She glares.
She seethes.
She moves closer, leaving only a few inches between us. “That will never happen, because unlike you, I know how to relate to my students.”
“You don’t need to relate to them, Gibson. You need to educate them.”
With that, I push past her and walk by Gunner and Romeo’s booth as they all high-five each other, not paying me a bit of attention. I quickly lay some money on the bar for my meal, and for Greer’s, and then, deciding to wait outside, I exit the bar and order an Uber.
The doors to the bar burst open behind me and I glance over my shoulder, where I see Greer standing, her chest heaving, her eyes narrowed, her fists clenched at her side.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she looks like she’s about to punch me.
“As teachers, we’re not just here to shove Shakespearean quotes down their throats and talk about the damn green light in The Great Gatsby and what it represents. We’re here to uplift them, to help them understand the life ahead of them. Do you really think they’re going to look back one day and say, ‘You know, that Mr. Turner, the way he’d wax poetic about F. Scott Fitzgerald really changed my life’?” She shakes her head, moving closer with every word she says. “No”—she pokes me in the chest—“they’re going to look back at high school and think, ‘Mr. Turner was an asshole who didn’t care about me as a person. He just cared about me as a student. As a number. As a grade.’”
How little she fucking knows me.
I move my jaw back and forth, not letting the crazy sweet smell of her perfume distract me, or the way her passionate eyes flare disarm me, or the press of her finger into my right pec confuse me.
Standing strong, unwavering, I say, “And you think your free-for-all handling of the curriculum is going to change lives?”
“It’s not a free-for-all.”
I scoff. “Pairing the movie with classic literature, asking them to read the CliffsNotes—”
“That’s so they gain a better understanding.”
“You’re diminishing their ability to read and translate by filling their minds with the cop-out version.” I reach out and pinch her chin, now so close I can feel her breath on me. “You want to make a difference? Teach them.”
I let go just as a silver Camry pulls up to the sidewalk.
“I do teach them,” she calls after me, her eyes less passionate, slightly unsure.
“Try doing it without the fanfare.” I reach for the door and open it. “If they learn from you by proper instruction, then you’re a teacher. Until then . . . in my eyes . . .” I look her up and down. I want to tell her that she’s no better than a glorified babysitter. But I can’t. Not as her superior. “You need to prove your worth, Miss Gibson. You’re there to teach, not babysit.”
Chapter Five
GREER
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“What did I say over the weekend?” I ask. My eyes burn with exhaustion as I cut off the heads of a pack of matches.
“You said full steam ahead.”
“Well, that’s exactly what we’re doing. Full steam ahead.”
“Yeah . . .” Stella drags out carefully. “But before, when you wanted to do the pranks, you didn’t have this crazy look in your eyes.”
“Lack of sleep,” I snap. “Where’s the ammonia?”
“Keeks is getting it.” Stella pulls on my shoulder so I’m facing her. “Hey, can you settle down for a second and talk to me?”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Turner is an asshole and he’s going to get stink-bombed.”
“You know there’s nothing more I want than to see Turner being turned out of his classroom because you dropped a stink bomb in there, but something must have happened Friday night that you’re not telling me. You have a vengeful look on your face.”
“I don’t remember swiping on ‘vengeful’ when I was doing my makeup this morning.”
Stella nudges me. “I’m being serious, Greer. Talk to me. What did he say to you?”
Sighing, I sit on one of the desks in my classroom. School starts in forty-five minutes. “What didn’t he say, is the question. Not only did he start off the interaction by completely ignoring me, as if I wasn’t good enough to even be in his presence, he then proceeded to school me in pool, which was a shot to my competitive heart.”
“You’re upset because he beat you in pool?”
“No, I’m upset about what he said to me after pool.”
“What did he say?”
“He practically called me a babysitter, rather than a teacher.”
Stella lets out a low gasp. “No, he didn’t.”
I slowly nod. “Yup. Said my teaching was frivolous, that I don’t actually teach, but lean on cop-out techniques to teach the kids required material.”
“Because you help them better understand through visual representation?”
I nod.
Stella laughs. “That’s such bullshit. He’s pulling his snooty attitude on you, and we won’t stand for it.” She pounds the desk. “Doesn’t he know that not every teacher is the same? Just like every student isn’t the same. Ugh . . . what a tool bag.”
“Tool bag, a classic insult,” Keeks says, entering the classroom. “Derived from the mid-seventeenth century, willingly used to describe a skill-less person, which is quite contradictory given the purpose of a tool is to assist the Homo Sapien in completing tasks.” She hands me the ammonia. “Bag wasn’t added to the insult until recent years, indicating, not only are you a dupe, but you’re a whole bag of them.” She smiles at us.
“Didn’t know there was such a backstory to the term tool bag,” I say, feeling a little lighter thanks to Keeks and her unusual sense of humor. “I thought it was something frat boys came up with.”
She pushes her glasses up on her nose. “I perceive why you would jump to that hypothesis, but, dismally, the only accomplishments frat boys can lay claim to are the consumption of copious amounts of grain-infused malt liquor, corresponding macho-man-infused Olympics, and the capability of draining said liquor from a funnel straight into the esophagus without an extra cry for breath.”
“They’re also good at throwing parties,” Stella adds. “Not ashamed to admit I’ve been to a few.”
“We all have,” Keeks says with a sigh.
Uncapping the bottle of ammonia, I ask, “You’ve been to a frat party?”
She gestures toward her body. “Contrary to what you might postulate about me, I’m more than a wool skirt and glasses. I’ve acquired my equitable share of ‘fun.’” She brushes her gray-and-purple plaid skirt, smoothing out a wrinkle. “Back at university, I seldom attended a boisterous party. But there was one particularly raucous occasion when I forfeited my sensible brassiere after a riveting game of chess. I exhausted the rest of the evening with my mammaries twisting and turning with bare abandon in my practical party blouse. Quite the affair.”