Chemistry Lessons

by Rebecca H Jamison

  She shook her head and turned back to her laptop. It was long past the time to plan her health lesson about drunk driving. The truth was, it was a lot easier to think about kissing. The pain of her grandmother’s death was still too fresh. Could she teach this lesson without breaking down in front of her students?

  A knock sounded at the door, startling her. Rosie lifted her head to see Destry, and once again his kiss replayed itself in her mind—the way his hands had cupped her face as his lips pressed down on hers. Everything about it had been gentle.

  He stayed there, head cocked. “You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”

  “What?” she asked, realizing she was smiling—smiling about a kiss that never should have happened. She straightened her mouth into a flat line.

  Destry looked up at the clock on the wall. “Mr. Moore wants to see us in five minutes. Make that four minutes.”

  Rosie closed her laptop. Anything was better than trying to plan this lesson. “That sounds fine.”

  Destry turned to leave, but stopped, studying her expression. “What are you so happy about?”

  She shook her head, not about to reveal the reason for her smile. They were playing the amnesia game now, both acting as if the kiss had never happened. It was back to business as usual. “I’m actually kind of stressed. I have to teach the lesson tomorrow about driving under the influence. I’m not sure I can do it.”

  He walked to her desk and pulled up a chair. “You’re afraid you’ll lose your composure?”

  Avoiding the temptation to look him in the eyes, she arranged a row of pencils next to her laptop. “Yeah.”

  “I say you go for it,” he said. “Tell your own story—tears and all. It will make a stronger impression on them. They need to see the kind of pain impaired driving can cause.”

  She folded her hands. Tanner, Jade, and Grandpa were the only others she had talked to about this, but she felt sure Destry would understand as well. “The girl who hit us was one of my former students—Janessa Moore. The officer refused to acknowledge that it had anything to do with drinking.”

  Destry leaned back and combed his fingers through his hair. “Mr. Moore’s daughter.” He blew out his breath. “Small town problems are so much bigger than I ever thought.”

  “I should add that the sheriff is Mr. Moore’s brother-in-law. At least, he is now. We had a different sheriff at the time of the accident.”

  If Rosie admitted her grandmother had been killed by a drunk driver, her students would fill in the rest of the story with Janessa’s name. From there, it would take only a few hours for Mr. Moore to hear about it, and she was sure he would not be pleased. He clearly wanted to keep his daughter’s guilt hidden.

  Rosie could play it safe and say, a person I care about was killed by a drunk driver. That way, the students could speculate, but they wouldn’t know for sure.

  Destry pulled out his phone. “I’ll ask Phil if we can postpone the meeting.”

  Rosie snapped out of her stupor. “What?” She looked at the clock on the wall, her eyebrows pulling down into a frown. “We better get going.” She grabbed a pen and notebook off her desk. Mr. Moore didn’t tolerate tardiness, even in teachers.

  They hurried down the hall, Rosie running and Destry walking at his fastest pace. “I could come in and help you with that drunk driving lesson,” he said. “It’s during my planning period, and it’s a subject I feel deeply about.”

  There it was again. She kept forgetting about Destry’s desire to help addicts. Maybe she meant to forget. After all, there were a lot of other things to worry about than a yet-to-be-built resort for former drug addicts. She slowed down, trying to re-focus on the conversation. “I appreciate the offer, but I need to do this myself.” The last thing she wanted was to appear weak in front of her class.

  “Or I could come in, just for moral support,” he said, opening the door to the front office for her.

  “I’d appreciate that.” She walked through the door and pivoted to face him. “Maybe I’ll just show the old video. That way I won’t get in trouble.” She knocked on Mr. Moore’s door.

  He called for them to come in.

  “Whatever you decide, I’m here for you.” As he opened the door, Destry brushed her hand with his, bringing memories of their kiss to the forefront of her mind.

  Mr. Moore sat behind his desk with his hands folded on top. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming. Have a seat.”

  She sat down with one chair between her and Destry. It was much easier to focus on work that way.

  Mr. Moore checked his watch. They were one minute late and she could see in the set of his jaw that he was annoyed. “I won’t waste time beating around the bush,” he said. “I’ve had some complaints from parents about Mr. Steadman’s teaching practices.”

  Destry leaned back, extending his arm across the chair next to him and crossing his leg over his knee. He didn’t look at all worried.

  “What about Mr. Steadman’s teaching practices?” Rosie asked.

  Mr. Moore slid on a pair of reading glasses from the corner of his desk and picked up a stack of square paper memos—the kind Mercedes, the secretary, used to write down phone messages. “Basically that his class is one big party. Now I trust that your students are learning. The problem is the parents’ perception. When their kids come home and say they’re racing cars and pretending to surf in physics class, it doesn’t seem like they’re learning as much. I’ve had similar complaints about chemistry and computer tech—parents don’t perceive playing tag and making ice cream sundaes as proper learning techniques.”

  Rosie sat straighter in her chair. “I can vouch for Mr. Steadman’s teaching methods. Each activity he does has a learning target.”

  “You’re welcome to come observe,” Destry said, sounding calmer than he probably felt. “Parents are welcome too.”

  Mr. Moore didn’t respond to Destry’s offer. “Just make sure your students are well prepared for the state tests. Once we get the scores, we can show the parents how well their kids are doing. It might also help if you assign homework more often.”

  Destry moved to the edge of his seat, as if he were about to stand. “I can do that.”

  “Good.” Mr. Moore sifted through his stack of memos. “Also, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been wearing flip-flops to school.” Something had definitely changed Mr. Moore’s feelings about Destry working there. Maybe it was the articles Jade had found. Whatever it was, Mr. Moore seemed to have forgotten about the corporate donations Destry had raised over the past few weeks.

  Destry raised a foot and pointed to his loafer. “I change out of flip-flops before my classes start.”

  “Better to change at home,” Mr. Moore said. He pushed the stack of memos back to the corner of his desk and turned to his laptop. That was his signal that the meeting had ended.

  Destry sat forward in his chair, his back straight, bracing his fists on his thighs. There was nothing submissive or small about him. He had the look of a boxing champion about to go back into the ring. “I can wear more professional footwear and assign more homework, but, frankly, I took this job because I felt I had something to offer the people of Lone Spur, something that goes beyond flip-flops. If that’s not the case, maybe it would be appropriate to find a different teacher.”

  Rosie’s eyebrows shot up. She had seen plenty of people lose their tempers with Mr. Moore, but Destry hadn’t lost anything. Sitting there with his fists on his knees, he seemed powerful enough to take on the whole town. It struck her that he was exactly what they needed—someone to stand up to the Moores and all the other people who clung to the status quo as if the Almighty had commanded that nothing ever change. She had to keep Destry working at the school for Alan Erskine and all the other boys who loitered in his classroom. And despite all the distraction he had created for her, he had helped her improve her teaching skills.

  “Speaking for myself,” she said, “I’ve seen more positive changes in the st
udents since Destry has arrived than I’ve seen in the previous seven years. He’s a gifted teacher, and he has a way of inspiring the students no one else has been able to reach. Because I’ve followed his example, two girls in my fourth period class decided to major in biology when they go to college next year. And he’s helped me come up with real-world projects. Just this morning, my earth science class developed earthquake-proof structures for third-world countries.”

  Mr. Moore looked at Rosie over the rim of his reading glasses. “Thank you both for your input, but as I said before, our teaching methods need to conform to the traditional standards this school is known for.”

  Rosie couldn’t keep from saying what she thought. “We’re also known for the twenty-two percent of students who never end up graduating.”

  Mr. Moore popped an eyebrow. “Which is why we need to get back to the basics.” It was exactly what she had expected him to say.

  As they stood to leave, she kept her eyes on Destry, searching for any sign that Mr. Moore had broken his spirit.

  After they stepped outside the office, he grinned and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Thanks for backing me up in there.”

  Her face relaxed into a smile. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so appreciated. “I meant what I said.”

  Realizing his lips were just inches from hers, she felt her face turn crimson, but she didn’t have time to worry because Mercedes came out from behind the front desk, heading straight for Destry. Mercedes always managed to look dewy and fresh, as if she perpetually reapplied her lip gloss.

  “Don’t let the parents get you down,” Mercedes said, sticking out her bottom lip in an adorably annoying pout. “There are always a few that will complain no matter what the teachers do.” She touched his forearm.

  He patted her hand, smiling down at her. “Don’t worry about it. I knew this was part of the job when I applied.”

  Rosie stepped back and examined the two of them as they stood before her. They looked like the quintessential high school couple—the tall, muscular football player and the adorable cheerleader. Mercedes was far prettier than Rosie could ever hope to be. Unlike Rosie, she had no dirt under her manicured fingernails, no frizzy tangle in her hair, and no pimple on her cheek. Besides that, she was a genuinely kind human being. Rosie couldn’t remember her ever saying a mean thing about anyone, not even about her ex-boyfriend who left her for another woman. After all she had been through, Mercedes deserved a good man like Destry. Still, Rosie felt a strange desire to grab Destry and yank him free from Mercedes’s grasp.

  “We’re having another game night at my house on Friday,” Mercedes said, stepping back to look up into Destry’s face. He was at least a foot taller than she was. “You’re welcome to come.” She glanced Rosie’s way. “You too, Rosie. You can bring Tanner if you like.”

  Wondering how long these game nights had been going on at Mercedes’s house, Rosie forced a smile. “Thanks. That’s sweet of you to invite us.”

  “I’ll be there this time,” Destry told Mercedes. “I promise.”

  Mercedes faked a stern expression, pointing a finger at him as she returned to her desk. “You better.”

  Destry leaned over the desk, chuckling, while Rosie made her way out of the office.

  It had only been a couple weeks since he had kissed her and told her he loved her. Could he already like someone else? It was the right thing for him to move on, and she should have been happy that he had, so why did she feel so disappointed?

  She had marched halfway back to her classroom before she remembered that she still had to plan her health lesson about impaired driving. The strange thing was, that her meeting with Mr. Moore had done more to help her plan than another three hours sitting at her desk could have. She was finished being scared of what the Moores might do.

  She would tell the truth.

  Chapter 22

  Rosie’s health lesson began with a video of a blue sedan and a bicycle riding side-by-side down the lane in front of her ranch. The sedan barely outpaced the bicycle. Then the car came to a stop and a little old lady got out. She wore a fuchsia muumuu covered with bird of paradise flowers, but that didn’t keep her from doing a funky chicken victory dance. Rosie paused the video. “That,” she said, “was the first time my grandmother won the race. Grandma was such a slow driver that the McFerrin boys on our lane could beat her on their bicycles. They had a deal that whoever lost would have to bake cookies for the winner. Grandma ended up making cookies at least twice a week.”

  From a desk along the side wall of the classroom, Rosie could hear Destry’s deep laughter. It washed over her, steadying her shaking fingers. She had needed him, after all, especially since only a few students seemed amused. Most of the others doodled in their notebooks or texted under their desks.

  Rosie pressed play on the digital presentation as it switched to a scene of Grandma sitting on a bench outside the elementary school with a hummingbird feeder on top of her hat and a columbine flower in her hand. Kindergarten children watched as hummingbirds zipped around her, sipping from the feeders.

  The picture faded to a hot day when Grandma and Grandpa donned bathing suits and lay down in the cattle’s big, round watering tank. As music played and cows stood observing, her grandparents did their best impression of synchronized swimming. They floated on their backs, moving their arms in unison and kicking their pasty white legs, trying to look like the old movie stars. Grandpa looked more like a dying cockroach with his limbs twitching above him.

  By now, Destry had to reach for the box of tissues on Rosie’s desk. He had laughed hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. Others gave into giggles as Grandma posed like a statue and spouted bottled water out of her mouth.

  Her students’ reactions were exactly what Rosie hoped for. She wanted them to see her version of Grandma, the version that had brought extra sparkle to her family’s life.

  As the students continued to watch clips of Grandma working as a kindergarten aide, Rosie sat down at her desk to silently rehearse what she would say after the video finished. She had felt so nervous about it that she hadn’t bothered eating breakfast, fearing she might be sick.

  Finally, the presentation ended, and Destry flipped on the lights.

  Rosie stood in her usual place, hands at her sides. “A little over a year ago, my grandmother was killed by an impaired driver.” She sucked in her breath. This was it. She’d said it, and now she felt as if she’d lit the fuse on a keg of dynamite. An explosion was inevitable.

  A few of the students sent texts under their desks—probably about what Rosie had just said. She glanced at Destry, who nodded his encouragement, and she thought once more of that kiss in the graveyard. Maybe it was better not to look his way. He was too much of a distraction.

  It took her a moment to notice that a student on the back row had raised his hand. She called on him. “Wasn’t your grandma killed in an accident with Janessa Moore?”

  She swallowed. The boy lived down the lane from the Moores and probably wanted to defend Janessa. It was too late to turn back. “Yes. I was driving when Janessa missed a stop sign and hit us.” Most of the kids would be able to piece together the story from there. If they spent any time in town at all, they would have observed Janessa’s drinking habits, and some might have seen her driving afterward.

  The boy lowered his eyelids, squinting at Rosie. “So you’re saying Janessa was drunk when she hit you?”

  Rosie’s knees shook, but she stood straight, drawing in her breath. It wasn’t her purpose to damage her former student’s reputation. She did, however, want Janessa to change her ways. “She had an open bottle in her car, she had alcohol on her breath, and she couldn’t walk a straight line. But according to the police report, she wasn’t drunk.”

  Some of the students nodded as if it made sense, but the boy turned his gaze to the wall, seeming unsure.

  “I’m not here to accuse anyone,” Rosie said. “What I really care about is pr
eventing other people from suffering the way my family has suffered. And this isn’t just about drinking and driving. What else can impair your driving?”

  A few students responded with the correct answers: drugs and cell phone usage. One even added, “girls,” which brought the relief of laughter to the room.

  “If you’ll turn to page 103 of your textbook,” Rosie said, “you’ll see a blood alcohol calculator. Sometimes it’s called a BAC chart. You can find them online any time you want.” A few students brought their phones out to search for BAC charts. “This chart shows how a person’s size and gender affect how much they can drink before reaching the legal limit. Let’s say you’re a woman who weighs 130 pounds. How much can you drink before it affects your driving skills?”

  Students studied the charts in their textbooks and on their phones.

  A girl on the front row raised her hand. “You couldn’t even have two drinks.”

  The boy sitting behind Destry cracked a joke about how the girls needed to stop dieting. Rosie guessed that the boy himself probably didn’t weigh much more than 130 pounds.

  Another boy raised his hand. When Rosie called on him, he looked down at his desk. “What if you don’t have a license, and the person who gave you a ride has had a couple drinks?” By the way he spoke, Rosie guessed this could be a common situation for him.

  “That’s a good question, Scott.” Rosie brought her chair out from behind her desk, raised it to its highest level, and sat at the head of the classroom. “Let’s open it up for discussion.”

  Together, the students brainstormed solutions. The more they talked, the more the students opened up about real-life situations they had faced. It became a conversation among the students with Rosie calling on those who raised their hands. Only the boy on the back row—the one who lived down the lane from Janessa—seemed disturbed by the subject.