Fat School Confidential (26 page)

   
We had to stick to the plan.

   
But as some eighteenth century dude once said so long ago, “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”

Chapter 14

Valentine’s Day

   
I made it to Wednesday without Bill calling me into his office, or even a closed-door session with one of the B.C.s.

   
Like I wanted their fucking help.

   
If Frank Mills was suspicious of my recent actions, he wasn’t about to inform me.

   
That morning, the students did their morning walk. They proceeded to their segregated breakfasts. They showered, dressed and got ready for class.

   
In other words, everything was business as usual.

   
There was something different, though. Something that the average staff member couldn’t put his or her finger on. Like guards overlooking the exercise yard of a prison, each and every one of them scanned for signs of trouble.

   
However imperceptible, something was stirring in the air.

   
And, thankfully, that something didn’t involve me.

   
With breakfast over and done with, with the fog lifted and the students beginning their short trek towards class, the real party began.

   
It was Valentine’s Day, after all.

   
Balloon and floral arrangements arrived, students accepting them with joyful alacrity.

   
Each and every class was tinged with subtle and not-so-subtle romance. The myriad dramas that unfolded on a normal day were increased fifty-fold this particular Wednesday. Girls and boys whispered sweet-nothings to one another. Notes were exchanged, either directly, or via proxy. Hugs, let alone other “PDAs” (Personal Displays of Affection), were given openly and freely. The staff turned a blind eye to the proceedings.

   
I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy as I witnessed all of this. Surely my relationship with Wendy could never be expressed so openly. At least not here, with me as her teacher.

   
Wendy.

   
I saw her briefly before class. Popping into my office, she greeted me with a smile and a “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Rourke!”

    “
You too,” I said, standing behind my desk. I felt compelled to walk across the room to embrace her. I didn’t, of course. But if I couldn’t express my feelings for Wendy physically, then I could at least express it the next best way.

    “
You think you might hear from anyone today?” I was alluding to the enigmatic Moby.

    “
Really?” she asked, her smile unbroken.

   
She got the hint.

   
Wendy’s addressing me as “Mr. Rourke” was obviously for effect. At this point, we were on a first name basis, albeit third person and using pseudonyms. It was, after all, her idea to call me “Moby.” I was late in the game calling her “Matilda.” But we were beyond all that now. Beyond all the codes and the awkward conversations and the awkward silences and the planning and the dreaming. And I wanted to validate how beyond that we were by sending her something. On this special day.

   
I was taking a huge risk with the delivery. But as long as I didn’t show any outward sign of inappropriate behavior towards her, who was going to say anything? This meant no

hugs, kisses, winks, nudges, or pinches. Everything between us will be on the up-and-up. It wasn’t like we did anything questionable before, why start now?

   
The flower and the card arrived late that morning—at a time when I didn’t have Wendy for class. Days earlier, while at a flower shop, I signed the card with an oversized, cursive “M.” The “M” would be nebulous to all but Wendy. She knew who it was from, and when we passed by each other between classes near the end of the day, she blurted within earshot of passing students that her boyfriend sent her a rose. I gave a quick “Great,” and we went to our respective classes.

   
I went to the caf early to grab my lunch and take it to my office. I wasn’t in the mood to witness a bunch of hormonal heavies making goo-goo eyes over nonfat yogurt and wilted salad greens. Afterward, I decided to go for a walk around the school perimeter. On my way out of the Admin building, I passed by Debbie, the culinary teacher, who was dropping off extra textbooks in the large classroom. I couldn’t help but notice she was upset.

    “
What’s going on?” I asked.

    “
You got time?”

   
I asked her to join me on my walk. From the time she joined the staff at A.O.S., till now, I never had so much as a full conversation with her. Then again, other than Tim Rodriguez, Frank Mills and the late great Michael Strumm, none of the staff intrigued me enough to warrant more than a passing hello. Debbie was different. She was taking classes to be a teacher. She was serious.

    “
You know I was seeing Jeff Starks, right?” she asked, more point of fact than directing a real question. She kept a brisk pace. Thanks to my short inseam, and the extra pounds I still carried, I had to double my efforts to keep up.

    “
No. When did this happen?”

   
She glanced away, before replying with, “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, we’re not exactly on the best of terms.”

   
I knew Starks got around, but with Debbie too? The second-hand info I got from Rodriguez was that Starks bedded quite a few coworkers since he started with Healthy Living, including a B.C. or two. Debbie was but the latest in a long line of romantic casualties.

   
Not that I envied him. Oh no. Not me.

   
I tried to impart some of the few scraps of wisdom I possessed, which seemed to do the trick. It was a nice talk, but I was glad to get back to class.

   
Rushing to my office to grab my supplies, Wendy slipped inside. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, alluding to the single white rose she held in her hand.

    “
I know. But you deserve it.”

   
Wendy seemed a little embarrassed. It was quite a gesture on my part. At the very least, I wanted to show that I cared about her. I also knew full well that, up to that moment—with the countless hours talking and laughing in my office night and day and over the weekends, our mini-road trip, the exchange of prepaid cell phones, and the contraband cigarettes—my friendship with her had escalated far beyond what was expected in a teacher-student relationship.

   
No shit.

   
But the rose told a different story.

   
We paused for a moment—awkward, like the night of the dance, but this time, there was a strange but unfeigned knowingness to the moment.

   
I wasn’t about to say anything to fuck it up. She wasn’t about to either.

   
She smiled—one last, face-melting smile. And she slipped away with the same stealth as she slipped in.

   
My own smile quickly vanished. For there, in the pit of me, lay guilt. Beyond guilt. For no matter how one would look at the situation, my Valentine was an eighteen-year-old girl—and my student to boot.

   
Up to this point, Valentine’s Day was a holiday exclusive to Ellie. For the past twelve years, we spent Valentine’s Day sharing our love for one another, and, with the addition of Bobby, the holiday became that much more memorable. For most of those twelve years, I had been faithful. Sure, I had my slip with that other married teacher way back when, but I didn’t consummate that relationship. So what was so special about Wendy that would prompt me to make her my Valentine?

   
Here I was in Reedley, over two hundred miles from friends and family. Away from everyone and everything I’d ever known and loved. And I put Ellie and Bobby in harm’s way. It didn’t take a stalker or a crazy cousin to jeopardize them. It took my dirty fascination with a teenager to do the damage.

   
Maybe I was too hard on myself for thinking I was dirty in harboring such thoughts, such desires. I must have been fucked in the head for pursuing whatever I was pursuing to be closer to Wendy. But dirty?

   
Maybe it all boiled down to my strict Catholic upbringing. Yeah. Blame it on that.

   
Or maybe I could blame my current behavior on the fact I lost my virginity at twenty-two?

   
Or maybe because I slept with so few women as an adult?

   
Dirty, dirty, dirty.

   
But I taught high school girls for years, and I never had any kind of questionable or untoward feeling towards any of them. I never had a questionable urge or lapse of reasoning. I was a model teacher, one who instinctively knew how to deal with students of all types. Even on the rare occasion a girl made a suggestive glance or displayed inappropriate body language, I always knew how to handle it. At most, I was flattered. But I knew where that was coming from. I was a teacher, a mentor, someone who was responsible for the safety and security of children. No matter how tall or developed these teenage girls were, they were, by all accounts, children.

   
Wendy, on the contrary, was eighteen. By law, she was an adult. She could vote. She was legally old enough to drive. To put it bluntly, she was old enough to fuck.

   
But again, I was a teacher—a high school teacher. I wasn’t a college professor surrounded by adults. Whenever I read or heard a news story involving a teacher having any kind of love or sex relationship with a student, I invariably sided with the victim. But then again, the students in these stories were minors. That’s why the teachers were arrested. They were pedophiles. But I wasn’t that. I never had any interest in minors.

   
I was done dog paddling, in over my head and in the deep end of the pool with Wendy. And I was doing whatever I

could in my mind to justify and rationalize my relationship with her—while about to drown, of course. 

   
As soon as the last class let out, I went into my office, closed the door, and sat at my desk. Taking red and white paper, I crafted a simple card for Ellie and Bobby. Staring at the paper, scissors, and glue in front of me, I felt a strange emptiness inside of me. Hollow. Not for any lack of feeling for my family, but for the deception I hid from them. Time and energy better spent with them were instead focused on Wendy, and in turn, damage control.

   
I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. I felt my eyes tearing up. I took a Sharpie and drew a cartoony, anthropomorphic heart. I wrote a couple lines of heartfelt sentiment (mostly directed at the little guy), signed the card, and placed it in my messenger bag. I made neat piles of work for the next day on my desk, and left.

   
Driving home, I couldn’t help but second-guess myself. Sending a flower to Wendy for Valentine’s Day was not exactly subtle. I could have sky written my intentions to less effect. But to not do the same for Ellie was wrong, and I knew that.

   
The hollow feeling I had extended everywhere, and with everyone—including Wendy. What was it? Was it my long-missing intuition, or something else? The feeling was more than about what wasn’t going on between Wendy and me; it was about how utterly unromantic I felt towards her. We had great chemistry as friends—that much was certain. But I didn’t feel much beyond a physical lust for her. The feeling nagged and nagged at me like nothing else. For the past several weeks, it nagged at me every time I was alone. It nagged at me when I wasn’t. It nagged at me night and day.

   
If it were any other time, getting home before dinner would have been suspicious to Ellie. In recent weeks, I ate two out of every three meals at A.O.S. From mid-January on, it was three out of three. To eat at home with my own family had become a rare occurrence. To show up this particular day couldn’t come at a more awkward time. It was Valentine’s Day. That alone could have told her something was going on. After all, I hadn’t been the most romantic guy of late.

   
I gave Ellie the card. She barely looked at it when she handed it to Bobby. She was upset. I could tell because she wouldn’t make eye contact. Her answers were short. She presented Bobby’s latest masterpiece for my Valentine’s present— a beautiful, handmade card in pink and red. Like everything else he’d done in his short but remarkable career as an artist, it was perfect.