Learning Curve. Terry McLaughlin
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“Can’t you?”
She smiled politely. “Not really, no.”
Sheesh, where was a little chirpiness when a fellow needed it? “Well, I did. My first year here.”
“Oh.” Emily brightened. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
The day’s first bell set off slamming locker doors and last-minute pamphlet grabbing.
“Sorry,” Emily said as she turned to go. “Can’t be late taking first period attendance.”
“Catch you later, Wiz.” Mitch jogged up behind Emily, catching her by one arm. He leaned down close to her ear and whatever he said had her laughing and shaking her curls against his shoulder.
Joe stood in the hall, students and staff churning around him like salmon headed upstream to spawn, and watched Emily disappear up the stairs. What in the hell was all that about? What did she mean, she couldn’t imagine him coaching? Didn’t she think he was patient enough? Sensitive enough? Inspirational enough? Did she think he was too lazy? Too irresponsible? Too out of shape?
Okay, so he probably was—or wasn’t—a lot of those things. But just because he thought so didn’t give her the right to entertain the same opinions. She certainly didn’t know him well enough yet to catalog or appreciate the impressive list of his negative qualities. The fascinating backstories, the intriguing layers, the varied nuances—the mud-splattered tapestry of his soul.
He stalked into the office, snatched his mail out of his box and dumped it all into the nearest trash container. He stood there for a moment, visualizing himself kicking the can, imagining the whump of the metal, feeling the thwack against his sandal. Ahh, that was better. Slightly less violent, definitely more mature, and the next best thing to actually putting a dent in the can. Or picking it up and heaving it at the nearest window—or Dornley’s head. Whichever got in the way first.
“Well, if it isn’t another wonderful, wonderful day,” Linda practically purred from behind her counter. “Good morning, Wiz. And how are you doing?”
“Can it, Linda.”
“You’ve already handled that little chore.” She held up a note. “I managed to rescue this before you went through your daily filing routine. You might want to answer it before Blob Dixon threatens to cut off the funding for whatever he’s promising to fund this week.”
He grinned at Linda’s pet name for Bob, part owner of Dixon’s Hardware and full-blown parental plague on Caldwell High. Bob also happened to be Joe’s landlord, a fact he repeated every couple of weeks or so, just in case the concept hadn’t yet lodged in the one short-term memory cell of Joe’s brain. “What does he want this time?”
“A parent-teacher conference.”
“It’s only the second week of school.”
“He has some concerns about your student teacher.”
There was another reason he didn’t want a student teacher. Now he was going to have to deal with all the parental concern issues Emily dragged to his classroom door. “He just wants to check her out,” he said. “Up close and personal.”
“Blob and every other red-blooded single male in the school community. Some of the married ones, too.” Linda shot a slitted glance at Kyle’s door, and then rested an elbow on the counter, waving the message. “Tell me, what’s it like mentoring the Student Teacher Most Likely to Cause a Traffic Pileup?”
Joe took the memo and crammed it into his pocket. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
She laced her fingers beneath her chin. “Oh, yeah.”
“Well, for your information—and for Blob Hardware’s, and for anyone else who asks—she’s doing fine. Just fine.” The second bell rang. “She’s up there right now, taking roll. She’ll probably march the troops through maneuvers and drill them on essay responses before I arrive.”
“I’ve heard she’s a take-charge gal. I also hear she’s got a date for every dance-chaperoning duty this fall.”
“Yeah, well, things’ll quiet down once everyone gets used to everyone else.”
“Hmm.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What was that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“That ‘hmm.’ I know that ‘hmm.’”
“Oh, nothing.” Linda rubbed at a speck on the counter. “Better get up there, Wiz. High school students have been known to eat student teachers and subs for breakfast, especially since most of them don’t eat anything before they get here.”
“I thought that’s what the candy in the snack machines was for.”
“Hyped up on a sugar fix and ready to rumble,” said Linda. “Either way, things could get ugly.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think anyone’ll try anything. They’ve been pretty easy on her so far. If I didn’t know better, I might start believing some of these crazy rumors going around.”
“I heard her dad is a three-star general who used to send her to basic instead of summer camp.”
He grinned. “You wouldn’t happen to know where that rumor got started, would you?”
She inspected her nails. “Not a clue.”
“Speaking of military types, how’s Alice?”
“Your department chair? Still AWOL. Having a real tough time with this pregnancy, from what I hear.” She paused. “I don’t think she’s going to make it back at all this year.”
“Damn.” Joe took a deep, resentful breath and let it rush out in despair. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I guess I’d better get up there.” He glanced at the ceiling. “Things may be nice and quiet right now, but what really worries me are the crazy ideas Ms. Sullivan might be pouring into those empty heads.”
EMILY STARED at all the hands in the air, exhilaration and terror churning in her stomach along with her leftover pizza breakfast. She wished her university adviser was here to observe how well she was directing this American History discussion. And she hoped Joe wouldn’t tell her adviser he wanted her out of his classroom because she directed discussions just like this.
“Does anyone disagree with what Matt just said?” she asked, looking for someone who hadn’t yet had a chance to speak. “Angie?”
“No way!” Angie twisted in her seat to face Matt across the room. “I mean, it’s so obvious that the Boston Tea Party was totally an anarchy thing. You know, like those people who smashed the windows in Seattle.”
“Yeah, but at least those Seattle dudes didn’t wear disguises,” added someone from the back row.
“Starbucks coffee and English tea,” rumbled Joe’s soft voice from the classroom doorway. “Hmm.”
Emily winced at the ominous sound of that hmm. She turned to see him lounging against the wide wood trim. One corner of his mouth slid into a wry grin. The kind of grin that could mask any number of things: irritation, amusement, her imminent dismissal. The kind of grin that scrambled her pulse and scattered her thoughts.
“Guess some people can get a little violent about their caffeine addiction,” he said. “But anarchists? That’s an interesting take on the Sons of Liberty.”
She cleared her throat and pasted on a bright, confident smile to mask her panic. “We were discussing how some British taxpayers might have been angry about the actions and beliefs of some of the American colonists. Considering a different point of view.”