Falling for Mr. Slater

by Kendall Day

  Is that wrong of me?

  Be real, Slater. You’re keeping her locked away so none of the other guys in this building will have a chance to woo her. Savage would be all over Roxie if you let her out of her cage.

  So, my vigilance is totally justifiable. I’m protecting her honor as well as her teaching career.

  #CarryOn

  “Mr. Slater?” Roxie prompts with a raised eyebrow.

  I shake my head to clear out a vision of her bent over my desk, tied up with red satin ribbons at the wrists and ankles. Blindfolded. And naked except for a pair of sexy black heels. #SomebodyGiveMeAPaddle #RoxiesBeenABadGirl

  “Sure, you can come.” I wince at my gravel-voiced double entendre.

  She grins somewhat guiltily and gathers her notebook.

  “What are you doing after school today?” I blurt without thinking.

  Well, I am thinking. Not with my brain-head, but with my really stupid other head that has a knack for finding trouble, usually in women’s pants.

  Roxie clasps the notebook against her right tit, which naturally draws my attention to the double Ds that’ve been taunting me all day. “I, uh, was going to research some activities for language arts in the library until Mrs. Lance leaves. I don’t have a computer in my dorm room, and it’s easier using the ones here than going to the lab on campus or doing searches on my phone.”

  Business. Of course. Because we’re teachers.

  I’m the teacher. Soon-to-be Teacher of the Year.

  I gotta start acting the part and stop following my nose every time I get a whiff of Roxie’s flowery perfume or catch a glimpse of her nipples puckering the fabric of her shirt. #GumDropNips

  “If you want to use my computer, I’ll be here till about four o’clock. I have some IEPs to review and other … stuff. We can talk about your unit—”

  The intercom interrupts me. “Mr. Slater? Do you have a moment to meet with Dr. Dragov?” Jo asks.

  Shit. “I’m supposed to be in a team meeting. Can it wait?”

  “She needs you now,” Jo says, her tone rushed.

  I roll my chair back and stand up. “On my way.” Then to Roxie, “Tell Witcher I got called to the office. Take notes and fill me in when I get back.”

  “You got it, boss,” she says, her dark amber eyes flashing with mischief.

  Oh, Roxie Rambling, I got your mischief right here. Observe Exhibit C:

  For sale by owner: Mischief, tucked away in a hidden cul-de-sac in the hot, highly affluent neighborhood of my pants. #InquireWithin

  With a grunt, I enter the hall and dodge the minefield of lost kids clutching their sweaty, wrinkled schedules on my way to the front of the building. The door to the Dragonlady’s office is closed, so I’m made to wait for ten minutes. Like I have time for this shit.

  Frustration burning up my gullet like acid, I tap my foot, as if that’ll hurry things along. Finally, Kuntz the Greater comes out, yakking over her shoulder as she’s wont to do. I swear, that woman loves the sound of her own voice more than she loves Kuntz the Lesser. I bet she does him doggy-style with a strap-on every Sunday before church.

  “... don’t have to send me the list,” Darcy says, glancing at me as if I’m a mold spore. “I have a photographic memory. Thanks, Sharon.”

  I have a photographic memory, I mimic snidely in my head, shaking it like a bobblehead doll.

  The fact that Kuntz and Dragov are on a first-name basis and get together for grilling and funsies on the weekends furrows the wrinkles on my balls. Dragov’s probably gunning for Kuntz the Greater to win TOTY for the second year in a row. Ain’t gonna happen. At least, not fair and square. I resist the overwhelming urge to jab my finger down the back of my throat.

  I stand as the Dragonlady fills the doorway. Her physical stature may be petite, but her presence overcompensates for it in the way only an evil dictator’s can. She levels me with an inscrutable, unpleasant stare and gestures for me to come in.

  “Sit down,” she commands as she assumes her throne behind the desk. I check to see if there’s a pile of gold pieces under it that she lords over as she breathes fire on peons who dare to enter her domain. Nothing visible. Trap door, perhaps?

  Dragov folds her gnarled talons on the polished wood in front of her. Her crystalline blue eyes bore into my soul, demanding answers, or possibly a blood sacrifice. “Tell me what happened with Attila Reardon.”

  That’s what this is about? Shit, I thought I was in trouble.

  “He was disruptive and disrespectful,” I say.

  “I don’t need your assessment of his behavior. Anecdotal notes. Abbreviated.”

  I squirm in the hard chair. “He said he didn’t give a—quote—‘shit’ about my rules. I called for the resource officer to remove him.”

  “He claims you threatened him,” she volleys back. “Told him to—quote—‘own his shit.’”

  “Wait a minute. He threatened me first,” I retort. “When I told him he could answer roll call with ‘here’ or ‘present,’ he said I had two choices of how I wanted his fist—ass or mouth. Ask my student teacher. She saw everything.”

  “I don’t need to remind you, Mr. Slater, that you’re here not only to educate your students but also to act as a role model for appropriate conduct.”

  Did she even hear what I said? If Chokeman were still principal, Attila would probably be heading to alternative school for a semester. Chokeman might’ve been a teacher-humping perv, but he didn’t tolerate threats, no matter how empty.

  “Inappropriate language will not be tolerated. This is your one and only warning. There won’t be a next time.” Dragov speaks the last sentence with the kind of authority that leaves no question as to her sincerity. “You’ll receive a copy of the formal report I’m filing in your district personnel folder.”

  I spring forward, ramrod straight. She can’t file a report on me. It’ll ruin my chances at winning Teacher of the Year. Besides, that little shit-Hun started it!

  “What’s Attila’s punishment, then?” I stammer.

  She glances at my referral form and tosses it into the trash can. “Silent lunch for the rest of the week.”

  After my bluster and bragging about what was going to happen to him in front of the entire class, all he’s getting is silent lunch? That I’m responsible for monitoring?

  “We can’t put students in ISS the first week of school without good reason. We’ll have nothing to hold over their heads for the rest of the year.” She turns to her computer and shoos me away like an annoying gnat. “That’s all.”

  I stand, glaring at her, hands fisting in my pockets. She glances up. “Oh, one more thing. I don’t have your lesson plans for this week. They were due at eight o’clock this morning. Drop them in my box before you leave for the day.”

  How dare she discount my side of the story and stand with a student? Not only that, but now this bitch has me doubting myself. What is it with the women in this school?

  A lower my head and shuffle out of Dragov’s office, dazed. Stunned. Utterly shocked by this turn of events. The Dragonlady clearly has it in for me. Her accusations and rude dismissal make me feel two feet tall.

  Maybe Attila’s not the only one having a Little Man Syndrome relapse today.

  Well, I’ve got just the remedy for that ego-deflating malady. Savage and I are gonna hit the hotel bar after work. Mindless fucking makes everything better.

  * * *

  ASSESSMENT: Redirection strategies were unsuccessful. Remediation required. DOES NOT MEET EXPECTATIONS.

  Fully Engaged

  [Rambling]

  * * *

  LEARNING GOAL: Roxie Rambling will utilize her social skills to promote student engagement.

  McSlutbag returns just as the students come back to homerooms for dismissal. Must’ve been a hell of a meeting with the principal. He doesn’t say a word to me. He looks pissed as he types furiously on his keyboard, grumbling under his breath.

  Slater asked me to help him after schoo
l, but I want to go home. After the hellacious roller coaster of my weekend and a tiring first day of school, it might be best. I glance down at the half- carat diamond on my left hand and replay the events from Friday night, still trying to make sense of the senseless.

  Elliott took me out to dinner at the country club his parents belong to. They were there. He surprised all of us by pulling the ring from his pocket, dropping to one knee in front of God and all the rich folks, and saying the six words I never wanted to hear from his mouth.

  Roxie Rambling, will you marry me?

  He could’ve said, I want you to suck my dick in the front seat of my car in the Kroger parking lot at high noon right after church on Sunday, and I’d have been less surprised, and frankly, much more willing to reply in the affirmative.

  I froze, racked by inner turmoil and shock and guilt.

  His parents scowled.

  Elliott seemed so proud of himself, proposing in such a public way. He’s a sweet, smart, oblivious mess of adorable.

  But I don’t want to marry him. I don’t want to marry anyone.

  I knew it was wrong, but I said yes anyway.

  The pressure of his parents sitting right there, spearing me with Do not embarrass us in the middle of our quiet social haven where everyone knows us and is watching like hawks on mice, you little tart glares, forced me to. I told myself I could take it back later, that I could let Elliott down easy (which would make his mom and dad positively ecstatic, I’m sure) when we were alone, without an audience and the potential to totally embarrass his parents, but I haven’t even had a chance to do that.

  Elliott spent the entire day Saturday helping his parents at their church flea market, which I wasn’t invited to. I’m sure they needled him about the engagement. Probably tried to talk him out of it. I saw him for all of two hours yesterday, and he was so tired from moving and lifting stuff at the rummage sale, he fell asleep on his couch while Pitch Perfect played on TV for the hundredth time.

  I hate Pitch Perfect.

  When he woke up, he promised we’d talk more about the wedding later. With the first day of school looming, I agreed. It was too much all at once, and the last thing I wanted to do was start a fight before I had to go to “work.” He drove me home shortly after.

  The ride was quiet. Awkward. Weird. He asked how things were going with McSlutbag. I snorted and said everything was peachy keen. He seemed content to make small talk until he dropped me at the dorm. With a peck on the cheek, he sent me on my merry way.

  Something’s up with him.

  Something’s up with me too.

  Neither of us is willing to broach the subject of What the hell is this thing between us and are we really ready for marriage?

  I’ve been kicking myself ever since I accepted the ring. My impulsivity has always gotten me in trouble, and this fiasco is no exception.

  But here’s the thing …

  Elliott is safe. He’s a good friend who treats me right. He takes me to shows and basketball games. He shares his popcorn and snuggles with me at the movie theater. He’s a great kisser. For all I know, he could be a beast in bed. I hope so.

  I can’t help but wonder, what if this is it? What if Elliott’s the best guy I’ll ever find? Sure, I could have sex with pretty much anyone I want, but it’s always empty. I don’t feel anything with the guys I screw, aside from fleeting pleasure that never hangs around long enough to be fully appreciated.

  I may not love Elliott, but I love the way he takes care of me, no matter how forgetful or ditzy he can be. There’s a potential for love. Maybe not right this minute, but someday. Once I graduate, get a job, and find a permanent place to live, I’ll feel better about making important life choices like marriage and, God forbid, kids.

  Right now, I gotta keep working on me. I’m a masterpiece still stuck in marble, waiting for the right sculptor to help me climb out. Whether that artist is Elliott remains to be seen. I’m in no hurry.

  One thing is certain: I absolutely, positively will not end up like my mom, rotting away in jail because her baby daddy was a piece of shit and she couldn’t deal with her drug habit and losing him at the same time. I will never rely that hard on a man for validation. No man will ever be my fucked-up reason for living. Gramamma taught me I’m better than that. Whoever I settle down with will have to accept Roxie Rambling for the badass bitch she is.

  “Hey, miss,” a boy calls amid the postafternoon announcement chaos, shaking me into the present.

  I turn and make a show of looking around. “‘Miss’? Who’s ‘miss’? I don’t see no ‘miss.’”

  “Wha’s your name, then?” It’s the boy Attila was sitting with when he got in trouble. He’s a tall, lanky black kid with big ears and a gap between his front teeth.

  I lay a hand on my hip. “I’m Miss Rambling. And you are?”

  “Quentin,” he says. “What a pretty lady like you doin’ up in this nasty school? You must’a got in lotsa trouble to be comin’ in here, try’na teach all these bad chil’rens.”

  I laugh. “So, Bracken Middle is where they send the teachers who can’t cut it? To deal with Quentin and Attila?” I muse, marveling at the classroom with fake awe. “Now it all makes sense.”

  He flashes a toothy grin. “Nah, you look too good to be here. Like you don’t belong.”

  “Funny you should say that.” I lean my butt against the nearest desk and kick a foot over the opposite ankle. “Not that long ago, I was sitting where you are.”

  He screws up his face and points to the chair between his legs. “In this seat?” he asks incredulously.

  I shrug. “I was a Bracken Middle student like you. They said I would never graduate high school, let alone college. But here I am.” I lift my hands, palms up, and gesture to the room.

  “You fixin’ ta graduate college, miss?”

  “Yes, sir. I probably would’ve done it sooner if I’d kept my grades up when I first got there, but it took me a while to get the hang of college.” I lean closer. “I’m here to tell you, if you work hard now, maybe one day you’ll be doing the same, makin’ your momma proud.”

  “Shoot, my momma don’t care ’bout me graduatin’ no college.”

  I nod. “I can understand that. My momma didn’t either. So, what about you? Do you wanna get a degree? A good-paying job?”

  He shrugs angrily. “I dunno. Ain’t never thought ’bout it.”

  I hammer my gaze into his. A sharp twinge in my chest reminds me of how different my life would’ve turned out if someone had said to me the words I’m about to utter to Quentin. “Maybe you should start.”

  A voice announces over the intercom, “Students riding bus number 88, please report to the bus circle.”

  Quentin bounds out of his chair, along with the ten remaining kids. He tugs up his bustin’-slack jeans. “Bye, miss,” he shouts on the way out the door.

  “It’s Rambling,” I call after him, shaking my head. “Miss Rambling.”

  I turn around to find McSlutbag staring at me. He seems to catch himself off-task and returns to the papers scattered over his desk.

  “The first week is always madness,” he mutters, arms flexing as he flips pages and scribbles on them. Damn, he has a smokin’ bod. And I’ll bet the face he’s making right now isn’t that different from his O face. All tight and lean and mad like he’s about to explode.

  Clenching my thighs tight enough to crack walnuts, I shrug off the lusty thoughts about this delicious, arrogant, conceited man who isn’t my fiancé and get my head back in the work game.

  I poke a thumb toward the door. “I’m guessing Quentin doesn’t have much support at home. Probably gets in trouble on a regular basis. Maybe he thinks he’s not very smart because his grades validate a false narrative some adult pounded into his skull that he can’t do better than C work.”

  McSlutbag pauses the paper shuffling and meets my eyes. I want to believe there’s a kind soul trapped somewhere under the flattened lips, harsh lines, and machismo,
but he continues to prove he’s nothing more than a raging egomaniac wearing a body made for sin.

  Arrogant, asshole jock.

  “I was that kid,” I say. I watch Quentin through the window as he hops up the bus steps with his friends. The coil in my gut tightens.

  They’re like carbon copies of the younger me. I wish I could grab Quentin and Attila and a few others and shake some sense into them. But I know better than anyone, you can’t force a kid to be something they don’t want to be. They have to find the motivation inside themselves to do—to be—better. No amount of pressure from the outside will force them to change.

  That said, subtle coercion is a valuable tool. Lead a kid to discover how meaningful something is, and they’ll find a way to own it. That’s what my coach at the Y did. I only wish Gramamma would’ve lived to see my transformation from jailbait to the woman I am today.

  Choosing to remain in the shadows of middle school darkness for so long is my biggest regret. If only someone had told me the light switch was within reach.

  “I was all of these kids.” I sigh.

  Slater smirks. “That why you decided to become a teacher?”

  “Absolutely. You?”

  His smirk deepens into full-blown boorishness. “I just wanted summers off.”

  “It’s never too late to shift your paradigm, Mr. Slater. I’m a testament to that fact. Change does a body, a mind, and a spirit good.” I draw an X over my chest. “Cross my heart.”

  He clears his throat and suddenly becomes intensely interested in a blank piece of paper he’s holding. “What are you thinking about doing for your unit?”

  Disappointed but not surprised the selfish prick switched subjects so abruptly, I settle into the desk he set up for me beside his and remove my notebook and pencil. “My supervisor says I can start leading lessons whenever you think I’m ready, but at the very least, I have to complete two weeks of full-time teaching. Science is my major, so I feel pretty good about that. Language arts, not so much.”