Fat School Confidential (20 page)

    “
So, why did you want to show me this?” I asked Wendy. Shrugging, she shuffled over to grab her things. “He’s been calling my sister. And my mom.”

    “
Did you file a report?”

    “
I did. But I kind of dropped the charges.”

   
I wanted to ask her, “Why?” but thought better of it. This was her dance, and she was leading, and I wasn’t about to step on her toes.

    “
Could you file a restraining order?”

    “
From here?” She practically shouted back to me. I held out my hands, motioning her to lower her voice. Giving a sheepish grin, she said, “Sorry.”

    “
You ought to write about it. Keep a journal.”

    “
I am.”

   
To say I was uncomfortable seeing Wendy’s rapist in Technicolor (albeit as a two-inch thumbnail photo on my computer screen) would’ve been a gross understatement. Why did Wendy want to share with me so much about her private life—and especially about Todd? Was she trying to get a rise out of me? Did she want me to feel just a little jealous/angry/ depressed? I didn’t reveal how I felt about the matter. I didn’t know how I felt about the matter.

   
That night, A.O.S. threw a staff party at a Mexican restaurant in neighboring Selma. It was a quaint enough place, lit for the holidays and filled to capacity. I brought the family, as did Daniel Abrams—who, a few months back, became a new dad with the birth of his son. Bill and his wife were there. The rest of the staff came unescorted. Daniel, his family, and the Moses twosome sat together, while my family sat at a separate table with Tim Rodriguez and two res staffers. B.C.s and res staff sat separately.

   
It was not going to be a schmooze fest—that was certain.

   
I didn’t want to be there. In a way, taking Bobby along not only guaranteed a short stay, but it kept me occupied. His attention span was short, and, at this point in time, so was mine. Then there was the matter of cliques: The executive clique—made up of Daniel Abrams and his Yale cronies—were over-educated and spoke another language; the Tom Eccleston program/res clique—all athletic and usually in shorts; and the B.C. clique—serious and seriously boring.

Like the others, teachers gravitated toward their own, and with their high turnover rate, two or three of us made up a clique.

    
If I couldn’t be a part of the in-crowd, I wouldn’t bother trying.

   
Ellie and Bobby and I made the best of the evening. We weren’t ignored, but the difference between this get-together and any in the past was palpable.

   
A few days later—at the cusp of the Christmas break, it was the last day of class for Wendy. She, like a number of students, decided to give herself an early release from A.O.S. and take on the holiday cheer while safe and snug in her home turf. For some of the lower ranking and higher dress-sized students, a trip back home was not to be. Unless they got the okay from their respective B.C.s, they’d be enjoying their Christmas dinner in the cafeteria.

   
On that last day, classes were reduced to holiday movie watching. TVs were set up in the two largest classrooms. Teachers rotated babysitting duties, making sure students weren’t making out or giving hand-jobs or anything else deemed inappropriate. Not surprisingly, I was a little more lax than my colleagues in enforcing the rules this particular afternoon. So long as I saw nothing beyond a cuddle, I was willing to overlook the obvious.

   
Near the end of the class day, the remaining kids were herded into one room. Res staff came by periodically to haul another vanload of students to the airport—Fresno International Airport, or FAT for short. I couldn’t have come up with a better name.

   
And during that last class period, holdouts were escorted either back to the dorms to pack or to activity.

   
Wendy was nowhere to be found. Did she leave without saying goodbye?

   
Calling it a day, I wheeled the TV back into my office. I was about to sit at my desk when Wendy—out of breath and lugging her backpack and a shoulder tote—stopped by.

    “
And where, pray tell, were you all afternoon?” I asked as unconcerned as possible. She smiled. “With Diane. And packing.”

   
Diane was her current B.C., having switched from Cindy A.’s roster. Diane seemed an odd choice, given that she and Wendy couldn’t have been more than a few years apart. No matter, it wasn’t my damned business.

    “
Got it. You leaving now?”

    “
Carlos’s coming to get me.”

   
Figures. Carlos would be the one taking Wendy to the airport. Hoping to give her a ride of another kind, I imagined. But I had a feeling he would never make a move—not with Wendy at least.

   
Jotting something on a Post-It note, I stood up. We walked down the hall towards the lobby, when we stopped. Glancing around for any interlopers, I handed her the slip of paper.

    “
Take this.”

   
Wendy took the note—it was my cell phone number.

    “
You sure?”

    “
Just call me if you need to.”

   
For a moment, her eyes met mine. If anything, I wanted to show her I was sincere. From the way she looked back at me, she seemed taken by my gesture. I extended my arms for a hug.

It was brief—but it was what school administrators always warned us teachers about: A full contact hug. If a student hugged us, we were to turn to the side as to avoid full frontal contact. For as long as I worked as a teaching professional, I religiously adhered to the rule—until now.

   
I broke the rule. No doubt about it. But I didn’t look around for witnesses, nor did I care. What were they gonna do? Put me on solo?

   
With Wendy gone and me left to grade papers, I went home. I’d have plenty of time for that. School was going to be out for a good two weeks. There’d be time for grading—and obsessing—before the New Year showed her ugly head.

   
And things were about to get ugly.

Chapter 12

Shift

   
Campus was a virtual ghost town. Save for the few Gumbies and staff left behind, Tim Rodriguez and I were the only teachers around. Tom Eccleston was on the grounds, but he was busy with the res staff. Keeping watch in the Admin building, Bill Moses was the lone, business-casual sentry. Knowing my workload was lighter, he thought it was as good a time as any to give me a project to do.

    “
We’re doing a PSA of sorts; that is, it will circulate within the various camps and programs within HLA (Healthy Living Academies). Could you write a short script for Sheila and Tom?”

    “
Sure,” I said, excited over the possibilities.

   
Ever since the disaster that was S.A.P., Bill never approached me for anything—not until now. I couldn’t stand the guy, but that was beside the point. And why was Sheila mentioned? When she left A.O.S. a few months back to head for her home turf, I thought she left the whole kit and caboodle. I reckoned I was wrong. I knew she was from back east somewhere. HLA did have offices and a fat camp or two in New York. My guess was, they could never get rid of her if they wanted to. And after her Extreme Makeover stint for ABC, she was forever linked.

    “
I’ll send you a PDF of what we’re aiming for, along with literature to give you some background.”

    “
When will I need to have this done?”

    “
We won’t tape it until sometime in January. Most likely, around the start of the next semester.”

   
Finally. To be paid doing what I loved most: Writing a script. So it was going to be two pages. Still, it was a script—technically, at least.

   
I rushed home to tell Ellie the good news. She was happy for me.

    “
See. I told you they’d give you a project again!”

   
I didn’t remember her telling me that. But I wasn’t about to correct her. After high-fiving Bobby and me, she gave me a nice, long hug.

    “
You are getting paid for it, like when you did S.A.P.?”

    “
I’m not sure. I didn’t ask,” I replied. I didn’t think I was getting a bonus for this one-off. Bill never mentioned money, and asking for it didn’t cross my mind. Either way, Ellie didn’t like my answer. She didn’t say anything—she didn’t have to. Her frown said enough.

   
Writing a script for a promo video that maybe a few dozen to a few hundred people would ever see didn’t warrant a bonus, I surmised. It was going to be an easy couple hours’ worth of work, and, as long as Ellie’s support stayed unflagging (despite the frown), I was going to do the job requested of me.

   
The hours and days rolled by like the fog that covered the Central Valley. Besides the script that needed to get written, I had a bit of grading to do, and some planning for end-of-the-semester projects and tests. But without classes to teach, I didn’t need the full two weeks in order to get these tasks done.

   
I took the family Christmas tree shopping. Like the year before, I took them to ride the steam train in Reedley. And like the year before, Bobby whooped and giggled on his little rail adventure. We shopped for gifts. We drove around our

neighborhood in Kingsburg after dark, checking out the light

displays. Back in Reedley, there was a nighttime parade of tractors and other farm equipment—all lit up for the holidays. It was biting cold, but it was worth it.

   
I cherished time spent with my family—especially during the holidays, and this particular holiday time was no exception.

   
Ellie and Bobby were still my family. But would they be next year?

   
Thoughts of Wendy drifted into the background. I focused on what needed to be focused. Maybe I was avoiding the inevitable, but if I could keep myself in check, maybe I could stave off further contact with her.

   
Could.

   
Christmas came and went. The day after, I went to work. I was alone in the Admin building. Tim Rodriguez wasn’t in his office. Even Bill went home to be with his wife. I turned on all the hall lights, so I wouldn’t get spooked. Stepping into my office, I glanced out my window. Gray clouds, bare trees, and a low but audible breeze offered dull entertainment. It was as good a time as any to do some light housekeeping. Just as I was dusting my bookshelf, I got a call on my cell phone. It was Wendy.

    “
Merry Christmas,” I said, beaming to myself.

   
So much for staving off the contact.

    “
Merry Christmas. What’s going on,” she replied. She sounded a little down—like she needed cheering up.

    “
I’m at school. There’s nobody here.”

    “
No shit. It’s the day after Christmas,” she said with a laugh. I could tell by the tell-tale exhaling of air she was smoking.

    “
What are you up to?” I asked.

    “
I got so fucked up last night.”

    “
Oh?”

    “
Remember that guy I told you about, Todd?”

    “
Yeah,” I replied, stretching the word as though expecting the proverbial other shoe to drop.

    “
He kept calling me and calling me, like he knew I was around,” she said, before pausing.

    “
And?”

    “
Anyway, I went over, and he had this bitch with him. We had a fight.”

    “
You okay?” I heard her take another drag from her smoke.

    “
I left. Went to a bar with some friends. Got fucked up.”

    “
Oh,” was all I could say. Why was she telling me this? What did her private life have anything to do with me being her teacher? I did give her my number, so it made sense she’d be coming to me as a friend. Did I really expect to get a call asking about her damned homework?

     “
Oh?” Wendy asked, sounding more accusatory. It was as if she were fishing for something from me. But I wasn’t biting. After another pause, she added, “At least I stayed on my program.”

    “
Good.”

    “
Maybe I should call you back later,” she said. I sensed she wasn’t digging my monosyllabic responses.