Fat School Confidential (14 page)

   
I was thrilled and proud of myself in losing the weight, but at the same time, I was more than a little concerned. This was the first time outside a Twelve Step support group I was able to lose a substantial amount of weight and keep it off. I felt almost unworthy of the feat. I wanted to go to a meeting to claim victory, but I thought better of it. Whom was I going to give credit to anyway? My “higher power”—or rather, the higher power that was A.O.S.?

   
Was eating two out of my daily three meals on campus a major factor? Probably. Under ex-boss Daniel Abrams’s watchful eye, not only did I eat most of my meals at school, he encouraged me to take leftovers home for me and my family. But my bean-counter boss Bill Moses put the kibosh on takeout—even if it meant throwing otherwise good food away. Still, I was eating less on and off campus, and making healthier food choices. I didn’t do anything remotely close to working out. I took longer and longer walks—helped in no small part by the pedometer given to me by Daniel. Although that was the extent of my regular workout (if one could call it that), Daniel Abrams’s grand experiment worked.

   
With spring behind me, and the summer session about to begin, the veteran students were already making friends—and enemies—with the new kids on the block. For me, I relied on the good guidance of my less-experienced-but-significantly-better-degreed superior, Frank Mills. But other than that relationship, I was a little apprehensive in making new friends. In the short time I’d been at A.O.S., a good forty percent of the teaching faculty had been replaced. Looking at the situation another way, it meant the loss of three teachers. Theresa Brooke was one of them, but she wasn’t missed—not by a long shot. On the contrary, the dynamic duo of Sam and Joanie Tepper were missed. Hell, they were more than missed. For weeks, the campus was in a state of mourning.

   
Strumm was still around, and so was Lang. But they kept to themselves, working behind closed doors when not in class. While Lang seemed to be a lifer, Strumm was noticeably discontent with the establishment. Linda, the perky Spanish instructor, was a part-timer. And because of her husband’s rock band’s growing commitments and her own bun in the oven, her days were numbered.

   
Staff replacements were a mixed bag. Tim Rodriguez, a veteran from Fresno Unified, seemed friendly enough. At the outset, he came across as a no-nonsense educator, relying on textbooks and materials he brought with him from his former public school life. His sense of humor, though, was something else. While I’d agree that mine was a little eccentric at times, his was really odd. Case in point: Just before the start of summer classes, the campus was invaded by dozens of fit, college-aged temps. Rodriguez and I were standing in the corridor just outside his office. A nubile blonde—in tank top and shorty-shorts—dashed by. Sporting a ponytail, she was the essence of athletic perfection.

   
Leering at her physique, Rodriguez whispered, “She’s got the butt of a ten-year-old boy!” Now, if he were describing a student, he would have been sending me—and every other teacher there—a red flag. But he wasn’t. Still, comparing a young woman’s derriere to that of a child was kind of creepy. She was cute, and her butt was small and bubbly—but a ten-year old boy wasn’t what I would’ve had in mind for comparison.

   
But I didn’t want to hold that against Rodriguez. I didn’t have many friends in Central California—certainly none who had a similar, public school teaching background. As far as Rodriguez was concerned, he got a free pass from me. Of course, the free pass was good so long as he stuck to teaching and played it cool with me.

   
Like that was going to last.

   
One fellow who wasn’t getting a free pass was Bill. Despite the fact I had more time to get to know him far longer than Daniel, Bill remained detached and somewhat elusive. Maybe it was because of his clinical approach to things and people, or because of his overall lack of humor. Or his micro-managing of every department. Or the way he seemed to favor B.C.s over teachers. No matter. He wasn’t my friend, and I wasn’t his. I worked for him—or A.O.S.—or H.L.A.—or Aspen.

   
Whatever.

   
Teaching aside, I still longed to be a writer—so much so, that I was determined to make my day job so effortless, that writing between classes, during my lunch break, and especially during my coveted “planning” period (a block of time during the day when I didn’t have students—usually the length of a typical class period) wasn’t going to affect my ability to teach.

   
At least on paper it wasn’t.

   
Because of the relaxed summer schedule, I was able to custom-design my own curriculum. By choice or resignation, the rest of the teachers—except Rodriguez—went by the book. Like me, Rodriguez planned to make his summer as easy and as fun as possible. But unlike Rodriguez, I had an extra planning period. Perhaps this was a carry-over from the extra time I needed to prep the S.A.P. curriculum. But instead of allowing me to squirrel away in my office during that extra period, Frank Mills had other plans.

    “
Res staff doesn’t want to ferry students to the bookstore on schooldays anymore,” he said, hands behind his head at his desk. I stood at his doorway.

    “
I don’t think they ever did. They probably think it’s our department’s responsibility, right?” I asked, a little sarcasm in my voice. I recalled only two instances when res staff took the students to buy books—and they were after school hours.

   
Frank nodded. “How would you like to take some of the students to the bookstore once in a while?”

    “
During class time?”

   
He nodded again—this time, with an impish grin.

    “
Which one? In Fresno or Visalia?”

   
Frank leaned forward. “Doesn’t matter. They’re equidistant.”

   
Equidistant. Leave it to the lawyer-wannabe to drop that four-dollar word. Not that I didn’t understand four-dollar words. I’m a writer, right?

   
Anxiety building inside me, I felt my body hunch over a little. I didn’t want to deal with another Johnny.

    “
We’re talking Boulderers and above, right?”

    “
Yes,” he replied, before adding, “Of course, there will be exceptions.”

    “
Great.”

   
Visalia was always an easy drive for me, so deciding where to take the kids was a no-brainer. I hated Fresno. Its two redeeming features were that it had better historic architecture than its southern neighbor, and that it was that much closer to Yosemite National Park. But that was it. Fresno was “ghetto” in comparison. Visalia at least reminded me of some of the towns in So Cal.

   
Hoping to skip a class or two to go book shopping at the Visalia Borders, all twenty-odd Boulderers and Ascenders vied for the inaugural trip. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to be the only driver. Strumm and Rodriguez were game to driving—if only to avoid the sullen Gumbies left behind.

   
After arriving, we split up and searched for books. Accompanying me was Elijah, a newly christened Belayer and one of the last remaining students from the past school year.

    “
I know exactly what I’m getting, Mr. Rourke,” Elijah declared.

    “
What’s that?”

    “
Ever hear of Zane?”

    “
No, not really.”

   
Zane, I later found out, was the author of several sexually explicit books. Had I known then and there what Zane was all about, I wouldn’t have allowed Elijah’s intended purchase.

    “
It’s like romance, but her shit’s off the hook!” he exclaimed.

   
Uh huh.

   
Excusing myself, I checked up on my other students. Most of the boys were in the comic/graphic novel section, whereas the girls were happily ensconced in romance row. I took the opportunity to browse the film/television aisle. Strumm and

Rodriguez were policing the kids—why couldn’t I take a breather? Leafing through an oversized book on movie production art, I glanced around for busybodies. God forbid seeing any of my students, or worse—a fellow teacher—catch me with stuff unbecoming an educator. But whom was I kidding? I was teaching a class in screenwriting, my office was a virtual museum devoted to movie geek-dom, and to the few students I let into my “inner circle,” I talked about movies and writing and entertainment between classes. So when Elijah rounded the corner into my space, I was more annoyed by the intrusion than by any discovery on his part.

    “
I got it, Mr. Rourke!” Elijah exclaimed, clutching a copy of Afterburn—Zane’s latest. I smiled, glancing back at my book. Elijah inched closer. “Whatcha reading?” Closing the book, I replied, “Nothing important.” He peeked at the cover, and cupping his mouth, sniggered.

    “
What’s so funny?” I asked.

    “
Oh, Mr. Rourke. You’re funny.”

   
I thought of the scene in the movie, Goodfellas, when Joe Pesci gave Ray Liotta the third degree in that crowded, wise-guy-filled restaurant.

    “
How am I funny?”

    “
You can’t hide that from me! I love film just as much as you do. You know that!”

   
I smiled, replying, “Yeah. You’re right. I mean, I write the damned stuff.”

    “
You know I think your stuff’s hella wicked!”

    “
Thanks, Elijah. I needed to hear that.”

    “
The characters you create, they’re so fly!”

   
I was soaking up the accolades, when, just then, a woman in her late-twenties, with long brown hair, comely, petite—with a Borders lanyard around her neck—approached the two of us.

    “
Can I help you find anything?” she asked, smiling at me. 

   
Thinking more about the book in my hand, but looking straight at her, I replied, “I think I’ve found it.” Consciously, I was thinking about the book. Subconsciously, well, I liked what I saw. Whether Elijah said or did anything, I never noticed. Putting the book back on the shelf, and trying to come across as indifferent, I said, “We’re good.” Undeterred, she exchanged a knowing glance with me, smiled and walked away. My attempt at feigning indifference failed. Big time.

    “
She likes you,” Elijah whispered. I replied, “Aw, she just does that to sell books.” Smirking back at me, Elijah knew better. He might have been just an obese teen from Boston on the outside, but on the inside, he was a world-wise, old soul. I was flattered and surprised by the young lady. I was even more surprised by my own behavior. A twinge of the old Catholic guilt hit me. No, not near as much as that time with the equally young teacher of a couple years back, but it was there all right. I shouldn’t have smiled at her—not for that long. But then, was I really flirting, or my own interpretation of flirting?

   
Was twelve years of parochial school really to blame?

   
Elijah and I joined the rest of my group near the checkout.

    “
Is there a book limit, Mr. Rourke?” asked Amy—a studious young teen with oversized glasses and a library’s worth of books in her arms. “No. At least I don’t think there is,” I replied. All of A.O.S.’s best and brightest held tight to their bounty. Each had on average five to ten titles of various hardcovers and paperbacks. With Rodriguez and Strumm leading their charges, I stepped up to the register—blank company check in hand. The damage done, we ambled towards the exit. I glanced back to see if the Borders Babe was close by. No such luck. She was obviously in another part of the store.

   
And in all the hubbub, I didn’t even catch her name.

   
Driving back to Reedley, I felt guilt hit me like a bad stomach ache. Why was I acting that way? Why did I look for her one more time? Did any of my students—beside Elijah—notice me?

   
Getting back to school, we found a sheriff’s patrol car parked near the entrance. My vanload of gossip-hungry students jabbered in hushed tones. Pulling into a parking space, I wondered what was going on.

   
Later, I figured if there was one person who had a bead on what was going on, that was Rodriguez.

    “
You know Sandra Potts?” Rodriguez asked me, leaning back in his swivel chair. I sat across from him, glancing towards his closed door before replying, “Yeah.”

    “
One of the res staff’s been fucking her.”

    “
Who? Carlos? Mario?” I referred to two possible culprits—young, buff Latinos with a history of making inappropriate comments to female students. On more than one occasion, I heard stories of how they would leer at the girls when they were exercising or joke about wanting a threesome. Even so, were they really capable of statutory rape?

   
Rodriguez chuckled, before replying, “No. Not those guys.” He leaned forward, and in a near-whisper, asked, “You know Jill?”