“I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s okay.”
The world goes on around us, but here I am safe. I can hear the anchorwoman on the news repeating the same headline that she announced moments ago for the benefit of the millions of Americans sure to be tuning in as word spreads. At this moment in time, right here, right now, it feels like me and Dad against the world.
Our embrace is disrupted by a loud rap on our front door. That’s strange, since over the last few months, when the rare occasion we get a visitor arises, they call in advance to try to get cleared through our town-funded security. The police have been present in force outside our home, and only the most daring would challenge that cordon.
Dad gives me a gentle, paternal kiss on the forehead before letting me go. Our front door only has four small windows at the top, offering no chance to peer outside. We have no way to identify who is knocking. It could be Mister Bennit, or maybe one of my friends on the staff who heard the news and rushed over.
When he opens the door, Dad is greeted by a mob of photographers and the blinding flashes of their cameras. A chorus of voices shout out questions to add to the chaos. I don’t think I’m a chicken, but I retreat deeper into the living room.
“Get off my front stoop!” Dad yells. “Get these people off my property now!” he bellows, probably to our police caretakers. I can hear a scuffle in the crowd as reporters jockey for position, but the incessant questions persist.
“What do you think of the allegations about your daughter?”
“Did she have an affair with Michael Bennit?”
“Have you talked to Bennit yet?”
Those were among the questions I hear as I dare to approach the door. I instantly regret it. Seeing me, the crush of media surges forward, knocking the lead reporter right into my father’s face. That was the last straw. My father shoves the man gruffly, bringing his arm back. Oh no!
“Dad!” I yell too late as he lands a hard right on the young reporter’s chin causing him to careen into the mob before hitting the sidewalk. Cameras click away without slowing, but the barrage of questions ceases as reporters watch their colleague get helped up from the ground. The assault gives the police time to get between us and the mass of humanity on our step, and they begin herding the media back off the lawn as reinforcements arrive with lights and sirens blazing.
“That’s right! Get off my property and don’t ever set foot on it again!” Dad rails from the door.
Oh, it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.
.
-FORTY-EIGHT-
MICHAEL
A copy of The New York Times is slapped down on my desk. I don’t bother looking up to see who did this, as I already know the answer. I pick up the folded paper where the above the fold headline reads: iCandidate Implicated in Affair with Student.
I scan the article for any more sordid details not included in last night’s coverage. My body tenses with renewed anger reading the accusations. Last night’s rage circled more around Chelsea’s dad’s reaction and the effect this will have on her. Then, after the tenth attempt to reach Jessica, who is still staying at her own place instead of mine, it changed into what will happen to my future marriage. At a distant third, fourth, and fifth is what other people think, the impact on my current job, and my future teaching career. Dead last is consequence to the campaign.
“Whoever made this up watches a lot of porn.”
“I tried to warn you, Michael, but you wouldn't listen. Now an innocent girl has been destroyed,” Principal Howell vaingloriously trumpets.
“Was that your ‘I told you so’?”
The superintendent called this morning. She asked me to inform you of your official suspension, with pay, pending an investigation by the school board. I’ve been instructed to walk you out of the building,” Howell decrees in a triumphant tone. “That was my ‘I told you so’.”
I can’t blame Charlene for making the decision she did. After all, she did warn me, and under the circumstances, I would make the same judgment in her position. Neither Chalice, nor Charlene can protect me from something like this.
“If I have my way, you’ll never teach here again. I guess it’s not up to me though. Your fate will depend on her parents, and their reaction to these ... allegations.”
“Parent, as in singular. She only lives with her father. And I guess I should be fortunate it isn't up to you.”
Principal Howell doesn’t flinch. He’s dreamed of this day since the moment I joined the staff at Millfield High. Now I’m lined up in his crosshairs and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s only a suspension, but he has all the leverage he needs to make my dismissal permanent. The worst thing is, he knows it.
“Yes, you probably should be, but I doubt you will garner much sympathy from the school board either. I mean, considering your propensity for insubordination and all.” I don’t need a Magic 8-Ball to tell me he is dead on with that analysis.
“Your classes will report to study hall today and we’ll find a long-term sub for you. Now get out of here and finish your campaign. For your sake, hope you win, because you won’t be teaching in this town again.”
* * *
Howell gives me ten minutes to collect my things, promising to be back to personally show me the door. He wasn’t out of my classroom for thirty seconds when Xavier and Peyton came screaming in.
“What happened?” Xavier asks in a panic as I pull the ‘in case of absence’ folder from my desk drawer.
“I've been suspended.”
“For how long?”
I don’t bother responding, letting my eyes do the talking. Xavier got the message, Peyton not so much.
“How could this happen? I mean, they can’t believe this is true. Why would they suspend you?” Peyton is a sweet girl, but still a little naïve as to the way the world works.
“They are protecting the district,” I respond with a half-truth. The other half being I’m not exactly a fan-favorite among the administration of the school or central office.
“So Beaumont makes this crap up because you kicked his ass in the debate and everyone believes it?”
“Dirty politics 101, Xavier, the October surprise.”
“Surprises are supposed to be fun,” Emilee says rushing into the classroom with Vince in tow.
“Tell that to George Bush. Someone dropped the dime about getting arrested for DWI days before the 2000 election. His father, H.W. Bush had the Weinberger indictment, and the list goes on.”
“Yeah, well this still sucks.” Vince has the Italian anger in his voice you hear when watching The Sopranos.
“We need to start working on a statement right away,” Emilee decrees. “The press is going nuts and our Twitter account has been blowing up since last night.”
Vanessa and Brian come charging in with the same sense of urgency the others did. Amanda joins us about ten seconds later. Except for Chelsea, who is probably not at school today, the band is back together.
“What’d we miss?” she asks, in the hopes to come up to speed.
“Mister B’s been suspended.”
“They can do that?” Vanessa asks incredulously. After everything we’ve already been through, she should know better.
“More importantly, we need to figure out how the campaign is going to respond,” Vince interjects in an effort to get everyone on task. “I think we should—”
“Isn't someone going to ask me whether or not it's true?” I interrupt. Truth is, I don’t care how the campaign responds. Right now, I care about my kids and what they think.
“We know it's not true,” Vanessa dismisses.
“How do you know, V?”
“Because we know you,” Emilee adds.
“And we know Chelsea,” Amanda says.
“You’re like a second father to most of us,” Vince states. In his case, the statement is truer than people could imagine. “Just as we try not to disappoint you, you would never disappoint us.”
I am not
the warm, fuzzy, emotional type. However, Vince’s comment hits me like a sledgehammer. He’s right, of course, but the fact they recognize that is nothing short of amazing. It’s also another reason why these kids are so special.
“And we know Miss Slater. She'd kill you slowly just to enjoy watching you die.” Unfortunately, they don’t know the whole story about what is going on between us right now. Some things even prized students don’t need to be trusted with.
“Well, the accusation is out there, regardless. The damage is done, and I’m guilty in the court of public opinion, even if we say otherwise.”
“Without a shred of proof?” Brian asks.
“Anonymous sources are a reporter's defense against accountability and a politician's favorite weapon. Remember, life is a matter of perspective. From the voters’ point of view, they’ve seen New York’s governor resign for hiring prostitutes and a congressman leave office for taking pictures of his genitals and sexting. Is this outlandish by comparison?”
“Don’t they need to offer someone up to make their claims stick?” Xavier asks.
“The story only has to last a few days. By the time the press gets around to figuring out the truth, it will be Election Day and Beaumont will cruise into his ninth term.”
My staff shakes their heads in utter disgust. I understand how they feel. I never thought they would sink this low. It’s one thing to come after me for being inexperienced. Even exposing some of my student’s transgressions, although slimy, were at least grounded in fact. Lying about something like this is just … deplorable.
“We have to do something to stop this,” Amanda proclaims. “What’s Kylie doing?”
“She’s doing some digging to figure out where this came from, but I haven’t heard from her yet this morning. You guys will need to work out what to say on behalf of the campaign. I have some things I need to take care of first.”
“Miss Slater?” Amanda asks, understanding the topic is both sensitive and personal.
“Among other things, yes.”
“But we have no idea what to do.”
“You’re all smart and will figure it out. I have all the faith in the world in you,” I state truthfully.
“This is too big for us, Mister B,” Brian laments.
“All right, this may be one of the last lessons I am ever able to give you, so listen up.” Undivided attention is an oxymoron with teenagers today, but I get theirs now. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, the reality of this actually being their last lesson beginning to sink in.
“You are all going to be faced with hard decisions in life, and we don’t do a good job of preparing you for making them. Those decisions will play a big part in the men and women you’ll become.
“Choices about careers, love, where to live … they will help define your existence. Ethical and moral dilemmas will steer you down the path you chose in life and help uncover your character. When you punch out of this world, you will have a legacy of good choices and bad ones, but how you respond to both is what people around you will remember.
“The most important thing you can learn in high school is how to process the information available, analyze it, and make the best decision you can. The rest falls into place, and you live with those consequences.
“I made a choice to involve you in this. I made that decision because I knew you could handle it. The campaign is important, but right now other, more critical things need my attention.”
Howell shows up with a security guard and walks into the classroom. The students stare at him with contempt, but he ignores them and gestures toward the door melodramatically. Man, is he ever enjoying this moment.
“Really, Robinson? Security?”
“Just in case you resist,” Howell says, flashing a toothy smile.
I turn to the gray-haired guard. “Ralph, if I chose to resist, is there anything you could do?”
I like Ralph. A crusty, old Korean War veteran and long-retired gym teacher, he must have been built like a tank in his youth. Now in his eighties, and struggling with his health, Ralph works in the building because he enjoys being around kids. We have a great rapport, the product of swapping stories and mutual respect former soldiers from different generations have for each other. I’m sure he’s only here because the priggish Howell forced him to come.
“Yes, sir, there are exactly two things I could do. Piss my pants and scream like a little girl.”
The self-contented smile disappears off Howell’s face. Yep, I like Ralph.
* * *
The media was on the scent from the moment I walked out the doors of the building. The flurry of activity was unmistakable across the street. I don’t have much to thank Robinson Howell for, but his unrelenting push to keep media off school grounds finally paid dividends for me.
All bets were off once I pulled out of the parking lot though. A half-dozen reporters surrounded my car at the traffic light to pull onto the main road. Thank God the red didn’t last long.
The journey across town was more like leading an army convoy than a solitary drive. At least two dozen news vans, satellite trucks, and other vehicles followed me all the way to my destination.
The scene at the house was not much different. Thanks to last night’s debacle, enough Millfield police were on hand to keep the media corralled on the street and off the property. By the time I park and climb out of my car, a legion of reporters are shouting questions, their cameramen capturing every move I make for posterity.
I follow the sidewalk to the front door and ring the bell, aware that this simple act will lead every news broadcast in the country. I almost wonder if someone is tweeting about it in real-time when the door opens revealing the hulking figure of Bruce Stanton.
“I was wondering if you’d show up,” he says, stepping back and waving me in. I cross the threshold and enter the living room of the small, yet tidy house. The door slams closed behind me as I notice the curtains drawn on the picture window, leaving the room darker than the gray day outside. Privacy has been a scarce commodity for Chelsea and her dad since the campaign started. I begin to turn back to face him.
“Mister Stanton, I—”
I feel the punch land squarely on my jaw and I stagger a few steps backward.
Bruce launches himself into me and we careen through the living room. I lose my balance and he slams me into the couch, our momentum causing us to bounce off and crash into an end table. The cheap faux-porcelain lamp perched atop the small piece of furniture flies through the air and crashes to the ground the same time we do.
I manage to roll away from him and get to my feet before he can use his size to pin me to the ground. Bruce is a large man, but agile for his build. He jumps to his feet, kicking the remains of the table out of the way. Marines are skilled in hand-to-hand fighting, but he served a long time ago, and like most amateur fighters, is relying on landing a haymaker to end this donnybrook.
The Krav Maga training I got in Special Forces kicks in and I’m ready for his second punch before he even lets it fly. I dodge his fist, step into him, hook his right arm with my left and apply pressure with my right hand on the back of his neck. Using his momentum against him, he goes to the ground quickly.
With control of his arm, I can end this engagement with one of a dozen moves. Many of them will require a trip to the emergency room and several months in a cast. I then realize where I am, and what I’m doing.
Fighting my training and indoctrination, I release him and take a few steps away from where he lays on the ground. I’m not scared of Bruce Stanton; I simply did not come here to fight him.
He gets up, limbers over to me and grabs a fistful of my shirt, his other arm cocked back and ready to unleash what is bound to be a painful hit.
“Dad!” Chelsea screams from the hallway entrance to the living room. “Dad! Let him go!”
Bruce takes a quick glance over his shoulder to see the horror and fear on his only child’s face. She is puffy-eyed from crying over an emot
ional trauma, now exacerbated by the sight of her father and favorite teacher brawling in the living room.
“I don't give a damn whether you were a Green Beret or not,” he growls, looking me directly in the eye. “You're lucky I'm not ripping your arms off.”
“So what's stopping you?”
“I said let him go, Dad!” Chelsea pleads, now close enough to reach out and place a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Please,” she whispers, touching his forearm with her other hand and coaxing him to release me. He decocks the arm poised to do significant damage to my face and unclamps the fist he made around the material of my shirt.
“I asked my daughter if anything happened between you two. She swears nothing did and I believe her. She wouldn't lie to me about something like that.”
I rub my jaw to make sure it is still attached. The unmistakable tang of fresh blood hits my tongue, but considering the time spent surrounded by alpha males at army posts, I’ve been in far worse condition than this. I did think the days of brawling were behind me when I started teaching though.
“So what was that all about?”
“You’re not a father, are you?” I immediately get his point and give a slight nod. The fight isn’t about the allegation of sleeping with his daughter, but the helpless feeling of trying to protect her from the world I introduced by starting this in the first place.
No parent wants to see their kid in pain - emotional, physical, or otherwise. Events spun out of control, leading to comments broadcasted publically to hurt Chelsea. Bruce needed to lash out at somebody. I made a convenient target.
“You’re both bleeding. I’ll get some ice and bandages.”
Bruce surveys the damage to his arm, which has a gash running down it inflicted from a shard of the shattered lamp. I touch my fingers to my gums to determine how bad my mouth is bleeding.
“She worships you, ya know. I think you understand that,” he says after she disappears down the hall. “I also think you are man enough never to take advantage of anyone, much less a young woman.”
The iCandidate Page 23