See Me After Class(33)
“AP English.”
My heart flips.
Shit.
“Uh, who’s your teacher?” I ask, even though I know exactly who it is.
“Mr. Turner.” She sighs and reaches into her backpack. She pulls out a paper encased in a clear binder, typed and professionally put together. Red ink is splashed all over the white paper, and at the top is a giant letter F circled at the top.
Oh hell.
“We turned in papers this week. He worked on mine last night. Today during class, he called me to the side and handed me my paper, saying that he was disappointed in my work, and reminded me of his class policy where he gives each student one chance to change one of the grades on his papers by rewriting it and taking his notes into consideration.”
What an arrogant ass.
I quickly flip through the paper, skimming over The Great Gatsby, and already rolling my eyes. What is it with that man and that book? It’s not that great.
I know, I know. I’m an English teacher. I should appreciate the written word. I mean, sure, it’s an okay book, but I don’t understand how the schooling system decides what books we have to teach. What qualifies a book as a classic? What makes that book soooo special?
I understand I should care about this. But I don’t. I care about my students having a passion for books and leaving here not just with an understanding of how to construct a proper paper, but to be a master at it.
“What if I fail another paper? I really thought I did a good job on this.”
“Did anyone else fail?” I ask her.
She shakes her head and chews on the inside of her cheek. “I, uh . . . I worked on my paper with Sonia, my best friend, and we didn’t copy each other, but we went through all the symbolism, talked about it, and considered how Mr. Turner would want us to interpret it when writing our papers.”
“What was her grade?”
Looking ashamed, she says, “She got a B.”
Lips flattened together, I slowly nod my head. “Does he know you’re on the volleyball team?”
She nods. “Yeah, I always change into my practice clothes before class so I can go straight from class to the court.”
“And he told you he graded this last night?”
She nods. “Did I . . . did I do something wrong?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.” Demeaning my skills as a teacher is one thing, but jeopardizing a student’s future to discipline me? That’s completely unfounded and unethical. And, if I’m honest, I’m surprised he’d even consider doing that. It makes me furious, though. None of my pranks threatened a student’s future. Trying not to show my anger, I say, “Do you mind if I keep this paper and look it over this weekend? See where the mistakes were made. We can go over it Monday. How does that sound?”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not at all, Blair. That’s what I’m here for, okay?”
She nods and stands, zipping up her backpack. “Thank you, Coach Gibson. I really appreciate it.”
“Sure.” I nod and once she walks away, Stella comes up to me.
“What was that about?”
Staring off at our retreating player, I say, “Turner is going to die.”
“Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good.”
I curl the plastic-covered paper into a tube. “It’s not. He should fear for his life.”
“Should I sound off the metaphorical sirens?”
I shake my head. “No.” He deserves to be taken to task about this, but I’ll read Blair’s essay first and hopefully find that he didn’t really mark her down intentionally. I have to take the higher road. But . . . “This will be a sneak attack. Exactly what he deserves.”
“When?”
“Sunday, at teachers’ league,” I answer.
“Oh boy . . . things are about to get interesting.”
Indeed they are.
Chapter Eight
ARLO
“It’s fun watching you run around, trying to make sure everything is perfect,” Coraline says, sitting on the kitchen island, cross-legged, picking at the fruit platter I put together earlier today.
“I’m not trying to make everything perfect.”
“Uh . . . you balled a melon.” She picks up a piece of cantaloupe and plops it in her mouth. “I didn’t even know people balled melons anymore. I thought the proper procedure for serving melon was just cutting it up. And you even put it in a separate bowl.”
“People don’t like the melon juice touching other fruit,” I say, straightening the bowls that she keeps messing up.
“When did you become the hostess with the mostest?” She looks around. “Fresh flowers, make-your-own-mac-and-cheese bar, balled melon—who the hell are you?”
“These are my colleagues. Presentation needs to be proper.”
She chuckles. “When the hell did you go to finishing school? From what I can remember, we both were put into private school, which was more of a detriment than anything. The need to break rules was heavy in our blood.”
“Your blood, not mine.” I shake my head.
“Uh, pretty sure you dated Tiffany McCrae because she was sporting that whole Avril Lavigne punk vibe and you wanted to horrify Nana and Pops when you brought her home. I can still remember the look of abhorrence on Nana’s face when she asked why Tiffany was wearing a man’s tie loose around her neck and Tiffany replied, ‘Why aren’t you?’” Coraline laughs and I pause, chuckling slightly.