Where You Are (27 page)

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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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Chapter 37
Andrew
 
I sleep like a baby, and by the time I get to school the next morning, I'm ready to face those freshmen. I stop in the men's room. The face I see in the mirror is a little too happy for school. I try to relax my smile, to look serious and stern as I must be in about forty minutes. But trying not to think about yesterday actually focuses my mind quite sharply on the smallest of details, and I'm not only smiling again, but I'm getting a hell of an erection.
I force myself to think about Stephen Newman for a couple of minutes. He's an anti-aphrodisiac if there ever was one. I keep this in mind as I leave the restroom.
The sub has left a mess on my desk. There's a scribbled note that she couldn't follow my plans (and she's not a math teacher anyway—she was told she wouldn't have to teach math to sub in math), so, essentially, she gave all my students a free day.
Wonderful.
The only thing more difficult than managing a classroom full of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds a few weeks before spring break is trying to manage them after a sub has turned them loose for a day. I can just imagine what kind of trouble they were getting into while she read a book or surfed the Internet on my computer or checked her friends' statuses on her iPhone.
I glance at the name at the bottom of the note so I can ask that she not be assigned to my classroom next time.
Bob Wilson.
Oh.
So, anyway, I'm not particularly surprised when the students in my first-period class enter like a troop of baboons. And I'm certainly not surprised when Stephen Newman struts in a few beats after the bell. I can't ignore this again. He's clearly drawing a line in the sand just to see if I'll step over it. But he's messing with the wrong guy. It's him or me. Either I hold him accountable for his actions (despite his dad calling foul), or I lose this class for the rest of the year.
“All right, let's settle down and get out your homework,” I say. “Stephen, you're late. Please go get a pass from the AP's office.”
He stops and throws his hands out like I'm out of my mind. “I'm not late,” he says with indignant outrage. “I was inside the door when the bell rang.”
“You're late. Go.”
“You're crazy. What? You got something against football players?”
“I'm not playing with you,” I say calmly. “Get a pass, or I'll give you a referral.”
The rest of the kids are watching. He turns to the door and mutters just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Fucking cocksucker.”
I shouldn't react. I should either:
1.
let him go, get my class started, then write an office referral to give him when he returns with that pass, or
2.
tell him to wait outside, get my class started, then write an office referral, calmly hand it to him in the hallway, and send him on his way.
Yeah. That's what I
should
do.
Here's what I actually do.
I fling the dry erase marker in the general direction of my desk and say, “Get the hell out of my classroom, you little snot.”
As I shadow him into the hallway, I hear giggling and
oohs
from the kids. I shut the door hard enough to rattle the glass. He spins around, defiant, his chin up and his eyes narrowed. I get in his face. “You are not going to disrespect me in my classroom, do you understand me?”
He scoffs and looks away.
“You think you're real cute, don't you? Think you're hot stuff? Big, tough football player? You're just the class clown. You think they're laughing with you? They're laughing
at
you, buddy. You're not cute. You're not funny. You're just a little shit, and I've had enough of your crap. You got that?”
“My dad—”
“You know what? I don't give a shit about your dad. If you're in my classroom, you're going to behave, or you're going to leave. And if you're late, you're going to get a pass. Do I make myself clear?”
His lip curls and he looks off down the hallway.
“Do I?”
I'm vaguely aware that Jennifer has stepped outside of her door. We do that, act as witnesses for each other when something's going down. I don't know how much she's heard. I'm not even sure at this point exactly what I've said. I just know I'm so goddamned mad I can hardly see straight.
Stephen refuses to answer, and I can't stand to look at him another second.
“Get out of my face. And don't come back until you've been signed off on by an AP.”
Jen watches him stalk past her, then turns to me and mouths, “Little fucker.”
I smile and decompress just a little. There's one thing I can always count on: the support of other teachers. Because they've all been there.
The chatter quiets when I return to the classroom. I don't have any more trouble from the kids the rest of the period. But I don't have any engagement either. They work quietly on a couple of problems while I complete the referral and e-mail it to the AP's office. I may have won the battle, but I'm damn sure not winning the war.
Before the class period ends, I get an e-mail from the principal.
Mr. McNelis—
Please stop by my office during your planning period to discuss Stephen Newman.
Mr. Redmon
Great. This kid hijacks my class, and now he's hijacking my planning period.
 
Mr. Redmon motions me to a chair and gets right to the point. “I got a call from Mr. Newman about an hour ago. You want to tell me what's going on in your classroom?”
I shrug. “I referred Stephen to the office today. He was late, he was disrespectful, I sent him out.”
“His dad says you humiliated him in front of the other kids.”
And he called me a fucking cocksucker.
“I just sent him out. Look, Mr. Redmon, he's turning my class into a zoo. I can't teach algebra if—”
“What have you done to solve the problem? Have you redirected Stephen?”
“Of course. Repeatedly.”
“Have you called his father?”
He already knows the answer to that question, and it irritates me that he asks. I answer in the negative. In my experience, despite my earlier threat to Stephen, calling parents about their misbehaving teenagers rarely solves problems. Nor does sending them to the office. I know that. Problems are solved in the classroom. And solving them means having an effective plan for dealing with kids, and then working the plan.
I had let Stephen push my buttons and subsequently threw the plan out the window, and now I'm paying for it.
“His father is asking again to have him moved out of your class.”
I bet he is.
“Of course,” he continues, folding his arms across his chest, “we don't do that. But I'm disappointed that you haven't spoken with his father. I've set up a conference with him and with Stephen tomorrow morning, six thirty. I plan to be there as well.”
“All right.” By which I mean,
What choice do I have?
I stand.
“I just want to caution you,” Mr. Redmon says as he gets up and begins pulling on his suit jacket. “This is not a parent you want to mess with. If you have a problem with this young man, you need to get over it by tomorrow morning. I will support you one hundred percent, but you better have your ducks in a row.”
He pats me on the back and walks out with me. He stays behind to talk with Mrs. Stovall, and I head back, getting more and more angry with each step.
 
I have lunch in my classroom, getting my
ducks
to line up.
“Want some company?” Jen asks from the doorway.
“I thought you hated my guts.”
She shrugs and steps into the room. “I got over it.”
I gesture to the chair next to me, and she sits, setting her salad on my desk.
“So, why are you eating alone in your room again?”
“Parent-teacher-principal conference in the morning. I need to gather some info.”
“That sucks.”
That's an understatement. From what I've heard about this dad, this is not going to be one of those positive experiences where we all unite together to get a kid back on track. I need to be prepared. And I'm not without fault here, which only complicates the problem.
“Okay,” she says, her eyes lighting up, “so you want to hear the latest gossip?”
“Does it have anything to do with me?”
She laughs. “No.”
“All right. Hit me with it.”
“Okay, you know Melissa Sparks? She's technology, com apps or something like that.”
I only vaguely know who she is, though I probably couldn't put name to face if I saw her in the hallway. I nod anyway as I retrieve Stephen's grades and send them to the printer.
“Anyway, she's friends with Guy Sutherland in language arts. So, he found out his wife is sleeping with his best friend and he's depressed and all that shit, so she gives him some of her antidepressants.
At
school. That's a felony, baby. So the deal is, they both get called into Mr. Redmon's office. I don't know how he knows about it, but, you know, you can't keep anything secret around here. Right?” She smiles. “He says he won't report the transfer of a controlled substance to the authorities as long as it doesn't happen again and it doesn't leave that room. If there is any talk about it at all, he'll have no choice but to call in the police.”
I choke down a bite of my sandwich. “Then why are we talking about this?”
“I don't know. Good stuff, huh?”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I keep it on just in case Kiki's school calls. I check my message.
I'm thinking about you.
No txtng at school. Me too.
“Is that your ex-wife?” Jen says.
“Yeah.” I put my phone back in my pocket.
“So, is she down with this gay thing?”
This gay thing?
“That's why she's my ex-wife.”
“So why are you living with her again? I mean, I know the pay sucks, but where are you going to entertain your men friends?”
“Who says I have any men friends?”
“A good-looking guy like you has got to have men friends. If you don't, well, I could hook you up with some.”
“I bet. But, no, thanks. I've got that under control.”
But actually, control is something I don't have, not when it comes to Robert. It's hard to be in a classroom with him for an hour and not give away the fact that I have carnal knowledge of him. I find myself looking at him when I shouldn't. Smiling when my mind wanders. My mind wandering when I should be focused on my students.
I worried at first that he might give us away. But he's much better at this than I am. He's so good, in fact, that it starts messing with my head.
I find myself walking the room more often, chatting with students as they work through problems just to give me an excuse to stop by Robert's desk and chat with him. I place my hand on a kid's shoulder as I walk by, just so I can do the same to Robert. I put problems on the board and ask students to go up and work them, just so I can stand in the back of the room and watch him unobserved.
And then he kind of smiles out of nowhere, and I know he knows.
I want to see him after school, but I have tutoring with Stephen, and then I need to pick up Kiki from Ms. Smith's Village and keep her out of Maya's hair for a little while. I don't dare come back until the group is finished. Maybe I can run out to the grocery store this evening and “run into” him there again. Maybe we can meet at Ridgewood Park for a few minutes of serious making out.

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