Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller (4 page)

“Nobody would.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I won’t say.”

“Carla Cumming?”

“I won’t say.”

“Carla Cummings isn’t my type,” he said. “That I know for a fact.”

Just by saying that, Bailey knew, he was implying that she, Bailey Howard, might actually be his type, which was too bizarre to believe.

“Why not?” Bailey asked, meaning Carla.

“Well, I doubt my mother would like her, if that tells you anything.”

“Just that you’re dodging the question.”

“Not really,” he said.

“You kind of are,” she said.

Finally, he said, “I guess I prefer conversations with a modicum of substance.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you’re a great conversationalist,” he said. “You have a brain, and we’ve had decent chats.”

“I sure feel pretty brainless lately,” she admitted.

But she’d remember his compliment forever, she knew. She couldn’t believe he’d said it. It was borderline cheesy, no question. But still…

“You’re one of the least brainless people I know,” he said then.

“Since I don’t drink,” she told him, “I doubt you’ll want me at your party.”

“It’s not a drinking party,” he informed her.

Including everything else, that surprised her the most.

F
or the first
time in years, Stuart Renly decided to leave school immediately after the day’s final period. His contract required him to work until 3:35 p.m. No later. And starting now, since principal Jenkins seemed to be monitoring his bathroom breaks, there was little point in him staying late after school to plug the toilets for tomorrow. Developing a new daily routine would keep him from getting fired, and from going crazy.

He got to his car before Bailey Howard came out.

She moved fast, and with that lamb’s grace of hers, to a green Ford Escort hatchback that looked ten years older than she was. Although the car didn’t appear to have much rust, the paint was considerably faded.

Stuart Renly started his Buick.

His Buick was new.

He kept his Buick spotless inside and out.

After several seconds, Bailey Howard eased out into the line of other students trying to evacuate the parking lot, and Stuart Renly eased out, too, letting a few other cars wedge in between them.

She turned right, heading toward Hwy 8, which led toward the SW side of Freemont.

He went right as well.

Easy.

He’d never followed a student home before, but how could it be difficult? You needed to stay back a few car lengths, and try not to be seen. It was hardly intelligent work. Worse case scenario, he’d have to pull onto the shoulder and let her stay far enough ahead.

With three cars between them now—one a black truck, all jacked up, two pinheads aboard—he could easily tail her as she continued up Hwy 8.

At the first traffic light, she got a yellow, but she didn’t slow down. Instead, she gunned her escort to jettison through, blowing grey smoke and turning left onto Clark Street as the signal went red.

The jacked up truck of pinheads roared through the red and kept going straight. No cop, no stop.

But Stuart stopped.

The car ahead of him turned right, and so he pulled up and looked down Clark Street to see Bailey now rolling up over the railroad overpass.

A blue-haired grandma in a white Caprice crossed the intersection from the right and chased Bailey at a rollicking 15 mph.

When the red light finally turned green, Stuart Renly turned the corner, then pushed the pedal to the carpet until he jammed up behind grandma Caprice, stuffed cats and all.

Bailey had crested the overpass and dipped out of sight.

There was no passing this grandma up the incline, Stuart decided, so he took a deep breath and resisted the urge to honk. The old lady was just living out her remaining years, driving blindly to Walmart for another stuffed cat for her car’s rear window.

C’est la vie, so to speak. That’s life.

And patience was a virtue.

But his lamb-kneed Bailey could have turned off any side street by now, he knew! So get the bejesus out of my way, you blue-haired old crone!

Well, he was sorry for thinking that, and he didn’t mean to think negatively or call some sweet elderly lady, who reminded him of his own grandma, years dead now, an old crone.

Fortunately, from the top of the railroad overpass, he saw that Bailey was stopped at the traffic light where Clark Street intersected 3rd Avenue. She had her right blinker on, waiting for the red to turn green.

Stuart cruised down the hill behind granny and cats, and as they approached the intersection, the light flipped to go.

Bailey’s faded hatchback didn’t move.

Even as granny and he eased up behind, Bailey’s car stayed put. Her vehicle was stalled, Stuart realized.

He put his window down and heard the ratcheting sound of her trying to crank the engine over.

When it finally started, she dropped the transmission quickly, stepped on the gas, and waffled right onto 3rd Avenue, puffing more grey smoke until the engine caught it’s stride.

Now he honked at the white Caprice and Mrs. Kitty lurched forward through the intersection as the traffic light turned yellow.

Stuart turned right, keeping a safe distance from Bailey’s rear view mirror, and followed her past MacArthur park on the left, then turned left on MacArthur, then left again on Wilton.

Bailey lived on Wilton, apparently.

Stuart stopped at the corner, half a block away, as Bailey turned into her driveway.

Interesting scenario, he thought upon realizing how close she lived to MacArthur park. In fact, the entire row of houses on her side of Wilton backed up against the park. From where he sat, he could see the rotating slide, the swing set, the merry go round, and a small pavilion with a picnic table and a charcoal grill.

He hadn’t barbecued in years.

*     *     *

A white shirt
with a red collar and yellow sleeves looks nothing like a clucking rooster. Bailey Howard hated to be seen in her Chicken Shack uniform. They were ugly, and she’d told her boss that, too. He didn’t care.

But the absolute most humiliating part of her job as a Chicken Shack waitress was the absurd birthday song that her boss had written to the tune of “Rubber Ducky.”

Clucky, Clucky, You’re The One.

You Make Birthdays Lots Of Fun.

Clucky, Clucky, You’re The Only One For Me.

It was so ridiculously simple that people just loved it. They loved singing it, and they loved doing the cheesy dance, which had also been the product of her boss’s genius mind.

One elbow cocked like a tail.

One elbow cocked like a beak.

Peck around in a circle while singing the birthday song.

If another restaurant opened within a mile or so from home, she’d quit the Chicken Shack in a heartbeat.

The
only
good thing about the job was how close it was to home. Two blocks. So she could walk to work if necessary. Which might be the case today, considering her piece of chicken crap car. She had no idea why it kept dying at stop lights lately.

The check engine light was on, if that mattered.

She had to work at four-fifteen, so back out the door she hustled, hoping the car would start.

She had a bad feeling.

Which proved right.

The car refused to start, no matter how positively she sweet-talked it, and finally the battery sagged a reluctant death groan and quit.

“Thanks for nothing, you lazy turd,” she said aloud.

The current time, according to her phone, was ten past four. She grabbed her purse, exited the car, and started walking. If she punched in late to work, her boss would round her start time to the next 15 minutes. If that was legal, she was a clucking chicken! But two blocks could be made in five minutes as long as she walked fast, which she’d proven many times before.

On the way, she sent her dad a text.

“Turd won’t start. Battery dead.”

The reply came quickly. “Been checking the oil?”

She fired back, “Not a mechanic, dad.”

He answered, “Have fun walking.”

But she knew he’d look at it when he got home, if for no other reason than to avoid getting the cold shoulder from her tomorrow. More than just about anything, Bailey dreaded having to ride the bus to school, and her dad knew that all too well.

She walked on, turning from Wilton to Vine, and thinking about what Eric Cady had said today about his party not being a drinking party. That surprised her. She’d never heard of a senior party that featured Mountain Dew and Pepsi as the main enticement. What student on earth would ever choose to go? But she supposed if Eric Cady threw a party serving iced tea and lemonade, students would line up come have a glass. Eric was a leader amongst a plethora of followers.

Her phone beeped again with another text.

She had ignored her dad’s childish parental dig about walking, and, like most people, he didn’t like to be ignored.

But it was from a number she didn’t recognize.

It said, “What’s up, Bailey?”

To get a text from a strange number usually meant a wrong number, but this stranger had called her by name, so it was obviously someone she knew. Still, she rarely replied to texts from people unless she knew the identity of the someone doing the sending.

As she turned left from Vine onto 2nd Avenue, another text came in.

“Can you guess who this is?”

No, she thought. But she was curious. Instantly she hoped that Eric Cady had gotten her number somehow. How could she have not hoped that, and instantly, him being so forefront in her mind the last two weeks? Of course, she hoped it was him! But she had also heard a rumor that goofy Chester McDoogan, who’s locker was right next to hers, had developed a crush on her, and she feared this text was from him.

Beep, beep.

“It’s Eric Cady,” the next text read.

Her stomach flipped backward!

How? Who had…?

Jany! That shameless sly Fry!

Bailey answered the text now, sending back, “Hey, what’s up?”

“Heard you were working at Chicken Shack tonight.”

Oh, fantastic
, Bailey thought.
I really wanted him to know that. Thanks so much, Jany. Not.

She texted back, “Yeah, unfortunately.”

“What time are you off?”

“8:15. Why?”

While she awaited a response to that text, she sent Jany one, which read, “Who gave Eric Cady my number?”

Bailey shook her head, looking up the street to the Chicken Shack coming closer and closer with each step. She had two minutes left before her shift, so she slowed her pace.

“I did,” Jany replied.

“Thanks for telling him I work at Chick Shack.”

“You’re welcome. What did he say?”

Bailey closed the conversation with Jany.

Beep, beep.

Eric’s number sent, “Can I call you around 8:30?”

Bailey couldn’t believe her eyes.
Are you kidding me?
she thought.
Is it because of the tank top? God, I regret wearing that! I SO regret wearing that! Because now I’ll never know!

But except for that, his question overjoyed her.

She glanced up and saw her boss standing outside the employee’s entrance. He was smoking a cigarette and wearing a dirty apron. So the latest transient chef had called in sick again, Bailey Howard figured. Her boss saw her coming and waved at her to hurry up.

She stopped in the shade of a maple tree, her heart beating fast, and she was more than sure about one thing now…that she didn’t care a bit if she got docked fifteen minutes on the time clock.

“How about 8:45?” she typed, but then she held her finger off the send button a moment, trying to decide if she should just agree to his 8:30 instead. The truth was she didn’t want to be standing around in her smelly Chicken Shack uniform when he called. She’d rather have a chance to shower, so she could actually sit on her bed in her room with her door shut. It would also give her parents time to say their daily goodnight.

She pushed send, leaving her 8:45.

He replied, “Sounds good.”