Too Good to Be True(38)
Ten minutes later, I was seated in the conference room in Lehring Hall with my fellow history department members—Dr. Eckhart, the chairman; Paul Boccanio, who was next in seniority; the unfortunately named Wayne Diggler, our newest teacher, hired last year right out of graduate school; and Ava Machiatelli, sex kitten.
“Your class sounded quite out of control today,” Ava murmured in her trademark phone-sex whisper. “So much chaos! My class could hardly think.”
Not that they need to for you to give them an A, I grumbled internally. “We were playing Jeopardy!” I said with a smile. “Very invigorating.”
“Very noisy, too.” A reproachful blink…another…and, yes, a third blink.
Dr. Eckhart shuffled to the head of the table and sat down, an activity that took considerable time and effort. Then he gave his trademark phlegmy, barking cough that caused first-years to jump in their seats until about November. A distinguished gentleman with an unfortunate aversion to daily bathing, Dr. Eckhart was from the olden days of prep schools where the kids wore uniforms and could be locked in closets for misbehaving, if not beaten with rulers. He often mourned those happy times. Aside from that, he was a brilliant man.
He now straightened and folded his arthritic hands in front of him. “This year will be my last as chairman of the history department at Manning, as you have doubtless all heard.”
Tears pricked my eyes. I couldn’t imagine Manning without old Dr. E. Who would huddle in a corner with me at trustee functions or the dreaded Headmaster’s Dinner? Who would defend me when angry parents called about their kid’s B+?
“Headmaster Stanton has invited me to advise the search committee, and of course I encourage all of you to apply for the position, as Manning has always prided itself on promotion from within.” He turned to the youngest member of our staff. “Mr. Diggler, you, of course, are far too inexperienced, so please save your energy for your classes.”
Wayne, who felt that his degree from Georgetown trumped all the rest of ours put together, slumped in his seat and sulked. “Fine,” he muttered. “Like I’m not headed for Exeter, anyway.” Wayne often promised to leave when things didn’t go his way, which was about twice a week.
“Complete your sentences, please, Mr. Diggler, until that happy day.” Dr. Eckhart smiled at me, then gave another barking cough. It was no secret that I was a bit of a pet with our elderly chair, thanks to regular infusions of Disgustingly Rich Chocolate Brownies and my membership in Brother Against Brother.
“Actually, speaking of Phillips Exeter,” began Paul, blushing slightly. He was a balding, brilliant man with glasses and a photographic memory for dates.
“Oh, dear,” sighed Dr. Eckhart. “Are congratulations in order, Mr. Boccanio?”
Paul grinned. “I’m afraid so.”
It wasn’t that uncommon, prep schools poaching teachers, and Paul had a great background, especially given that he’d actually worked in the real world before becoming a teacher. Add to that his impressive education —Stanford/Yale, for heaven’s sake—and it was no wonder that he’d been nabbed.
“Traitor,” I murmured. I really liked Paul. He winked in response. “That leaves my two esteemed female colleagues,” Dr. Eckhart wheezed. “Very well, ladies, I’ll expect you to submit your applications. Prepare your presentations in paper form, none of this computer nonsense, please, detailing your qualifications and ideas for improvements, such as they may be, to Manning’s history department.”
“Thank you for this opportunity, sir,” Ava murmured, batting her eyelashes like Scarlett O’ Hara.
“Very well,” Dr. Eckhart said now, straightening his stained shirt. “The search begins next week, when we shall post the opening in the appropriate venues.”
“You’ll be terribly missed, Dr. Eckhart,” I said huskily.
“Ah. Thank you, Grace.”
“Oh, yes. It won’t be the same without you,” Ava hastily seconded.
“Indeed.” He hauled himself out of the chair on his third attempt and shuffled out the door. I swallowed thickly.
“Good luck, girls,” Paul said cheerfully. “If you’d like to have a Jell-O wrestling match, winner gets the job, I’d be happy to judge.”
“We’ll miss you so,” I said, grinning.
“It’s so unfair,” whined Wayne. “When I was at Georgetown, I had dinner with C. Vann Woodward!”
“And I had sex with Ken Burns,” I quipped, getting a snort from Paul. “Not to mention the fact that I was an extra in Glory.” That part was true. I’d been eleven years old, and Dad took me up to Sturbridge so we could be part of the crowd scene as the 54th Massachusetts Regiment left for the South. “It was the best moment of my childhood,” I added. “Better even than when that guy from MacGyver opened the new mall.”
“You’re pathetic,” Wayne mumbled.
“Grow up, little man,” breathed Ava. “You don’t have what it takes to run a department.”
“And you do, Marilyn Monroe?” he snapped. “I’m too good for this place!”
“I’ll be happy to accept your resignation when I’m chair,” I said graciously. Wayne slammed his hands on the table, followed by some stomping, followed by his most welcomed departure.