“Mr. Ryan phoned the office as soon as you left the classroom.  Would you like to tell me what’s going on?” he asks.  Mr. Stephenson’s demeanor is stern, but his eyes hold a familiar softness.  The same softness he displayed when he told me about my mother’s overdose last year.  The whole ordeal that followed has endeared him to me.

“Nothing is going on.  I think it was rude of Mr. Ryan to keep the class waiting ten minutes before showing up.”  I can’t quite keep the sneer out of my voice when his name rolls from my lips.  It would seem during our little tête-à-tête last week, I wasn’t the only one withholding information.  Ryan my ass.  He seemed to have forgotten the title ‘Mr.’

“Yes, well, I have spoken to Mr. Ryan about his tardiness, and I can assure you that a personal emergency had taken place.  However, you are not in a position to disrespect and lecture your teachers about their wrongdoings.  If you have a problem with one of your teachers, you need to bring it to my attention.  I will be sure it is handled appropriately.”

“Yes, Sir.”  Scooting towards the front of my chair, I eye the clock on the wall.  Now I’ll only be out ten minutes early if he hurries this little meeting up so I can go.

“Miss Krause?”

“Hmm?” I look back to meet his gaze.

“Is something going on in your personal life, something that may have caused you to speak out so rudely?  It seems out of character for you, even considering you have a more difficult home life than most students.  You know you can talk to me, yes?”

I sigh, grateful for his caring nature yet peeved he thinks I’m having issues.  “No, Mr. Stephenson.  Nothing is going on.  I will apologize to Mr. Ryan.  May I leave please?  I need to get ready for work.”  I stand from my seat and shoulder my backpack.

He raises a finger in the air, halting my retreat.  “Wait one minute.  I don’t believe an apology is sufficient enough in this circumstance.  I have reassigned your second period study hall—ˮ

“What?  That’s not fair, you can’t punish me with more classes!” I cry.

“Calm down, Tatum.  You aren’t going to be taking another academic course.  However, I have assigned you to be a Teacher’s Assistant for Mr. Ryan second period.  You can report to him tomorrow during that time, and I expect you’ll offer an apology first thing.  This will give you an opportunity to get to know and respect your teacher.”

“Please, I need my study hall for homework.  Can’t I just write an apology letter?  Do some extra calculus work or something?”

“I’m sorry, but this will be beneficial to you.  I am well aware of what you do in study hall, and you most definitely do not study.  If,” he continues even though I’m shaking in anger, “Mr. Ryan has found your behavior acceptable, and you are acting most respectfully and helpfully, I will allow you to return to your study hall classroom after two weeks.”

“Two weeks?  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Two weeks, Miss Krause.  If there is any more word of your unruly behavior, we will meet again to discuss more extreme measures.  I will not have you publicly embarrassing the teachers at this school.”

“May I go?”  My hands are visibly shaking at my sides.  I need to get out of here.

“Yes.  We will see you tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Mr. Ryan

I slam my keys down on my entryway table, kicking the door closed behind me with a little more force than necessary.  It slams loudly, knocking the cheaply framed black and white picture of Venice’s canals off the wall.  Fuck!  Ignoring the picture, I stomp my way into the two bedroom townhouse with a single track mind.  Refrigerator.  I need a goddamn beer.  Selecting an import dark brew, I pop off the cap, discarding it somewhere on the countertop.  I take a long, slow glug, loosening the restrictive tie around my neck, sighing.

What the fuck happened today?

I run my free hand through the long, disastrously messy hair upon my head.  I must have done that 1000 times during the phone call before my last class started.  It’s a nervous gesture, a frustrated habit.  Today couldn’t have gone more wrong.

Hauling my ass to the couch, remote in one hand, beer in the other, I turn the television on ESPN but put it on mute.  As much as I don’t want to, I need to unwind from today.  I need to revisit that phone call, and purge the pain from my system.  A year or so ago, I would have turned to drinking.  This one beer would turn to two, three, six, followed up by a few shots of vodka or whiskey.  I would have passed out and felt better in the morning.  Well, besides the killer hangover.  But I had started running out of money and returning to work was my best option if I wanted to survive.  Most days, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

That phone call.

Drudging up memories from two years ago and making me relive them in the teachers’ lounge of my new job was not really what I had anticipated out of today.  I was already running late and stopped to use the bathroom before my final period.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, putting myself back in the moment…

I was mid-piss when the phone rang from my pocket.  Nobody ever calls me.  I left anyone I used to care about behind two years ago when I left the east coast, headed for something different, something… safer.  The number on the screen was unfamiliar, but I recognized the area code.  It was from home; rather, my old home.  What used to be home.  I stood dumbfounded, with my dick hanging out above the urinal, while I just stared at the stupid electronic in my palm.  The screen went blank when I missed the call, but almost immediately began ringing again.  The fact someone was trying that hard to get to me had me punching the green button before I could really contemplate it further.

“Hello?” I breathed cautiously.

“Hello, I’m looking for Mr. Jacoby Ryan?” The voice was deep and vaguely familiar.  No, it couldn’t be.  There’s no way he’d be calling me out of the blue. 

“This is.  Who’s calling?

Silence greeted me.  If it weren’t for the heavy breathing in my ear, I’d think he’d hung up. 

“What do you want?” I snapped, unable to control my anger.  I want nothing to do with these people.  I’ve put that part of my life behind me.  “I’m sorry, but I have to go, I’m running late.”

“Wait a minute, please.  Brother…Jacoby,” he cleared his throat and my chest burned with the confirmation of the caller.  “I’ve been trying to reach you for some time.”

I stalled, hand on the phone, phone to my ear.  After two years, they are trying to contact me—for what?  “Why are you calling me?  This is a really bad time.”

“It’s about Carol.  She’s, well, she isn’t doing so good.” 

I ran my hand through my hair.  Over and over again, as if the gesture could make the buzzing inside my head cease.  “I don’t care.  You know.  Of all people, you know.”

He sighed.  “I know.  Fuck, I’m sorry but she has some things she wants to tell you.  Look, it’s not my place, but she’s dying.” His voice cracked on the last word.  “The doctor said there isn’t much time left and she wants to clear the air before…”

“How much time?”

Mid-swipe my hand grabbed a fistful of my hair, almost of its own accord.  I felt myself trying to anchor to anything.  I could barely choke the words out past the lump in my throat.  Try as I might to remain unaffected, I couldn’t.  Why was this happening to me?  Haven’t I suffered enough?  Faintly, I heard a bell ring from somewhere in the distance.

The line was silent for a few moments.  “They don’t think she’ll make it to Christmas.” 

I spun away from the urinal, toward the single trash can in the room, leaned over and heaved, retching into the mass of discarded paper towels.  Once, twice, a third time before my body was wracked by only dry sobs.  “God damnit, Brent.  Tell me this is a joke.”