“Why? Because it’s true?” She crumples up her hash brown wrapper and sticks it in the bag.
“It’s not fucking true.”
“Okay, whatever you say, bro.” She picks up her orange juice and takes a large sip. “For what it’s worth, I think she’s really hot.”
Christ.
“From the grip you have on the steering wheel, I’m going to guess you don’t want to talk about that though.”
“I don’t.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Because she’s inconsequential.”
“Ooo, boy, don’t say that to her face.” Cora shakes her head. “That would be a blow to the old self-esteem. That’s something one of those alpha asshole bosses would say.” In a hoity voice, Cora repeats, “She’s inconsequential.” Shaking her head, she adds, “Does everyone at school know what a tightwad you are?”
“Yes.”
“Good . . . at least everyone is aware.”
“I’m an educator, I’m not there to make friends, Coraline.”
“Clearly,” she says sarcastically. “Gunner said this new teacher teaches English as well. Does that mean you guys have to work closely together?”
“No.”
“Shame. She seems like your type.”
“A lush who gets drunk at work events seems like my type?”
Coraline laughs. “If you don’t want people getting drunk, don’t serve them champagne that tastes like juice. But Greer, she has that whole ombre look with her hair, long legs, pretty lips. Feisty. I could see her giving you a run for your money and you enjoying it.”
“I would not,” I answer, pulling into the mall parking lot. “Now drop it.”
Coraline laughs some more. “Sure, Arlo. I’ll drop it . . . for now.”
Great. On a deep exhale, I exit the car and wait for Coraline to join me before I lock up. Looking up toward the blue sky, I realize this might be the first time I’m not excited about the first day of school, and it has everything to do with the girl everyone keeps bothering me about.
It’s not that I don’t like her. I barely know anything about her.
But what I do know . . .
Now that’s what’s going to drive me fucking crazy. It’s why I’ll be cold and dismissive.
A turd nugget.
Nose pinched, I bow my head, trying to keep my composure.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Do not lose your shit in front of your students.
From the other side of my classroom wall—for the third time today—comes the distinct sound of at least twenty desks being pounded on, followed by a clap as “We Will Rock You” by Queen blares through a bass-filled Bluetooth speaker.
And when the chorus chimes in . . .
For the love of God, I’m going to fucking lose it.
“We will . . . we will . . . rock books.”
Boom. Boom. Clap.
“Mr. Turner,” Jeremy Whitehead says while raising his hand. “It’s hard for me to focus on these chapters with that music.”
“I’m aware, Jeremy,” I say, unfolding my arms and pushing off my desk. I glance at the clock on the wall and note we have five minutes left in class. Typically, I’d force my students to read until the end of class and pack up when the bell rings, but given the circumstances . . . “You can pack up. Remember the first three chapters must be read by tomorrow. There will be a quiz. If you’re in my class, you know we work hard, so be prepared to put in the time.”
I round my desk and make a show of writing something on a notepad, when in reality, I’m counting down the minutes in my head before I can march next door and put an end to this godforsaken calamity.
This . . . this is why I didn’t want Dewitt to hire Greer Gibson, because during her interview, she was very expressive about her “offbeat” teaching style. She wants the students to care about the books, rather than just read them. She wants to give them a chance to understand them, appreciate them by using alternative methods.
That interview . . . it was, quite frankly, embarrassing. Watching her falter from confident to ignorant. When she left, I actually laughed, wondering if asking her to come in was a joke, but when Dewitt was serious about hiring her, I had to take a calming breath.
She couldn’t be serious.
A teacher who prides herself on using teaching methods like movies and children’s picture books to help understand literature? This is a serious high school, not a dainty, hippie-filled educational system.
This is Forest Heights, the most prestigious public school in the country—at least that’s what was said last year.
Greer Gibson has no right to be teaching here.
And no . . . this has nothing to do with her saying I’m an elitist.
This has everything to do with her being underqualified, unprofessional, a disturbance, and not the right fit for the Forest Heights English department.
The department I’m in charge of. I will not tolerate her making a mockery of teaching high school English.
Slamming on desks and belting out nonsensical lyrics by a seventies rock band is a prime example of her incompetence. And not only is it an elementary approach to learning, it’s been a massive disruption to every single class I’ve had today. Her inability to appropriately teach has taken away my first day intimidation tactics, the same tactics I use every year to set my expectations.
The bell rings. Class is dismissed, and I wait a whole two minutes before I stand tall, lift the sleeves of my green cardigan, and make my way to the classroom next door.
Unfortunately, I share a wall with Greer. I knew going into the school year that was going to be the case. I wasn’t aware I’d be making a visit on the first day.
Thankful for lunch break, I charge through her door, only to be slapped in the face with an obnoxious amount of color pinned to the walls. Her room is decorated like it’s for kindergartners, not high schoolers. A “reading corner” is in the back. A rainbow of color spans across the walls, one hue rolling into the next. It’s ridiculous and childish. Just like the woman standing before me.
“Oh, Arlo. You startled me.” Greer chuckles, sitting at her desk, a salad in front of her.
I close the door behind me and set my hands on my hips. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She glances at her lunch and then back at me. “Uh, eating my lunch. What does it look like?”
Through clenched teeth, I say, “During your classes?”
“Oh . . . uh . . . pumping the kids up for the school year. I want to establish a rapport with them, let them know it isn’t going to be a stuffy English class of Shakespearean knaves and knaps.”
“So you decide to disturb every other classroom around you?”
She faces me now, a look of shock on her face. “You heard my music?”
“The walls aren’t soundproof.”
She taps her chin. “Hmm . . . I guess I never thought about that.”
“Shocking,” I mutter.
“Hey.” She stands and closes the space between us.
It’s hard not to notice the skirt she’s wearing and how it clings to her hips, or the tucked-in button-up shirt that leaves no room for the imagination, or the way her hair is pinned up into a bun, highlighting the curves and contours of her face. Coraline might have been right. Greer is slightly my type.