Misconduct(22)

“However,” he continued, “my son is fourteen, and I’m not comfortable with him on social media. I’ve gone into this Facebook group the students frequent, and I don’t particularly like where some of these discussions venture. Christian is expected to maintain three different social media accounts, and he’s conversing with people I don’t know,” he stated. “Not only is his safety and those who influence him of greater concern now, but also the amount of distraction he contends with. He’ll be doing his math homework, and his phone will be going off due to notifications for Ms. Bradbury’s groups.”

I bit my tongue, both figuratively and literally, not because his concerns weren’t valid, but because this had all been addressed if he’d cared to take interest weeks ago.

I cleared my throat, turning to look at him. “Mr. Marek —”

“Call me Tyler,” he instructed, and I shot up my eyes, seeing the devious amusement behind his gaze.

I shook my head, annoyed that he kept working that into our conversations.

“Mr. Marek,” I continued, standing my ground, “on the first day of school, I sent home a document explaining all of this, because I foresaw these concerns.”

His eyebrow shot up. I was calling him out as an absentee parent, and he knew it.

I kept going, straightening my back and feeling Shaw watching me. “I requested that parents sign it and return it —”

“Mr. Shaw,” someone called behind me from the door, and I stopped, grinding my teeth in annoyance.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but there’s an issue that needs your quick attention in the front office.”

It was Mrs. Vincent, the secretary. She must not have knocked.

Mr. Shaw gave us an apologetic smile and rose from his desk. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

I let out a quiet breath, frustrated, but thankfully no one noticed. Shaw walked around his desk and across the room, leaving me alone with Marek.

Wonderful.

The door clicked shut behind me, and I couldn’t ignore the feeling of Marek’s large frame next to me – his stiffness and silence telling me he was just as annoyed as I was. I hoped he wouldn’t talk, but the sound of the air-conditioning circulating throughout the room only accentuated the deafening silence.

And if he did say anything that rubbed me the wrong way, I couldn’t predict how I would react. I had little control of my mouth with my superior in the room, let alone with him gone.

I held my hands in my lap. Marek stayed motionless.

I looked off, out the window. He inhaled a long breath through his nose.

I checked the cleanliness of my nails, feigning boredom, while heat spread over my face and down my neck as I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t his eyes raking down my body.

“You do realize,” he shot out, startling me out of my thoughts, “that you don’t have a union to protect you, right?”

I clenched the binder in my lap and stared ahead, his thinly veiled threat and tensed voice not getting by me.

Yes, I was aware. Most private school teachers were hired and fired at will, and administrators liked to have that freedom. Hence, no benefit of unions to protect us like the public school teachers enjoyed.

“And even so you still can’t stop yourself from mouthing off,” he commented.

Mouthing off?

“Is that what this is about?” I turned, struggling to keep my voice even. “You’re playing a game with me?”

He narrowed his eyes, his black eyebrows pinching together.

“This is about my son,” he clarified.

“And this is my job,” I threw back. “I know what I’m doing, and I care very much about your son.” And then I quickly added, “About all of my students, of course.”

What was his problem anyway? My class curriculum didn’t carry unreasonable expectations. All of these students had phones. Hell, I’d seen their five-year-old siblings with phones in the parking lot.

I’d thoroughly reviewed my intentions with the administrators and the parents, and any naysayers had quickly come around. Not only was Marek ignorant, but he was late to the game.

He’d been well informed, but this was the first time I’d seen hide or hair of him since the open house.

“You’re incredible,” I mumbled.

I saw his face turn toward me out of the corner of my eye. “I would watch my step if I were you,” he threatened.

I twisted my head away, closing my eyes and inhaling a deep breath.

In his head, we weren’t equals. He’d put on a good front last Mardi Gras when he’d thought I was nothing more than a good time, but now I was useless to him. His inferior.

He was arrogant and ignorant and not even the slightest bit interested in treating me with the respect I’d earned, given my education and hard work.

I liked control, and I loved being in charge, but had I told my doctor how to do his job when he’d ordered me off my ankle for six weeks when I was seventeen? No. I’d deferred to those who knew what they were talking about, and if I had any questions, I’d asked.

Politely.

I gnawed at my lips, trying to keep my big mouth shut. This had always been a problem for me. It had caused me trouble in my tennis career, because I couldn’t maintain perspective and distance myself from criticism when I thought I’d been wronged.