Fat School Confidential (24 page)

   
Who could blame Carlos, I thought. I wanted to get into Wendy’s pants.

   
Try as I might to stanch my lust for her, the feeling was there. I hated myself for it. I hated myself every time I glanced at Ellie or held Bobby in my arms. I hated myself for trying to put up the appearances of an upstanding, responsible teacher to my students and fellow employees. But it was there, all right. And I was all too aware of the consequences. My eyes were wide-open going in. I knew full well if I were caught, I’d get fired—maybe even arrested. Ellie would hand me divorce papers and I would have to fight for custody.

   
I didn’t want to hurt Ellie or Bobby.

   
But I was hurting them by my stupid, selfish risks I was taking each and every day.

   
My interest in Wendy consumed me. Even if Wendy’s interest in me was little more than platonic, her own actions were contradictory. Why was she writing about me in her journal? More important, why did she have the need to use a code name? And why was she all of a sudden interested in going to school in Los Angeles?

   
Maybe she saw me as a father figure. Doubtful, given her history with guys in their thirties. So I was a guy in my forties. No matter. In Wendy’s eyes, I was cool. I was the all-in-one, movie, music, writing, art and architecture expert. And I was a free spirit. And I was from L.A.

   
I didn’t ask her direct questions. Maybe I should have. Instead, I asked about me in the third person. In other words: I asked her about Moby.

    “
So. What is it about Moby?”

    “
What do you mean?” she asked, scribbling in her journal. I was futzing on the computer. Sure I had work to do. But it could wait. I wanted to know about her feelings toward me/Moby. No. I needed to know.

    “
I mean, what do you like about Moby?”

    “
Nobody understands me like Moby.”

    “
Nobody?”

    “
Nobody my age.”

   
That made sense. Why else would she hang out with a guy over two decades older than her? Maybe the code name served two purposes for Wendy: one, to keep prying eyes guessing; and two, to somehow rationalize the relationship.

    “
How does he understand you?” I asked, elbows on my desk and hand firmly planted under chin.

    “
I don’t know. He knows what kind of music I like. What kind of movies, art, everything. He knows so much. He’s the smartest man I’ve ever known.”

   
Wow. For a super-geek like me, that was like saying I had the biggest dick she ever saw.

   
And then, another interruption from the real world.

    “
Mr. Rourke, when is that paper due?” asked a flummoxed Bella. Short of breath, she leaned against the doorjamb. Unbeknownst to Bella, Wendy glared at her.

    “
Don’t worry about the paper, Bella. Nobody’s finished with it.”

   
Breathing a massive sigh of relief, Bella glanced at a still-fuming Wendy. Bella might have been oblivious to what was going on around her, but she didn’t miss a beat in showing her appreciation to me.

    “
Thank you, Mr. Rourke!” Bella exclaimed, running back to her study hall classroom. Wendy just sat there—pissed. I tried to steer her back to the convo we were having.

    “
So. You were saying…” I began, pausing for Wendy to pick up where we left off. Breaking into a smile, she replied, “Well, Joe—”

   
What the fuck? “Joe?” She called me by my first name! No student ever did that. Ever.

   
Someone may have heard Wendy. Panicking, I jumped to my feet, darting to the door. Looking both ways into the hall, and seeing the coast was clear, I ambled back to my desk. Without a hint of worry, Wendy smiled that thousand-watt smile of hers.

    “
Go on,” I said, goading her to reveal more.

    “
Here?” she asked, clearly worried that someone was within earshot.

    “
You’re probably right. I should be getting home anyways.”

    “
That’s it.”

    “
What?” I asked, shutting down my computer.

    “
We need to be off campus.”

   
What was that pretty little head of hers thinking about now? Something that would get this fat head of mine in deep shit, that’s for sure. A joyride was out of the question. But maybe, I could justify another kind of drive.

    “
Book run.”

   
Wendy’s eyes lit up. Leading her with her belongings out of my office, and toting my own bag, I locked the door behind us. I leaned close to her, whispering, “I’ll make it happen.”

    “
I know you will.”

   
Within a couple days, I organized the first Borders book run in months. The group of students was handpicked—meaning they were older, more mature, and not prone to ratting me out. Wendy rode shotgun in the van, while Elijah, Charlie, Sarah, and Evelyn—Wendy’s roommate—occupied the remaining seats.

  
As soon as we’d arrived, the rest of the kids made their way into the bookstore, while Wendy and I made a beeline for the café.

    “
So, does this work?” I asked, sitting across from her at a table on the bookstore side of the café. She had a coffee—black, with very little Splenda. Mine was loaded with half-and-half and a dozen yellow packets’ worth of chemically sweetened goodness.

    “
I guess,” Wendy shrugged.
             

    “
You getting a book?”

    “
Shit yeah.”

   
I laughed, glad to be off campus. “I’m amazed it was so easy to do this.”

    “
Oh, you really think so,” she replied, before adding, “They don’t give a shit. And even if they did, they really don’t care enough to do anything about it.”

   
Wendy, insightful as she was, was probably right. Then again, maybe they knew full well what was going on, and they were just giving me enough rope to hang myself with.

    “
And what, pray tell, is ‘it’?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.

    “
You tell me,” was her answer.

   
Her poker face was a bit deceptive. There was a faint, near imperceptible twinkle in her eye. Was she just playing with me, or was she playing hard to get?

    “
What do you think?”

   
Wendy returned with a shrug and a “You really want me to go there?”

   
I nodded like an expectant mutt waiting for his doggie biscuit. But before I could get a straight answer out of her, outside influences seemed to conspire against our plans. In this regard, Charlie dropped into our conversation. His Mr.-Haney-from-Green-Acres demeanor made the intrusion—although unwelcome—slightly more palatable. As he stood there, Wendy got up to make her purchases (coffee-table books on Nirvana and The Doors). The rest of the students followed suit, and we were soon headed back to fat school.

   
Nobody made a peep when Wendy insisted on riding shotgun—again. Nobody made a peep when we chose to play what we wanted to on the radio. We weren’t alone, but we were too engrossed to care. Like the radio, we were on our own frequency.

   
Meat Loaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” kicked on.

    “
Oh God,” Wendy began. “I used to hear this all the time growing up. My mom had a tape she kept in her pickup truck.”

    “
Really?” I asked.

    “
She got so pissed when it got jacked.”

    “
How did that happen?”

   
Wendy tittered, glancing off in thought. “She stopped at a Seven-Eleven to get some cigarettes, and when she got back, it was gone.”

    “
Did they take a lot?”

    “
All they fucking took was the tape! There was money on the dash, smokes on the seat, and all they took was that fucking tape!”

   
We both laughed.

   
The book run must have planted an idea in Wendy’s head—and mine. For days afterward, our conversations were dominated by talk of another off campus excursion, but without the added weight of third or fourth parties. Maybe it was coincidental, but she again brought up going to school in Los Angeles. I tried not to make much of it—going so far as to discourage her from entertaining the thought.

   
Still, with the prepaid phones and the easy A’s and the near-boundless time I was giving Wendy, I was getting lost in my own hell-bent pursuit. Hell, I was lost. Teaching became more and more of an afterthought. There was little evidence of my married life on campus anymore. Ellie made her visits less and less frequent, and when she did, it was only to drop me off or pick me up on the few occasions she borrowed the car. Maybe she sensed something was amiss. If she did, she never mentioned it, and I never gave her so much as a hint what was going on.

   
I brought Bobby to school on occasion, either hanging out after class or for brief stretches on the weekend. I kept interaction with students to a minimum, and I never let them baby-sit him.

   
The little guy provided welcome relief for the students, whose monotonous, weight-controlled lives savored entertainment—even if said entertainment came in the form of an adorable toddler. Charlie lovingly referred him as “Spawn of Rourke.”

   
But relief was not to be had for Wendy. She hated everything about A.O.S.: the micromanaging of her meals and activities, the harassing by res staff, the covert scrutinizing by everyone else.

   
Almost everything.

   
I was her relief valve. And when the time came for her to let out a little steam by way of a road trip, I was there to accommodate. Of course, this road trip—one in which Wendy and I were the sole participants—was supposed to take the edge off her problems. She needed a breather. So did I. But hindsight being twenty-twenty, it was a bad move on my part. I was not only validating her anxiety by getting her off campus, but I was putting my job on the line.

   
And so, on a school day at the end of the month of January, about an hour and a half before dinner, Wendy and I ventured out into the wilds of Central Cali farm country. It was a short trip, lasting less than an hour.

   
Two consenting adults on a drive.

   
We didn’t do anything on the drive that would give an administrator pause, and aside from the few F-bombs and talk of sex, we didn’t say anything above a PG rating.

   
But the fact remained: I was her teacher, and she was my student. I was in charge, and she was in my care. And I was all too aware of the fact that A.O.S. was a boarding school and that the only time a student was allowed to ride in the company of staff was for book runs, doctor appointments, airport drop offs/pick-ups, and any other official and/or ancillary business. What we were doing was a big, fat no-no.

   
No one would ever know of this trip.

   
About a week before Valentine’s Day, I went to see Tom Eccleston. Armed with my Think and Ink, and wearing my official Academy of the Sierras Pedometer©, I faced the man in khaki. Looking over my daily step counts and meal logs, he seemed pleased.

    “
Everything looks good. Looks like you’re in good company,” Tom said, handing me back the Think and Ink.

    “
What do you mean?” I asked, not knowing where he was going.

    “
I mean, the only other staff person who followed the program to the letter was Angie,” he replied. Angie was one of the long-term res staff. Loved by many, she seemed—like me—the perfect candidate for the program. Like me, she lost a good deal of weight while working at A.O.S. Unlike me, she was young enough to be loved as a peer.

   
With Tom’s blessings, I was okayed for the transition to full Boulderer status. I showed up for Summit at the girls’ dorm, joining Tim Rodriguez and some of the staff on the entry side of the room. Eyeing a lone chair against a wall at the opposite end, I bolted from my colleagues. I was self-conscious of what I was about to do and I didn’t need Rodriguez’s running commentary to add to that. The last time I showed up to Summit, he wanted me to check out Cindy A.’s tramp stamp while she sat on the floor in front of us. I didn’t need to know Cindy’s business, and I certainly didn’t need to see another teacher displaying adolescent behavior—besides me, of course.

   
Sitting down, I girded myself for the festivities to begin. Students fanned in from outside, taking seats in the couches, or on the carpeted floor.