Chapter02

"Taylor, you plagiarized. You were caught. You lied about it, and were caught in that, too. If you persist in this behavior, I'm going to have to send you to the office. I believe next time you're up for a Saturday class. Now you can take your seat and let me get on with class, or... see you tomorrow for the Saturday class." It wasn't the most productive punishment, that Breakfast Club-esque tradition of stuffing a bunch of angry and unruly kids in a room for Super Detention, but it was five hours of easy money for me. I got to mostly sit back and grade, plan and otherwise do the work I would be doing anyway, and looked up every so often to nudge them awake or keep them off their devices. I doubted it had any corrective effect -- the students got enough tedium during the week already -- but the Principal Horen believed in it, and I wasn't so opposed I was unwilling to cash in.

There was a tense moment with a truly malevolent glare, and she drew it out long enough that I began to think she really might force my hand. Finally, as I snapped my laptop shut and made for the pad of referral slips on my desk, she growled in bestial aggravation and stalked to her seat, her matching dress-code-defying skirt twitching with each stride so violently that anyone looking learned the color of her underwear.

Red. It was red. So very red.

With that image as far toward the back of my mind as I could push it, I began class.

Taylor Stern. Three years into my teaching career, she was hands down my greatest challenge. There were other discipline problems, and many of them were easier to empathize with. Students with absentee parents, substance abuse in their households, a host of other problems. There were brighter students, too, if not an abundance. She didn't like to give evidence of it -- a special combination of too lazy, too disaffected, too self-righteous -- but she could be a straight A student if she wanted. Her other teachers had said as much to me, too.

But are there hotter students? my subconscious pressed. Maybe one or two. It wasn't something we were supposed to notice, but I had eyes. That was about all it took with her. And Taylor liked to press the envelope there, too, showing herself off like a trophy in a display case. Like a lot of my colleagues, I had issues with the existence of a dress code. What could be more sexist than punishing females for male failings? Many teachers, most really, ignored the policy, to our Mr. Horen's irritation. Yet Taylor made it a game, seeing how much of a distraction she could make herself. Today's display had been above average, but hardly novel. She'd friended me on facebook, as a lot of my students did. I had no idea why, given her transparent contempt, but I wasn't about to invite a debate about favoritism by blocking her. No matter how many of her bikini pics flooded my stream.

(Yes, I could hide her posts. I know. And I would, someday, if she crossed whatever line I hadn't yet identified.)

My classroom had no seating code, and if a student wanted to sit on the windowsill, on the floor, hell, even at my desk, I didn't care. But Taylor? Not two months ago I'd had to almost physically push her off the stool in the front of the room because her skirt was so short it was flashing the whole class.But why?! she'd whined a hundred times as I insisted, defying me to say I'd noticed, to admit in front of God and everyone that I'd seen my student's panties. Which I couldn't, of course. At that point, the war would be over, my waving flag as white as the panties she'd worn that day. None of these insecure kids were going to take my side and admit they'd been looking too, had had no choice but to look considering how flagrant she'd been about it. That meant her feigned outrage would paint me as a lecherous pervert rather than conveying the truth, that she was a shameless flirt. Or maybe an exhibitionist. Truth be told, I had no idea what she got out of it all, what psychological issues fed into her behavior. I doubted I ever would.

In any event, I did my best with her, engaged her in the lesson when I could and minimized her detriment to the class when I couldn't. She was a chore to deal with and a tragic waste of potential, but if she kept doing the minimum to scrape by, I wasn't going to ruin her future by getting her suspended over and over until she got expelled simply because she enjoyed causing a scene and flaunting a set of objectively breathtaking teen tits. So even if she got on my nerves to no end, I put up with it. She got her daily warning, and we both moved on. Soon she'd graduate, or not, and I could go back to dreading the presence of her younger sister in my senior English class next year.

(My department head swore that Abbie was twice the handful Taylor was. From what I'd seen in the halls, I could attest that this was absolutely true, at least in a literal sense.)

Today, however, Taylor decided that the warning wasn't enough. With twenty minutes to go in sixth period, a little pink plastic egg flew through the air and bounced off of Jesse's left temple. As if I couldn't have immediately guessed who would be inconsiderate enough to throw a container of lip balm across the room -- inaccurately, no less -- Kate hustled over and scooped it up from where it rolled to. "Thanks, Tay!"

"No prob, bae," answered Taylor. When she saw my expression, she looked up, annoyed. "What's your problem?"

I ignored her. "Jesse, are you OK?"

"Yeah. Stings." He caught Taylor's reproving glare. "It's fine, though," he amended.

"Kate, hand it over." I walked over and held out my hand. Kate looked to Taylor, but her loyalty to her benefactor was quickly outmatched by her fear of her instructor.I'm sorry! she mouthed as she handed me the ovoid chapstick.

"Taylor, to the office. Now." Anyone else might have gotten a lecture on why throwing things around in a room full of distracted people was dangerous, why copping an attitude about it was the wrong way to respond, but Taylor had heard it all before.

Her referral was waiting for her by the time she packed up her things and made her way to the classroom door. She stopped, however, to hold out her hand expectantly. "Give it back."

"No. We'll discuss it later. Now go."