by A. M. Wilson
“We are quite proud of your achievements, Miss Krause, especially considering your circumstances; however, that does not give you the right to skip out on class and show blatant disrespect for your teachers.”
I sit silently, willing myself to hold my chin high even though I have an overwhelming urge to stare at my hands and bite my finger nails. What am I supposed to say to that?
“Mr. Ryan phoned the office as soon as you left the classroom. Would you like to tell me what’s going on?” he asks. Mr. Stephenson’s demeanor is stern, but his eyes hold a familiar softness. The same softness he displayed when he told me about my mother’s overdose last year. The whole ordeal that followed has endeared him to me.
“Nothing is going on. I think it was rude of Mr. Ryan to keep the class waiting ten minutes before showing up.” I can’t quite keep the sneer out of my voice when his name rolls from my lips. It would seem during our little tête-à-tête last week, I wasn’t the only one withholding information. Ryan my ass. He seemed to have forgotten the title ‘Mr.’
“Yes, well, I have spoken to Mr. Ryan about his tardiness, and I can assure you that a personal emergency had taken place. However, you are not in a position to disrespect and lecture your teachers about their wrongdoings. If you have a problem with one of your teachers, you need to bring it to my attention. I will be sure it is handled appropriately.”
“Yes, Sir.” Scooting towards the front of my chair, I eye the clock on the wall. Now I’ll only be out ten minutes early if he hurries this little meeting up so I can go.
“Miss Krause?”
“Hmm?” I look back to meet his gaze.
“Is something going on in your personal life, something that may have caused you to speak out so rudely? It seems out of character for you, even considering you have a more difficult home life than most students. You know you can talk to me, yes?”
I sigh, grateful for his caring nature yet peeved he thinks I’m having issues. “No, Mr. Stephenson. Nothing is going on. I will apologize to Mr. Ryan. May I leave please? I need to get ready for work.” I stand from my seat and shoulder my backpack.
He raises a finger in the air, halting my retreat. “Wait one minute. I don’t believe an apology is sufficient enough in this circumstance. I have reassigned your second period study hall—ˮ
“What? That’s not fair, you can’t punish me with more classes!” I cry.
“Calm down, Tatum. You aren’t going to be taking another academic course. However, I have assigned you to be a Teacher’s Assistant for Mr. Ryan second period. You can report to him tomorrow during that time, and I expect you’ll offer an apology first thing. This will give you an opportunity to get to know and respect your teacher.”
“Please, I need my study hall for homework. Can’t I just write an apology letter? Do some extra calculus work or something?”
“I’m sorry, but this will be beneficial to you. I am well aware of what you do in study hall, and you most definitely do not study. If,” he continues even though I’m shaking in anger, “Mr. Ryan has found your behavior acceptable, and you are acting most respectfully and helpfully, I will allow you to return to your study hall classroom after two weeks.”
“Two weeks? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Two weeks, Miss Krause. If there is any more word of your unruly behavior, we will meet again to discuss more extreme measures. I will not have you publicly embarrassing the teachers at this school.”
“May I go?” My hands are visibly shaking at my sides. I need to get out of here.
“Yes. We will see you tomorrow.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Mr. Ryan
I slam my keys down on my entryway table, kicking the door closed behind me with a little more force than necessary. It slams loudly, knocking the cheaply framed black and white picture of Venice’s canals off the wall. Fuck! Ignoring the picture, I stomp my way into the two bedroom townhouse with a single track mind. Refrigerator. I need a goddamn beer. Selecting an import dark brew, I pop off the cap, discarding it somewhere on the countertop. I take a long, slow glug, loosening the restrictive tie around my neck, sighing.
What the fuck happened today?
I run my free hand through the long, disastrously messy hair upon my head. I must have done that 1000 times during the phone call before my last class started. It’s a nervous gesture, a frustrated habit. Today couldn’t have gone more wrong.
Hauling my ass to the couch, remote in one hand, beer in the other, I turn the television on ESPN but put it on mute. As much as I don’t want to, I need to unwind from today. I need to revisit that phone call, and purge the pain from my system. A year or so ago, I would have turned to drinking. This one beer would turn to two, three, six, followed up by a few shots of vodka or whiskey. I would have passed out and felt better in the morning. Well, besides the killer hangover. But I had started running out of money and returning to work was my best option if I wanted to survive. Most days, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
That phone call.
Drudging up memories from two years ago and making me relive them in the teachers’ lounge of my new job was not really what I had anticipated out of today. I was already running late and stopped to use the bathroom before my final period.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, putting myself back in the moment…
I was mid-piss when the phone rang from my pocket. Nobody ever calls me. I left anyone I used to care about behind two years ago when I left the east coast, headed for something different, something… safer. The number on the screen was unfamiliar, but I recognized the area code. It was from home; rather, my old home. What used to be home. I stood dumbfounded, with my dick hanging out above the urinal, while I just stared at the stupid electronic in my palm. The screen went blank when I missed the call, but almost immediately began ringing again. The fact someone was trying that hard to get to me had me punching the green button before I could really contemplate it further.
“Hello?” I breathed cautiously.
“Hello, I’m looking for Mr. Jacoby Ryan?” The voice was deep and vaguely familiar. No, it couldn’t be. There’s no way he’d be calling me out of the blue.
“This is. Who’s calling?
Silence greeted me. If it weren’t for the heavy breathing in my ear, I’d think he’d hung up.
“What do you want?” I snapped, unable to control my anger. I want nothing to do with these people. I’ve put that part of my life behind me. “I’m sorry, but I have to go, I’m running late.”
“Wait a minute, please. Brother…Jacoby,” he cleared his throat and my chest burned with the confirmation of the caller. “I’ve been trying to reach you for some time.”
I stalled, hand on the phone, phone to my ear. After two years, they are trying to contact me—for what? “Why are you calling me? This is a really bad time.”
“It’s about Carol. She’s, well, she isn’t doing so good.”
I ran my hand through my hair. Over and over again, as if the gesture could make the buzzing inside my head cease. “I don’t care. You know. Of all people, you know.”
He sighed. “I know. Fuck, I’m sorry but she has some things she wants to tell you. Look, it’s not my place, but she’s dying.” His voice cracked on the last word. “The doctor said there isn’t much time left and she wants to clear the air before…”
“How much time?”
Mid-swipe my hand grabbed a fistful of my hair, almost of its own accord. I felt myself trying to anchor to anything. I could barely choke the words out past the lump in my throat. Try as I might to remain unaffected, I couldn’t. Why was this happening to me? Haven’t I suffered enough? Faintly, I heard a bell ring from somewhere in the distance.
The line was silent for a few moments. “They don’t think she’ll make it to Christmas.”
I spun away from the urinal, toward the single trash can in the room, leaned over and heaved, retching into the mass of discarded paper towels. Once, twice, a third time bef
ore my body was wracked by only dry sobs. “God damnit, Brent. Tell me this is a joke.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. There are some things you should know about what happened, about Harper—ˮ
“What about Harper?” I cut him off. The room began to spin as I held that trashcan like a damn life raft.
“It’s not for me to tell. I’m sorry. Call Carol. Come home. Let us explain.”
I’d heard enough. “You’ve had two years to explain. I’m not coming around so she can clear her damn conscience. I’m not ready for this shit. Do not call me again,” I barked, swiftly ending the call. I squeezed the phone tightly in my fist, holding back the tears that had threatened to overtake me. How else is one supposed to act when the person they viewed as a mother was on her deathbed? Not that I should care. She’s treated me ruthlessly for the past two years. Ever since Harper’s death…
“Fuck!” I shouted.
Then it hit me. I had a class to get to. Brushing my hands down my shirt, I realized my dick was still hanging out and hastily zipped my fly before tearing off into the hallway.
The memories have been hitting hard all day since the phone call. The accident, her screams, the blood. Oh God, all the blood. I leap up off the couch, feeling the need to pace, or run, or punch something. I need a distraction. Unwinding hasn’t helped one damn bit.
I begin stalking around my living room as another face comes to mind. Tatum. Holy hell, I’ve kissed my student. Kissed is a damn understatement. Ravished her would be more appropriate.
I’ve spent the past week thinking of nothing but her. Her light hazel eyes and luscious lips. The way she quirks one eyebrow while spouting her endearing sarcasm. Wondering why she ran away from me so fast when it was clear she was feeling what I felt. Surely she was. She gripped me to her body like I was a life raft and she was about to drown.
I groan, swiping a hand through my hair. But she’s my student! What we did was entirely inappropriate. This semester is going to be absolute torture. My last ditch attempt to keep her from leaving was to phone the principal. I wanted her to come back so I could speak with her after class. Instead, he said he’d take care of it. I should have thought through my actions. He informed me after the final bell today that I would be stuck with her for the next two weeks as my assistant. I’m not sure who he’s trying to punish more—her or me.
Who speaks to their teacher that way? Obviously the intriguing woman I shared a meal with is nothing more than an immature brat.
I should get changed, blow off some steam in the gym. Taking the stairs two at a time, I stumble when my phone rings again. I’m dangerously close to throwing the damn thing away.
“What?” I snap, pulling it out of my pocket and answering without looking at the caller ID.
“Jacoby, hi. Everything alright?” Melissa’s sweet voice sounds in my ear. I’m not sure if I should be annoyed or pleased, but I feel some of the fight seeping out of me.
“Hi, Mel. Sorry, yeah I’m fine. Rough first day of school.”
“Do you need something to take your mind off of it? I can help, you know.” Suddenly, the gym idea is off the table. Something about losing myself in a woman sounds exactly like what I need.
“You know the address. I’ll be here,” I respond before ending the call. Turning my phone off, I tuck it above my refrigerator. I don’t have the capacity for any more draining phone calls this evening. Besides, Melissa will keep my mind, and body, plenty busy.
Less than twenty minutes later, a knock sounds on my door. Opening it reveals a tastefully dressed Melissa, sporting tight skinny jeans, black heeled boots, a long sleeved white sweater, and a deep brown chunky knit scarf. Her bottle blonde hair is piled messily on top of her head. She’s the type of woman who doesn’t have to dress the part because she knows exactly what she’s getting when she comes over here.
She saunters in like she owns the place, which is amusing since she’s only been here a handful of times. Usually, I end up at her house or the backseat of my car if we’re out somewhere. She’s my go-to, no strings attached girl, and it suits us both well.
“What’s the matter, Jack? You want to talk?” She asks flirtingly, twirling a loose strand of hair around her finger.
“You know we don’t ‘talk,’ so don’t try that crap. I don’t have the energy to deal with clingy relationship type stuff, especially not today.” Shit, I sound like a dick. “I’m sorry, Mel. That was rude. It’s just been a long day,” I sigh.
She smiles at me, offering her hand I know to be baby soft, which I take. “Don’t worry about it. We both know why I’m here and we’re both okay with it. Bedroom?” She asks, batting her eyelashes at me.
“Lead the way, baby.”
Melissa is lounging in a matching red satin thong and bra set when I roll over from my post-fucking doze. She looks sexy in my bed, all mussed up hair and smudged makeup. She’s a very confident and comfortable girl; I like that. But we’ve had too much history to see each other on any type of relationship level. She’ll find a nice normal guy to treat her right someday. That thought eases my guilt a little.
“What time is it?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“It’s just after midnight, sleepyhead,” she replies, scooting down to cuddle into my side.
Fuck, I slept a while. “I think you should go. I have class tomorrow.”
“Aw, do I have to?” She pouts. “Can’t I stay the night?”
“You know I don’t do the sleepover thing. We aren’t dating. This is just for fun,” I tell her as I sit up and inconspicuously shake her from me. I can’t allow myself to get that close to another woman. I’m too fucked up over my past. I thought Mel and I were clear on that.
“I know. Just thought I’d ask, see if you needed the company, that sort of thing.”
I kiss her gently on her head. “Thanks, but I’m alright.”
We both dress; her in the clothes she came in while I don a pair of sweats, and I walk her to my front door.
“I’ll see you later.” I give her a chaste kiss on the lips.
Something in her expression makes me uncomfortable, however, she gives me a cheery wave on her way out the door. “Bye. Next time,” she says with a smile.
I’m not so sure there will be a next time. Maybe it’s time to cut her loose before she gets too attached.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tatum
“Mrs. Marsden?” I shake the quiet old lady on her shoulder as she nods off into her roast beef and mashed potatoes. “Monica, wake up dear,” I say a little bit louder. She startles in her wheel chair, knocking her fork to the ground.
“Oh my,” she cries out, distraught.
“I’ll get it, Monica. Let me get you a new one,” I reply soothingly. She hasn’t been feeling well lately and the fatigue is really unlike her usual cheery self. I cross the dining hall to the kitchen to retrieve a clean fork.
The dining hall, kitchen, and common room are all one big area with hallways running down each of three sides where the bedrooms are. The walls are sterile and white, the floors covered in white tiles. The dining table seats twelve and tonight it’s all full. Many of the residents prefer to have meals brought to their rooms, and we try to accommodate their wishes. Even in old age, some people just aren’t social creatures. The kitchen area looks like a normal residential kitchen, except slightly larger. The space is slightly outdated with white appliances, white walls, and gray countertops. We use the kitchen to bake and make simple snacks, but the meals are prepared in larger kitchen by a chef downstairs.
By the time I get back to the table, Monica’s nodded off again.
“Wake up you old bat!” Lucy berates from across the table. “Somebody wake her up or I’m gonna hit her with my roll!” Just as she poises her arm to lob the overcooked bread, Kelsey grabs it from her hand.
“Give it up, Lucy. If you aren’t going to eat it, I’m throwing it away,” says Kelsey
“How dare you!” Lucy’s temper flares. She’s
a feisty one, still well within her own mind at 89 years old. Sometimes the Alzheimer’s patients frustrate her. But she can be a real sweetheart when she’s minding her own business.
“I’m going to take Mrs. Marsden to bed. Wrap her dinner, will you? In case she’s hungry later.” Unlocking the wheels of her chair, I wheel Mrs. Marsden from the table without her waking up. Poor woman looks beat. We walk down to 6B where I had already laid out her pajamas at the start of my shift. “Monica, let’s get you to bed, okay?” I say, shaking her gently.
She rouses, and though looking exhausted, I still get a simple nod of her head. I try to change her as swiftly as possible before tucking her into her sheets.
“Goodnight. Call for me if you get hungry. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I give her hand a firm squeeze before turning out the light.
Through the darkness, she calls for me. Weakly. Quietly, I hear, “Tatum?”
“Yes, Monica. What is it?”
“Sit with me a minute.” It’s a statement more than a question. She knows I will, like I always do when she asks.
“Sure,” I respond while I take a seat on her bed beside her feet.
“Do you believe in angels?” she asks me, her voice raspy and thick with sleep.
I ponder her question for a moment. My mom was always too busy getting high to take me to church, let alone teach me any sort of belief system while I was growing up. Of course by 18 years old, I’m not ignorant to the different factions of religion. But I just can’t understand why I’ve been allowed so much hurt and disappointment in my life, why I have to work so hard for happiness, if there’s a higher power, angels, god, whatever have you. Which leads me to answer her, “I’m not sure,” because I don’t want to disappoint her, but I can’t outright tell her no when she may be dying in the very near future.
