, I’d never been able to rein it in. If I had something to say, I lost all control and gave in to a rant.
My chest rose and fell quickly, and I gritted my teeth.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He laughed. “Spit it out, then. Go ahead. I know you want to.”
I shot up, out of my chair, and glared down at him. “You went over my head,” I growled, not hesitating. “You’re not interested in communicating with me as Christian’s teacher. If you were, I would’ve heard from you by now. You wanted to humiliate me in front of my superior.”
He cocked his head, watching me as his jaw flexed.
“If you had a concern,” I went on, “then you should’ve come to me, and if that failed, then gone to Shaw. You didn’t sign any of the documents I sent home, and you haven’t accepted any invitations into the social media groups, proving that you have no interest in Christian’s education. This is a farce and a waste of my time.”
“And
have you contacted me?” he retorted as he rose from his seat, standing within an inch of me and looking down. “When I didn’t sign the papers or join the groups, or when he failed the last unit test” – he bared his teeth – “did you e-mail or call me to discuss my son’s education?”
“It’s not my responsibility to chase you down!” I fought.
“Yeah, it kind of is,” he retorted. “Parent communication is part of your job, so let’s talk about why you’re communicating regularly with Christian’s friends’ parents but not with me.”
“Are you serious?” I nearly laughed, dropping the binder on the chair. “We’re not playing some childish ‘who’s going to call first?’ game. This isn’t high school!”
“Then stop acting like a brat,” he ordered, his minty breath falling across my face. “You know nothing about my interest in my son.”
“Interest in your son?” This time my lips spread wide in a smile as I looked up at him. “Don’t make me laugh. Does he even know your name?”
His eyes flared and then turned dark.
My throat tightened, and I couldn’t swallow. Shit. I’d gone too far.
I was close enough to hear the heavy breaths from his nose, and I wasn’t sure what he would do if I tried to back away. Not that I felt threatened – physically anyway – but I suddenly felt like I needed space.
His body was flush with mine, and his scent made my eyelids flutter.
His eyes narrowed on me and then fell to my mouth. Oh, God.
“Okay, sorry about that.” Shaw burst into the office, and Marek and I pulled apart, turning away from each other while the principal twisted around to close the door.
Shit.
I smoothed my hand down my blouse and leaned over, picking up the binder of lesson plans.
We hadn’t done anything, but it felt like we had.
Shaw walked around us, and I glanced at Marek to see him glaring ahead, his arms crossed over his chest.
“While Mrs. Vincent practically runs this school,” Shaw went on, amusement in his voice, “some things require my signature. So where were we?”