Chapter 3 Ilsa
Ilsa
“Bitch.” The kid in the last row didn’t even bother saying it quietly. He didn’t bother waiting until my back was turned to the chalkboard either.
The brat said it right to my face after I’d told him he was going to have to stop talking in my class if he wanted to pass and graduate.
He was bold, I’d give him that. Part of me wanted to let it go. Pretend I hadn’t heard the insult. But I knew that if I let him walk all over me, not a senior in this class would show me an ounce of respect for the rest of the year.
“What’s your name again?” I asked.
“Paul Johnson.” He chomped on a piece of gum, his jaw flexing as he chewed.
The cluster of boys who sat around him shared his arrogant smirk.
He was tall, his knees knocking on the underside of his desk.
The collar of his polo was popped, the sleeves tight around his biceps.
I might only have spent a week at Dalton High School, but if I had to guess, I’d say he was the quintessential cocky senior.
Probably captain of some sports team. The guy crushed on by most girls. The guy revered by other boys.
A kid who was undoubtedly going to be a pain in my ass.
“Paul Johnson,” I drawled his name from where I stood at the front of the classroom, “go away.”
His nostrils flared as he kept chewing that gum. “Go where?”
I flicked a wrist toward the open door. “Anywhere but here. Bye.”
He hesitated for a moment, chomping that gum so loudly it was the only sound in the room. The other kids swung their attention back and forth between us.
Paul glared. “You’ll be sorry for this.”
I arched an eyebrow. Threats only pissed me off.
He called me a bitch again before he walked out the door.
First period this semester was going to be rough.
I reached for the coffee mug on my desk, lifting it to my lips, only to remember it was empty. “Ugh,” I groaned.
I’d gulped the last cold swig during eighth period when one of my junior students, a boy with blond hair and a short buzz cut—Harry? Henry? I was struggling to put names with faces—had asked if I would be his prom date.
I’d told him if he aced my class, I’d be his date.
Given a quick review of the assignment he’d set on my desk after the dismissal bell rang, I didn’t need to worry about finding a dress.
A yawn tugged at my mouth.
There was probably a fresh pot of coffee, hot and strong and deliciously bitter, in the teachers’ lounge.
But I’d rather suffer a caffeine headache than venture to that miniscule lounge again.
Not only was the tiny room cloaked in a thick fog of cigarette smoke, but I couldn’t stand the thought of another forced smile or awkward wave with a colleague clearly not interested in getting to know the temporary math teacher.
The last time I’d ventured into the lounge today, the table had been crowded with a handful of men, all sharing an ashtray.
As I’d filled my coffee mug, I’d listened to them talk about the Cold War and the farm crisis while speculating what Ronald Reagan would discuss in his upcoming State of the Union address.
Personally, I hoped President Reagan would cover social security reform, an opinion I would have shared had a single person made eye contact with me when I’d walked into the lounge.
The faculty at Dalton High School was as chilly as the draft blowing through my classroom window.
Setting the empty coffee mug aside, I grabbed the jar of water on my desk, taking a sip. The sour taste of pickle brine spread across my tongue, and I grimaced. Not that I had anything against pickles, but I preferred my water flavorless.
This jar was one of many that Dad had kept in his kitchen cupboard.
In all my life, I couldn’t remember ever seeing him drink out of an actual water glass.
If he owned any, I hadn’t found them at the cabin.
But he’d had jars and lids aplenty. After he emptied one of pickles or jam, he’d turn them into his cups and glasses.
I’d tossed out those tinged red from spaghetti sauce, but I should have trashed anything with a pickle label too.
I yawned for the hundredth time today, checking the clock. Another hour to finish up some work, then I’d be calling it quits. Sixty minutes, then I could go home, swap this caramel corduroy dress for a pair of cozy sweatpants, curl up in bed and sleep for at least ten hours. If I could sleep.
After Sheriff Raynes had left last night, I’d been so freaked that I’d locked myself in my bedroom with a kitchen knife on my nightstand. Every time I drifted off to sleep, I’d imagine that masked face in my window and pop awake.
Someone had been in my window, right? The deputy hadn’t explicitly stated that he didn’t believe me, but when he’d wandered around the house and found nothing, the skepticism had been written all over his face.
Maybe my eyes had been playing tricks on me. It had happened so fast. He’d been in the window, and then nothing. I’d blinked and he was gone.
Or no one had been there in the first place.
God, I was tired. Eight days in Montana had zapped me dry, and the exhaustion went bone-deep.
Maybe I had imagined a person in my window.
Another yawn stretched my lips.
When I’d finally given up on sleep at three this morning, I’d gone through more boxes in the living room. A few had been packed with Dad’s clothes. Another had been tools—when I’d gone to lift it off a stack, the cardboard bottom had fallen out, and I’d nearly lost a toe to a crescent wrench.
Tonight, I’d sleep with that wrench instead of the knife.
The tick of the wall clock seemed to get slower and slower and slower.
I slumped in my chair, the wheels rolling away from the desk.
This was officially the longest Monday of my life, and I was blaming my shitty mood on Paul.
My rage had fueled me through lunch, but now I was simply dreading seeing him again in the morning, the little shit.
His bad attitude had infected the other seniors, some of the juniors too. Somehow, I had to turn this around. I couldn’t be loathed by my students. They were the entire reason I loved my job. Seeing joy on a young face when a child solved a problem fed my soul.
Except Paul had called me a bitch. He hated me. It hurt more than I wanted to admit.
School had ended twenty minutes ago, and the kids were gone, the halls quiet.
In Arizona, this was the time of the day I’d spend tidying up my classroom and grading papers. Preparing for tomorrow. Chatting with teacher friends.
In Montana, I didn’t have any teacher friends, not yet. And the very last thing I wanted to do was go through the stack of homework sheets on my desk.
The idea of seeing all the wrong answers made my skull throb.
A throat cleared from the doorway. “Miss Poe.”
I swiveled my chair forward, my spine straightening as my boss walked into the room. “Hi, Principal Harlan. How are you?”
Stupid question. The frown on his face was indication enough.
“Fine.” Harlan took a seat on the corner of my desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He was dressed in brown polyester pants and a starched beige button-down with a narrow taupe tie. His thinning dark hair was slicked back.
He was five foot two, if I was being generous, and whenever we met, Harlan made sure to put himself in a position where he could look down his hawkish nose at me.
During my interview—Monday morning last week, exactly seven days ago and coincidently the same day I’d started teaching—he’d paced his office while I’d sat in a chair feeling like I was being interrogated.
Thankfully, it had been the shortest interview of my life. Ten whole minutes, and I’d gotten a job.
The day after I’d arrived in Dalton, I’d come into the school, hoping they’d need an occasional substitute teacher. I had some money stashed away, but I didn’t want to deplete my savings in case I needed the cash for my next big move. So I’d figured substitute teaching could pay for groceries.
Harlan’s secretary had brought me into his office, and after a few questions and a quick scan of my résumé, he’d offered me a job as the high school math teacher.
Temporary math teacher.
Full-time. Starting immediately.
Since they hadn’t been able to find a teacher to cover classes during Mrs. Riley’s extended maternity leave, Harlan was the person who would have had to teach math. And apparently, I was the better alternative.
Beggars can’t be choosers. His exact words.
Principal Harlan was a real peach.
“I just received a call from Dean Johnson,” he said.
“Ah.” Now this visit and his frown made sense.
Dean was Paul’s father. He’d called earlier today to chew my ass for kicking Paul out of class. Dean hadn’t called me a bitch. No, he’d used bigger words. Incompetent. Unprofessional. Ignorant.
That phone call over my lunch hour had been the low point in my day. Though I had a feeling this discussion might take me to rock bottom.
“He’s rather upset at the grade you gave Paul on a recent test,” Harlan said.
Ah, so Dean hadn’t tattled about me booting Paul from first period. He’d called about the failed test.
“Well, he got the questions wrong.” Which was exactly what I’d told the two other parents who’d called me today to complain about their kids’ grades.
Math was a beautiful thing.
There was a single correct answer. No subjectivity. No gray areas. Algebra seemed to be the only constant, dependable part of my life these days, and if Harlan wanted to take that away from me, he’d have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.
“How is it that Paul had one hundred percent before winter break, but then he comes back to a new teacher and he’s failed the first test in his senior year?” Harlan tapped his chin. “Explain that to me, Miss Poe.”
I really, really hated the way he said my name. Mizzz Poe with the p stressed so hard, I was afraid a glob of spittle would come flying out of his mouth and land on my face.