Misconduct (4 page)

He’d have me committed. Or at least send me on a forced spa day.

After eating a sandwich for lunch, I showered and combed my closet for an outfit for tonight.

The new academic year started tomorrow, and my students’ parents had been invited for an open house this evening at Braddock Autenberry, my new school.

Or my
only
school, as this was my first teaching position.

Having gotten my keys to the school a couple weeks ago, I had prepared the room, and it was all set for tomorrow. Tonight I could try to relax and tend to the parents making their rounds to the different rooms before school started in the morning.

Reaching into my closet, I picked out my red pencil skirt, which fell just above the knee in the front but was cut to drape just below the knees in the back, stitched with a slight ruffle there for flare.

Laying it on the bed, I dug back into the closet for my fitted black blouse. It had long, cuffed sleeves and buttoned up to the neck.

To finish off the outfit, my heels were plain black with a pointed toe. I twisted my lips at the sight of them, setting them on the floor next to my bed.

I hated heels, but tonight was “make a good first impression,” kind of occasion, so I’d suck it up. I’d filter in sneakers and flats throughout the school year, though.

The outfit was conservative but stylish, and after I did my light makeup and my hair in loose curls, pulling back the sides and fixing a clip to the back of my head, I dressed with care, making sure not to wrinkle anything.

This was a brand-new start, and I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.

Once I’d fastened my watch to my wrist and put in the diamond studs from my parents, I smoothed my hand down my shirt and skirt, brushing off lint that wasn’t really there.

Perfect.
 

I checked the windows, the stove, and both doors, making sure everything was secure – twice – before I left.

When I arrived at the school, in the heart of Uptown, I still had a couple more hours before the open house began. I checked my mailbox in the teachers’ lounge, made some extra copies of my parent letter, and double-checked my laptop and projector to make sure my PowerPoint presentation was set to run.

We were supposed to have a mini speech ready to go when parents arrived, but I’d gauged – hopefully correctly – that parents would filter in and out, visiting classrooms in no set order, so I’d just designed a presentation with pictures and captions to play in the background. They could watch it or not.

Student textbooks were on the desk for their perusal, and copies of my syllabus and calendar with my contact information sat on a table by the door.

Other teachers at our staff development days this past week had talked about bringing cookies and chocolate-covered strawberries to offer parents when they visited their rooms, but after the school nurse scared the shit out of us with the EpiPen training on Wednesday, I’d decided not to take any chances with allergies. Bottled water, it was.

I let Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” play lightly in the background from my iPod dock as I walked around, double- and triple-checking everything to make sure the room was ready to go, for not only tonight but for tomorrow, as well.

“Are you Easton Bradbury?” a voice chirped behind me.

I turned, seeing a redhead in a navy blue A-line dress hovering at my classroom door.

“I’m Kristen Meyer,” she continued, placing her hand on her chest. “I teach
T
echnology and
E
arth Science. I’m right across the hall.”

I put a smile on my face and walked over, noticing that she looked only a few years older than me.

“Hi.” I shook her hand. “I’m Easton. Sorry we didn’t meet this week.”

Our staff meetings were mostly departmentalized, and since I was US and World History, she and I had probably been in the same room for only a few hours during our staff meetings before we’d split off into groups.

Her red lips spread in a beautiful smile. “This is your first year?”

I nodded, sighing. “Yes,” I admitted. “I’ve done observations and a practicum, but other than that, I’m” – I exhaled a nervous breath – “new.”

“You’ll get that crash course tomorrow.” She waved her hand, walking past me into the room and looking around. “Don’t worry, though. The first year’s the easiest.”

I pinched my eyebrows together, not believing that for a second. “I’ve heard the exact opposite, actually.”

She twirled around, looking completely at ease with herself. “Oh, that’s what they tell you to give you something to look forward to,” she joked. “Your first year you’re just trying to keep your head above water, you know? Learn the ropes, get paperwork done on time, spend countless hours preparing one thing only to find out the lesson bombed…” She laughed.

“What they don’t tell you,” she continued, leaning against a student desk, “is that college prepared you for nothing. Your first year, you’re learning to teach. Every year after that you’re trying to be successful at it. That’s the hard part.”

“Great,” I said sarcastically, laughing and putting my hands on my hips. “I
thought
I learned to teach in college.”

“You didn’t,” she deadpanned. “Tomorrow is baptism by fire. Get ready.”

I looked away, straightening my back. It was my brain cracking the whip, so I wouldn’t scowl.

Deep down I knew she was probably right, but I still didn’t like being knocked off my horse when I’d spent months preparing.

I’d done the work, taking all the classes I needed and even extra ones. I’d read up on the latest research and strategies, and I’d opted not to lesson plan with the other history teachers in favor of planning on my own – which I was allowed to do as long as I covered the curriculum and standards.

My lesson plans were done for the whole school year, but now I was worried about whether I’d done a lot of work for nothing.

What if I had no idea what I was getting myself into?

“Don’t worry,” Kristen spoke up. “It’s not the students that are the problem.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “The parents are very invested in where their tuition money goes.”

“What do you mean?”

She straightened, crossing her arms over her chest and speaking quietly. “Public school parents tend not to be involved enough. Private school parents, maybe too much. They can get invasive,” she warned. “And they bring lawyers to parent-teacher conferences sometimes, so be prepared.”

And then she patted me on the back, like I’d needed comforting, and walked out.

They can get invasive?
 

I cocked an eyebrow and stepped up to the large side-by-side windows lining the wall to rearrange the plants on the sill. Peering out the windows, I noticed that the sun had set and parents and students were stepping out of expensive cars, making their way into the school.

The manicured ladies meddled with their children’s hair, while the fathers conducted business on their phones.

I spun around, heading for my classroom door to prop it open.

I knew how to handle invasive.

Over the next couple of hours, parents and students filtered in and out of the room, following their class schedule to meet every teacher and learn their class route. Since my students would be mostly freshmen, I had a great turnout. Most parents wanted their sons and daughters to have the lay of the land before their first day of high school, and judging by the sign-in sheet I’d asked parents to fill out, I’d met almost two-thirds of my kids and their families. The ones I hadn’t met, I would try to call or e-mail this week to introduce myself and “open the lines of communication.”

I moved around the room, introducing myself and chatting with families here and there but mostly just watching. I’d adorned the walls with some maps and posters, while a few artifacts and tools used by historians and archeologists sat on tables and shelves. They moved from one area to another, taking in the clues I’d left as to what we’d study this year.

Even though I had about a hundred eighty days with the students, this was the night that was the most important. Seeing how your future student interacted with their parents offered a good indication of what to expect during the school year.

Which parent did they seem to fear more? (That’s the one you would call when there was trouble.) How did they speak to their parents? (Then you’d know how they’d speak to you.)

A couple parents and kids still flitted around the room, but as it was almost end time, everyone was starting to leave.

“Hi.” I walked up to a young man who’d been slouched in one of the desks for a while, sitting alone. “What’s your name?”

The kid wore earbuds and played on his phone, but he shot his eyes up at me, looking annoyed.

I wanted to sit down and spark up a conversation, but I could already feel the apprehension. This one was defiant.

Catching sight of the name tag the PTA had stuck to the left of his chest when he’d showed up tonight, I held out my hand.

“Christian?” I smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m E—” But I stopped and corrected myself. “Ms. Bradbury,” I amended. “Which class will you be joining us for?”

But then his phone beeped, and he sighed, pulling out his earbuds. “Do you have a charger?” he asked, looking impatient.

I dropped my hand and tilted my chin down, eyeing him. Thank goodness I didn’t believe in first impressions; otherwise I might have been irritated at his lack of manners.

He waited for me to answer, staring at me with blue-gray eyes beneath black hair, stylishly mussed, and I waited as well, crossing my arms over my chest.

He rolled his eyes and gave in, finally looking at the piece of paper lying on the desk. “I’ll be joining you for US History,” he answered, his flippant tone putting me on edge.

I nodded and took the paper, creased with half a dozen folds. “And where are your parents?” I inquired.

“My mother’s in Egypt.”

I noticed that he was in my first-period class and handed the paper back to him. “And your father?” I prodded.

He sat up, stuffing the paper into the back pocket of his khakis. “At a city planner’s meeting. He’s meeting me here.”

I watched him stand up and smooth a hand down his black shirt and khaki and black necktie. He was nearly as tall as me.

I straightened and cleared my throat. “A city planner’s meeting?” I questioned. “On a Sunday night?”

His white teeth shone in a condescending smile. “Good catch,” he commended. “I asked him the same question. He ignored me.”

I arched an eyebrow, immediately discerning that he and his father didn’t get along. What were they going to be like in the same room together?

He affixed the earbuds back into his ears, getting ready to tune me out. “If I give you any grief, it’s best just to call my mother in Africa rather than deal with my father,” he told me. “Just a tip.”

I shot up my eyebrows, breaking out in a small grin. He was a little pill.

But then so was I. I could understand where this one was coming from. We might just get along after all.

Turning around, I walked to my desk and slipped my phone out of the drawer. Dislodging the battery, I walked over and handed it to him.

“Charge it back up tonight and we’ll exchange tomorrow morning, okay?”

He pinched his eyebrows together and slowly reached out his hand, taking the battery. Luckily we both had the latest generation of the same phone.

“According to the student handbook,” he started, swapping out his nearly dead battery with mine, “we’re not allowed cell phones in the classroom.”

“In my class, you are,” I shot back, standing my ground. “You’ll find out more about that tomorrow.”

He handed me the dead battery and nodded. I relaxed, relieved that he seemed to soften a little.

“Christian.”

We both looked up, turning our heads toward the door, when the sharp tone startled us both.

Standing in the doorway, filling the space in a deep-black three-piece suit, white shirt, and gold tie was Christian. All grown up.

The stone-blue eyes narrowed on us under eyebrows that didn’t curve but slanted.

Oh, shit.
 

I stood there, stunned still and not breathing as my fists instantly clenched.

I may have just met the son, but I already knew the father.

I looked away, blinking long and hard.
No, no, no
…

My pulse raced, and my forehead and neck broke out in a cold sweat.

I didn’t know if he recognized me, but I couldn’t bring myself to move toward him. What the hell was I supposed to do?

It was Tyler Marek.

The same man who’d danced with me, flirted with me, and told me there was one place where he wouldn’t be careful with me was my student’s parent?

Spinning around, I returned to the front of the room, choosing to ignore him.

I circled my desk and bent down to the open drawer so I could replace the battery in my phone. I didn’t need to bend, but I could feel his eyes following me, and I needed a moment to panic in private.

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply.

He hadn’t seemed like the type to have a kid when I’d met him before. Had I been wrong? Was he married?

I hadn’t seen a ring on his finger last February at the Mardi Gras ball, but that didn’t mean anything nowadays. Men took them off as easily as they put them on.

What would happen if he recognized me? Thank God I hadn’t slept with him.

I drew in a long breath as I replaced the case on my phone and closed my bag.

Licking my dry lips, I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to stand the hell up and deal with it.

Straightening my back, I smoothed a hand down my blouse and shirt.

I gathered some of the surveys that parents had filled out and straightened them, setting them in the tray in the corner of my desk.

The other parents and students had already drifted out of the room, and I tensed, seeing his long legs coming to stand in front of my desk.

Tyler Marek.
 

I’d thought about him. More than I wanted to admit.

However, I’d resisted the urge to Google him for more information, not wanting to indulge my pointless curiosity.