Teacher
By
R.L. Merrill
Teacher
Copyright © 2015, Celie Bay Publications, LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any mean, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
This work is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published By: Celie Bay Publications, LLC
Cover design by: Ellay Branton
Edited by: LTE Editing
Formatting by: Bob Houston eBook Formatting
Dedication
To the Teachers in my life… From my dance teachers, to my most encouraging teachers in school, to my mentors who have helped me to become the teacher, counselor, and parent I am today. To the teachers who work with my own children for their tireless patience… as much with me as with my children. To my students who have taught me the most important life lessons. To my Children who challenge me daily to learn the necessary skills for understanding their needs. To my Mother who continues to teach me daily. And to my Husband, who teaches me to be patient with myself and loves me when I’m not.
Teacher
By
R.L. Merrill
Chapter One
May 2013
“How would you like to give someone a second chance this summer?” My boss had dropped in to see me at the end of a long week with this simple question she knew would intrigue me. Second chances were what I dealt in as a teacher of at-risk kids. They were my life’s mission. As I drove my 1979 Ford Pinto station wagon down Highland Boulevard in Hollywood on this balmy Friday afternoon, I pondered my future in this job I loved with my whole being. I was glad school was out for Memorial Day, but I dreaded another weekend trapped in my hole of an apartment. The sun was shining brightly and the traffic was as heavy as my thoughts.
“Unless the Governor’s budget improves our district’s situation, I’m not going to be able to hire you back next year. You’re my best teacher, Jesse, but seniority rules here and I have no control over that.” Principal Gloria Jensen always looked out for me, but some things were just out of her hands. After five years of teaching at the Hollywood Independent Study program, and five pink slips, I just wasn’t sure I could keep crossing my fingers and praying everything would turn out come August.
“This Home Instructor job sounds like a great way to make some extra money for the summer in case... well, in case the worst happens,” Gloria had said.
The worst would be losing my job and giving up on the career I’d worked hard to have. I exhaled a stressed-out breath, my long blonde hair blowing in my face with the windows rolled down since air conditioning did not come standard on vehicles in 1979.
“Who is this guy,” I had asked Gloria. I was willing to do whatever I needed to help my chances of landing a job next fall and to keep myself fed, but I had serious reservations about working in some stranger’s home for the summer.
Gloria just shrugged and said, “The management company wouldn’t give me a name, just said he’s one of their top clients and he has decided to finally earn his high school diploma while recovering from a medical procedure. This client has offered to donate to the district a hefty sum to run a summer school program so that we’re justified sending one of our teachers to him as a Home Instructor. You’ll be paid double your hourly rate. Call it combat pay. What do you say? I wanted to offer this to you first.”
What did I say? It sure beat waiting tables, or worse, to make ends meet. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Gloria smiled and said, “Great! Here’s the rep’s card. She said she’d be available until 6:00 tonight. Otherwise, call on Tuesday.” Gloria wished me well and told me to try to enjoy my weekend.
What I wasn’t enjoying was the knocking sound in my engine. My parents gave me the Pinto when I turned 16, and it had gotten me through college and the last five years teaching with lots of TLC and several repair bills. My dad had kept it in prime condition, but I knew its time was running out and I was going to have to bite the bullet and buy something more reliable. More than once I’d broken down and had to wait for AAA to come bail me out of dangerous situations. This was Hollywood. Not a safe place for a single gal to be breaking down.
I pulled the card out of my pocket, curious. The card listed Slade Artist Management as the name of the company and the representative’s name was Patricia Gordon. It specified that she worked in the music division. Guess that meant the mystery client was a musician?
Just then I heard the blaring of horns and I slammed on my brakes, narrowly avoiding a guy pushing a grocery cart through the lanes of crawling traffic. He was selling cold bottles of water, which made me smile. God bless his ingenuity! I handed him three bucks and he slapped an ice-cold bottle in my hand. I ran the bottle over the back of my neck and over my chest before cracking it open. I wondered briefly how much money I could make doing this? Just in case…
I pulled up in front of my crappy apartment complex off of Franklin and found parking on the street. Luckily, with my unattractive car, I didn’t worry too much about anyone breaking in. I climbed the steps to my second floor apartment and sighed to find the walkway in front of my door littered with beer bottles, again. My neighbor, Cosmo, was an aspiring musician and had more parties with his band than actual practices. There was no complaining to the manager for help since he was the manager. His family owned the building and left him completely in charge.
“Hey, Jesse Baby,” he called out from inside his apartment. The door was rarely shut if Cosmo or one of the other guys was around. His band mates crashed more nights than not.
I smiled begrudgingly in greeting. “Hey Cosmo. Any chance I might get some sleep this weekend?”
He laughed and stepped outside his door shirtless and wearing ratty jean shorts. He had long, curly, black-as-night hair. If he bathed regularly, he might be totally attractive. As it was, he was the closest thing I had to a friend in the area.
“That I cannot guarantee. The guys are coming over later and we’re going to practice as long as possible before they get wasted and pass out.”
I shook my head. “Well, I’d appreciate it if they’d keep their vomiting to the toilet or trash cans rather than my doormat.”
He rubbed at his stubble-covered chin and laughed. “Yeah, that was probably Jinx. I’ll tell him to stay on this side of the Mason-Dixon line.”
I rolled my eyes. In one of my fits of anger at their hard-partying ways, I’d drawn a line between our apartments on the cement walkway and declared my side the ‘free zone’- free meaning puke-free, trash-free, naked chick-free. He then argued that meant he could have slavery on his side of the line and tried to force their groupies to clean, do laundry, and buy beer.
“You do that," I muttered. "You guys have a gig tomorrow?”
He nodded. “Yeah, we’re playing at the Roxy at 10. You going to come watch?”
I shrugged. “I might. I need to do something this weekend that a person my age would do.”
Cosmo often teased me for being such a homebody. He’d say, “Jesse, you are a beautiful, sexy girl with legs any man would kill to g
et between. You have no business locking them away from mankind.” He meant well, I guess, in his perverted sort of way.
We waved to each other and I unlocked my door and stepped inside. My one bedroom apartment was as clean as I could get it, which wasn’t saying much. The complex I lived in was a relic from the '50’s and the linoleum and carpets hadn’t been replaced in probably 20 years. I could spend hours cleaning and it would still look like a pit. I dropped my keys and bag full of papers to grade by the door and plopped down on my couch to finish the dregs of my water bottle. I took out the card again and ran my fingers over the professional lettering. I dialed the number and blew out a breath.
“This is Patricia.” Her tone was all business.
“Hi, Patricia? My name is Jesse Martin. My principal gave me your card and asked me to contact you about a teaching job for the summer?”
I heard her speak to someone quietly on the other end and then a door slammed.
“Yes, hello Jesse! I was hoping you could help me with a client of mine. He’s interested in earning his high school diploma and, given his special circumstances, he would prefer to have you come to his home for the lessons. Your district has given us permission to have him work with a credentialed teacher in an independent study format and we need a teacher who can cover all the material with him. Are you credentialed for this kind of a student?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have been teaching high school Independent Study for five years and have been found Highly Qualified according to the standards set by the No Child Left Behind Act to teach all core subjects.” My palms were sweating and I knew it had nothing to do with the temperature. I kicked off my shoes and waited for her response.
“Oh, please hold on, I’ve got another call.” I sighed and walked into my dingy bedroom to change clothes. I unbuttoned my blouse and slid my slacks down my legs, the layer of sweat making them stick. Just then Cosmo’s guitar growled, shaking my walls. I prayed I could get through this conversation before the rest of the band arrived.
Patricia came on a few minutes later. “Sorry about that Jesse. Can you meet tonight for dinner? My client would like to get started as soon as possible.”
I frowned. “I’m sorry, I assumed we would be starting this summer. I’m still teaching for the next three weeks.”
She laughed. “I told him that and he said he’d work around your schedule. Look, he’s not a very patient man and I’m afraid he’s used to getting what he wants. He’s been out of commission lately and is antsy to get to work on this.”
It wasn’t like I had anything better to do. “Sure, I can meet tonight. Where did-”
She cut me off. “Give me your address, Jesse. I’ll send a car.”
Ok, so we were on that level.
“Um, I’d prefer it if I met you somewhere.”
She tried to reassure me that it was no problem but I insisted. There was no way in hell I wanted them to see where I lived. Not to mention my fear of what Cosmo and the gang could do to ruin this. They were good-hearted guys, but they had not an ounce of common sense between them.
“Can you meet us at the Formosa Cafe at 7:00?”
I agreed and we hung up. I gave a forlorn glance at the shorts and t-shirt I was about to put on. I would need to wear my professional attire for this since it was basically an interview.
Someone banged on my door. I was in my bra and underwear so I threw on a short robe, figuring it was one of Cosmo’s gang. “I’m coming,” I shouted.
“What is it?” I pulled the door open to find two of Cosmo’s band mates, Sam and Johnny, outside my door. Both boys had recently turned 21 but looked about 16. Sam, the bass player in the band, was a lanky sweetheart with puppy dog blue eyes and a goofy smile. Johnny, the drummer, was short and sinewy, with black shaggy hair and brown eyes. They were always together and always up to shenanigans.
“Hey good lookin’,” they started and I rolled my eyes, pulling my robe further closed.
“What do you guys need?”
They looked at each other and broke into very Beavis and Butthead-esque giggles. “Uh, heh heh, can we borrow your blender? We’re making, uh, protein shakes, yeah, and, uh, Cosmo’s blender is like busted.”
I raised an eyebrow at them. “You’re not really making protein shakes. What do you want it for?”
More of the giggling. “We swear, we won’t break it.”
I sighed. “Fine, let me grab it.”
They followed me into my apartment, still giggling. These two were forever going to be little boys and being around them left me feeling like I was never off work.
“So you got a date tonight, Jesse?”
I had a feeling Sam was a little sweet on me. He was a nice kid and I tried hard to not give him any wrong ideas.
“I’m actually going on a job interview for a teaching position for the summer.”
His face fell. “You’re working this summer? Does that mean you won’t be around?”
God, I hoped so.
“I’m sure I’ll still be around. I’m not going anywhere.” Wasn’t that the truth? I handed them the blender and Johnny was giggling maniacally.
“This is going to be so cool.” They both smiled at each other and then gave me their most innocent faces. “We promise we’ll bring it back in one piece.”
I waved them on. They practically ran from my apartment and I didn’t even want to think about what they had planned.
I took a shower and got made up once again. I wore a sleeveless cream blouse and a navy pencil skirt with strappy sandals. I wanted to look professional. The clothes helped, but I had quite a baby face. I wore my thick, blonde hair up in a bun. My reading glasses helped to conceal my youth. At 5’10” I towered over many of my students, even when I wasn't in heels, and that, plus my austere appearance, meant none of the kids messed with me. I had a reputation for being firm but fair, and my caseload was always full. I bordered on being too thin. Being a former professional dancer would do that to you. Once you have adopted those eating habits they were hard to break, even if they were no longer necessary.
I gave myself an hour to get there, even though it should have only taken 20 minutes. Traffic in Hollywood on a Friday night was nightmarish at best. I parked three blocks away with ten minutes to spare, that’s the closest I could get, and I jogged to the restaurant. Not an easy feat in heels. There was a line outside so I checked with the bouncer.
“My name is Jesse Martin. I have a dinner meeting with Patricia Gordon?”
He leered at me, gave an appraising look at my attire and let me in. “They’re in the back, gorgeous.”
I smiled thinly at him and walked through the door. The Formosa Cafe is a great place with amazing food. I didn’t often splurge to come here, but when I did, I always left feeling stuffed and satisfied.
I wandered through the crowded bar and saw the tables in the streetcar section of the restaurant were empty with the exception of one at the very back. A voluptuous woman with dyed red hair was sitting facing me in a grey business suit. Her client, I assumed, was sitting with his back to me and all I could make out was a San Francisco Giants baseball cap on backwards with a black hooded sweatshirt. He had his arms slung over the back of the booth and I could see tattoos on his hands.
“Jesse! Come join us.”
I stepped over and shook hands with the woman. “Patricia, I presume?”
She nodded, taking my hand between hers. “Thanks so much for meeting with us. Jesse Martin, please meet my client, Danny Black.”
I froze where I stood. It was probably only a millisecond, but my heart was jumping out of my chest and I had to fight to not wobble on the heels of my strappy sandals. I turned and looked down to see a very red-haired, very annoyed, very virile rock god.
“Pleased to meet you,” he whispered in a raspy voice.
“Likewise,” was all I could get out. I took a deep breath to get myself under control, offered a thin-lipped smile, and slid into the booth next to Patricia.
Patricia was smiling broadly. She seemed more apprehensive than I was! She was shaking her leg under the table, her pump sliding on and off her heel. She was even tapping her acrylic nails on the table.
“Great. So. Danny, Jesse has all the qualifications needed to be your teacher so you can finish your credits and earn your diploma.”
He glared first at me and then back at Patricia. “Does she know that I want to get this done as soon as possible?”
I was curious as to what the whispering was about. We were the only ones in this part of the restaurant. I smoothed my palms over my skirt hoping to control my nerves.
I had no clue that when I agreed to this interview that I would be meeting the lead singer of Blackened. Danny Black’s career was huge! Blackened was a Grammy-winning, Billboard chart-topping, rock n’ roll force of nature with five gold and platinum albums under their belt. Danny had his fingers in producing up-and-coming rock acts and was frequently asked to do guest vocals on other artists' work. I was a huge fan but there was no way in hell I was going to let on that I was totally geeking out.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Black? Do you know how many credits are on your transcript?”
His glare grew more severe and I figured I’d just touched a nerve. He whispered, “I have some, I’m sure. I’m not a total idiot, Ms. Martin.” I could see the muscles moving in his cheek as if he were clenching his jaw.
“I didn’t mean to infer that you were anything other than short a diploma. If I can take a look at your transcript I can tell you about how long it will take us to get you finished. You’ll also have to pass the Language Arts and Math Exit Exams. They are required by the state now for anyone trying to earn a diploma.”
He ground his teeth some more and glared at Patricia. She looked extremely nervous. I could imagine that it took delicacy to work with a client like Danny Black.
“I have copies of his transcript in a file here,” she reached into her briefcase, glancing anxiously at Danny, and brought out a manila folder. “We’ll also need you to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Danny would like for this to be a private matter.”
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