See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  She rears back. “Wow, you’re something else.” She shakes her head, moving to her desk. “Principal Dewitt has the utmost respect for you.” She gives me a slow once over. “I can’t possibly see why. You’ve been nothing but an ass to me since I arrived.”

  “Respect isn’t just given, you have to earn it,” I reply.

  “Clearly.” Folding her arms, she turns to face me. “So what is it, Arlo? Why are you so hostile around me? Does it really stem from the interview? Because we’re fighting and I have no idea why. Did you want someone else to be hired?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Oh, so you’re being a petulant child because you didn’t get your way. I get it.”

  “I’m not being a petulant child,” I say. “I didn’t care who got the job, all I cared about was hiring an individual whose teaching abilities matched the Forest Heights standards. Your predecessor came in with the same unconventional attitude as you did, and do you know what happened?”

  “They were well received by the students?” She smacks on a charming smile.

  “No, he got caught up in being friends with the students, lost control of the classroom, preliminary test scores dropped drastically, and I was forced to step in and help tutor his failing students. I spent what little free time I had making sure his students were prepared. I refuse to let that happen again.”

  The anger on her face slightly dissipates as she says, “Well, that’s not going to be me.”

  I gesture to her room, and say, “From what I’ve heard so far, from what I’ve experienced, and from your lack of professionalism in the classroom, I’d say you’re going to be worse.”

  “Lack of professionalism? Uh, hello, kettle, you’re black.”

  “If I’m showing any hints of being unprofessional, it’s because you’ve driven me past a point of irritation today. You realize you’ve set a standard today for those students, letting them know they’re here to goof off, instead of instilling in them the expectations you’re going to have of them? But, then again, you’re used to the cacophonous noise of a rowdy gym atmosphere. Your athletic credentials by far exceed your teaching credentials . . .”

  Straightening, Greer asks, “Are you saying I got the job because I can coach volleyball?”

  “Sure as hell didn’t get it because you know how to ceremoniously lead a chant.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she shoots back, coming up to me again, her body now inches from mine as she stands five inches shorter than me.

  “This is your first teaching job, correct?”

  “Yes,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. Striking the defense, didn’t see that coming. Sense the sarcasm?

  “And you realize Forest Heights is one of the premier high schools in the country, academically, right?”

  “Well aware.”

  “And that since we’re so close to Brentwood University and their rich athletic program, we have to compete with the legacy of excellent athletics in the area.”

  “Your point?” she asks, sounding exasperated.

  “You weren’t hired because you can convince a group of hormonal teenagers to clap and stomp together about loving books. You were hired for your athletic résumé. Nothing more.”

  “And why is that a problem?”

  “Because you fall under my department,” I say, taking a step closer. Her fresh scent of mint and lavender crawl into my space, but I don’t allow the sweet smell to distract me. “I don’t mess around, Miss Gibson. When the PARCC testing comes around, I hold all teachers in the English department to the same standard. It’s why we’re the best public high school in the country. I’ll be damned if that changes because Principal Dewitt felt we needed a coach over a teacher.”

  Her lips purse to the side as she studies me, silence heavy, like a vacuum sucking the air between us. “Thou art so easy to judge, Arlo Turner.”

  My brow quirks up. “Was that your pitiful attempt at Shakespeare?”

  “Did it not impress your hoity underpants?”

  “No. Now if you’d have said ‘Thou art a boil. A plague soul, an embossed carbuncle’ like in King Lear, then I’d have been impressed. Alas, you once again disappoint me.”

  Her eyes narrow. “If you insist on being a prick, I suggest you leave, because I have nothing else to say to you.”

  Hands in my pockets, I take a small step back. With my eyes trained on hers, I say, “Keep it down, or I’ll be sure to let Principal Dewitt know you’re distracting my students from their learning.”

  “Of course you would.” She motions two fingers across her forehead. “You have tattletale written all over you.” She walks back to her desk and mutters, “Narc.”

  Without another word, I turn on my heel and head back to my classroom.

  I gave her fair warning.

  Let’s just hope she takes it.

  Chapter Three

  GREER

  “Why didn’t you tell me Turner was going to be such an asshole?”

  “Mr. Turns Me On is an asshole?” Stella asks sarcastically as she stands next to me, clipboard in hand, assessing the tryout warmups. “Hard to tell when I can’t stop staring at his ass in jeans. I mean . . . have you looked at it?”

  Unfortunately.

  And it’s nice.

  But not as nice as his eyes.

  Or expansive hands.

  Or the indent between his pecs that his T-shirts effortlessly show.

  “No, I haven’t,” I lie through my teeth. “I’ve only been privy to his obnoxious and stuffy personality.” Calling out to the girls who are currently doing plyometrics, I say, “Get those butts lower.”

  “Did you have a run-in with him today?”

  “You could say that. He came storming into my classroom during lunch to let me know exactly how he felt about my day one amp up.”

  “Not a fan?”

  “Not even a little. He made it quite clear he’s not a fan of me.”

  “Well, we knew that, but he outright said it? Impressive.”

  “Yup,” I say, clapping my hands, encouraging the girls from the sidelines. “Told me I wasn’t hired based on my teaching credentials and he’ll be damned if I bring down his precious statewide testing scores. Like . . . get a life, dude, there’s more to life than tests.”

  Stella shakes her head. “Not with Turner. Those exams are his life. And I’m not taking his side, trust me, but now that I think about it, I do remember Brock and Gunner telling me about all the extra hours Arlo was putting in for Gregory Hiddleson, the teacher before you. He was truly annoyed by it, but that’s how dedicated he is to it. He’ll pick up the slack for other teachers to make sure the students are prepared. I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but he’s helped bring Forest Heights to its premier status, plus he made the opt-in option for out-of-school-boundaries open to low-income families only.”

  I pause. “Did he really?”

  Stella nods. “Yup. It’s important to him that everyone gets a fair shot at a great education. That doesn’t mean he takes it easy on anyone, because he doesn’t, but he still is quite aware that we’re a rich school in the suburbs of Chicago.”

  “I see.” I chew on that information, sort of wishing he was more of a dick. I still feel angry that he judged me so . . . fiercely. I graduated top of my class and received excellent referrals from my student-teaching mentors. For that reason, I’m trying not to take his words to heart. But . . .

  “He’s still an asshole.” Stella nudges my shoulder.

  Perking up, I nod. “One hundred percent.”

  “And I think you should continue to teach the way you know best.”

  “Agreed.” I lift my chin. “And if it drives him crazy, then that’s his problem.”

  “Honestly, him coming to your classroom today, telling you—”

  “He said he’d tell Dewitt.”

  Stella pauses and slowly turns toward me. “He didn’t.”

  I nod. “He did.”
>
  “Well then . . .” She puffs out her chest. “It’s one thing to be an asshole, it’s another to threaten my friend. With Gregory, he went to Dewitt as well—I mean, it was justified, but I think we need to get Mr. Turns Me On to loosen up a bit so he’s not associating you with Gregory.”

  “Why do you have that conniving look on your face?”

  “He needs to learn to have some fun.”

  “What’s your version of fun?” I ask.

  “This means war.”

  “War?” Uh, that doesn’t sound good, and I am the new girl. Is this a risk I shouldn’t be taking?

  “Yup. War . . . and I know exactly who to ask for help.”

  * * *

  “I fail to recognize how irritating Arlo Turner falls on my shoulders.” Keiko adjusts her goggles before measuring out a blue solution into a thin beaker.

  Exasperated, Stella says, “It doesn’t fall on your shoulders, Keeks. We’d like your assistance. And we’re not irritating him, we’re just . . . having fun.”

  “Why, precisely?”

  “Because he needs to learn to have fun, and we’re asking you for help, because you’re really smart and you have fun things in your lab that we could use to our advantage.”

  She straightens, and that’s when I get a good look at her slight shoulders in a boxy white lab coat, her safety goggles perfectly covering her green-rimmed glasses, and her long black hair tied into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wears science well. “My lab is meant for education, not for the purpose of a row of the sexes.”

  “This isn’t a row of the sexes.”

  I’ll be honest, what Stella is considering as fun doesn’t seem fun for Arlo—it might only piss him off more—but . . . the immature side of me can’t help but think he was a mean jerk face and he deserves Stella’s version of fun.

  He might have the school’s best interests at heart, but the dude has been a dick to me from the get-go. Instead of getting to know me, he’s prejudged me—ahem, Mr. Darcy—and that’s not fair.

  And also, I’ve read quite a few research papers about a positive work environment and the effects of a happy teacher in the classroom. A bright, cheery, and relaxed teacher encourages open minds, broadens the comfort level, and helps kids absorb more material. It’s time we help pull the stick out of Arlo’s ass and maybe show him what loosening up can do.

  Leaning on the table with her elbows—we’re both wearing safety gear as well, per Keiko’s demand—Stella says, “He was rude to our dear friend, Greer.”

  Cocking her head to the side, confusion laced in her brow, Keiko asks me, “Are we dear friends?”

  “Uh . . . aren’t we?”

  She studies me, and I have this tiny inkling that, in her head, she’s calculating my worth. She then turns to Stella. “Are we dear friends too?”

  “Hell yeah, girl. We always eat together in the teachers’ lounge. And remember that time we went to the bar together after our teacher fun league? You told me all about the gases on planet Earth and I actually learned something instead of going home with another ape of a man.”

  “I do recall those events but was unaware of the amplified attachment that materialized post ‘bar hang.’” Looking sincere, Keiko says, “We bonded.”

  “We did, Keeks. Why do you think I always hang out with you?”

  “Never gave it much consideration.”

  From across the science table, Stella nudges Keiko. “Well, consider us bonded. And because Greer is my friend, that automatically makes you friends, too.”

  Keiko shakes her head. “Not necessarily. There are circumstances to consider when bonding yourself with another human being. Just because you chose Greer to be part of your wolfpack doesn’t mean that, by default, I choose her as well.”

  Isn’t that nice?

  Turning to me, Keiko asks, “What do you have to offer me in friendship that’s different from what Stella offers me?”

  Uhhh . . .

  “Choosing cronies to associate yourself with is critical in the image you plan to portray to society. If I were to accept the comradery of everyone, what would that say about my character?”

  “That you’re a people person?” I ask, rather than state, wondering how on earth we got to this point in the conversation.

  “Precisely. And I’m not a people person. Therefore, it is within your best interest to acquaint me with your savviest attributes so I can formulate an educated decision if we should adhere ourselves in agreeability.”

  Exhausted from Keiko’s choice of words, I look to Stella, who’s now leaning on the table with one elbow, enjoying herself way too much. “Tell Keeks why you’re worthy of her friendship.”

  Okay, didn’t think this was going to be an interview, but I guess if I want her help, I’m going to have to convince her why . . .

  “Well, I know how to keep secrets. I never gossip about my friends, which is important to me.”

  “Trust, don’t find that often in a world full of social media,” Stella says, while . . . oh Jesus, while Keiko is jotting down notes.

  When finished, she looks up at me and nods. “Proceed.”

  “Okay . . . uh . . . I know how to cook.”

  “Love a good homemade meal, don’t you know, Keeks?” Stella asks while rubbing her stomach.

  After writing something down, Keiko looks up and answers, “My attempts at being an accomplished hand in the kitchen have been feeble at best. Having a friend who is consummate in culinary dexterity would be quite favorable. What would be your most polished dish?”

  “Boxed mac and cheese,” I answer. She frowns and starts to write a note. “Wait, I was kidding. That was a joke.”

  “Ah . . . uproarious.” She makes another note.

  I hope that’s a good funny. She didn’t laugh, just let out a soft snort.

  “I can make a ton of different things, ranging from enchiladas to the classic meatloaf with accompanying sauce and mashed potatoes, to homemade pasta.”

  “I see.” She taps her chin with her pen. “And how do you fare with desserts?”

  “I, uh . . . I fare well. This past weekend, I made a homemade blueberry pie.”

  “Do you have evidence of this endeavor?” Keiko asks, looking over her notepad at me with a quirked eyebrow.

  “Yes. I do. I posted it on my Instagram. Humble brag, you know.” I pull out my phone and quickly click on the app, where I find the picture, and turn the screen toward Keiko.

  With a studious eye, she gives it a good look over and then writes something on her notepad. “Visually, it stimulates my appetite. But with no hashtag, no filter, how can I confirm the true nature of this picture?”

  “I didn’t think that was necessary. There’s no filter on this picture.”

  “Is there any left?”

  I wince. “Well, actually, I was hungover on Sunday, so I kind of might have sort have eaten the whole thing.”

  “Total consumption.” She nods, writes more notes, and then brings her clipboard to her chest, where she grips it tightly. “From this brief conversation, some quick calculations I’ve made, along with your admission to consuming your entire pie in one day, I can confidently surmise that we have the potential for friendship.”

  “Okay.” I glance over at Stella, still confused. “So . . . does that mean you’ll help us?”

  “It does. But . . . Greer, you are currently on a trial basis. If I don’t find our individual identities are compatible, then we must sever our coupling.”

  “Sure . . . yeah. But I really think we could be good friends.”

  “I concur with your hypothesis.” Keiko gives me a curt nod.

  I don’t know what just happened, but I guess I’m glad that it did. I have another friend, a friend who seems quite loyal once she’s attached. I need loyal right now, especially when my classroom neighbor is moody.

  “Good. Glad that’s solved,” Stella says, standing. “Now we need an action plan.”

  “Something subtle,
but also something that says don’t mess with us,” I add.

  “I say we start small, make him question what’s happening around him, and then slowly increase the severity of the pranks,” Stella says.

  Keiko nods in agreement. “Labored manipulation over a certain frequency has proven to be quite successful.” She flips the page of her notebook and rests it on the table. Pen poised, she says, “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  Masterfully, Keiko starts laying the groundwork as I smirk excitedly to myself.

  Arlo Turner is going to wish he never messed with me.

  Let’s just hope he doesn’t figure out it’s me . . . but even if he does, at least I know I have a little secret in my back pocket.

  Principal Nyema Dewitt really likes me.

  Really, really freaking likes me.

  At least that’s what I think.

  * * *

  “Robotics. Are you comfortable with such machinery?” Keiko taps her pen on the desk.

  “Uh, I haven’t really worked with anything robotic before.”

  “The only robotics experience I have is with my dildo,” Stella says, unwrapping one of the sandwiches we had delivered to school for lunch. “But that’s handheld, you know. It’s not like I’m using a remote control.”

  “Phallic mechanics doesn’t convert to the type of experience I’m pursuing.”

  “I played with a remote-control car once,” I offer.

  Keiko eyes meet mine. “Remember, we’re on a trial basis.”

  Laughing softly, I hold up her sandwich. “Turkey melt?”’

  She eyes it and then takes it from me. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  * * *

  “Explosive bubbles?” Stella asks. “That seems a little extreme.”

  “Although a great idea,” I say, treading carefully, you know, since I’m friends on a trial basis. “I think we need to consider what Arlo will be doing in the classroom. He’s won’t necessarily be playing around with bubbles while teaching AP English. The man couldn’t even stand a little music on the first day. I doubt he’s going to be dabbling in bubbles anytime soon.”