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The whiplash he gives me hurts like a bitch. Does he want me or not? “Wh-what?”
My father explains the situation a little better. Howard Pelham came to his office today to ask me to be placed with another teacher because he was afraid there wasn’t enough for me to do during my hours in his room. But after a little chat, he changed his mind and decided to keep me.
I can’t tell if my father talked him into it or if Holy had a change of heart. All I know is that I think I should be offended.
“Did he say anything about it during class today?” Dad asks.
Even though I didn’t show up, Holy didn’t mark me absent. Ms. Leake didn’t see my name on the list of students who missed the fourth hour; she couldn’t report me to my father. If he had known that I had skipped class, this conversation would have started differently. “No,” I respond quietly, “he didn’t say anything.”
“Probably smart.” He reaches into the bag of chips and pulls out a handful. “He’s a good guy. One of the quietest teachers we’ve had at MHS. Never gets into trouble, never has any drama.”
And then I showed up with my pouty lips and fuck me pumps, and I don’t even know what any of that means—I just figured I’d get everything I wanted if I paraded around like a confident woman that knows exactly what she deserves.
But Holy trying to get rid of me is confusing. And it’s even more confusing that he didn’t tell anyone I skipped his class. What does this all mean? And should I take a human psychology class so I can understand people better? Or just stop overthinking?
10
HOLY
Danielle wasn’t in class yesterday or the day before. I thought about marking her absent, but that would help anything. Maybe she’s embarrassed by what she did, or maybe she regrets it. Maybe she’ll go to her guidance counselor and ask to be placed elsewhere. It would solve all of our problems if she aided another teacher.
But Thursday afternoon rolls around, and Danielle breezes through the door with a commanding presence. Her eyes are on her desk, and she doesn’t even look at me.
“Hey,” I greet tentatively, but she only graces me with a head nod. “You been okay these past couple of days? I haven’t seen you.”
She barely makes eye contact. “I’ve been fine. Do you have papers for me to grade?”
The temperature in the room plummets, or maybe that’s just how it feels. Danielle’s usual overtly warm personality has been ripped out of her and replaced by this cold, careless version. It puts me on edge, but I have no option but to grab a stack of homework and place it on her desk. “That shouldn’t take too long. I put the answer keys on the top. There’s a version A and B.”
“I know,” she cuts me off. Then without further ado, she sits down and pulls out a red pen. I watch her organize her desk with the answer keys in opposite corners and the homework in front of her dead center. She flies through the first page with ease, marking only one problem incorrect and making a small note on another saying that the student needs to show their work. She’s fast; she’s efficient. But she’s distant.
The rest of the afternoon goes the same way as the beginning. I’ve become so accustomed to her eyes following me in front of the class that I feel a little vulnerable when she isn’t looking at me. She keeps her beautiful blue gaze on the papers in front of her, her hands flying at lightning speed to make it through five classes of statistics homework.
I check on her between the fourth and fifth periods, and she doesn’t look up. She mumbles a response and continues grading, albeit at a slower rate because, technically, this is her break as well. I watch as she pulls out her phone and fires off a few text messages. Green and blue bubbles appear on her screen as she switches from one chat to another. She even heavily sighs once or twice, her fingers flying across the keyboard in rapid response.
She stays quiet through the next hour as I teach. Even though I catch her texting in the middle of class, I don’t say anything. The mood around her is strange, and frankly, she isn’t here as a student. I don’t care if she spends a minute here and there replying to a friend. Maybe that’s why she’s so upset today. Perhaps she and one of her gal pals had a falling out. Or maybe there was a fight with a boy…
A jealous shiver works its way down my spine. Thinking about her dating some douchey high school kid makes me angry.You have no claim over her,the little voice in my head reminds me. It sounds like Savior, who has repeatedly told me to stay away from Danielle Fulton at all costs. And yet, the more standoffish she is, the more it draws me to her. God, I’m a fucking textbook of a man.
During the break between fifth and sixth hour, she completely lounges. The pile of homework needing to be graded has diminished considerably. She takes the seven-minute passing period to scroll through Facebook and Instagram. I ask her if she needs more to do, and she shakes her head; I don’t even get a verbal no. Something isdefinitelywrong.
But I quell my frustrations and anger with math. I disappear into the numbers, a trick I learned in high school. I was never good at school, but I was damn good at patterns and gambling. That’s how I got into statistics.
As the final hour of the day winds to a close, I find myself staring at Danielle instead of the other way around. I have to train my eyes on the window in the back of the room to keep from looking at my TA. I know there’s something wrong, and I have to figure out what it is.
I’m useless for the last few minutes of class and assign homework early. I skipped over a few parts of the lesson, but they weren’t crucial to understanding. Instead, as the noise level in the classroom increases while students discuss what they will be doing this weekend, I walk directly to Danielle’s desk. “I’d like to see you after class.”
She was studying the leftover pencil marks on the desk before I spoke to her, but upon seeing me walk up and order her to stay after school, Dani looks up at me with a frown. “Can it wait?” She asks sullenly.
I shake my head. “No. We need to talk.” I know how that sounds, but in a way, that’s how it should sound. She kissed me the other day and then ditched class, and now she’s back acting like I kicked her puppy.
The last handful of minutes pass in slow motion. I watch the clock on the wall as the big hand ticks closer and closer to 3:05. When it finally, mercifully, reaches the right time, the bell rings overhead, and all the students are on their feet and racing for the exit. “See you tomorrow!” I announce over the roar of sneakers on vinyl. All but Danielle, of course, who manages to fend off questions from her friends while pretending to pack her bag.
“Is there something I can help you with?” She asks rudely when the last student walks out the door, and it slams shut behind him. “I have dance practice to get to, as well as homework for all of my other classes.”
I push away from my desk and stroll toward her. “Why are you mad?”
A frown flickers across her features. “I’m not mad,” she insists after a moment.
