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Detention
Copyright © 2011 by Stephanie Williams
ISBN: 978-1-61333-042-5
Cover art by Dara England
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC
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Detention
Stephanie Williams
DEDICATION
For all those who have forbidden fantasies.
Prologue
Fremont High—Second Semester—Senior Year
Brett Wyndam sat in the lobby awaiting his sentence. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair just to make sure that: one, they knew he was still waiting; and two, he got on their nerves.
“Brett,” came the cultured voice of old man Sampson.
He has to be three days older than God, Brett mused.
“Yes, sir,” Brett groaned, trying desperately to keep the smirk off his face. He knew what was coming next but didn’t want to show too much enthusiasm.
“Come with me.” Sampson turned to leave, then stopped. He faced Brett and quirked his hairy gray brow. “On second thought, you lead the way, since you’re so familiar with the routine.” He extended his hand in the general direction of Vice-principal Bradford’s office.
“Yes, sir.” Brett proceeded toward her office, almost skipping. They stopped at her closed door and stared at each other. Brett knew Principal Sampson saw him as a big disappointment. A loser. Or worse yet, a lost cause.
“Young man, I don’t know what else to do with you,” Principal Sampson sighed in disgust.
Blah, blah, blah. Always the same speech. It wasn’t enough Brett was pulling down A grades like they were handed to him on a silver platter, but they actually wanted him to behave in and out of class!
Sampson knocked on Ms. Bradford’s door. “Ms. Bradford, you have a visitor.”
“Come in.”
If voices were a symphony, hers would be Handel’s Messiah. Brett tried to tamp down his eagerness once more.
Sampson opened the door and allowed Brett to enter first.
Ms. Bradford looked up from her paperwork. “Oh, no.” She sighed, pulled her glasses off, and tossed them down in disgust. “What now?” She rubbed the bridge of her nose, then got up and went to her file cabinet.
“Firecracker in the trash can in the girl’s gym,” Sampson announced, standing at almost-military attention, as though he were reporting the enemy’s next move.
Ms. Bradford let out a long sigh and waved her hand toward the chair in the corner of her office. “Okay, have a seat, Brett.”
Brett sat down enthusiastically, then remembered he was supposed to be brooding. He immediately put on his I-can’t-believe-this-shit face.
“Will that be all, Ms. Bradford?” Sampson asked haughtily. If no one knew any better, they would swear he was her butler.
“Yes. Thanks, Frank. That will be all.”
Hmm. Brett noticed that even though the name plate on her desk read Ms. Mia Bradford, Vice-Principal she could call people by their first name, but not vice versa. He made a mental note of that.
Ms. Bradford returned to her desk and put back on her glasses. She went back to her paperwork. “So, Brett, care to explain?” she asked without looking up from her task.
“Hey, there were other guys, too,” he protested.
Miss Bradford was now looking straight at him. “Yes, but you seem to be the only one who gets caught.”
Yeah, but that’s because I want to, you gorgeous babe.
***
Graduation Day
This was what teaching was all about. Even after she’d been promoted to vice-principal, she’d insisted on continuing to teach. She spent invaluable time with her students, and moments like this were the payoff.
Mia Bradford watched as the students walked down the aisle in perfect order. They stepped in unison with Pomp and Circumstance blaring over the school’s P.A. system.
She was so proud. Over the past four years, she’d had the privilege to teach so many of the graduates walking before her. Thank goodness I didn’t give up my slots with the freshman English classes.
She’d watched them grow, learn, and do outstanding work in the community.
She tried to emphasize that there was more to life than good grades, popularity, and sports. Get out there and make something happen, help your fellow man, et cetera. She was overwhelmed to see most of them had listened.
However, there was one student she had serious doubts about. Brett Wyndam. Mr. Big-Man-on-Campus. Mr. Rich Kid, Mr. Jock. He was nothing but a troublemaker. She didn’t understand it; he had everything going for him.
It was rumored he came from old money. Most of the kids here were the nouveau riche or at the very least upper middle-class. His family owned real estate, yachts, jets, you name it. And even though he never flaunted his breeding, he still walked with an air of privilege.
All-American boy. Blond hair, blue eyes, and blue blood. He had a head start in life. She hated to think that way, but being a black woman and literally clawing her way through the school system, she’d learned a lot. A lot of it was not so good. But she’d made her way through the district politics. And she was damn good at what she did.
Brett would never have to worry about those obstacles. Since his parents were filthy rich, it was only a matter of time before he got his piece of their pie. Twenty-one was the magical age for most of these kids, wasn’t it?
Brett was smart. Despite the fact he got into trouble all the time and was in her office at least four times a month for detention, the kid had a brain and knew how to use it. From the ninth grade to his senior year, he’d kept a 4.0 GPA. He did community service, which surprised her. There was the March of Dimes walk he’d organized not too long ago. He’d sponsored walkers and had even participated himself.
He was athletic. As captain of the football team, he had put Fremont High athletics on the map for the first time in thirty years. And he was handsome. He was still a somewhat gangly kid, not yet filled out. However, his athleticism showed when he ran the football. His body was definitely maturing faster than his teenage demeanor. At Fremont, appearance was everything, and he seemed very conscious of his appearance, especially as he’d become a senior.
Mia walked to the end of the stage and stood next to Frank Sampson. They looked at each other and smiled like proud parents sending their offspring into the world. It was always a bittersweet moment, but for Mia, this year was especially so.
She’d recently found out about Frank’s illness. He’d told no one but her. In the last few months, it had seemed he was getting better. Doctors believed he was beating it, and they were cautiously optimistic. Mia prayed they were right. She’d lost so much in her life already.
She turned her attention back to her students. She waved and winked at several
of them as they made eye contact when they marched in front of her.
She waved eagerly at Daphne MacMillan, a student with a learning disability. She had dyslexia, which was rare for females, but she’d learned how to work around it and study a different way. It never slowed Daphne down. She was graduating with a 3.75 GPA and a four-year scholarship to Howard. Administration of Justice would be her major since her ultimate goal was to be a television judge. Mia remembered laughing at that declaration. It reminded her that they were still just kids.
The shocker had come when Brett Wyndam was awarded a four-year academic scholarship to Kinsley University. It wasn’t daddy’s money that had gotten him there, either. It was his brain and his community service. And now he was valedictorian. How that happened, Mia wasn’t sure. She just knew that despite his qualifications, his time in detention should have overridden that. But it had come down from up top that he was to represent his class.
Wonders never ceased.
She and Frank climbed the steps to sit behind the podium. Brett approached the lectern with all the bravado and swagger a young man could possess.
Mia mentally shook her head. A day didn’t go by that one or more female teachers mentioned the fact that he was a heartbreaker and he was charming . They also made sure she knew how “lucky” she was to have him when he served detention.
She didn’t know about lucky. If anything, she’d been getting a bit annoyed to have him in her office every week. She did have a life that didn’t always include sitting behind a desk with a ruler. She was just happy she didn’t have him as a student. Her days would have been spent dealing with him and not helping the other students and doing her administrative duties
She shook her head as Brett’s statements brought her back to the present.
He continued, his voice strong and confident. “And so, my fellow students. When we leave this world, there will be three things on your tombstone: your name, the date you were born, and the date you died. But you know what the most important thing on that stone will be? That dash between the dates. What did you do? What did you contribute to make this world a better place, to make a difference?”
Mia sat there with her mouth open. She glanced over at Frank, who was just as enthralled and surely just as surprised as she. Brett Wyndam—reflective? His father had to have paid a speechwriter.
After the ceremonies were finished and caps thrown in the air, everyone hugged, kissed, and shook hands. Pictures were taken at a frantic pace, as parents with their charges in tow, headed to graduation after-parties.
Mia talked to a few parents and students. She received her fair share of hugs and kisses and shed a few tears.
As things were dying down, she turned to look for Frank, but bumped into Brett Wyndam. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, trying to move out of his way.
Brett caught her by the wrist and stared at her. Mia tried to free herself without drawing attention, but his grip was like iron. Probably from carrying that football for so many years, she thought.
“Excuse me, Ms. Bradford. Did you enjoy my speech?”
She looked into his brilliant, expressive baby-blue eyes. “I…yes, it was very—”
“Ha!” Brett threw back his head and began laughing.
She would have called him on his rude outburst, if it weren’t for the fact that he’d let go of her. She rubbed wrists, trying to bring back the circulation. She looked around the field to see if anyone was paying attention to their interaction. Good. The people who were left were engaged in other matters.
“I will admit your speech was very…profound,” Mia said, trying to free herself from his gaze.
“Yeah, it was deep, wasn’t it?” He smirked.
Mia crossed her arms and began tapping her foot. He probably hadn’t meant a damn word of it. Not surprising.
Brett Wyndam would never change.
Chapter One
Ghana—Seven Years Later
Brett slowly started packing his bags. This was a trip he wasn’t looking forward to. He was going to miss his friends terribly, and he worried about the Otoo twins. Derek and his wife Latisha said they would take care of everything and not to worry. But how could he not?
This latest epidemic had hit the village hard, and the Otoo twins even harder. The resident doctor said they had a twenty-eighty chance—not in their favor.
Brett shook his head, trying to remove all negative thoughts. The sooner he was packed, the quicker he would be on the plane and back at Kingsley.
“Hey, man!” The baritone voice of his friend and mentor, Derek Richardson, rumbled through the tent.
Derek and his wife were like the parents Brett never had. During his school years, his mother went from charity lunch to charity gala, and the only time he saw his father get involved was to pay the school tuition at Fremont. But Derek and Tish, as he liked to call her, guided him with unerring, tough love.
They taught him how to give back to the community; they helped him keep his grades up while still playing on the team. From them, he learned self-discipline, leadership, and teamwork. Derek taught him how to be a man, and Tish, for the first time, showed him that unconditional love did exist.
He’d grown up fast. But that was okay. He needed the toughness and cynicism for the stuff he had to deal with in his adult life.
When he asked them about their work, they were hesitant to share at first. Brett was still in college, and they didn’t think he was ready to take on such a task. At that time, Ghana was in a dire state. And even though Brett felt all his community service gave him enough experience, Derek and Latisha knew better and told him no. It was then Brett realized that Derek was right, so he studied the politics, the people, and the culture. When they left to volunteer with Professeurs Internationaux, Brett understood why he couldn’t go with them. But he sent money when needed and helped get volunteers to apply.
Brett focused attention back on his friend. “Hey.” Brett clasped Derek’s shoulder. “Just packing. You know my flight leaves in three hours.”
“You should have been back in the States two months ago.”
“Don’t start, man.” Brett grabbed a shirt, balled it up, and threw it in his duffle.
“Don’t worry.” Derek said, coming forward and holding his hands up in defense. “We should have more dedicated people like you. Makes our work a lot easier.”
“I’ll be back.”
“Not until you get that Master’s degree. Working on your research back in the States will do more good than you being here.” He held both of his hands up again, palms out. “I know you find that hard to believe with everything that’s going on.”
“It’s just that….” Brett sat on the edge of his cot and shook his head. “I know most of the wealthy movers and shakers back home. They don’t give a damn about what’s going on here. Oh, yeah, they talk a good game and break out with their statistics and their checkbooks, but they don’t send people here.” He jumped up and began shoving clothes into his other bag.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Derek pulled Brett aside. “I know it gets frustrating, but you have to keep pushing. Your ideas are great, and the plans for the research center have everyone feeling hope for the first time in decades.”
“I don’t want to let them down.”
“You won’t. Knowing you, you’ll find a way.” Derek gave him another reassuring pat on the back.
“Well, there is my favorite adopted son,” came a soft voice.
Brett turned to see Derek’s better half, a beautiful black woman with skin like ebony silk and cheekbones a runway model would kill for. Like her husband, she wore her hair in dreads, although she styled hers differently every day.
“Tish.” Brett walked over to her and hugged her tightly.
“Uh-oh, someone doesn’t want to leave.” She chuckled lightly.
“Hello, Latisha. We were just having that conversation.” Derek joined his wife.
“I’m going, I’m going. Besides, I have some tests to take b
efore I’m able to enroll in that internship program this summer.”
Brett went back to his cot and grabbed his bags, swinging them over his shoulder.
“I brought you something for the plane trip.” Latisha handed him a sealed plate.
Brett dropped his bag on the floor and sniffed the offered dish. “Sweet potato pie! Damn, you’re going to make me fat yet, woman,” he said, trying to lift the lid.
“Yeah, right. The poster boy for Muscle Incorporated,” joked Derek.
They all laughed.
“I’ll miss you.” Brett tried desperately to keep the tears from welling in his eyes.
“Of course.” Latisha smiled. “But, it’s not like we won’t be seeing you again soon.”
“Look, could you keep me posted, even if it’s a little thing?”
“We’ll let you know as soon as there’s any change,” Derek reassured him as he gently pushed Brett toward his packed bags.
Brett nodded, taking the hint. He looked back over his tent to see if he had forgotten anything, then walked out into the burning summer sun. No formal goodbyes to the rest of the workers. He knew they wouldn’t be insulted. He had to leave.
***
Once on the plane, he began thinking more pleasant thoughts. His friends back at Kingsley, and Ms. Mia Bradford, his vice-principal/detention jailer from years ago, popped back into his mind. Actually, she’d never really left.
He’d read in the local paper that he had sent to him from the States that she had become principal of Fremont High six years ago after Frank Sampson’s death. Brett didn’t know whether to cry or say a prayer for the poor souls who would meet up with Frank in the afterlife.
Truth be told, Mr. Sampson’s death had shaken him. He’d loved that old man. As stuffy as he was, Brett had respected him. He’d looked up to him even as he’d given him a hard time.
Now, Ms. Bradford was in Mr. Sampson’s shoes. More power to her—literally.
She’d always seemed to love power, and everyone knew it. But she was a damn good teacher, too. She had a mother-hen demeanor toward her students, and to Brett, she was beautiful beyond words.
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