From Ashes To Flames

by A. M. Hargrove

  When I get home, my hand still trembles as I slowly turn the handle to open the door. Michelle sits there waiting.

  “Another stellar night of meetings for teacher of the year?” her cheery voice asks.

  My hand covers my mouth as I keep repeating in my head, you will not cry, you will not cry. I rein it in and vigorously shake my head.

  She sits straight up on the couch. “What the hell happened?” She wants to know.

  The bits and pieces edge their way out, and she’s every bit as shocked as I am.

  “See, this is when I need my mom or dad. They would advise me on what to do.” My hands clench, and I swear I want to punch the guy.

  “Maybe he had a bad day?” she volunteers in a weak voice.

  “Oh, Michelle, what am I going to do? I have to call him back because I didn’t get him to sign English’s paper. I don’t know if I can be civil to the assface.”

  She massages her forehead and says, “Can you send it home with the little girl? My teachers used to do that kind of thing all the time.”

  Pulling off my glasses, I pinch the bridge of my nose to ease the ache that’s there. “I’ll need to discuss this with my principal. I hope she doesn’t think I’m incapable of handling these types of things.”

  “How can she? He didn’t give you a chance.”

  The next morning, I arrive at school early with the hopes of catching Susan to discuss my little issue. When I explain, I almost have to close her mouth for her.

  “He did what?” she asks at last.

  “You heard me correctly. I don’t know exactly how to handle him.” Because he’s a shithead and I hate him.

  Her pen slams the desk for a few seconds, and then she says, “Let’s send the form home for him to sign with the student. She’s very bright, correct?”

  “Yes. And the word game was done in all innocence. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to him in retrospect, but I let him provoke me, and that was my fault.”

  “I can see why you’re angry. He shows up so late, which by the way, I would’ve been long gone, and then is such a smartass with you. Maybe you shouldn’t have brought that up, but you’d think he’d want to hear how awesome his kid was doing.”

  “I agree. Or that’s what all the other parents were interested in.”

  “Oh, by the way, your reports are fantastic. Listen, don’t let this get the best of you. Keep doing what you’re doing, and that’s being an excellent teacher. You have a genuine concern for your students. This will pass, Sheridan.”

  Susan makes me feel a bit better about the situation, but I can’t shake the negative mood his encounter has shrouded me in.

  My students’ cheery faces perk me up, and the day is running well until activity time on the playground. It all starts innocently enough when English is play sword fighting with the boys. She’s not one to hang out with the other girls much. It’s usually a sports activity for her. But somehow she’s found a stick, and I see it all happen in slow motion. She takes the stick and holds it with both hands, swings around, and acts like she’s slicing off one of her classmate’s heads. It’s all intended to be playful, but the stick has a pointed edge, and it accidentally cuts the boy’s neck. Even though it’s superficial, he grabs his neck and starts screaming, “My head is falling off!”

  Then all hell breaks loose. Teachers run from all corners, including me, to examine the wailing boy, and English is telling him to, “Buck up,” and that it’s only a scratch. Then she proceeds to tell him to, “Quit being such a sissy pants and act like you’re wearing big boy panties.”

  The truth is, I want to roll on the playground and die laughing because she’s right. I’m wondering if Jordan isn’t exaggerating just for the extra attention. Susan takes Jordan by the hand and walks him to the nurse’s office. Now I need to have a chat with English.

  “English, where did you get that stick?”

  “Over there.” She points to an area that’s off limits.

  “You know you’re not supposed to go over there, don’t you?”

  Her lower lip pokes out, and she bobs her head.

  “Then why did you do it?”

  “I wanted to get the stick so I could play with it like on Star Wars.”

  Ahh, she was acting like it was a light saber. “Okay, but you still did something wrong. You understand that, right?”

  “I was only play acting. And Jordan is a baby.”

  I hold my hand out so she can give me the stick. “See the sharp edges on it? That’s why it hurt him. Sometimes things that don’t look dangerous can hurt others.”

  “I don’t think he was really hurt. It was only a scratch. I get those all the time.”

  “Yes, but it could’ve been worse. And maybe your scratches don’t hurt you as much as Jordan’s hurt him.”

  “Jordan is mean to me.”

  “Why haven’t you told me this before?”

  “Because it’s not good to be a tattletale.”

  I’m going to have to keep an eye on little Jordan. I hold out my hand, and English puts hers in it. “How about you come with me?” We go inside to Susan’s office where I give her my rendition of the story. She tells me Jordan insisted the nurse call his mother, which she would’ve done anyway.

  When Mrs. McLean arrives, I expect her to be like any normal parent—brush it aside and move on. It’s nothing but a red welt by this time. In the morning, it will probably be gone. But no. She wants English’s parents called. Susan and I look at each other, and her eyes roll while my nostrils flare. Jordan seems to be the prima donna here.

  “Sheridan, I can call him if you’d like,” Susan offers.

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll do it.” To be perfectly honest, I’d rather jam bamboo under my fingernails, but I have no other choice than to make the call. I walk back to my classroom and find my phone to do the dreaded deed.

  Chapter Six

  Sheridan

  “Bridges.”

  “Mr. Bridges, this is Sheridan Monroe, English’s—”

  “I know who you are. Is she okay?” His voice interrupts me and pisses me off. Why? Because even though he’s rude as hell, he still manages to sound sexy. There should be a written law against that.

  “Yes, but there has been an incident. Can you come to the school, please?”

  His rapid-fire response hits back. “English? Is she hurt?”

  “No, she’s perfectly fine. There was a slight altercation with another student.”

  Dead silence. I wonder if the call dropped. “Mr. Bridges?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I thought I lost you.”

  “No. Still here,” comes back in a clipped response.

  “Can you come? Um, I mean to the school?” Jeez. He’s going to think I’m a dork. Can you come? What the hell?

  “Yes. Right away.”

  We wait in the principal’s office, all five of us, for him to arrive. And when he does, it’s quite the show. There are many things about Beckley Bridges I didn’t take note of the night I met him, such as how impressive his physique is, or the way his muscles are structured, as though they are hand drawn by a famous artist, or how he fills a room when he occupies it. A knit cap covers his hair, and he wears dark jeans that mold the contours of his butt. I know this because as soon as he enters the room, English screams, “Daddy!” And said figure, crouches down and hugs the little mite saying, “What’s up, English?” Then he grabs her by both cheeks and plants a kiss on her lips. Her half-pint arms automatically wind around his neck, and he stands while she hangs on, giggling the entire time. Is this the same man who was such a grouch during our parent-teacher conference? Or has some alien invaded his body and made him pleasant for the moment?

  Susan breaks the love-fest up by saying, “Mr. Bridges, we’ve had a bit of a situation here today.” She gets no further before Mrs. McLean jumps in.

  “I’ll say. Your daughter accosted my Jordan and practically cut his head off.” Her tone is squeaky.

&n
bsp; For multiple reasons, my eyes haven’t left Mr. Bridges, and I’m not gonna lie. It’s not totally because of the situation here. His full, almost-too-perfect-to-be-a-man’s-lips twitch on one side for a fraction of a second, and if I hadn’t been watching his face so intently, I probably would’ve missed it. Then those same lips press into a thin line as his eyes scan Mrs. McLean. He’s completely silent for a long uncomfortable moment—which he’s very good at— and finally says, “Yes, I can see your son is mortally wounded. Has anyone called the paramedics yet?” His dry remark almost has me cracking up, but I know I can’t possibly do that.

  “Mr. Bridges, this is no laughing matter. Your daughter is a bully and needs to be severely punished.” Mrs. McLean leans forward as she finishes her statement and taps her foot. Mr. Bridges is no longer amused. He’s now thoroughly pissed. Can’t say that I blame him.

  English hangs on his neck and still I can see the tendons cording with anger. “Mrs. … what did you say your name was?”

  I jump in and supply, “McLean. It’s McLean.”

  He never bothers to look at me.

  “Mrs. McLean, I have raised English to never ever bully, under any circumstances, but she has also been taught not to be bullied.” He says each word with razor-sharp pronunciation that even I cringe. “My daughter doesn’t lie either.” In a much softer tone, he turns to his daughter and asks, “English, did you bully this boy here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you hit him intentionally?”

  “No, sir. I was playing light sabers with the stick. I didn’t think it would cut his head off. It’s just a tiny scratch, sir. But he’s mean to me all the time.”

  He picks up a handful of her blond curls and asks, “Mean to you? How so?”

  “He pushes me around and trips me and makes me fall, Daddy.”

  “Have you told anyone?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “You said tattletales are bad.”

  Mr. Bridges squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces for a second. “Yes, but when someone is bullying you, because that’s what he was doing, you need to speak out.” Then Mr. Bridges turns those magnificent blue-green eyes of his on Mrs. McLean, and she starts to say something but stops when he arches his brows. In that same crisp tone, he says, “Mrs. McLean, I think you have a much larger problem at hand than a welt on your son’s neck. If he doesn’t stop bullying my English here, you’re going to have some even bigger issues to deal with. Am I clear?”

  This gut-punches me. Am I such a crappy teacher that I’m missing all the signals? Has this been going on all year, and have I been blind to it?

  Susan and I share another glance, and she says to Mrs. McLean, “I believe I’m going to switch Jordan from Miss Monroe’s class into another first grade.”

  “Well, I can’t believe you would do that,” Mrs. McLean spews.

  “Of course, we do that. Bullying is not accepted at this school. If we hear of this behavior continuing, we may have to consider an alternate school for him. And now that we know his wound is superficial, it might be best to get him acclimated to his new class immediately.”

  Jordan didn’t look happy at all about his situation.

  “Mr. Bridges, could I have a word with you and English privately?”

  We go into one of the small conference rooms located off of Susan’s office.

  “I’m sorry all this happened. English, when would Jordan do those things to you?”

  “When you weren’t looking. Or on the playground when no one was watching.”

  He’s a sneaky little shit. “English, will you promise me something? From now on, if anything like that ever happens to you or anyone else, please tell me. That’s not being a tattletale. Will you do that for me?”

  She smiles and agrees.

  “And one more promise. No more sticks on the playground.”

  “Okay.”

  I look at Mr. Bridges and apologize for getting him out of work.

  “It’s my job as a parent,” he says gruffly. Then he kisses his daughter good-bye.

  I watch him leave and continue to stare until English asks, “You like my daddy?”

  “Hmm? What?” Then I realize I was practically ogling the man in front of his daughter, even though he made me feel like shit. “Well, yes, he’s a nice person.” I pray my lie is convincing.

  “I don’t have a mommy. She went away when I was a baby and didn’t come home.”

  Whoa. That’s a piece of news I didn’t necessarily need to hear.

  “My daddy takes pictures. Lots and lots of them. He has some real big cameras.”

  “Oh, so he’s a photographer?”

  “Yep.”

  Kids. They’ll tell you everything.

  English grabs my hand, and we walk together toward the classroom. “Why did you make Jordan go to a different class? I’m not afraid of him.”

  I stop and bend down so we’re level. “It’s about doing what’s right. Being mean to someone isn’t right, and when that happens, we think it’s best to separate those students. Since you weren’t the one causing the problem, you aren’t the one that has to switch classes. Only Jordan.”

  “Daddy says to never pick a fight, but I’m not sure what that means.”

  “It means not to start one.”

  “Oh, that’s the same as Banana says. Geepa calls me Champ sometimes. He says I’m a tomboy. Banana wants me to play with dolls, but I think they’re boring.” Then she sticks her tongue out and blows a raspberry. I want to laugh. But I’m on her side. I much preferred to run and kick a ball than to play with dolls when I was her age.

  “Can I tell you a secret?”

  Her almond-shaped eyes grow round as marbles. “Yeah! I love secrets.”

  “Well, you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  Bending down, I whisper into her ear, “I never liked dolls much either. When I was about your age, I had a big doll, and I cut off all her hair. Boy, did I get in trouble. Do you know why?”

  “Because she looked silly?”

  “Well, that, too. But I thought her hair would grow back, and it never did. When my mom found out what I did, she was upset with me because I ruined the doll. And it was a fancy doll. It wasn’t very fancy after I got ahold of her, though.”

  English lets out a bubble of giggles that has me laughing right along with her.

  The rest of the day goes by without any issues, as we are one less in our class now. No one asks where Jordan is, and I decide to tell them the next day. When I do, no one even comments. Apparently, not too many of the kids were very fond of him.

  Chapter Seven

  Beck

  “I’m going, even though it’s against my better judgment.”

  Mom and Dad grin. They’ve been after me for months to go out, saying I’m too young to sit at home every weekend and center every single thing in my life on my daughter. But that’s what I want to do, especially now. Oh, God, I can’t even think of what might happen if …

  “Daddy, just pretend you’re with Anna and Olaf. You’ll have so much fun. Maybe the place you’re going will play “Let It Go.” And maybe you can dance like we do,” English says.

  The thought gets a chuckle out of me. “Well, if they do, it won’t be near as much fun without you.”

  My mom essentially pushes me out the door, and that’s how I end up hanging out at a club on a Friday night, which is not my usual MO.

  Chapter Eight

  Sheridan

  “Aren’t you ready yet?” I yell at Michelle through her door. That girl takes forever.

  “I’m coming,” is all I get back. Twenty minutes later, she prances out of her room, ready to go out on the town.

  “Okay, you are way more dressed up than I am. Do I need to change?” She’s wearing a short black dress, and I’m in jeans.

  “No,” she says after she checks me out. “You look fantastic. You rock those jeans with those boot
ies you’re wearing.” She always says I look great, even though I need to shed some pounds. My hips and thighs aren’t what you’d call obese, but I would give anything to be as thin as Michelle.

  Eyeing her dress, I’m still skeptical. “You’re not just saying that?”

  She circles around me and says, “Nope. You’re perfect. And I love your hair curly, too. You never wear it curly.”

  “I know. It’s a pain. I usually flat iron it.”

  “You need to let those curls run free more often.”

  Our Uber arrives, so we hop in and go. It’s Friday night, and we both need a break from the workweek. The club is fairly packed, and the band is one of our favorites. We dance and are having a great time, but halfway into the night, I notice him. Beckley Bridges. He stands on the side of the dance floor, watching me. And I have no idea why he would be interested in someone like me. But there he is, his eyes searing me like fire. Lips slightly parted, his long frame perched against the wall. I’m conflicted as to whether I should ignore him or wave. So I do the nice thing—bring my hand up and wiggle my fingers just a tad.

  If I think that would get a response from him, I should know better by now. Well, if you count one blink, then I guess I do. But that’s it. He stands there with that more than perfect mouth and those stupidly stellar eyes, not to mention his sexy hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed and did nothing. Absolutely nothing. Ugh—I hate him. I’ve dated a few guys in my time. Not many, mostly because I’m not that perfect Barbie doll that a lot of men love. And then there was the time factor. I was busy with school, working my butt off to keep my head above water financially. I had to pay my own way through college, and because of that, there was very little free time to date. It’s not like I can’t relate to men. I can because I’ve had men friends. But this man is—well, I can’t come up with an adequate description for him. Asshole doesn’t work because I witnessed him with his daughter, and that just blows.