Pure & Sinful (Pure Souls) (10 page)

The declaration earned a sly nod of approval from the bubble blonde, but the yin to that yang was the jittery shift of the stick-figure-in-student’s-clothing behind her. His pasty arm shot right up in the air like it was spring-loaded.

“Wait, are you even, like, a credentialed teacher?” he spat back when Riona called on him. The anxiety in his eyes rated right up there with a fretful mother asking if her hard-partying teen had survived the crash.

Riona bit her lip and shied away her eyes. “Um, no…” But wanting Mr. Teacher Screener and the others to be certain she wasn’t a complete heathen off the street, she immediately followed with, “but I am a certified statistician, which makes me more than qualified to teach calculus.”

“Hardly!” her student critic exclaimed, rolling his eyes. With a flip of each finger, he read the list of charges against her. “If you don’t have a credential, you’ve never studied instructional pedagogy, multiple learning perspectives, or educational child psychology, let alone classroom management. Assuming you have some innate ability to keep us all in line — which, judging by your hair, you do not — how do you expect to get through this class without causing us serious, long-term, psychological damage? Or stunting our intellectual growth by structuring content knowledge into a form which our young minds can’t properly digest?”

Boy, kids really took their education so much more seriously than she remembered.

“Can I ask your name?”

“Damien Johannes.”

Of course. “Well,
Damien
,
I certainly admire your concern, but let me assure you of this…”

The speech in her head went something like:
“…in the last two weeks, I have derived a positive-feedback loop relationship between a consumer’s taste in pasta sauce and which toothpaste he’ll prefer, got a son of Zeus and a son-of-a-bitch priest to agree to park in a handicap space at a twenty-five dollar an hour parking garage, and figured out how to set up my DVR, the directions of which were written in Ancient Greek, for reasons I don’t even want to begin to explain, to record True Blood so I can be here on this fine day and teach you about differentiating integrals.”

But what actually came out was a hefty sigh, followed by, “You can rest assured, you’re in fine hands.”

As Damien sat perplexed, Riona straightened, a sense of victory stiffening her spine. Which then turned back to gelatin when she remembered that beyond teaching, there was still a demon to sniff out between classes. With a groan, her fists landed on her hips as, once again, Damien’s hand shot up in the air.

“Yes?”

“Do you know CPR?”

With gnashing teeth, she hoped this would finally shut him up. “If you ask me one more stupid question, you better pray that I do.”

“Miss Dade?”

She hadn’t even noticed Marc come in. She was too busy staring wishful hopes of acne and flatulence to Damien. When she spun around and caught the priest’s WTF expression as he glared at her from the door frame, she knew the showdown must look ridiculous to anyone over the age of five.

“Father Angeletti?”

His finger motioned a come hither or else. “A word in the hall?”

Trying to shake off the nerves, she asked the class to open to page seventy-six and read the first three paragraphs at the top. She really hoped that whatever was on page seventy-six had three paragraphs at the top.

The priest’s angled eyes took her by surprise. He really had this whole authority thing down, leaving Riona feeling a little like a naughty student who was being called out by the principal for mouthing off to the teacher.

“What?”

His face screwed up in confusion as her acidic tone hit. “Okay, Keystone, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Remember, they’re just kids. Have a little patience.”

“Rather opinionated for teenagers, if you ask me.” She chewed the words like leather. “Is this a Catholic thing? Being overly annoying?”

“No, I think it’s more of a witch thing, being easily annoyed.” 

She couldn’t tell if he was trying to piss her off on purpose, or if it was just a side effect of his hissy attitude. Riona was so not in the mood to be the bigger person and just eat up the insult.

“Oh, you mean like being sexually frustrated is a priest thing? After the locker room, I couldn’t help but wonder if you had… Ah!”

When she found herself pressed by Marc’s hard body into the bank of lockers behind her, the sensations that filled her from tip to toe overwhelmed her. Confusion, fear, lust, and relief competed for dominance. One of Marc’s hands was a vise around her wrist, holding her left hand high over her head. The other was shifting through motions right before her throat, as though it was trying to decide of it should strangle her or hold her chin in place for when he leaned in to claim her lips. His eyes locked onto her mouth, but hers took in the full mask of desire and arrogance covering his face.

“Don’t confuse frustration with abstention,” he warned as his hip shifted, pressing his substantial priestly vestments against her.

Motherfrickin’…

She dismissed his last five-star salute to her as the effects of being too close for modesty to win out. But then, what the hell was this?

Oh, sweet forbidden fruit. Marc’s body… She had had moments of unwise attraction before, but the feel of the priest pushing against her, nothing but a few layers of cotton and polyester blends, and two thousand years of dogma between them, had her rolling both her eyes and her neck, hoping he would take the opportunity to explore the plane of flesh with his tongue. For a moment, she actually thought he might, as she felt his breath on her ear, then swore she felt his lips ghost down her jawbone.

But just as quickly as the fire arose in her, his retraction doused her desire, leaving her feeling cold and discarded on the side of the wall.

“Unlike
some
people,
I’ve learned how to deal with temptation and avoid things which will lead me away from my values.”

The victorious, smug smile on Marc’s face told her all she needed to know. He had gotten to her, on a carnal level even, and was completely aware of it. And it didn’t matter.

Without a further word, he pointed at the classroom door expectantly. Pushing off the locker, Riona stood straight, palmed over her skirt, and took a few deep breaths.

“Remember, we’re here to protect them,” Marc further warned. “Annoying or not, they’re innocents. Find the fucker who’s pretending to be one of them, and vanquish him. Stay focused. If you really need anything,” he pointed at the cracked wood door across the hall, “I’m right over there.”

Swearing she wasn’t going to get flustered in his sight ever again, Riona turned back toward her classroom. “Fine, I’ll ‘stay focused.’ But you say that like it’s so easy to tell the difference between a hormonal teenager and a minion from Hell.”

To her relief, the rest of the first class period passed without any further incidences or instigations that Riona’s qualifications were lacking. Second period delivered more of the same. By the time third period rolled around, Riona stood convinced that the difficulty of this whole teaching thing was overblown in the extreme by a bunch of whiny labor unions who didn’t think two months off a year after working only six hours a day was good enough.

When fourth period started, and Riona saw on her schedule that the subject was now Introduction to Statistics, she felt right in her wheelhouse. Hell, she felt like the CEO of the Intro to Stats Wheelhouse Emporium, and she was opening up the market to franchisees.

Then, the students arrived.

Just before the bell rang, just as Riona leaned over to brush a piece of lint off her charcoal gray pencil skirt, a move which, no doubt, perked her posterior out temptingly if viewed from behind, she heard someone sheepishly clear his throat. Assuming that it was Marc just checking up on her again — and a little pissed at his general are-you-sure-you’re-okay-iness, she growled her words.

“Damn it, priest, you can leave me alone already. I haven’t given out a single detention or vanquished anyone yet.”

When instead she turned to find Father Hermosa, the school principal, white-faced, red-eared and wide-eyed, she prayed for a divine intervention… Holy pit bulls that went for his feet and drew his attention away from her gaping expression, for example.

“Jesus… Christ, our savior!” she quickly recovered. “I’m sorry, Father. I thought you were… Never mind. I didn’t mean to shout.”

“Are you certain everything is okay, Ms. Dade?” He eyed her as though he doubted her sanity. “I know it’s the first time you’ve subbed with us. I want to be sure you’re carrying through. And, despite our best efforts, I know that children at St. Cecilia’s can be little demons sometimes.”

“Oh, I can handle demons!” she said with a laugh, adding in her head,
though some demons are easier than some of these kids.
When Hermosa clutched onto his stoicism, she cleared her throat, evened out her blouse with her fingertips, and stood erect. “Yes, Father, thank you. They’ve got some spirit, but so far, so good.”

“Good.” It wasn’t exactly confidence that was etched across his face from her reassurance. It looked more like constipation. Hermosa turned to the class as he shook his finger. “I expect everyone in here to be good for Ms. Dade. We’ve always taught you to be proper to guests, and you all should be ashamed of anyone who offers anything less than complete hospitality.”

A few more students straggled in as Father Hermosa skipped out, darting in just before the bell rang. Riona went to her desk and straightened a stack of papers, taking a moment and a deep breath. One more period, and then a break for lunch. Maybe then she could scan the cafeteria and see if she picked up any of the tingles that suggested either the presence of evil or very bad ventilation. Who knew otherworld wickedness felt like frostbite on the skin? So far, nothing had come onto her radar.

Fifteen teens, dark of brow and curly of lip, gaped at her from their individual seats when she looked up. Something was off. And wouldn’t you know it: Damien Johannes sat squarely in the midst, back for another round of “Pin the Fail on the Donkey.” Her spidey senses were ignited from unvetted suspicion.

Damien, it seemed, was just as thrilled to see her as she, him. “I was certain CPS would have shown up by now and installed a real teacher in your place.”

This time, instead of a stunned silence from his cohorts, a low rumble of chuckles followed his jibe. A girl who was clearly lacking both Vitamin D and a hairbrush even fist-bumped him, or tried. They failed to connect in the middle, sending both their arms dashing past each other’s, which only seemed to entertain them more.

Riona shook her head and clicked her tongue. “Man, white men can’t bump.”

Damien rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Is that the best you can do? Fine, let me hit you up with this one.”

Damien stood, making a great show of snorting as loudly as possible, as though it were a mating call given in the marshy backland by a creature that hoped Nat Geo was filming his every move. In a heroic fashion, he whipped his head forward and released, covering his desk and his books in grimy, green goo.

“Look!” he bellowed to his captive audience of losers, “I’m
snot
f
or teacher!”

As their cackles doubled, they all turned on Riona with jesting sneers.
Your turn, Teach.

Riona prepped a variation on the theme of snot-nosed children, but something stopped her dead. The whole class’s eyes flickered. Flickered, then deadened, like a good idea in the eyes of a bad politician. Like someone had put red LED’s behind their irises and were attempting to signal the Coast Guard.

“Holy… Okay, kids, bell’s rung. Everyone, listen up!” In a sturdy voice she hoped belied her sudden insight, Riona made her proclamation and slapped her hand down on the corner of the desk. “I think you had homework due today, so get it out and ready. I just… I just need to run across the hall for a second.”

As she skidded into Marc’s classroom, she wasn’t sure if she were looking for help, or an excuse to get out of the homeroom of the children of the corn.

“Ms. Dade?” the priest asked when Riona failed to talk. “Something I or the history class can help you with?”

The weight of two-dozen sets of eyes bore down on her. She tried to form words, but came across instead as a person pulling off a pretty decent goldfish impression.

Finally, she coughed out “in my classroom,” and turned about. A clip-clop rhythm of sensible shoes on the linoleum floor trailed her.

In the hall, she stopped. “Is there a type of demon that, instead of trying to get you to kill or maim or murder, only tries to make you feel bad about yourself?”

Marc’s eyes searched the air above them. “Um, yeah, rare, but there’s something called a Downer Demon. It uses insults to capitalize on a person’s self-doubt and drive them into depression to drive them towards greater evil.”

Riona’s jaw fell. “It’s a sin to be depressed?”

The priest crossed his arms over his chest. “Not just feeling a little down, or otherwise I don’t think a single poet or blues guitarist would ever get into Heaven. But it is a sin to feel powerless despite your own abilities. God hates it when he gives you all the tools to accomplish a job, but all you do is focus on how hard the work is so you never get started.” 

Riona’s head dipped in contemplation, and only when Marc’s hand reached out and nudged her chin up so her eyes met his did she really hear his words. “Depression is a gateway sin, Riona, kinda like a parking ticket. Not serious, but dangerous if you start racking them up and ignoring them. If you feel like you can’t find your own worth inside yourself, you’ll go off looking for it from other people. That gives them power over you and takes you away from God’s purpose for your life. In the wrong hands, that type of power can be used to propagate all kinds of evil.”

His thumb pressed into her bottom lip, and though she was certain the feeling was one-sided, she couldn’t help but go weak in the knees.

Which was so not penciled into her knees’ daily schedule.

Standing up straight, eyes shooting open, Riona ground out the words through clenched teeth. “Will you
please
stop doing that?”

Marc pulled back his hand and his warmth. “Doing what?”

“Making me feel like goo,” she hissed. “I get it, you don’t like me, but you don’t have to toy around with my emotions just to be an ass. God, you’re like… Antarctica one second, then Brazil the next. Could you maybe shoot for that subtle indifference bordering on contempt you had pinned down for so long?”

“I make you feel like goo?” It was as though he’d been accused of some heinous crime or fault, like being a fan of strip bocce ball. An obvious response eluded him.

Riona clicked her tongue. “The gooiest of goo. Could we please focus? Downer Demon? Yeah, I think I found the darkness at St. Cecilia’s, and I think it’s a Downer Demon, and I think he’s in my classroom right this very second.”

Marc scoffed. “Whoa there, hex! Slow down your horses. Yeah, Downer Demons exist, but they’re rare and they don’t tend to manifest as teenagers. Teens are too volatile for them to spend so much energy on, and you know the treaty between the Big Bad and the Big Boss specified that seventeen is the minimum appearance of age for demons to manifest themselves as mortals, so I don’t really think…”