“I can’t skip my cousin’s wedding,” Jany answered. “Maybe he’ll ask you to be his special guest, otherwise known as his date.”
“I’d die of embarrassment, and Carla would kill me. It’s all the jocks and the clinger crowd. It’s not me. Plus, I don’t drink.”
“Maybe you should take a chaperone, Peggy Sue,” Jany said.
“You’re funny.”
“Take Mr. Renly along. He’ll protect you.”
“Oh, stick it, big mouth.”
Chapter 3
Five years ago, Principal Jenkins reshuffled classrooms, giving teachers a bit of say-so in where they preferred to be. Stuart Renly avoided all the back-stabbing politics and maneuvering because the room he preferred no one else wanted. Freemont high school had been built at the turn of the last century. Everything was old, old, old. Ancient by modern standards. All the plumbing rattled and groaned spontaneously, and the sewer from the student lavatories on the NE wing reeked and radiated, especially in warm weather. Stuart Renly chose the classroom at the end of that NE wing, kiddy-corner from those smelly lavatories.
It wasn’t a problem for Stuart Renly.
Being at the end of the hall reminded him of home.
And he dealt with the stench because there was a really beneficial tradeoff.
Boys will be boys, Stuart liked to say.
About six years ago, he found a hole bored through the crusty old concrete wall that separated the boys from the girls. Stuart Renly had been clever, relocating a toilet paper dispenser so it covered the hole, and twisting out the right thumb screw made the dispenser dangle sideways, revealing the hole.
From the girl’s side, it looked like a spider hole.
The girls often complained about having to use that creepy last stall, calling it the spider stall. Stuart Renly would overhear their conversations in the hallway.
“I had to use the spider stall,” they would say.
“Who keeps leaving shit and rags in the other two,” would come the reply.
That was the daily mystery of the NE wing.
But Stuart Renly had solved it years ago.
He was the mastermind.
For nothing better to do in the evenings, he usually stayed late after school, leaving the building about five or six o’clock, sometimes later depending on the girl’s basketball or volleyball gym schedules. Once the janitors had finished cleaning, he’d go into the girl’s lavatory, take a healthy dump, top it with toilet paper, and leave it floating. Then for the second of three stalls, he’d plug it with toilet paper and top it with a fresh bloody rag, face up, that he would scavenge from the sanitary napkin bin, providing the bin hadn’t been emptied.
By morning, the contents of those first two toilets had soaked and stagnated into a disgusting mess, and the young ladies thusly defaulted to the infamous spider stall.
It had been amusing over the years to watch the mystery playing out with each new crop of female students, and it always amazed him how the simple trick kept working so consistently.
As for the hole in the wall, whichever punks had bored it, however long ago, were now well graduated or, at any rate, well gone, and the new crop of pinheads hadn’t found it during the last six years.
His classroom being at the end of the hall was perfect given his “active intestines,” which required frequent lavatory visits throughout the day.
In fact, he was on one of his so-called A.I. breaks right now, and the students in his fourth period geometry class didn’t mind one iota if he ran five minutes late almost every day. They enjoyed the extra gabbing time. His geometry girls would even sneak the extra time to hurry in and out of the spider stall.
Since it was a pain to twist around while sitting just to reach the toilet paper, this peeping stall in the boy’s room was usually available.
He unscrewed the little bolt on the right.
The toilet paper holder dropped into a dangle.
His warm palms resting on the cold porcelain tank, he leaned in and peered through the pencil-sized hole in the concrete wall.
Sometimes the girls got smart and stuffed the opposite end with TP, but they hadn’t been smart for awhile, and the pathway was adequately clear at the present moment.
Every day was a crap shoot, so to speak. He liked thinking of it in gambling terms. It made the game more interesting. Or “like a box of chocolates”—the Forest Gump line—“you never knew what you were going to get.” Reality was, if he got lucky enough to catch a girl doing her business in the spider stall, most of the viewing time was spent staring at the back of her head. Some turned around afterwards to look inside the bowl, some didn’t. When a particular girl didn’t, all he saw was her ass cheeks. That was okay, certainly. Better than nothing. He learned which girls had tattoos. But the real prize, the money shot, so to speak, came from the girls who turned around. Inevitably, when they turned around to judge what they’d left behind, there would be a quick shot of whisker biscuit as they pulled up their panties.
If they actually wore panties.
If they actually had a whisker biscuit.
The unfortunate trend lately was an asinine invention called the Brazilian Wax.
Asinine.
There was a fitting word, Stuart Renly thought while peering into the hole.
The spider stall was empty now.
Fiddlesticks!
He rolled snake eyes on the peeping game!
It was hardly the first time, nor would it be the last.
Luckily, he had a backup means of getting his jollies, albeit less thrilling.
He screwed the TP holder into place and wrangled his smart phone from his pocket.
The lavatory was quiet as he activated the photo gallery. The last pictures taken were the first to light up. And light up they did! Miss Bailey Howard! What a fine top you’re wearing today, Miss Howard. All the better to see your golden blessings. All the better to stroke an “active imagination,” which was the secret definition of A.I., as far as Stuart Renly was concerned.
Time was short.
And getting shorter.
But as he thumbed through the gallery of buxom-heavy Bailey Howard one thing for certain was getting longer. Longer and harder, and rising in his trousers like a twisted and deformed third leg.
Time to free the bugger.
He turned toward the toilet bowl and unzipped his fly.
Then the lavatory door opened loudly, jolting him from his fixated daze, and he quickly pocketed the smart phone and re-zipped his pleated khaki pants.
Pure frustration mixed with sudden panic.
Meddling kids!
Nobody called out to him, but he was so frazzled by the interruption that he called out to them, saying, “Yeah, I’m coming!”
There was an irony!
Stupid over-eager kids couldn’t wait five minutes for him to drop a dollop before bursting in to see if he was dead like Elvis on the throne.
He flushed the toilet for show, smeared flat his tingling third leg, unlatched the stall very loudly, and emerged in a staggering hurry.
Principal Jenkins stood there.
“Oh, I thought you were a student coming in to check on me,” Stuart Renly said. He moved to the sink under Jenkins’ watchful eye and began washing his hands. With soap even. “They can’t hardly wait five minutes to get their daily learning, it seems lately. It guess it’s good they enjoy my style of teaching.”
“As we’ve discussed before, though,” Jenkins answered, “you need to begin your teaching on time.”
“Doing my best to get this licked,” Stuart said. “Not as easy as one might think. I wouldn’t wish A.I. on anyone. It’s a kick in the pants, so to speak.”
“The board already approved your medical furlough,” Jenkins said. “Bring in a physician’s signature, take the time off, then come back when you’re cured. No sense being here just to suffer every hour on the toilet.”
“At most, it’s twice a day,” Stuart Renly answered in his defense
.
“But if you can’t hold it until your prep time, it’s a problem. Students tell their parents, their parents tell me. It’s ten minutes past the bell already, and your students are tossing pencils at the ceiling.”
“They do that in everyone’s class,” Stuart Renly said, trying to make light of the situation.
“You’re facing a discharge if you don’t take the furlough. That, or get the problem solved,” Jenkins said flatly.
“I could wear a diaper,” Stuart Renly said, “but being five minutes late to class would be less distracting to the students. Beyond prescribing probiotics, which I’m already taking, my doctor can’t do anything. But he’s sure probiotics will lick the problem, so to speak.”
“I am uninterested in colorful aphorisms.”
Stuart shrugged. “I guess I’m trying to grin and bear it.”
“Get in there with those kids.”
“You got it, boss.”
Principal Jenkins let Stuart Renly exit the lavatory first.
Once they were in the hall, Jenkins reached for Stuart’s shoulder and gave him an understanding, principal-style pat. Jenkins liked to play the nice guy with everyone. He’d only been at Freemont for three years now, and the majority of the staff thought he was the bees knees. Mainly because he smiled more and was easier to get along with than the previous principal, Dr. Butthole Bixby. It also didn’t hurt that Jenkins was, as the female staff liked to whisper, a “real looker.”
Funny how the ones who whispered “real looker” were the old, fat ones. The young, sexy teachers, who still walked high and tight and still cared about their weight and how many treats they ate daily, would never admit out loud that their loins burned for Principal Jenkins.
Stuart Renly knew the truth.
And Jenkins was a playboy at heart.
He knew Jenkins wanted him gone, discharged, that is, if for no other reason than to have his harem of adultery-willing females more to himself.
No more peephole breaks for a while, Stuart Renly decided. No more smart phone breaks either. Be in class on time. Okay, sir. Right and understood. Will do.
But it will be hard going, he knew—really hard going.
Especially seeing now, as he walked into class, three sets of creamy, shaved knees, all slightly spread, waiting for him in the front row.
Chapter 4
5th period study was immediately after lunch. You could either go to the library or to Mrs. Karuther’s classroom. The tables in the library sat four, plus the chairs were padded, so no one went to Karuther’s. Students could also talk quietly in the library while group cramming for a test, but the librarian still barked “Shh!”
Never at Bailey, though.
Bailey walked into the library and saw Eric Cady sitting at a table across from Tony Avery and Kylie Westin. Tony and Kylie were dating, and together they formed what someone had coined “The Pretty Pair.” Eric sat opposite them, with an empty chair on his left.
He said something to them as he waved Bailey over.
Bailey smiled, but shyly.
Now, more than ever, she wished she hadn’t worn a tank top. It made her feel like one of those car wash girls you see on the street corner flagging guys down for a five dollar soapy wash. To say the least, she felt self-conscious about how much skin and cleavage showed. It was SO unlike her, and she prayed she wouldn’t be sitting directly under an air-conditioning vent.
Eric had started waving her over after the last Algebra exam because the day prior Bailey had answered an easy linear function that an entire table of jocks couldn’t solve.
Kylie was sporting spirit wear, Bailey noticed now, also a tank top, which made her feel a bit more at ease. Bailey’s tank top, however, was a lot tighter, practically stretching the threads to their breaking point, she knew.
“Take this seat, Bailey,” Eric said as she approached, kneeing out the chair beside him, “before the Sackston takes it. He doesn’t know anything about quadratic equations.”
Okay, Bailey thought, that’s either a made-up excuse or you really intend to study math.
“I barely understand them myself,” she said.
“Whatever you know, I’ll be grateful for,” Eric said.
Both Tony and Kylie appeared to be studying her.
Bailey took the seat, setting her book bag on the floor between her chair and Eric’s. She said, “Hi,” to both Tony and Kylie together, and Kylie replied, “Hello,” and Tony said, “Hey.”
Eric scooted his chair to give her room to lean toward him and open her bag.
Why did I set this here? she thought. Now he’s looking down my shirt! She could hear Jany now telling her that was precisely the idea. Use it or lose it. Throw down the aces. Make him eat his heart out.
Jany kept telling her she thought Eric was interested but conflicted, and all he needed was a gentle push over the edge.
She quickly brought her Algebra book up to the table and set it down. Then she leaned over again to grab her calculator and a pencil.
“How is the fabulous Mr. Renly?” Kylie asked.
It jolted Bailey from her thoughts. “Don’t ask,” she said, coming back up. Now that she was up, she could relax a bit about her over-exposed cleavage. She wondered if Eric had actually looked, and noticed.
When she finally glanced at him, which took an extreme amount of effort, like her chin was being held by an elastic cord in the other direction, she saw he was looking directly at her face. And their eyes met.
She shied away immediately, trying to make it casual.
“Renly always gave me the creeps,” Kylie offered now.
“Why?” Tony asked her.
Kylie shivered mechanically and said, “He’s just an ‘Ew…’”
Tony reached out and put his hand on her bare shoulder.
She elbowed that away, then whacked him in the gut.
Eric said, “He wants your bod, Kylie. Go down there and give it to him.”
Bailey shook her head. She imagined herself going down there, not Kylie. And she imagined Mr. Renly scanning her up and down. She said aloud, “That will never happen.”
Tony, referring to Kylie, said jokingly, “It better not.”
“Duh,” Kylie said.
Why are we talking about this? Bailey wondered. She knew most guys talked rudely about sex, but she wondered if Eric had made the perverted reference about Renly wanting Kylie’s body because she herself had just leaned over and now bodies were on his mind.
She really didn’t know Eric Cady very well. He was unquestionably the most popular guy in school, especially during football season. She was only guessing why he was suddenly interest in sitting with her during study.
But he had been very nice.
And as they say, you shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover.
“Well, let’s open his book, at any rate,” Bailey said, meaning Mr. Renly’s algebra textbook. “So to speak,” she added.
“Exactly,” Kylie said, smiling now. “You go right ahead and do that, Bailey, so to speak.”
“What’s with ‘So to speak’?” Tony asked.
“It’s a Renly-ism,” Eric said.
He was grinning, and looking at Bailey to confer, and that made Bailey glad that she’d added the little jest. She was so nervous, just sitting with them, and right beside Eric, because she wasn’t normally part of the “in” crowd. But at the same time, she recognized how easily she’d slipped into making fun of other people, and that was not something she wanted to do.
“I think he can be easy to misunderstand,” Bailey said.
“Most psychos are,” Eric assured her.
She cracked open her textbook, flipped to this week’s chapter, and said, “Let’s focus on his math assignment, shall we?”
“We shall,” Eric said, finally opening his own book. “Quadratic functions. Let’s hit it. Bailey, do you understand these?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I was kidding before.”
Kylie stood up and sai
d, “I’m getting a restroom pass.”
“She won’t give you one. We were just at lunch,” Tony told her.
Kylie glared at him and said, “What do you know?”
Tony rolled his eyes. As Kylie walked away, he started looking around the library for who else he could go chat with. Jackson the Sackston had come in and sat down over by the window wall with two other football players, and after a few seconds, Tony rose off his chair and drifted away.
Bailey’s throat tightened into a sour pixie stick.
She couldn’t even bring herself to glance off the blurry left page of x’s and y’s and random numbers to acknowledge the simple fact that her and Eric were now alone.
If she swallowed, she knew, it would be as loud, and as funny sounding, as a plunger in a whistle stick. She needed water.
She got up and went to the fountain, drank a sip, and came back. Her knees were knocking. She moved to sit down, trying not to be an awkward goose-legged gimbo, as Chester MacDoogan had once called her. But try as she may, she tripped, casting her right hand out against Eric’s shoulder to catch her from falling completely into his lap.
Oh, my god! she thought, terror-stricken. She said, “Sorry,” quickly, and then got her butt situated and flat on her chair, and she just nearly died with embarrassment at having touched his arm.
“No problem,” he said.
His arm had felt really solid.
Now she needed something else to say.
“I don’t feel like doing math,” she said, trying to focus her eyes. The text on the page was starting to clear, although to actually read was still out of the question.
“Neither do I,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about my party this Saturday?”
“I’ll bet there’s a lot of work to throwing a senior party,” Bailey offered.
God, did I just make myself sound lame? she thought.
“Well, the exact truth is I can’t stop thinking about whether or not you’re coming. When will you know?”
She moved her pursed lips sideways, started biting the corner of her mouth on the side opposite him. She made an umm sound while her brain worked—actually slammed gears hard—to assemble a group of words that wouldn’t make her sound like a fifth grade goody. At the same time, she basically was a goody, and the honest answer would be best. If he wanted her to come to his party, he needed to want the real Bailey Howard, not some manufactured dingbat who’d say anything, and do anything, just to be accepted. She was confident in who she was, just not too confident yet in selling it to the world.
Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller Page 2
