Learning Curve. Terry McLaughlin
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dumping his unread mail into the wastebasket. Carefully nudging the clutter on her desk aside with one hip, he settled in to wait while she recited the late registration litany for a new parent.
“…Yes, I’m sure that would be all right, Joyce.” She tried to wave him away, but he dodged and stuck. “Donny can take the forms home Monday after classes.”
“Tell me,” he said with a growl when she dropped the receiver back in its cradle.
She folded her hands over a stack of fall sports schedules. “Maybe if you kept in touch, you wouldn’t come back to nasty little surprises.”
Behind him, another door clicked open. “Joe?”
“Speaking of nasty little surprises,” Linda muttered under her breath.
He turned to see Kyle Walford, Caldwell’s principal, step out of his office. Joe’s headache shifted into migraine mode ahead of schedule.
“Joe, buddy. Looking good.” Kyle swept a hand through his hair and smoothed down his tie as he moved toward the reception area. Joe wondered, not for the first time, how Kyle’s wife got the greasy stuff out of his ties. Then he wondered if there was any way to get out of grasping that same hand when Kyle offered it in greeting.
“Where have you been?” said Kyle. “I tried calling you all day yesterday.”
“That’s odd. There was no message on my machine.”
Kyle threw a companionable arm around Joe’s shoulders, an awkward position for them both since Joe was several inches taller. “Well, you’re here now, and there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“I was going to check on a few things before the faculty meeting.” Joe dug his heels deep into his Birkenstocks, resisting Kyle’s attempt to maneuver him into the principal’s office. “I don’t want to be late.”
“You can’t be late if I’m not there,” Kyle pointed out, flashing even, white caps.
Joe remembered that Kyle’s smile had been bartered for a local dentist’s outfield billboard. He didn’t smile back. “Who is it that’s important enough to keep everyone waiting?”
“Well, Joe…it’s your student teacher.”
It wasn’t often that Joe got angry enough to worry about high blood pressure. But he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his system now. There it was, coiling in his gut and rippling along his jaw. He didn’t want his classroom turned into some sort of petri dish, didn’t want a stranger probing into the hows and whys of what he did—especially when he didn’t know how and why himself anymore. He just wanted to get his job done and make his escape every afternoon shortly after three o’clock. “I don’t have student teachers, Kyle.”
“Plenty of teachers do, sooner or later.” Kyle playfully punched Joe’s arm. “And now it’s your turn.”
“I don’t have student teachers, Kyle.”
“You’ve got one now.” Kyle’s fingers twitched a bit as he smoothed his already smooth tie. “Come on into my office and I’ll introduce you.”
EMILY SULLIVAN RECROSSED her legs, right over left this time, and reminded herself not to swing the suspended foot. Bruising the principal’s shins wasn’t the way to make a professional impression.
She reached down to tug at the hem of her skirt and watched it snap back into place a couple of inches above her knees, just like it had snapped back the other six times she’d tugged at it. Maybe she should have gone with the ankle-length skirt. Oh, well. No use second-guessing her morning fashion decision—and she did tend to step on that longer skirt and trip when getting out of chairs. Tripping and falling flat on her face probably created a less professional appearance than swinging a shin-bruising foot.
How could anyone relax in the principal’s office? Okay, the principal probably managed just fine. And at least she wasn’t staring at the fake walnut paneling from a juvenile delinquent’s point of view.
A delinquent adult’s, maybe. Her family certainly seemed to think so. That was why she had to clinch this student teaching assignment. It was her last, best chance to launch her grown-up life—even if, at twenty-nine, she was rusting on the launch pad. She’d studied subjects from anthropology to zoology, she’d waited tables in Dublin and sold perfume in Marseilles. She’d done just about everything but decide what to do with her life, blithely hopping from one campus, one major, one country, one job, to another. Now it was time to choose a career and stick with it. She’d run out of hopping room.
Kyle walked in, wearing his alligator-on-campaign grin. A dark, rangy man trailed him into the room, closed the door, and slouched against it, his hands in his pockets. Emily got a brief impression of worn jeans, wrinkled white shirt, black hair in need of a trim and waves of hostility.
“Emily Sullivan,” said Kyle, “meet Joe Wisniewski.”
She rose, hand extended, lifting her chin to look her new master teacher straight in his bloodshot eyes. So this was The Wiz, the infamous seducer of impressionable young minds and restless older women. He was exactly what she’d imagined, right down to the scruffy sandals.
What she hadn’t imagined was the potent appeal tucked inside the Heathcliff packaging. The sexual left hook knocked the wind out of her before she saw it coming.
“How do you do?” she managed to ask when she got her breath back.
Silence. Emily fought the urge to tug at her skirt until it morphed into a shroud. She wanted to wear it as she slipped into the hole in the ground she felt opening beneath her. And just when the absence of sound or movement had stretched her nerves to the snapping point, The Wiz shrugged away from the door and took her hand in his.
“Fine,” he said. His dark laser beam stare locked in on Kyle. “Just fine. Thanks.”
Emily slipped her hand out of his oversize grip and sank back into her chair. She would have preferred to dive under it instead, to tuck her head in the emergency position and pray that the impending nuclear blast didn’t spew too much radiation in her direction. Something was wrong—understatement alert. The tension in this office was a palpable, living thing. A thing with pastrami breath and a sinus condition, camped at an open fire. Which would explain why it was getting so warm in here. And hard to breathe. She tried to swallow without gulping out loud.
“So…” Kyle’s smile wavered a bit at the edges. “You might remember Emily’s brother, Joe. Jack Sullivan?”
Another marathon silence followed the question. Then, with a flick of a glance in Emily’s direction, Joe grunted. “I might.”
“He was a senior the first year you taught here at Caldwell, wasn’t he?” Kyle didn’t wait for Joe’s answer. “You made a big impression on young Jack, I hear. A big impression.”
The Wiz might have been carved in stone, except for the tiny muscle rippling along his jaw.
Kyle vaulted over another conversation chasm. “Jack Sullivan, Senior, was mighty impressed, too, I understand.”
“Is that so?”
Emily winced. She supposed that “impressed” was one way to describe sputtering, splotchy-faced outrage.
Actually, the member of the Sullivan clan who was the most enthralled, the most entranced, the most impressed by The Great and Powerful Wiz was impressionable thirteen-year-old Emily. She would sit in her spot at the Sullivan dining room table, swinging both feet, quietly devouring Jack’s civics class quote of the day and the delicious debates that followed like servings of dessert.
She’d never taken her turn in the classroom of the man behind the uproar. Shortly after Jack’s graduation, her parents had moved from the tiny mill town of Issimish to shorten Dad’s hour-long commute to his job in Seattle. And her fascination with the infamous Mr. Wisniewski had tangled with her fantasies into a knotty teenage crush.
Joe