Misconduct (7 page)

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?”

“Edward,” Marek interrupted, buttoning his Armani jacket and offering a tight smile. “Unfortunately I have a meeting to get to,” he told him. “Ms. Bradbury and I have talked, and she’s agreed to adjust her lesson plans to make accommodations for Christian.”

Excuse me?
 

I started to twist my head to shoot him a look, but I stopped, correcting myself. Instead, I clamped my teeth together and lifted my chin, refusing to look at him.

I would
not
be adjusting my lesson plans.

“Oh, wonderful.” Shaw smiled, looking relieved. “Thank you, Ms. Bradbury, for compromising. I love it when things work out so easily.”

I decided it was best to let the issue lie. What Shaw didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and Marek would most likely zone out of his parenting responsibilities for another few weeks before I would have to deal with him again.

“Ms. Bradbury.” Marek turned, holding out a hand for me to shake.

I met his eyes, noticing how one was not quite as wide as the other, giving his expression a sinister look as it pierced me.

Two things could be assumed about Marek: He expected to get everything he wanted, and he thought he just had.

Idiot.
 

 

 

The chilled pint glass was a welcome relief in my hand as I took a sip of the Abita Amber, the local favorite brew. It was mid-September, and the evenings still hadn’t cooled down enough to be pleasant. If not for the humidity, the city might feel more comfortable instead of like a stuffy, packed elevator with no room to move.

I fingered through the container on my table, counting all of the sugar packets as I sat at Port of Call, waiting for my brother to join me for dinner.

Seven Equals, six Sweet’N Lows, five regular sugars, and seven Splendas.
What a mess.

I twisted around, grabbing another container off the table behind me, and picked out what I needed. The little packages crackled as I pulled them out and fit one more Equal, two more Sweet’N Lows, three regular sugars, and one more Splenda into the uneven container on my table.