His eyes sharpen. “We’re not going on a field trip. There’s a dead animal in my classroom.”
“Are you sure it isn’t your lecture dying in there?”
His lips flatten. “Cute.”
“Dead animal, huh? Did you kill it with your boring teaching techniques?” I tsk and shake my head. “Death by English teacher, it’s a real threat in your classroom. Saw some support groups for your students being posted out on the bulletin boards. Might have been an animal today, tomorrow . . . who knows who’s next?”
“Are you done?” he asks, deadpan.
“Believe so.” I smile, all too happy with myself.
“Then I suggest you get back to work.”
“You’re not my boss,” I snap-whisper at him.
“I’m head of the department, which means I have a say in who works here.”
I smile widely and stand tall; his eyes fall briefly to my chest and then crawl back to my eyes. The brief glance erects a flush of heat up the back of my neck, but I don’t let it deter me. “Looks like you don’t have too much say, you know, since I work here.” I smile widely and say, “Good luck with your rotting lecture—oh, I mean, animal—good luck with your rotting animal.”
Shutting the door, happy with myself, I turn to my class, ready to teach them the ways of Jane Austen.
Gunner: Status Report—Anger, fury, kind of smells.
Greer: OMG, he smells?
Romeo: Like ass. I kicked him out of the teachers’ lounge.
Greer: That’s better than anything I could have hoped for.
Gunner: He took a shower during lunchbreak and is wearing his gym clothes, which has only made him more irritable, because, you know, teaching without a cardigan is like touching kryptonite. He needs the cardigan.
Romeo: He texted me in between periods and said he’s way off his game. The smell is ingrained in his nostrils.
Greer: LOL! Did they find the stink bomb?
Gunner: Carl, the janitor, located and removed it while wearing a hazmat suit—well, a homemade one.
Greer: They’re not blaming any kids, are they?
Romeo: No. But he has his suspicions when it comes to us, since we pulled him out of his classroom. We need to be careful with the next one.
Greer: Roger that. Thanks, boys.
Gunner: Our pleasure. Keep up the good work.
Greer: Gladly.
“I don’t know about this.” I look at the assembly of kids all sectioned out by graduating class, our first pep rally of the year about to start.
“This is the perfect time,” Gunner says from the corner of his mouth.
“Don’t back down now,” Romeo adds from behind me.
“There are so many kids here,” I say, worrying my lower lip.
“Which is why it needs to be done. He doesn’t ever address the school except for this pep rally, where he lists off the honoree students from last year.”
“And you know he’ll fall for it?”
“He won’t know what’s happening,” Stella adds.
I fumble with the iPad in my hand that Keeks gave me earlier. “I don’t know.”
Gunner leans in and says, “Now or never, Gibson. He’s headed this way.”
I glance up to see Arlo walking toward us, glass of water in hand.
“I’m too shaky. What if it doesn’t work?”
“It works. We checked multiple times.”
“He’ll see it all over my face. The guilt.”
“We’ll distract him. Don’t worry. You got this, just keep the iPad hidden,” Romeo says.
Arlo closes the space to our group, just as I put the iPad behind my back. His eyes land on me briefly, but in that short glance, he takes me in from head to toe, and I so wish I could read his mind, to know what he thinks of the red sundress I chose to wear today. Does he approve? Am I teacher enough for him? I do have my hair in a tight bun on the top of my head, going for a more studious look, because I want to . . . not because I’m trying to impress him.
“I hate these assemblies, a waste of time,” Arlo grumbles, speaking to his boys.
“He’s never been a fan of the different dance teams trying to pump up the student body about education. He’s rather a throw-a-book-in-front-of-your-face-and-pump-you-up-with-literature kind of guy,” Gunner says to me.
“School spirit is worth something,” Stella says, jumping in.
“For the underachievers,” Arlo mutters, and that comment right there gives me the extra surge of confidence I need to go through with this prank.
When is this man going to learn that we’re not teaching in a prison cell, that we’re a public school attempting to mold minds, not turn them into classic-literature robots?
Arlo glances at me and I feel my cheeks flame with panic.
Cutting in quickly, Gunner says, “Dude, your pant cuffs are uneven.”
That’s his distraction? Jesus, that will never—
“Really?” Arlo glances down. “Hold my drink.” Gunner takes the drink while Arlo bends down.
Okay, I guess these boys know Arlo way better than I thought.
“That better?” he asks, lifting up.
“Way better,” Gunner says, handing him back his drink.
Just then, Principal Dewitt walks to the center of the basketball court and the students quiet down, showing impressive respect for our leader.
“I know you’re eager to get to the dance clubs to see what they’ve been working on for the past two weeks and over summer, but we have some students to honor first. Mr. Turner, will you please join me at the podium?”
“That’s me,” he says, walking onto the court.
My nerves immediately hit me harder than expected. “Oh God, I might puke.”
“Don’t. You’re not going to want to miss this,” Gunner says, rubbing his hands together. “This is going to be the greatest moment of my life.”
“Greater than meeting your son for the first time?” Romeo asks.
“Okay, second-greatest moment.”
“Greater than—”
“We’re not playing this game,” Gunner sternly says, causing Romeo to chuckle.
Principal Dewitt hands the microphone to Arlo, who secures it in the stand on the podium. In his deep timbre, he says, “Thank you, Principal Dewitt. We’ll make this short and sweet. We have ten students who made it into the honors program and we’re going to call them up to receive their sash and pin.” He lifts the cup of water and I hold my breath as he takes a sip. Then I press the preset button.
I hold my breath.
My heart beating a mile a minute.
My lips drying.
My chest hollowing out from pure anticipation.
He opens his mouth and . . .
In the most high-pitched, nasally voice, he says, “Jessica Magnol—” He stops, his face contorting in confusion. “Jessica . . .”
Oh, dear God, it’s happening.
The entire assembly breaks out into laughter as Arlo tries to figure out why his voice is sounding like Alvin the Chipmunk.
Turning to Dewitt, he asks in a high-pitched voice, “Is there something wrong with the mic?”
Nyema taps on the mic and leans in to speak. I press the preset button on the iPad again. “Hello.” Her voice sounds normal.