Falling for Mr. Slater

by Kendall Day

  * * *

  ASSESSMENT: Jack Slater’s hangover-coping strategies failed miserably. DOES NOT MEET EXPECTATIONS.

  And the Hits Keep Coming

  [Slater]

  * * *

  LEARNING GOAL: When presented with a challenge to his world view, Jack Slater will adjust his plan of action accordingly, based on given facts.

  After relieving my stomach of all the Gatorade I drank this morning, I stumble down the hall toward the sixth-grade wing. Right on cue, my head pounds from a deadly combo of dehydration and vocational evisceration. It’s amazing how fast that Dragonlady destroyed me in what should have been a cordial, five-minute introductory visit to her office.

  So, this is what Darcy was so smug about. Damn bitch! She knew it would gut me to be moved.

  My heart races. My vision blurs.

  I can’t do this. I just can’t.

  As soon as I get home, I’m gonna troll the district’s personnel department postings for jobs in other schools. I don’t care if it’s a long shot. Hell, I’d even be willing to work in another county if the school was close and the position paid as much or better than this one.

  This is so much bullshit.

  And I was such a joke in the Dragonlady’s office. I let that woman walk all over me. I never even tried to stand up to her. The truth is, she scared the shit out of me.

  Chokeman spoiled us all. He always warned teachers when he was coming to do a formative observation so we could prepare, even though observations are supposed to be unannounced. He looked the other way when we got to school late or snuck out early. He let so much shit slide. He even let us make our own proposals for which teachers would be on which teams before each school year.

  God, I miss that deviant teacher-fucker.

  Laughter pours out of room number one—Witcher’s domain. I continue past 6A’s precious little team meeting. I want no part of it.

  “Slater? That you?” comes a contralto with a steep Southern drawl from the classroom. Witcher. Even her voice sounds witchy.

  I halt my steps and sigh. “Yeah, just checking out my new digs.” I try to infuse some pep into the words, but whatever verve I had left swirled down the toilet with my electrolyte-rich breakfast.

  A tall figure appears in the doorway. Short, upswept hair the color of snow sits atop an unnaturally white face accented with a long, pointy nose and too-red lips. Witcher wears a light blue blouse with cream-colored culottes.

  Seriously. Culottes.

  “Where you been?” she asks sharply. Without waiting for my reply, she waves me toward her. “Come in here and have some donuts.”

  My stomach gurgles again.

  No, you don’t, I warn it as I follow Witcher into her den of mathematics and studies of the social.

  A pile of bags lies on the floor behind her desk. Plastic shopping bags. Cloth bags. Ziploc bags. Tote bags. Every kind of bag you can imagine is stowed in her personal space. #WTF?

  “Welcome!” Marla Love stands up and smiles. Her eyes are bright but her face, framed by semicurled, semifeathered shoulder-length hair, is tired.

  Love is older than me, probably about forty. Divorced with a son, if I remember correctly. She was one of the guidance counselors last year. I guess I’m not the only one who got moved.

  “We were so excited to hear you’d be joining us,” Love gushes. The sugar in her voice makes my teeth hurt.

  I lower my head. “Thank you. Happy to be here,” I lie.

  “Looks like you’ll be teaching science with me,” Teresa Vino declares. Her feet are propped on top of a desk. She’s also middle-aged, but life has been hard on her, no thanks to the pickled liver. Rumor has it she keeps a bottle in the closet connecting the science rooms and sneaks sips between classes.

  “Yeah, I’ll probably need a little help with that. Science is not my forte,” I confess.

  “We’re starting off the year with sex ed,” Vino says, her dull eyes shifting toward the window. “We’ll move into our usual earth science curriculum about six weeks in.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Sweat blossoms above my upper lip.

  She has to be kidding. Sex education. With sixth graders.

  She shakes her head. “Not kidding.”

  Could this day possibly get any worse?

  “Why so early?” I ask. Damn, not even a kiss before they fuck me.

  “The science department decided it was best to get it over with while the students are still scared at the beginning of the year.”

  “Why isn’t the health department covering it?”

  “We’re down to one PE coach, and Poss has more kids than he can handle, so the task falls to science.” She reaches for an invisible drink and catches herself. Her hand flattens on the desk.

  I grit my teeth and glance around the messy room. The desks are too small. The posters lying on the counter waiting to be tacked up are too juvenile. The minds that will be coming through this door in a few days are too simple.

  (And y’all, seriously. What the fuck is with Witcher’s strange bag obsession? There are bags everywhere. #BagLady)

  I cannot deal with this team.

  Or teach sixth grade. Or science. Or sex ed.

  Witcher grabs a box of donuts and thrusts them at my sternum. “Eat. You look like you just seen a ghost.”

  In a daze, I grab the closest one and shove it absently into my mouth. Lemon filled. Of course. Because I hate lemons. Life sure does enjoy pelting me with them today, doesn’t it? I chew miserably and drop my ass into the nearest chair.

  “We gotta have a meeting this afternoon after everyone’s had a chance to get their rooms set up,” Witcher says. “We’ll draft team rules, our behavior plan, figure out the lunch schedule, and work on our agenda for orientation. We need to get with connections teachers about end-of-the-day dismissal …”

  I tune out of the long, boring to-do list when my phone buzzes with a text from Savage. I lower the device into the mouth of the desk and read.

  WTF, man? I can’t believe Dragov fucked you like that.

  I text back, The Kuntzes strike again. FML.

  Need help moving? Savage asks.

  To a new school, maybe.

  Come on, it’s not that bad.

  “… now that we have a man on the team,” Love coos.

  I look up. All three women are smiling expectantly at me. Love’s gaze centers on my chest.

  I smile back. Inside, I’m cringing.

  Yes. It’s that bad, I text to Savage.

  “So, you’ll be here at two o’clock for the team meeting,” Witcher says. Not a request, but a demand.

  “Sure. Two o’clock. See you then.” I stand.

  Love’s eyes drop to my crotch.

  I quickly make my escape and run smack into Keith Kuntz as I hit the hallway.

  “Sorry,” Kuntz says. “I was just coming to see you.”

  His frizzy brown curls stand straight out from his head. A smattering of acne pocks his pasty white cheeks. By the time most people hit their thirties, they have a handle on skin care, but the ever-present, thin sheen of oil makes it look like Keith doesn’t even wash his face. I wonder if he knows they make medicated soap for that.

  “What do you want?” I ask, making no effort to hide my irritation.

  “Dr. Dragov just promoted me to science department chair, and I wanted to touch base with you about the curriculum,” he says. The pride infusing his voice pokes the nausea bear I thought had gone into hibernation in my stomach. “I know you’re new to science and probably have questions.”

  “Department chair,” I muse, curling my fists under my armpits and rocking back on my heels. “They pay you extra for that?”

  His brows furrow. “I get a stipend, yes.”

  “Wow. I thought with all the budget cuts, the district wouldn’t have the money to offer bonuses. Lucky you.” I smack his elbow a little harder than necessary.

  He mouths an “oww” and rubs the spot.

  “S
o, about the curriculum,” he says cautiously. “You can access the performance standards at the state education department’s website—”

  “I’m quite familiar with the site,” I interrupt, my tone spiked with a shot of barely contained antagonism. “I’ve been teaching in this state for several years.” Idiot.

  “Right. Sorry. I left the textbooks on your classroom shelves. I’ll drop a copy of the teacher’s edition in your mailbox.”

  “What about sex ed?” I ask, flexing the biceps crossed over my chest.

  His cheeks flush. I know he’s married, but has this moron even had sex with Darcy?

  An image of her wearing a skin-tight, leather dominatrix outfit and cracking an old-fashioned teacher paddle on his bare, pimply ass pops into my head, and I can’t decide whether to laugh or puke again. I cover my mouth with a fist to prevent either reaction.

  “We have a letter that goes home to the parents with the other forms on the first day,” he says. “I haven’t received the curriculum materials from Coach Poss yet, but I’ll send them over as soon as I get them. I know there are some videos.” He trails off.

  “You watched them?” I grin. He probably jerks off to them when Darcy’s asleep.

  “I can’t remember.”

  Definitely jerking off.

  “Sex ed isn’t really my thing.” He seems flustered. I, inversely, am amused. “If you have any science-related questions, let me know.”

  “Will do, big guy,” I say, turning toward room four, leaving Kuntz standing like the giant hemorrhoid he is in this rectum of a hallway.

  When I reach the classroom, which still bears Kuntz’s name above the doorway, I’m surprised to find the door open and the light on. A woman sits on top of a desk, flipping through her phone, chomping gum loudly. She turns to face me and hops off, pulling the hem of her black miniskirt down.

  Holy mojitos, this girl is hot. Long, black hair with subtle waves curling around her bare shoulders. Her skin is the flawless warm brown of a fawn, but the mighty, straining cleavage about to pop the buttons off her tight white cap-sleeved top tells me she’s anything but timid. I might consider following in Papadopoulos’s footsteps on the parent-fucker front, but she looks too young to be the mother of a middle schooler. This chick is in her early- to midtwenties, no more.

  A little blob of pink Bubblicious ekes through her shiny white molars as she smiles. She hobbles toward me on a pair of hot-bitch heels, right hand extended while her left hand tugs the skirt down some more.

  “Hi, Mr. Kuntz. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to say hi. I’m your student teacher.”

  “Oh, I’m not Mr. Kuntz,” I say, thanking the gods for that. “I’m—”

  The boobs barely concealed by the ruffle ringing the scoop-hem of her shirt jiggle as her heel catches, threatening to topple her.

  “Whoa, there.” Instinct sends me grabbing for the hand she offered, and I steady her with support to her elbow. When she straightens, a pair of whiskey-brown bedroom eyes meets my gaze, and a raging sense of familiarity overwhelms me.

  I know her. Not intimately, but intensely. My brow furrows as I try to place her.

  “Jeez, sorry about that,” she says. “I’m so clumsy in heels. I do much better in basketball shoes.”

  That voice. I know it too. Deeper than I remember, but definitely familiar.

  I hold my breath, trying to place her.

  She fans her face as if embarrassed. Then recognition catches in her expression, a mirror to mine. She quirks her head to the side, studying me.

  “I’m Jack Slater,” I say, half turned on and half terrified.

  “I’m Roxie. With an ie. Roxie Rambling.”

  It takes exactly one second for names to register, and we both drop the other’s hand like it’s covered in cooties.

  “Of course, you are,” I seethe.

  “Son of a bitch,” she mumbles.

  * * *

  ASSESSMENT: The world hates Jack Slater, and so-called “facts” can bite him. DOES NOT MEET EXPECTATIONS.

  Slater McSlutbag Can Suck a Giant Eggplant

  [Roxie Rambling]

  * * *

  LEARNING GOAL: When faced with confrontation, Roxie Rambling will employ calming techniques to defray impulsive reactions.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  When he walked into the room, I thought I’d met the hottie before, but I didn’t realize it was McSlutbag until just this moment.

  When I got to the front office, the distracted secretary trying to answer phones, deal with teachers asking millions of questions, and placating parents angry about schedules told me my supervising teacher was in room four. She didn’t say his name, so I assumed it was the one hanging above his door. Kuntz would be much preferred to this douchebag who fucked me over in middle school.

  I stare him up one side and down the other. Douchebag or not, I have to admit, the decade since I last saw him has treated McSlutbag well. He turned out much finer than I remember. His short, neatly messy black hair has that just-fucked look, and the hawkish green eyes only add to the allure. He’s lost the post-college graduate pudge he had back in the day and replaced it with just enough muscle to be dangerous without looking like a walking steroid.

  “So, you remember me?” I ask cautiously, reassembling the bits and pieces from that traumatic year as I lean against a desk to keep from tipping over on these heels. I’m like a damn giraffe wearing stilts as I plot his demise. What I wouldn’t give for the comfort and safety of my basketball shoes right now. “I was in your English class eight years ago.”

  His cheeks flush, and tiny droplets of sweat dot his brow. “Roxie. With an ie.” He taps his chin and pretends to think about it.

  Of course, he remembers me. Everyone does. In an informal poll conducted at the end of eighth grade, I was voted Most Likely to End Up in Jail and my personal favorite, Worst (Best) Mouth in the South following my suspension from school for allegedly giving a kid a blow job at the public library next door. What a disappointment that asshat had been. He couldn’t even get his dick—

  I shake my head.

  I’m a good girl now, I tell myself as I mentally adjust my crooked halo.

  McSlutbag returns his gaze to mine, and his eyes widen with fake recognition. He shakes an index finger at me and beams a sexy, lopsided grin. “I do remember you. The worst kid I ever taught, a.k.a. the girl who fucked up my entire life. How the hell did you end up back here as my student teacher? I can only assume I pissed off some god of enlightenment, and this is my punishment. A semester with Roxie-with-an-ie Rambling running my ship. Oh, the fun we’ll have.”

  My confidence deflates. Jeez, I know I was bad, but what a twunt. And how about what he did to me? It’s a miracle I ended up where I am, considering I almost dropped out of school thanks to the dickish moves he pulled.

  Anger swirls within me, gaining strength like a tornado. I need to let it out. At him.

  Whoa. Wait a sec, Roxie. If you go full-on shitstorm at McSlutbag, you won’t make it out of the building alive. He’ll say you’re unstable just like you were when you were a student, and they have the records to prove it. That’ll be the end of Roxie Rambling’s Adventures in Adulthood. Buh-bye diploma, buh-bye chances for a decent job, buh-bye shot at quality healthcare, a car, a house, a life.

  With a heavy sigh, I sift through the Rolodex of coping strategies my college counselor taught me, inhale a deep breath through my nose, and let it out through my mouth.

  You’re strong, Roxie. You’re smart. Kind of. You’ll make a great teacher. Now prove it.

  I glue on my sweetest angel smile and dip forward just enough to let the tiny bit of visible cleavage do the talking. Not that I have anything but professional shit to say to this motherfucker. “I’m sorry for all the tricks I played and trouble I caused in your class, Mr. McSlu—I mean, Mr. Slater. I know I was a terrible student, but as you can see, I’m all grown up now and much more mature. I’ve changed. I’ll prove it.”

  He
narrows his eyes to green laser points and scans my attire. “I can see how hard you’re trying with the totally inappropriate dress.”

  My jaw drops, and I look down at my outfit. These are the best, most expensive clothes I own. Son of a bitch!

  “What’s wrong with this?” I say, smoothing my skirt. Yeah, a little cleavage is peeking out up top, but it’s not like it’s pouring out. I’ve seen far worse in church.

  “Have you even read the student dress code?” he asks, his voice incredulous. “It hasn’t changed since you were in school here, and the teacher code for professional dress is even more stringent.” He points to my boobs and then to my legs. “You can’t be flashing your … assets around horny teenagers like a two-dollar hooker. It’s distracting.”

  Skirts always ride up when you sit down, but now that I’m standing, mine falls right above the knee, longer than the spot where my fingers rest at my sides. I’m certain the outfit meets dress code.

  I lash my hands to my hips and lean closer, thrusting my “assets” into his personal space. “Watch your mouth, Mr. McSlutbag. That’s sexual harassment. I’ll drag your ass to the Professional Standards Commission for demeaning my appearance.”

  His catlike lips flatten into a thin, angry line, and his head tips back an inch so he can stare down at me better. The look he drops is designed to kill or, at the very least, maim. I tuck my chin to my chest to protect my weak places.

  “What did you just call me?” His voice turns deadly cold.

  Shit. Did I say McSlutbag?

  “Slater,” I stammer. “Mr. Slater.” I don’t give him the opportunity to argue. “I don’t appreciate your rude tone. If you want me to wear something different, fine. Tell me what I can and can’t do, and I’ll follow your—” stupid—“rules.”

  He laughs bitterly. “Like you did in eighth-grade language arts?”