Misconduct

“I have two choices,” I continued. “I can either fight it and treat it as a nuisance, or…” I calmed down, looking at Marek. “I can embrace it as a tool. Not only is their technology ensuring one hundred percent participation in my class,” I pointed out, “but it is also teaching them community and digital citizenship.”

I lowered my chin, pinning him with a hard look. “They do not merely attend a class, Mr. Marek,” I explained, seeing his eyes narrow on me. “They interact with one another on multiple forums, seeing through social barriers and expressing themselves in the tolerant community that I oversee. They’re learning, they’re engaged, and they’re treating one another well.”

I moved around to his other side, standing more confidently than I had since the open house.

“Now, I understand you’re a smart man,” I went on, “and you couldn’t have gotten where you are without being determined and intelligent. But I also think that you do whatever you want and say whatever you like without fear of accountability. I always have a very good reason for everything I do. Do you?

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” I advised, “and I won’t be so arrogant as to tell you how to do yours.”

And before anyone had a chance to speak, I twisted on my heel and walked out.

SEVEN

EASTON

“What will you do with the textbooks?” I asked the librarian as I unloaded the old history books I’d been storing in my classroom.

She grabbed the stack and started pulling them off her counter, one by one, to load onto a cart.

“I think they’ll be donated,” she answered. “Although I hear you don’t even use the new fancy ones we paid good money for.”

I smiled, bending down to my rolling chair to pick up another four books to hand to her.

“Not that I don’t appreciate them,” I teased¸ and she shot me a wink.

If anyone had a problem with me not teaching from the textbook, it certainly wasn’t her. She had been teaching in Orleans Parish for more than thirty years and had been in all types of schools, from the advantaged to the destitute. She knew how to make do with what you had and had told me the first week that the best teachers were facilitators. The more the kids did for themselves, the more they learned.

“Hey,” someone chirped.

I twisted my head, seeing Kristen Meyer pushing her rolling chair toward the checkout desk as well.

“What’s up?” She heaved a sigh, sounding out of breath.

“Just getting rid of the old history texts,” I told her. “You?”

“Ugh.” She unloaded a stack of what looked like typical library books on geology. “Is it winter break yet?” she whined.

I let out a laugh. It wasn’t even October yet.

“All right, I’ve still got a few things to do before I head home for the day. Thanks,” I told the librarian, and then looked to Kristen as I leaned down to start pushing my chair back. “Have a good night,” I singsonged.

“Wait,” she shot out. “I’ll come with you.”

She hurried, dumping the rest of the books on the counter and pushing her chair, following me out.

I exited through the double doors, moving out of the way and holding one open for her.

The school was quiet – all of the students and many of the teachers having already left for the day – and I breathed in, smelling the rain that I knew was coming. The sky had been dark this morning, heavy with thick clouds, and the current weather filled me with trepidation as the wind in the trees carried the warning of a storm that would, without a doubt, be angry.

A hurricane was in the Caribbean, heading for the Gulf, but as of right now, it wasn’t set to hit New Orleans. I hoped we were only looking at a tropical storm, but either way, the school was closing for the next two days in anticipation of flooding.

“So,” Kristen drawled as we pushed our chairs on their wheels down the hallway. “I heard something that can’t possibly be true.”

I kept pushing my chair, our heels echoing in unison down the hall.

“I heard that you” – she spoke slowly – “showed up at Tyler Marek’s office this weekend and told him off.” I could feel her eyes on me as I looked straight ahead. “And that you were wearing a miniskirt, no less,” she added.

“I wasn’t wearing a miniskirt,” I grumbled. “How the hell did you hear that?”

She squealed, her mouth opening in a gasp. “So it’s true?”

I turned away and continued down the hall, squeezing the chair in my fingers.

He’d talked to Shaw, after all?

Shit.

“It’s okay,” she soothed. “It’s just that Myron Cates is one of Marek’s vice presidents,” she told me. “His wife and I became good friends when I taught her son last year, and she said her husband came home Saturday from work having witnessed a bold young woman serving Tyler Marek his ass on a platter.”

She nodded and smiled as if it were an accomplishment.

I looked up at the ceiling, sighing. Great. Another parent I’d made a dynamite impression on.

“Are you…” she inched out, “like, seeing him?”

I shot her a look. “Excuse me?”

“Marek?” she suggested. “He’s certainly handsome. And successful. And…” She eyed me, looking thoughtful, “and you’re seeing him outside of school hours.”

I shook my head. “This conversation is over.”

I was not seeing him outside of school hours. This was how the simplest things could get twisted around and sooner or later the story doesn’t even resemble the truth. Myron Cates’s wife and Kristen Meyer were going to have me giving Marek a lap dance on a Mardi Gras float next thing I knew.