“What did he say?”
“He practically called me a babysitter, rather than a teacher.”
Stella lets out a low gasp. “No, he didn’t.”
I slowly nod. “Yup. Said my teaching was frivolous, that I don’t actually teach, but lean on cop-out techniques to teach the kids required material.”
“Because you help them better understand through visual representation?”
I nod.
Stella laughs. “That’s such bullshit. He’s pulling his snooty attitude on you, and we won’t stand for it.” She pounds the desk. “Doesn’t he know that not every teacher is the same? Just like every student isn’t the same. Ugh . . . what a tool bag.”
“Tool bag, a classic insult,” Keeks says, entering the classroom. “Derived from the mid-seventeenth century, willingly used to describe a skill-less person, which is quite contradictory given the purpose of a tool is to assist the Homo Sapien in completing tasks.” She hands me the ammonia. “Bag wasn’t added to the insult until recent years, indicating, not only are you a dupe, but you’re a whole bag of them.” She smiles at us.
“Didn’t know there was such a backstory to the term tool bag,” I say, feeling a little lighter thanks to Keeks and her unusual sense of humor. “I thought it was something frat boys came up with.”
She pushes her glasses up on her nose. “I perceive why you would jump to that hypothesis, but, dismally, the only accomplishments frat boys can lay claim to are the consumption of copious amounts of grain-infused malt liquor, corresponding macho-man-infused Olympics, and the capability of draining said liquor from a funnel straight into the esophagus without an extra cry for breath.”
“They’re also good at throwing parties,” Stella adds. “Not ashamed to admit I’ve been to a few.”
“We all have,” Keeks says with a sigh.
Uncapping the bottle of ammonia, I ask, “You’ve been to a frat party?”
She gestures toward her body. “Contrary to what you might postulate about me, I’m more than a wool skirt and glasses. I’ve acquired my equitable share of ‘fun.’” She brushes her gray-and-purple plaid skirt, smoothing out a wrinkle. “Back at university, I seldom attended a boisterous party. But there was one particularly raucous occasion when I forfeited my sensible brassiere after a riveting game of chess. I exhausted the rest of the evening with my mammaries twisting and turning with bare abandon in my practical party blouse. Quite the affair.”
“Keeks, braless, flapping her bosoms in the wind—this is something I’m going to have to see in person,” Stella says.
“You should be so lucky,” Keeks says with another smile, and I can’t help but notice the good mood she’s in. I don’t know Keeks very well yet, but I do like that, although she sounds so incredibly formal and stilted, she still has a kindness that pulls you in. I wonder if her students see that in her? Teenagers can be total shits, so I hope they’re not mean to her. Well, they probably are, so let’s hope she has a thick skin around that superpowered brain.
I drop the match heads in the ammonia and cap the bottle off again, giving it a good shake. It will take a few days for the stink to really build up, so I put the bottle in the bottom of my desk and say, “Did something happen to you this weekend?”
“Why? Do I look different?” Keeks asks, a smile still on her face.
“I mean, you’re smiling a lot.”
Stella nods while standing next to me, shoulder to shoulder, studying Keiko. “Yeah, you are smiling a lot.”
“Do you prefer I frown while promenading around with downturned shoulders, martyring the world with idiosyncrasies?”
“No,” Stella says, “but I do want you to give us the scoop about what you did this weekend.”
“Hey . . . Keiko,” a voice calls from my open door. Stella and I both look up to see Kelvin Thimble standing in the doorway, a huge smile on his face as well. “I assume you had a fair day yesterday?”
“Indeed.” Keeks gives him a curt nod. “Rather enjoyable. Thank you, Kelvin.”
“Okay. See you at lunch?”
“Affirmative.” And then Keeks turns toward us, a blush on her face.
When he’s out of earshot, Stella playfully pushes at Keeks’s shoulder. “Oh my God, Keeks, did Kelvin finally make a move?”
“If you’re referring to Kelvin Thimble approaching me with respect and courtesy to join in a courtship with him, then you would be correct.”
“A courtship, how romantic,” I say, bringing my hands to my chest. “What does that entail?”
“Exclusive companionship where we delight in each other’s minds.”
“Not his penis?” Stella asks, causing Keeks to frown.
“Dare I say that’s extremely forward of you, Stella. Why on earth would I handle his phallus at the inauguration of a courtship?”
Stella shrugs. “Because they’re fun to jiggle.”
I snort next to her.
“Sorry to say, but once you hover next to a flaccid penis and slowly drag your finger over it until it’s fully erect, it’s next to impossible to not want to do it over and over again.”
“I agree with that statement. Fascinating stuff, Keeks. Watching how one single flick of a finger can shoot a bout of blood to a man’s crotch in seconds.”
Keeks takes a pause, her head turned ever so slightly as she processes this information. “I’ve never considered the implications of experiencing the acts of the human anatomy firsthand. The opportunity to vividly experiment with the phallus permits great intrigue.” She taps her chin and moves toward the door. “The possibilities of surmounting the state of erection are endless. Variables such as fingers, hands, feathers all come to mind. What will procure the greatest arousal?”
“Don’t forget the female boob. An erect nipple is better than a finger,” Stella says.
“Quite right, quite right.” She waggles her finger. “I must converse with Kelvin. The theory of a nipple being greater than a finger holds great weight for conclusive evidence.”
And with that, she’s out the door, leaving Stella and I in a ball of laughter.
“Oh my God, Kelvin won’t even know what hit him,” I say.
“He won’t, but I have a feeling he’s not going to mind Keeks experimenting on him at all.”
“Depends. Think she’ll let him come?”
Stella gives it thought. “You know, Keeks very well might be the first crossover of nerdy scientist to experimental, phallus-checking dominatrix.”
“Is it weird that I picture her in a torn-up lab coat with a beaker as a probe?”
Stella laughs. “No, I have the same visual in my head.” Relaxing, she nudges me with my foot. “You good?”
“After that? Yeah, I’m good.”
“You better be.” Turning serious, she looks me in the eyes and says, “You’re a great teacher. You know what you’re doing, and Turner is going to rue the day he suggested you’re a babysitter rather than teacher.”
“Don’t mess with me.”
“Exactly.” Stella winks and heads toward my classroom door. “Just don’t fall for his charm, okay?”
My nose scrunches. “What charm?”
Stella sarcastically laughs. “Trust me, past the arrogance, there’s an even heavier dose of arrogant charm. Just be cautious.”
“Yeah, I don’t think we’re going to have a problem with that. I can barely stand to have a classroom next to the man.”
“Good. See you at lunch.”
I give her a quick wave and then take a seat at my desk, reviewing my notes for the day.
Be cautious. Seriously? Does she really think she needs to warn me?
The man is positively despicable. I would never see anything but arrogance when I look at him.
* * *
“Did anyone understand that?” I look around my classroom, noting the bunch of blank faces staring at me. I usually expect that from the first class of the day, given the early morning, but these faces are confused not from lack of
sleep, but from the twisty word play from Jane Austen herself. “Are you telling me that it’s hard to understand old-timey English? Preposterous.” The class laughs, and I hop off my desk and walk over to the whiteboard. “Irony is one of the themes of Pride and Prejudice. Just like the very first sentence in the book—”
“Holy God,” booms a male voice through the wall. “Evacuate. Single file. Jameson, what the hell have you done?”
My class turns toward the wall that separates Turner’s classroom from mine, just in time to miss the giant smile that passes over my face.
I waited until Thursday morning to plant the seed. Gunner and Romeo pulled him from the classroom right before we were supposed to start, I slipped in, uncorked the stink bomb, and planted it in the back. Five minutes from the start of class, just long enough for it to brew up to the front. Perfect.
Turner’s class filters into the hall, the cacophonous noise distracting but oh so worth it.
“It wasn’t me, Mr. Turner, I swear,” a poor kid says in the hallway, and for a brief second, I fear that I might get one of his students in trouble, but then I see Turner step in front of my open door, hand in hair, typing something out on his phone.
“Uh, everyone pull out their CliffsNotes and read the first chapter. I’ll be right back.”
Going to my door, I peek my head out. “Turner, you’re disturbing my class. Mind keeping it down?” His eyes flash to mine, and I add, “If you’re going to partake in frivolous field trips, please move your group along rather than staying in the hallway.”
His eyes sharpen. “We’re not going on a field trip. There’s a dead animal in my classroom.”
“Are you sure it isn’t your lecture dying in there?”
His lips flatten. “Cute.”
“Dead animal, huh? Did you kill it with your boring teaching techniques?” I tsk and shake my head. “Death by English teacher, it’s a real threat in your classroom. Saw some support groups for your students being posted out on the bulletin boards. Might have been an animal today, tomorrow . . . who knows who’s next?”
“Are you done?” he asks, deadpan.
“Believe so.” I smile, all too happy with myself.
“Then I suggest you get back to work.”
“You’re not my boss,” I snap-whisper at him.
“I’m head of the department, which means I have a say in who works here.”
I smile widely and stand tall; his eyes fall briefly to my chest and then crawl back to my eyes. The brief glance erects a flush of heat up the back of my neck, but I don’t let it deter me. “Looks like you don’t have too much say, you know, since I work here.” I smile widely and say, “Good luck with your rotting lecture—oh, I mean, animal—good luck with your rotting animal.”
Shutting the door, happy with myself, I turn to my class, ready to teach them the ways of Jane Austen.
* * *
Gunner: Status Report—Anger, fury, kind of smells.
Greer: OMG, he smells?
Romeo: Like ass. I kicked him out of the teachers’ lounge.
Greer: That’s better than anything I could have hoped for.
Gunner: He took a shower during lunchbreak and is wearing his gym clothes, which has only made him more irritable, because, you know, teaching without a cardigan is like touching kryptonite. He needs the cardigan.
Romeo: He texted me in between periods and said he’s way off his game. The smell is ingrained in his nostrils.
Greer: LOL! Did they find the stink bomb?
Gunner: Carl, the janitor, located and removed it while wearing a hazmat suit—well, a homemade one.
Greer: They’re not blaming any kids, are they?
Romeo: No. But he has his suspicions when it comes to us, since we pulled him out of his classroom. We need to be careful with the next one.
Greer: Roger that. Thanks, boys.
Gunner: Our pleasure. Keep up the good work.
Greer: Gladly.
* * *
“I don’t know about this.” I look at the assembly of kids all sectioned out by graduating class, our first pep rally of the year about to start.
“This is the perfect time,” Gunner says from the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t back down now,” Romeo adds from behind me.
“There are so many kids here,” I say, worrying my lower lip.
“Which is why it needs to be done. He doesn’t ever address the school except for this pep rally, where he lists off the honoree students from last year.”
“And you know he’ll fall for it?”
“He won’t know what’s happening,” Stella adds.
I fumble with the iPad in my hand that Keeks gave me earlier. “I don’t know.”
Gunner leans in and says, “Now or never, Gibson. He’s headed this way.”
I glance up to see Arlo walking toward us, glass of water in hand.
“I’m too shaky. What if it doesn’t work?”
“It works. We checked multiple times.”
“He’ll see it all over my face. The guilt.”
“We’ll distract him. Don’t worry. You got this, just keep the iPad hidden,” Romeo says.
Arlo closes the space to our group, just as I put the iPad behind my back. His eyes land on me briefly, but in that short glance, he takes me in from head to toe, and I so wish I could read his mind, to know what he thinks of the red sundress I chose to wear today. Does he approve? Am I teacher enough for him? I do have my hair in a tight bun on the top of my head, going for a more studious look, because I want to . . . not because I’m trying to impress him.
“I hate these assemblies, a waste of time,” Arlo grumbles, speaking to his boys.
“He’s never been a fan of the different dance teams trying to pump up the student body about education. He’s rather a throw-a-book-in-front-of-your-face-and-pump-you-up-with-literature kind of guy,” Gunner says to me.
“School spirit is worth something,” Stella says, jumping in.
“For the underachievers,” Arlo mutters, and that comment right there gives me the extra surge of confidence I need to go through with this prank.
When is this man going to learn that we’re not teaching in a prison cell, that we’re a public school attempting to mold minds, not turn them into classic-literature robots?
Arlo glances at me and I feel my cheeks flame with panic.
Cutting in quickly, Gunner says, “Dude, your pant cuffs are uneven.”
That’s his distraction? Jesus, that will never—
“Really?” Arlo glances down. “Hold my drink.” Gunner takes the drink while Arlo bends down.
Okay, I guess these boys know Arlo way better than I thought.
“That better?” he asks, lifting up.
“Way better,” Gunner says, handing him back his drink.
Just then, Principal Dewitt walks to the center of the basketball court and the students quiet down, showing impressive respect for our leader.
“I know you’re eager to get to the dance clubs to see what they’ve been working on for the past two weeks and over summer, but we have some students to honor first. Mr. Turner, will you please join me at the podium?”
“That’s me,” he says, walking onto the court.
My nerves immediately hit me harder than expected. “Oh God, I might puke.”
“Don’t. You’re not going to want to miss this,” Gunner says, rubbing his hands together. “This is going to be the greatest moment of my life.”
“Greater than meeting your son for the first time?” Romeo asks.
“Okay, second-greatest moment.”
“Greater than—”
“We’re not playing this game,” Gunner sternly says, causing Romeo to chuckle.
Principal Dewitt hands the microphone to Arlo, who secures it in the stand on the podium. In his deep timbre, he says, “Thank you, Principal Dewitt. We’ll make this short and sweet. We have ten students who made it into the honors program and we’re going to call them
up to receive their sash and pin.” He lifts the cup of water and I hold my breath as he takes a sip. Then I press the preset button.
I hold my breath.
My heart beating a mile a minute.
My lips drying.
My chest hollowing out from pure anticipation.
He opens his mouth and . . .
In the most high-pitched, nasally voice, he says, “Jessica Magnol—” He stops, his face contorting in confusion. “Jessica . . .”
Oh, dear God, it’s happening.
The entire assembly breaks out into laughter as Arlo tries to figure out why his voice is sounding like Alvin the Chipmunk.
Turning to Dewitt, he asks in a high-pitched voice, “Is there something wrong with the mic?”
Nyema taps on the mic and leans in to speak. I press the preset button on the iPad again. “Hello.” Her voice sounds normal.
I nearly die.
Oh my God, this is amazing.
Gunner and Romeo are gripping each other, barely able to stand as they roar with laughter.
Brow crinkled. He moves in front of the mic and I press the button again. “It’s not the mic?” he repeats, tapping it. He turns the mic off and then back on. Stella grips me in laughter.
“That better?” he squeaks. “What the—what’s happening?”
“That’s right, keep talking,” Gunner says in between a fit of laughter.
The entire gym is engulfed in laughter, and honestly, I’d feel a little bad about the confusion and anger written all over his face . . . if he weren’t such a dick to me.
Karma, my friends . . . karma.
Also, a slight tweak of the audio desk’s preset characteristics goes a very long way in revenge. Take notes.
* * *
Gunner: Status Report: Positively fuming. DEFCON 1 status.
Romeo: His face was bright red. I thought he was going to blow a gasket.
Greer: Oh God, do you think we should stop?
Gunner: Hell no. The next prank is my favorite.
Greer: Yes, but we also have to deal with him.
Romeo: Yes, we have to deal with him. I might have wanted to help you for my own motives, but now I’m invested. Full steam ahead, Greer.
See Me After Class Page 7