See Me After Class(20)

When her eyes land on mine, I give her one smooth once-over and then bring my cue stick to the rack where the others are kept. Turning toward her, I say, “It shows that I was right. You won’t be the right hire for Forest Heights. If one game of pool tips you over the edge, what the hell are you going to do when you lose control of your classroom? Drill your fist through the wall and call it a day?”

She sucks in a sharp breath and stands tall. “I never lose my composure in the classroom.”

“How do you know that? This is your first teaching job.”

“I was a student teacher.”

“Where you weren’t fully in charge,” I point out, stepping in close to her.

“I had control of the classroom.” She lifts her chin.

“I’m not saying you didn’t have control; I’m saying you were in charge for a short amount of time. What happens when you’re elbow deep in a semester and everything you’ve been teaching goes in one ear out the other, the papers you’re correcting have nothing to do with what you’ve taught during class, and instead of learning, the kids rely on you to teach them Tik Tok dances like the first day of class rather than actually learn?”

She glares.

She seethes.

She moves closer, leaving only a few inches between us. “That will never happen, because unlike you, I know how to relate to my students.”

“You don’t need to relate to them, Gibson. You need to educate them.”

With that, I push past her and walk by Gunner and Romeo’s booth as they all high-five each other, not paying me a bit of attention. I quickly lay some money on the bar for my meal, and for Greer’s, and then, deciding to wait outside, I exit the bar and order an Uber.

The doors to the bar burst open behind me and I glance over my shoulder, where I see Greer standing, her chest heaving, her eyes narrowed, her fists clenched at her side.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she looks like she’s about to punch me.

“As teachers, we’re not just here to shove Shakespearean quotes down their throats and talk about the damn green light in The Great Gatsby and what it represents. We’re here to uplift them, to help them understand the life ahead of them. Do you really think they’re going to look back one day and say, ‘You know, that Mr. Turner, the way he’d wax poetic about F. Scott Fitzgerald really changed my life’?” She shakes her head, moving closer with every word she says. “No”—she pokes me in the chest—“they’re going to look back at high school and think, ‘Mr. Turner was an asshole who didn’t care about me as a person. He just cared about me as a student. As a number. As a grade.’”

How little she fucking knows me.

I move my jaw back and forth, not letting the crazy sweet smell of her perfume distract me, or the way her passionate eyes flare disarm me, or the press of her finger into my right pec confuse me.

Standing strong, unwavering, I say, “And you think your free-for-all handling of the curriculum is going to change lives?”

“It’s not a free-for-all.”

I scoff. “Pairing the movie with classic literature, asking them to read the CliffsNotes—”

“That’s so they gain a better understanding.”

“You’re diminishing their ability to read and translate by filling their minds with the cop-out version.” I reach out and pinch her chin, now so close I can feel her breath on me. “You want to make a difference? Teach them.”

I let go just as a silver Camry pulls up to the sidewalk.

“I do teach them,” she calls after me, her eyes less passionate, slightly unsure.

“Try doing it without the fanfare.” I reach for the door and open it. “If they learn from you by proper instruction, then you’re a teacher. Until then . . . in my eyes . . .” I look her up and down. I want to tell her that she’s no better than a glorified babysitter. But I can’t. Not as her superior. “You need to prove your worth, Miss Gibson. You’re there to teach, not babysit.”





Chapter Five





GREER





“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“What did I say over the weekend?” I ask. My eyes burn with exhaustion as I cut off the heads of a pack of matches.

“You said full steam ahead.”

“Well, that’s exactly what we’re doing. Full steam ahead.”

“Yeah . . .” Stella drags out carefully. “But before, when you wanted to do the pranks, you didn’t have this crazy look in your eyes.”

“Lack of sleep,” I snap. “Where’s the ammonia?”

“Keeks is getting it.” Stella pulls on my shoulder so I’m facing her. “Hey, can you settle down for a second and talk to me?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Turner is an asshole and he’s going to get stink-bombed.”

“You know there’s nothing more I want than to see Turner being turned out of his classroom because you dropped a stink bomb in there, but something must have happened Friday night that you’re not telling me. You have a vengeful look on your face.”

“I don’t remember swiping on ‘vengeful’ when I was doing my makeup this morning.”