by Kendall Day
“Right here? At school? What if someone sees us?” I tease.
She glances up front to the table with the slightly bent legs. “That table’s seen far worse, and it hasn’t told anyone about us. Let the rest of them get a glimpse of what it did and be jealous,” she breathes into my lips just before she tags them.
My hands fly to her waist and hold there a few seconds. Then they ease down to squeeze her ass for the duration of the kiss.
My ass. My tits. My Roxie.
When she pulls away, I say, “I have this secret fantasy about bending you over my desk and spanking your bare butt with a paddle. You’d wear a schoolgirl plaid skirt with no underwear and one of my white button-down shirts with a tie. Extra long.”
I scoot closer and cup her face with both hands. Imagining her in that getup sends a fresh rush of blood south. “I’d explore never-before-discovered uses for that tie. Enough to write a book. What do you think of the title One Hundred and One Uses for a Hipster’s Tie on a Naughty Intern’s Body in a Classroom Setting? We could be millionaires.”
She presses her hips into me, squashing my erect dick and rubbing it just enough to get my attention. “You wear the skirt, give me the paddle and control of the tie, and you’ve got a deal,” she purrs with a sultry smile.
I’m man enough to admit I consider it.
* * *
ASSESSMENT: Slater owned up to his previous mistakes and made corrections, resulting in a kick-ass observation. EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS.
Victorious B.I.G.
[Rambling]
* * *
LEARNING GOAL: Roxie Rambling will employ her basketball skills to create learning opportunities for others.
Two days go by without a word from Dr. Dragov. She emailed Slater a solid review on his recent teacher observation with no “Needs Improvements,” but she hasn’t said a word to either of us about the video I sent. I’m beginning to appreciate Slater’s nickname for her. The Dragonlady is cold-blooded as hell.
The kids are getting as anxious as I am. Attila has stopped by our room between every single period and asked if I’ve heard anything yet about when the video will go live on the closed-circuit TV during morning announcements.
During afternoon dismissal, the vibe in the room is electric as the kids chatter excitedly about the project. It’ll be such a disappointment if Dragov turns them down. This is a major point of pride for our kids. It might make or break some of them, Attila especially. He’s obsessed with getting the video seen outside of our little classroom.
Attila approaches Slater and me with his usual I am king of the world, and I don’t give a fuck what you think of me swagger. “Yo, Mr. Slater,” he says wearing his trademark sly grin. He glances between Slater and me. “Y’all got in trouble, didn’t you?”
Slater straightens. “In trouble for what?”
“Them rumors I started about you.” Attila’s expression is unreadable. With him, you can’t tell if he’s for real or just trying to start shit. Usually, he’s trying to start shit. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him serious except when he was editing video and cracking jokes for the camera, which is so ironic.
Slater reaches out to pat Attila’s arm, but he stops himself. We’re not supposed to touch kids, but sometimes I wish I could hug them.
“It’s all good, Attila,” Slater blows him off.
“But, did you get in trouble?” Attila presses. A little ridge appears between his brows. He almost seems … worried. What’s up with that?
Slater shrugs. “Depends on your definition.”
“Are you gonna get fired?” Attila asks, dropping the I’m trying to act black thing. His bottom lip quivers.
Slater glances to me and slowly shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Not unless you know something I don’t.”
Attila’s shoulders lift with a sigh. “I hope not.”
Slater quirks his head. “No? Maybe you’d get a better teacher. Like Miss Rambling here. You like her, don’t you?”
Attila flicks a look at me and drops his gaze shyly. “She’s a’ight.”
Annnd, black is back.
“Just a’ight?” Slater teases.
The secretary’s voice interrupts us through the intercom. “Bus 88 is here. Students riding bus 88 are dismissed.”
“Y’all’s both a’ight,” Attila says. “I like y’all a hell of a lot better now.”
With that, he turns and skips out of the room behind the rest of the kids heading for the bus to my old neighborhood. He grabs the door frame to swing around it and looks back at us with a smile before disappearing. I’ll take it as genuine.
“Has hell frozen over? What was that about?” Slater says to me as soon as the room is clear.
“That was Attila Reardon’s way of saying ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry for putting you through so much crap,’” I reply, remembering how it feels to be a stubborn kid and wanting to apologize, but not knowing how to do it without exposing more vulnerability than I was willing to show. I always regretted keeping my “sorry” to myself when the opportunity had already passed. Man, if I had a nickel for every time that happened, my student loans would be paid off.
Another intercom interruption, this time from Dr. Dragov. “Mr. Slater, can you come see me in my office?”
Slater’s eyebrow arches. “Be right there.”
“Bring your student teacher,” she replies. Dead air follows.
Slater and I exchange looks. A stream of panic surges up from my chest, tightening my throat.
“This is it,” I whisper, fanning my face. “Why didn’t she say anything? Does she hate it? Or is this about us? Is she reporting you to the Professional Standards Commission? Oh God, I think I’m hyperventilating.”
With no warning, Slater dips into my mouth with a sweet kiss that hushes me and my doubts. His lips move like they’re leading us in a slow dance, dragging me closer and closer into him until all the worry drifts away. I submit and melt into his arms.
“No doubts,” he whispers against my mouth. He stares into my eyes with stoic confidence. “You’re Roxie Rambling. You got this. And I got you.”
I release my breath slowly, focusing on the air moving out, and I banish my fears with it. I look up into Slater’s eyes, fortified by him and his belief in me. “I’m Roxie Rambling. I got this.”
He smiles, grabs me by the shoulders, and points me to the door.
Dragov is waiting for us when we arrive in the office. I’ve never set foot in her lair, but it’s exactly as I imagined. Cold and utilitarian, just like her.
“Have a seat,” Dragov says and shuts the door.
Slater and I assume the chairs opposite her as she sits behind her desk and wiggles her mouse. She shifts the monitor so we can see it. The computer wakes up to display a frozen frame of our project. I swallow hard.
“I’ve had a chance to review your video,” she says, clicking the play button.
Weeks of work condensed into a three-minute-thirty-seven-second run time fill the screen, and pride filters through me. No matter how many times I watch the finished product, it always gives me chills and a sense of accomplishment. Not to mention the heart flutters I get when I think about the huge favors Slater called in to his friends around the state who came and volunteered their time and resources to boost the students’ skills in persuasive writing, script writing, video production, and so much more. Without his help and faith in me and the students, the video would never have happened. I owe him big time.
Catrese opens the first scene, holding a microphone. The ticker at the bottom reads Catrese Mayfield, Bracken Middle School Student and Reporter Extraordinaire. All the descriptions are loaded with empowering epithets like hers. I insisted that every kid who has a speaking role evaluate his or her greatest strength and include it in their title.
“This is Catrese Mayfield,” she says, “your friendly reporter from Bracken Middle School. I’m here talking with some sixth-grade students about their favorite things about our school.
Let’s listen.”
“My favorite thing about Bracken is my friends,” one of the kids with a severe speech disorder says slowly and clearly. He had to practice his segment for hours, and his hard work paid off. The video cuts to him and some other students working in a group, helping each other with a math problem using manipulatives.
“I love my teachers,” a shy girl says in voice-over as the video shows her squeezing Love around the waist. A mob of other kids bounce around Love, all trying to steal hugs. “They care about their students and help them learn.”
The scene shifts to the gym and shows Attila and Quentin shooting hoops with Coach Poss. He counsels them individually and demonstrates how to adjust the angle of release for a better chance at hitting the net. Attila scores in the next frame and jumps up and down, laughing. Then he busts into a crazy dance while shouting, “Whoop! There it is!” Attila’s ticker reads Attila Reardon, Bracken Middle School Student and Chief Laugh Maker.
One by one, students I’ve personally watched struggling in class, who’ve been frustrated by not “getting it,” who’ve confessed they felt dumb, come out of their shells into the spotlight as changed individuals.
They help one another. The teachers help them. They transform from sad, bored, or angry kids into ones who have purpose and goals. They laugh. They dance. They sing. They shine. The passion, motivation, and happiness in their eyes is contagious as the video shows them learning, growing, and thriving in warm, nurturing environments throughout the building.
Even the adults have fun. We caught Vino turning a cartwheel in the hallway and Witcher doing a celebratory dance after a kid answered a question correctly during a review game of trashketball. (The trashket was, of course, a giant black bag.) Wearing a purple party hat, Officer Acuff led a group of kids in singing “Happy Birthday” to Mrs. Amity in the front office.
In those short three and a half minutes, our students managed to spotlight kids from all three grades—special ed kids, kids with developmental issues, gifted kids, non-English-speaking kids, kids with behavior problems, kids with physical disabilities, and every other kid in between. They did it in a way that showed the very best side of a truly kick-ass school in the most favorable light possible. And in the process, they strengthened and lifted up a community of young people who desperately needed to feel like they’re special and loved.
The video is pure art. It’s pure heart. And I could not be prouder.
“Bracken Middle,” Attila says in the final sequence, arms crossed over his chest and grinning from ear to ear, “school of excellence, rising to eminence.”
The image of his big, genuine smile freezes, and Dragov turns the monitor back in place.
“I sent this to the superintendent and the Board of Education members,” she says.
“Oh,” I say, unsure of how to react. Is that good? Is she mad? Did she think the kids’ rapping and dancing was inappropriate? Am I gonna graduate?
“What did they think?” Slater asks. I notice he neglected to ask what she thought. He probably doesn’t give a shit what she thinks.
Dr. Dragov turns away from the screen, folds her hands in front of her, and says, “They want to post it on the county’s website as an advertisement for the school system.”
“So, they liked it,” Slater says, nodding. “As they should.”
To my surprise, Dragov nods too. “As they should,” she repeats.
Then, she focuses her icy blue eyes on me. A chill shoots up my spine.
“Miss Rambling,” she begins, “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Bracken Middle has been the subject of a lot of scrutiny over the last few years. The previous administration earned a reputation for … not always putting the students’ needs first. I was brought in to combat the decline in test scores, to bolster morale,” I nearly choke on that one, “and to ensure that the teachers here are putting forth their best efforts to promote student success, despite the challenges we face with budget cuts and reduced staffing.”
She straightens, and a flicker of bloodlust flares her pupils. “I’m the person districts call in to produce results.”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am.” Not sure where she’s going with this.
“Despite my record of sifting through the dregs to bring the cream to the top where staff is concerned,” Dragov glances at Slater, “I occasionally make mistakes. I may have made one with you, Mr. Slater. For that, I owe you an apology.”
A condescending grin eases over Slater’s face. He’s reveling in Dragov’s discomfort. “Apology accepted.”
“However,” she continues. There’s always a catch, isn’t there? “My apology doesn’t excuse your behavior where Miss Rambling is concerned. I’ve spoken with her supervisor and we agree that whatever’s going on between you should stay between you, off campus. We don’t need any further rumors or disruptions at this school.”
Her stern glare makes my toes curl inside my shoes. It’s the same glare Gramamma turned on me when I acted up in middle school. Dragov may have just stolen ten years from my life with that look. Damn, she’s good.
Slater shrugs and says with a sarcastic bow of his head, “Your wish is my command.”
If I weren’t so scared of the Dragonlady, I’d laugh at his brazenness. God, I love this man’s balls. Both the literal and figurative ones.
A cold blue fire lights behind her eyes, but she doesn’t comment on his flippant response. Instead she says, “Regarding the video … with Miss Rambling’s permission, it’ll be linked to the district’s website, the county and school Facebook pages, and the Georgia state education website.”
I frown. I misunderstood what she said. “Wait. What?”
For the first time in the months that I’ve been at Bracken Middle School, I see Dr. Dragov … smile. Like, with teeth—not fangs.
I didn’t know it was possible. I was certain her face had been permanently molded into a scowl at birth. She never smiles at teachers, students, or even the office staff that surrounds her eight hours a day. The woman is a stone-faced dragon.
Until now.
Slater and I stare at each other, and we smile too.
“You mean …” I say.
“State site?” he says.
“Our superintendent sent it to the state superintendent, and he forwarded it to the governor,” Dragov says. “They want this video seen by everyone. They loved it.”
Every hair on my body stands at attention, and I jump out of my seat. I do a victory twerk while singing the chorus of Notorious B.I.G.’s “Sky’s the Limit.”
Dragov’s eyes nearly pop out her head. Slater belly laughs and jumps up to join me. We must look like two complete fools, but I don’t even care.
“We did it!” I say once I catch my breath.
“I’m so proud of you, Roxie,” Slater says.
Dragov clears her throat loudly, and Slater and I resume our seats. It’s all I can do not to scream.
“So, do we have your permission?” the Dragonlady asks.
I nod eagerly. “Yes, of course, Dr. Dragov.”
“I’ll have Jo coordinate with the county to clear parent approval for widespread distribution, but our initial check shows all the students have signed media waivers. Shouldn’t be a problem. In the meantime, I’ve turned the video over to the morning announcement team to roll on Monday. Congratulations.”
Slater and I stand. “Thank you so much, Dr. Dragov. It’s been a pleasure working with these students. Literally, the highlight of my college career. It’ll be a great thing to put on my résumé once I start looking for …” I turn to Slater and my heart clenches suddenly at the thought of not working with him for much longer, “jobs.”
Swallow.
“Good luck.” Dragov nods and returns to her computer. The smidge of kindness that leaked out from the crack in her stern face has already disappeared. Shame. She actually has a nice smile.
Slater and I ease out of the office and go back to our room. I’m grinning like an idiot the entire wa
y.
“I think we should celebrate,” I say.
Slater arches a brow. “Yes. We should. The celebration should involve you and me, no clothes, and our bed. All weekend long. The only food we’ll eat is delivery because we’ll be so wrapped up in banging each other’s brains out, we won’t be able to leave the duplex.”
“That sounds great, but I was thinking of something a little different to start the weekend off.”
He slips me a yielding smile. “You’re the boss.”
“Yes,” I say. “I am.”
Two hours later, Slater and I face off on the basketball court at the housing projects where Gramamma and I used to live. He didn’t question my choice of venue for our little “party.” He simply slipped on his basketball shoes, a pair of shorts, and a T-shirt when we got home and hopped back in the car to drive us over.
I didn’t have to change my shoes. I wear my new high-tops every day, even with skirts.
I dribble the ball while looking him in the eyes with my best Dragonlady stare. I like to use intimidation to get under my opponent’s skin. A little boob jiggle would help my cause, but I’m not playing dirty today. This is one pickup game that won’t end with me pinned to a pole, grinding on my man in the rain.
With a quick fake to the left, I dart around Slater’s defenses for a layup that scores me a point. Slater pulls some fancy footwork with a spin and a lucky shot from just outside the three-point line that nets him two.
I love battling him on the court. I go easy on him most of the time, but he does have a mean pair of arms. Sometimes he gives me a run for my money. The same competition drives us in the classroom. We thrive on the back-and-forth no matter what we’re doing. I love that about us.
About fifteen minutes later, we finish our game. I let Slater win, and he knows it.
“You coulda blocked me on that one,” he says, wiping his face with the hem of his T-shirt, flashing some of the yummy six-pack underneath. I’ll rake my nails down that washboard later.
