Misconduct(28)

“Damn it,” I mumbled, pulling to a stop as I put my hands on my hips and dropped my head. “Shit.”

I dug the remote out of the waistband of my tennis skirt and pointed it at the ball machine, powering it down just as a ball came flying toward me.

I ducked and then twisted my head in the other direction, hearing a car honk behind me.

Jack sat in his Jeep Wrangler laughing at me as “Untraveled Road” by Thousand Foot Krutch blared from his car.

I rolled my eyes and walked for the gate, handing the remote to the attendant and grabbing my gym bag. I tossed my towel into a bin before swerving around the fence and down the sidewalk.

“You only caught the end of that,” I protested, climbing into the passenger seat. “I was hitting balls like crazy.”

He smiled to himself, shifting into gear and pulling away from the curb. “You know you could play with me, right?”

I snorted. “No offense, but I want to be challenged, Jack.”

His chest shook with laughter. “Brat.”

I smiled and dug my phone out of my duffel before stuffing the bag onto the floor between my legs.

Jack had actually been a great sparring partner when I was younger. He’d even competed before it became obvious at an early age that it just wasn’t a passion for him.

When my parents noticed that I was more interested and a lot more pliable, they let him off the hook and nurtured me. I never understood why it was so important for one of us to be competing at a high level in a sport, but I basically just wrote it off as a desire for them to be in the limelight and live vicariously, both of them amateur athletes in their day.

“You only come out here sporadically, and you always want to be alone,” Jack commented, turning onto St. Charles and traveling past Tulane, heading toward the Garden District. “It’s like you’re forcing yourself to do something you don’t want to do. As if you still feel obligated to play.”

Spills of gold fell across my lap from the sunlight peeking through the trees overhead, and I checked my e-mail as I tried to ignore Jack’s constant invasiveness.

He’d been like this since that summer five years ago, but I thought once I’d graduated college, he’d refocus more on himself.

“Easton?” my brother pressed.

My eyelids fluttered in annoyance, and I scrolled through messages, forgetting my brother as soon as I saw one from Tyler Marek.

I swallowed the thickness in my throat, my eyes moving over his name and trying to ignore the strange hunger that filled my stomach at the enticing thought of an interaction with him.

“Easton?” Jack pushed again, his voice sounding annoyed.

“Jack, just put a cork in it,” I barked, clicking on the e-mail and reading Marek’s message.



Dear Ms. Bradbury,

I was under the impression that we’d handled this.

While I understand you are a trained professional, there are certain things I will allow and certain things I will not. My expectations for my son’s education follow the state standards, and I suggest you find a way to do your job – like all the other teachers in that school – that does not increase the burden on families more than the tuition we already pay. In the future, I expect the following: 1. My son is NOT permitted on social media for homework. I encourage an atmosphere free of distractions, so I demand work where this is not required. No argument.

2. I will be notified BEFORE anything less than an A for an assignment is entered into his final grades.

3. The rubrics for the presentation grades don’t make sense. The presentations happen in school and are not something I can see, assess, or help him with. Performance assignments should not be graded.

4. Observing more experienced professionals in your field may yield a better understanding of student learning. If you’d like, I’d be happy to suggest to Principal Shaw that you shadow more adept teachers.

I trust that we will not have any other problems and you’ll prepare accordingly. My son will NOT be bringing his phone to class in the future. If you have any concerns, please contact my office anytime for an appointment.

Sincerely,

Tyler Marek





Silvery shots of pain ran through my jaw, and I realized I was clenching my teeth and not breathing.

I closed my eyes, drawing in a long, hot breath.

Son of a bitch.

I dropped my head back. “Ugh!” I growled, slamming my fists down on my thighs.

“Whoa,” I heard Jack say to my left. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, seething. “A burden on families,” I bit out, barely unlocking my teeth. “This * is a millionaire, and social networking is free! What the hell is he talking about?” I shouted at my brother. “Son of a…!”

“What the hell happened, Easton?” he demanded again, this time louder as he swerved and then righted the steering wheel. A streetcar passed us on the left, its bell dinging.

I ignored him and looked down, scrolling through my phone. I’d programmed in parents’ home and work numbers the first week, so I clicked on Marek’s and found his cell phone number.

It was a Saturday, so I was guessing he wasn’t at work. I refused to e-mail back. I wanted this dealt with now.

“Easton, what are you doing?” I could see my brother working the wheel nervously and glancing at me.