Fat School Confidential (22 page)

   
In my office—door firmly ajar—I made a show of busy work. I fired up the computer. I piled my textbooks on my desk, file folders of already-graded papers stacked nearby. The only ones in the Admin building were B.C.s, and Bill. Still, I didn’t want to disappoint.

   
Just before lunch, Carlos stopped by with a favor to ask.

    “
You think you could watch the computer lab?”

    “
Yeah. When?”

    “
After lunch.”

    “
What’s going on?”

    “
It’s the student newsletter. They want to work on it.”

   
The newsletter—better known as the Emu Enquirer, was something the students put together. Made up of individual program success stories and staff and student profiles, it was previously under the guidance of Michael Strumm. With him long gone, the Enquirer languished in limbo-hell. Whoever tipped Carlos that I’d be the perfect candidate to resurrect the Enquirer must have known I was coming. But who?

   
I went to the caf for lunch. Students and staff were noshing away. I grabbed my buffalo burger with all the fixings, and sat with a smattering of B.C.s and res staff. I caught a glimpse of Wendy, in her signature black hoodie and matching track pants, sitting alone at a corner table. For a moment, I considered my own attire. Wearing a black, crewneck pullover and blue jeans, I matched her outfit. Funny that, and we hadn’t even had our first date.

   
Taking her tray, Wendy walked over to me.

    “
Can I join you?”

    “
Sure,” I replied. I felt uneasy, but thought I’d make a bigger scene if I sent her back to her table.

    “
Can I finally go over my writing?”

    “
Absolutely!” I exclaimed, careful not to raise my voice. This was something two months in the making. I had to know what she was writing about.

   
I scrawled her a pass to show Carlos after lunch. The trick was I had to supervise the students in the computer lab—down the hall at the other end of the Admin building—and have Wendy in my office, making it all seem aboveboard. I felt uneasy with Sheila around. If she detected the slightest impropriety between staff and student, she’d report it. Not that I planned on being improper. But that was Sheila’s job. Well, it was her job, until Cindy took her place.

   
After lunch, four students showed up at my door. I escorted them to the computer lab, reminding them to follow the rules and to focus solely on the newsletter. I greeted Wendy at my office, leading her inside. She sat on a chair, but changed her mind after a few seconds. Moving the chair to the side, she slid down the wall and sat on the floor, legs crossed. She then took her journal out of her backpack, opened it up to a blank page, and started writing. All the while, I stood there, at my desk—waiting for her to share the goods. So to speak.

   
She didn’t. She kept right on writing.

    “
Could you put something on?” she asked, not looking up. I sat down, placed a CD into the computer’s disc tray, and queued it to Queen’s “Who Wants to Live Forever.” I looked for a reaction. She tilted her head, ever so.

    “
Who’s that?”

    “
You never heard of them?”

    “
No.”

    “
Queen,” then I added, “Probably my favorite band on Earth.”

   
Wendy gave the faintest of smiles, and resumed writing. I shuffled the tracks on the album. When “Under Pressure,” a song done with David Bowie came on, Wendy put her pen down.

    “
I heard this song!”

   
Skeptical, I replied, “You mean the Vanilla Ice riff he stole from them, right?”

    “
No,” she chuckled. “I love David Bowie. I never knew he sang with those guys.”

    “
Well, now you know.”

    “
Do you know how—“ Wendy was cut off from finishing her sentence by Missy—one of the Enquirer volunteers—storming in on us. Wendy seethed at the interruption. Oblivious, Missy smiled at both of us. “Mr. Rourke, could you proofread our articles?”

    “
Now?”

   
She nodded.

    “
Why don’t I grade, uh, proofread them when you’re all finished?”

    “
Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Mr. Rourke!” And Missy was off and running. Wendy was still fuming.

    “
What’s wrong?” I asked.

    “
Jesus, she gets on my nerves.”

    “
Don’t they all, Wendy?” My last comment elicited a hearty laugh out of her.

    “
You see, you see!” she exclaimed.

    “
See what?”

    “
You! You’re so awesome.”

   
It wasn’t the first time I was told I was awesome, but coming from Wendy, it meant a whole lot more. I found myself—yet again—at a loss for words.

   
But I did take the opportunity to segue to something more pressing.

    “
So, about your writing,” I began. “Can I please see it?”

    “
Now?”

    “
You do want a grade, right?”

   
She seemed agitated by my line of questioning. It was one thing for her to coax something out of me, but with the tables turned, it was an entirely different matter.

   “
Of course I want a grade,” she replied, a bit defensive.

   
Sensing her anxiety, I softened a bit. “I trust you. You don’t have to show me anything.”

    “
But I do. It’s just that…”

    “
What?”

    “
You’re kind of in the book.”

    “
Kind of?”

   
Before Wendy could answer, Sheila passed by. She scanned my office, finding Wendy on the floor, and me at my desk. Queen continued to provide the soundtrack, with “I Want to Break Free.” Without stopping, Sheila continued on her way.

Wendy and I exchanged a glance—she with the look of annoyance, and me—of worry.

    “
I’m gonna go to the computer lab,” I said, wrenching myself from a possible sticky situation.

    “
Want me to come?” Wendy asked.

    “
No, you could stay.”

    “
You sure?”

   
I nodded, then headed over to the lab to check on my chubby newshounds. They were typing away at their respective desktops. Missy caught sight of me, and getting up from her seat, handed me a finished article.

    “
Thanks. I’ll mark it up later. What about the rest of them?”

    “
They’re not done.”

   
I handed her paper back to her.

    “
Could you collect them all when they’re done, and hand them in on Monday?”

   
Missy beamed, happy with the added responsibility.

    “
Sure thing, Mr. Rourke.”

   
I was about to head back to my office when Carlos came by to retrieve the students.

    “
I’ll get Wendy for you,” I said, turning to head back down the hall. If Carlos had arrived a few minutes earlier, he would have found the students unsupervised. My timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

    “
That’s okay. Just send her to activity with a note.”

   
Good, I thought. At least I’d have a little extra time to pry some more info out of her. When I got back to the office, Wendy was putting away her journal. She was still sitting against the wall.

    “
So, where were we?” I asked. I stood there—close, but not quite above her.

    “
I thought I heard Carlos.”

    “
Don’t worry about him. He said I could send you to activity with a note.”

    “
And what—have him get on my case for spending extra time here? With you?”

   
I inched back.

    “
I’m more worried about Sheila raising a stink.”

    “
I should go,” Wendy said, about to get up.

    “
But I wanted to know more about what you’re writing.”

    “
It’s nothing bad, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

   
What was Wendy assuming?

    “
No?”

   
Wendy lowered her voice. “I changed your name in the diary. No one could ever figure it out.”

   
Not only was Wendy keeping a journal about her time at A.O.S., she was writing about me. And with a code name, to boot. I was intrigued. More than that, I was anxious. Why me?

Did she really like me? In what way? Why would an eighteen-year-old girl want to write about a forty-two-year-old teacher? And her teacher, no less?

   
Not just her teacher. Her fucking mentor!

   
I stepped towards her again. “May I ask what is my name?”

   
Wendy let out a giggle. “Moby.”

   
Moby? As in Melville’s Moby? As in the DJ-cum-musician Moby? I didn’t have time to ask her. She was out the door with her journal—and my note—before I could glean specifics. But the issue regarding the code name was secondary to what was going on between us. And what—if anything—was really going on between us? There was a bond. That much was certain. And it was growing.

   
The following Monday, I got called into Bill’s office. It was just before the pre-class staff meeting, and I had yet to gather my supplies for the day. I had a good idea what the conversation was going to be about. Sheila must have reported seeing me with Wendy. Nothing happened, but it didn’t matter. I was nervous seeing the boss and, frankly, I was more than a little frightened about possible outcomes. I was also going to do my damnedest to hide anything I really felt.

    “
Sheila tells me Wendy was in your office over the weekend.”

   
Thinking fast, I came up with an excuse. In real time, I didn’t miss a beat.

    “
She was working on both an independent study project, and on the Emu Enquirer.”

   
Bill tilted back in his swivel chair, folding his hands in the process.

    “
Students shouldn’t be meeting with you on the weekends.”

   
No shit, Bill. Tell me something I don’t know.

    “
I understand,” I replied.

    “
It’s not just for your sake, Joe. Other students might want to take advantage of your time as well.”

    “
Got it.”

    “
Wendy is persuasive. But don’t let that affect your better judgment.”

   
Better judgment.

   
Right.

   
My better judgment had gone the way of the dodo.

   
And yet again, Bill made it seem like it was Wendy’s fault that she was with me. Was she really taking advantage of my time, or the other way around? At least he didn’t reprimand me. 

   
After that brief meeting, I joined the rest of the staff next door, in Cindy Anderson’s office—Sheila’s old office. Sheila and Cindy were there, along with the rest of the clinical staff. Everyone—except, all of the teachers. They always seemed to be late to interdepartmental meetings. Go figure.

    “
Have you ever heard of ‘transference’?” Sheila asked the group, sitting across from me in a matching sofa. Sociology and psychology publications lined the bookcase behind me, her degrees from Cornell and Columbia behind her. Why she never took them with her when she left A.O.S. was a mystery. Cindy’s degree from a Midwest university sat propped on her desk.

   
I thought of the question posed by Sheila. Then, I scanned the room. Everyone—save Bill and the B.C. posse—shook their heads. Sheila looked my way before continuing.

    “
Transference is when a patient—in this case, a student—has strong, sometimes inappropriate feelings for their therapist—or teacher, that may relate to their past experience.”

   
Was Sheila giving this whole lecture on account of my friendship with Wendy? I knew where she was going—but I wasn’t going to buy it—not out loud and in front of her and the rest of the staff, at least. Cindy picked up where Sheila left off.