by Kendall Day
I inhale a deep breath. “I think we’ve covered every possible angle.”
“All right, then,” he says. “That’s a wrap.”
I stand and gather my stuff. “Thanks again, ladies. We’ll see you bright and early on Monday.”
We say our goodbyes and head out of Bob’s Bagels toward Slater’s Camaro.
“Where to?” I ask.
He smiles smugly without answering. “Hop in.”
I do. More talk about the kids’ project ensues as Slater drives. We end up at the local Target. He leads me inside by the hand, grabs a shopping basket, and wanders to the personal care section. After lots of sniffing and close examination, he fills the basket with carefully selected items: a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo, conditioner. Then we go to the bathroom supplies. He plucks the thickest, fluffiest towel on the rack, inspects it, and finding it to his liking, he adds it and several identical ones to the overflowing basket.
“What are you doing?” I finally ask, thoroughly confused.
“Stocking up on essentials.” He whistles a soft tune and carts the load to the register.
Once the transaction is complete, he turns and hands me two of the four bags. “For you.” Then he waves me outside.
I glance into the bags, then back to him, but he’s way ahead of me.
Is this … Is he … What did he mean by, “For you”?
No, Roxie. Don’t read into anything. He’s just buying normal things people buy.
But what if he’s not? What if “for you” literally means the contents of the bag are mine? The personal items were marketed for women, not men. Why would he buy me a toothbrush and shampoo and towels? Unless—
Trying to catch up to his long strides, I follow like a lost puppy. Because that’s what I feel like. A puppy on the verge of finding a home.
“I don’t understand,” I say as he hits the button on his key fob, opening the Camaro’s trunk.
He tosses his bags in, turns and reaches for mine, and says, “What’s not to understand? You’re about to graduate and will need a place to live soon.” The rest of the bags secured in the trunk, he closes it and faces me. “Move in with me, Roxie Rambling.”
My head spins. “What—why are you doing this?”
He seems oblivious to the swarms of people in the parking lot, walking to and fro, as he palms my hips and leans in to kiss me. His lips are gentle yet firm. They’re telling me to shut the hell up. So, I do.
Slater wants me to move in with him.
This is too fast. It’s too much.
But damn, he sure is a good kisser.
He dips his tongue into my mouth as if to prove my point. Any lame arguments for why I shouldn’t move in with him fizzle out the longer our lips remain locked, and eventually, he beats my impulse to decline into submission.
When the kiss breaks, I’m dizzy. “I’ll pay rent,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath.
He nods. “Fair enough.”
Okay. That’s good. It means this isn’t as serious as I thought.
“You can pay rent in sexual favors,” he jokes.
I laugh. “Oh yeah? What about Savage? I’m gonna pay him in BJs and booty calls too?”
Possessiveness clouds his green eyes like a thunderhead. “You’re never giving another man a blow job, Roxie Rambling. That mouth, this dick,” he flexes his groin into me, “that’s all folks, the end.”
“Mr. Slater, it sounds like you’re trying to corner me into a … what’s the word?” I playfully stroke my chin. “Commitment?”
“Consider it a rental agreement.”
Now I really laugh. “You think you got enough money to rent me? Son, this bitch is priceless.” I point to myself.
His wry smile turns softer. “Move in with me,” he says again, this time more like a request than a command.
“We hardly know each other,” I protest.
“Then consider it on a trial basis, starting tonight,” he says, tugging me closer by the belt loops. “It only makes sense. You need a place to live. I need you. Let’s give it a whirl and see what happens.”
I sigh. “Trial. That means if things don’t work out, I can leave at any time.”
“Yes.”
“And I will pay rent. That’s the only way I’ll agree to it,” I say, pointing a finger at him. Not sure where I’ll get the money, but my pride won’t let me take anything from him for free. It doesn’t feel right. Gramamma would want me to provide for myself. I can do it. I know I can. Even if I have to resort to substitute teaching or worse to make ends meet.
“Rent is due the first of the month,” he negotiates. “Initial payment is due the month after you find a job. Until then, I got you covered.”
I bite my lip. “I guess that means I better step up the search for employment, starting tonight. Roxie Rambling don’t take no handouts, Mr. Slater.”
He seems to consider my counteroffer for a long moment.
“I can accept that. Do we have a deal?” Slater arches a hopeful brow and thrusts his hand out to me.
I clasp it and squeeze with a stiff pump. “Deal.”
He kisses me to seal our bargain.
Enveloped in all that is Slater, my heart sings.
It sings so loud, my ass begins to sway to the music playing in my head. I get a solid twerk going, and Slater breaks the kiss to see what’s happening back there. He laughs as I shake it like I mean it and make up a celebratory rap on the fly:
Roxie may be Rambling,
but she ain’t handling
the news of her move from dorm
to the storm
of Jack Slater’s abode,
tucked in bed with a growed-
up man who can body my slam
like fried Spam
On the court we enemies
But in bed we the best of these
(I heft my boobs and make some pretty cleavage with them.)
Times of trouble
Ain’t a burst of a bubble
It’s all good
In this neighborhood
’Cause Roxie’s movin’ in
Gettin’ with him
A couple college students walk past and nod appreciatively at me.
“What up, homies?” I yell and then point to Slater. “I’m movin’ in with him!”
They lift their fists in solidarity.
Slater’s bent over, laughing his ass off. He straightens, leans back, and howls at the top of his lungs, “Roxie Rambling’s my new roomie! Be jealous, people of Atlanta!”
Claps rise from various spots in the parking lot. Someone yells, “Congratulations!”
Now I’m laughing too. Today has been the most fun I’ve had in ages.
I fling myself into Slater’s open arms. He lifts me, the toes of my brand-new high-tops dangling a couple inches above the ground, and kisses me again. I curl around him, and he walks me awkwardly to the passenger door. When our lips part, he opens it and sets me down.
Staring into my eyes with happiness that mirrors mine, he says, “Let’s go home.”
* * *
ASSESSMENT: Roxie accepted compliments and kindness with gratitude. EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS.
Congradulations
[Slater]
* * *
LEARNING GOAL: Jack Slater will adjust his teaching style to meet the needs of all his students.
A couple weeks of sheer bliss after Roxie moves in, Dragov shows up in the middle of language arts and quietly takes a seat in the back of the room. My nuts don’t crawl up into my anal cavity and lodge themselves there. I don’t clench my butt cheeks in mortal fear of the Dragonlady casting her evil eye upon my person. My upper lip doesn’t even break a sweat.
The classroom bustles with activity, but it’s controlled, not too loud despite the laptops scattered over the desks with happy little fingers clicking away at the keyboards. The kids are so busy working, they don’t even notice Dragov. She casually opens her folder and writes something down. I nod to her
and continue helping Quentin with a question he asked about the video edit he’s working on.
I don’t fear the Dragonlady anymore. She cannot hurt me. With my goddess Roxie by my side, I am a Teflon god.
The scene is quite a contrast to the last time Dragov came in. Everyone’s on task. No one’s asking about licking pussies, and even Attila is completely focused on his job of typing subtitles and integrating them into his portion of the video. Roxie kneels at eye level beside him, complimenting his word choice.
“I really like what I see, Attila,” she says, standing up to move on to the next student. “As soon as you finish, I want you to help Lizbeth clean up the audio that goes with this part.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Attila says and dutifully returns to his task.
A slight blush warms Roxie’s fawn-brown cheeks when she notices Dragov, and I tumble down the tunnel of love for the thousandth time. Funny how having Roxie here negates any possibility of Dragov royally pissing me off. I can’t even be arsed to care. I have Roxie, and our kids are kicking ass.
Screw you, Dragov, and the butt-dragon you rode in on.
The lesson continues that way for several minutes until Dragov gets up and weaves among the desks, stopping to ask kids questions about what they’re doing. The students answer respectfully, if a little excitedly, and I know we’ve got the Dragonlady by the balls. I silently dare her to even think about giving me a bad evaluation after this.
At the end of class, Dragov quietly leaves without comment. As Roxie and I head out for hall duty, she asks under her breath, “What do you think? Will we escape her scythe or is the fatal blow coming?”
I tell a couple of kids to quit the horseplay and reply softly, “We nailed it.”
A slow, proud smile brews on her face. “That’s what I thought too. Score for Slater and Rambling.”
Later, when the kids are gone to their connections classes, the team gathers in Witcher’s room. She opens one of the millions of bags tucked behind her desk and withdraws a cake, some paper plates, and plastic forks—each within its own bag. She sets the lot down on the cluster of desks we’re sitting around. The cake says “Congradulations.”
“What’s this for?” Vino asks, her eyes less glassy than usual. She’s not slurring her words today, and I noticed the closet connecting our rooms hasn’t carried its usual parfum de Golden Grain in a week or so.
For those of you shaking your heads over my apparent lack of interference, I can neither confirm nor deny that Vino has ever drunk liquor on the job. I’ve never uncovered any alcohol in our shared science closet or seen her drinking at school. The few times I’ve been close enough to smell her, her breath carried a twang of Cheetos, not Everclear. Whatever the case, Vino seems more energetic and focused lately. I’ll take it as a positive sign.
Witcher cuts off a slice of the cake and dumps it onto one of the plates. She passes it to Roxie.
“I went to the grocery for a cake, and this one was on sale for half price. They said it was a mistake.”
Using the cake-covered knife, she points to the “d” in place of the “t” that should have spelled “Congratulations.”
“But I thought it was appropriate for us,” Witcher says.
“Who are we congratulating?” Love asks.
Witcher hands me a piece. “Ourselves. Have y’all seen what these kids did for Roxie’s project? I’ve been teaching for twenty-four years, and never have I had a group of children pull up their bootstraps and belt out something like this. Do you know Attila Reardon told me today that he’s gonna be a movie producer when he grows up? And he only called me a B-I-T-C-H under his breath this time, not to my face. Y’all, we have accomplished something special, and it’s all thanks to Roxie.”
Roxie lowers her head. I want to lick the blush off her cheeks.
“Thank you, Mrs. Witcher,” she says. “I really appreciate that. I know most of y’all didn’t have the … uh … pleasure of teaching me when I was a student here, and you’re probably glad. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”
“About you blowing Michael Moon behind the library?” Love asks with a curious spark in her eye.
So, the little limp-dick bastard has a name. I mentally scribble it into the number four position on my shit list, right behind Darcy Kuntz, Sharon Dragov, and Keith Kuntz respectively.
Roxie twists her neck and lifts a playful hand at Love. “Let’s not get confused. It was in the library stairwell, and to hear Michael tell about it, he was a marathon man with the biggest penis I’d ever seen. Truth was, it didn’t happen. He tried to get me to … you know … but he wasn’t … up for it.”
See! I knew he was a limp dick!
“So, you didn’t blow him?” Love asks, surprised.
My attention piqued, I arch a brow, eager to hear Roxie’s answer.
“Nope,” Roxie says. “Of course, no one believed me, but I never touched him. I was laughing too hard.”
Aww, Roxie. My heroine. Serves the little fucker right.
Witcher’s eyes pop wide open, and for a second, I wonder if she’s having a heart attack. I look around on her desk for the nitro tablets I know she keeps handy, but the space is covered by too many bags to count. She quickly swallows some water from the cup beside her and buries her attention in cake. I guess she’s okay.
“In other words, Roxie-with-an-ie Rambling wasn’t half the hell-raiser she wanted everyone to believe back in the day.” I flip my thumb up at her. “That’s a huge weight off my shoulders. I can finally sleep.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Roxie mumbles.
Vino and Love chuckle. Witcher pretends she’s unamused, but I see the smile she smuggles in between bites of cake.
“But seriously,” Roxie says once everyone gets the giggles out of their systems, “when I look at the kids in our class, I see the younger me, and it hurts sometimes. Nobody ever said I was worth a damn in middle school. Nobody ever said they believed in me. And their lack of belief was something I just accepted. If I hadn’t had an adult who loved me enough to intervene on my behalf, I’m not sure where I’d be now. But it definitely wouldn’t be here.
“On behalf of all the students who come from less-than-desirable circumstances, from broken homes, from parents who shouldn’t be allowed to bear the title, and from unfortunate situations beyond anyone’s control, thank you for taking a chance on us.”
“I have to admit, I wasn’t sure about the project at first,” Vino says, “but I love the direction we’ve taken our team. I’ll be sad to see you go, Roxie.”
Then it hits me.
Roxie’s practicum will end soon. She’ll graduate and look for a job, and I won’t see her at work every day. Even though we’ll still be together, we won’t be together here. Bracken Middle is our home, our birthplace. The beginning of The Rambling and Slater Story. The thought of someone writing her out of it crushes me. Her absence will be deeply felt by our kids too.
How the hell will I teach without her? How will our students learn without her?
Roxie must’ve noticed the panic flit across my face. She stares at me and offers a gentle, beautiful smile that says Don’t worry. I got you.
Goddamn it. Always strong, even at her lowest, she has a way of flipping me on my ass without ever lifting a finger.
I push my worry aside for now, but it’s not going away. It’s just on hold for a little while.
“When do we get to unveil the video?” Witcher asks, interrupting my tempestuous thoughts.
“We’re tentatively set to go live on Monday,” Roxie says. “I’ve already spoken to Mrs. Lance about broadcasting it on the morning announcements, and she says once we get approval from Dr. Dragov, we’re all set.”
“When are you gonna show the Dragonlady the finished product?” Love asks.
Roxie sucks in a deep breath. “The students have until sixth period to make their final changes. I plan to email it to Dr. Dragov right after school.”
“Do you ne
ed a support group to help you click the send button?” Love asks. “A bon voyage party for the video? I can whip something up right quick.” It sounds like a jest, but I’m pretty sure she means it.
Roxie grins. “I’m not worried. I know how hard our students have worked, and I couldn’t ask for more. This is their baby, not mine. I’m just a proud auntie.”
Her courage is something to behold. Though I’ve been involved with the project on a daily basis, I haven’t seen anything close to the finished product. I don’t know how good it’ll be because I’ve left the room to give Roxie as much time to work with our students on her own as I could. Because it’s not just the kids who need to learn. She does too. And the only way to figure out what works is to try it, see what happens, take the feedback—good and bad—and make adjustments as necessary.
Everything on paper is as it should be. What’s on the video is to be determined.
“I’ll pray for you,” Love jokingly tells Roxie as she finishes off her last bite of cake.
“We’ll all pray for you,” Witcher adds with a smile.
We go through our usual team meeting stuff and break up to return to our rooms shortly after. Once I get Roxie alone, I shut the door, take her hand, and kiss it.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t a better teacher for you in eighth grade,” I tell her. I’ve already apologized, but it can’t hurt to reiterate. “I had a lot to learn about how to treat students. Most of it, you taught me, eight years too late. I may not have believed in you then, but I swear to God, I do now. And not just you. I believe in Quentin and Catrese and even Attila. Those kids have worked their asses off. They’ve defied expectations, and they put me in my place.
“I’ll never disregard a kid in my class again. If Roxie Rambling and Attila Reardon can turn their royal failures around, anyone can.” Then I quickly qualify that last bit. “Not that you’re a failure. The failure was mine—my perception, my expectations, my belief in you was what was wrong. Not you.”
She slides her hands up my chest and rests them on my shoulders. “You can stop talking now and start kissing me.”
