She bites her lip and then reluctantly corrects me, “My dad wasn’t there when she died. My mom was out riding her chopper, and some guys from the Coyotes came and shot her tire. They say they did it because they knew she was my dad’s old lady, and that killing her would get to him for him stealing a route.” She pauses, and then adds, “He was really upset when she died. Ace told me that he didn’t ride for three full months. I don’t remember much of it, but he doesn’t talk about her either.”
I’m choked up. This girl, this poor girl, needs a mother and a father. And all she’s getting is the memory of a mom she never knew and a man who is absent. She’s living in what sounds like a whorehouse with more motorcycles. And she doesn’t know how to grieve or process any of it. How can anyone do this to their daughter?
That kind of man walks in the door seconds later, not giving me any time to respond to Maddie. He knocks on the wood of the door, sending the sound echoing through the empty spaces of the classroom. He sees Maddie sitting alone, a gloomy and depressed look on her face and he instantly starts on her.
“What are you doing here, Maddie? Get going! The girls are waiting for you!” He growls at her as if she’s done something horribly wrong. And as she runs past him and out into the hallway, he watches her go, following her every move.
While his back is turned, I walk back to my desk and sit behind it like a barrier. It’s really the only thing I've got in this room besides my kid-proof stapler and scissors.
He returns his attention to me, his eyes studying me up and down. Suddenly, I feel silly for wearing something so conservative. I can tell he hates my red pencil skirt and the black sweater with the rhinestones along the high neckline. I shouldn’t care, but I do. Maybe I can use those scissors to quickly cut a lower v-neck…
Cal interrupts my thoughts, “Miss Springer.”
“Michelle.” My voice interjects without my brain catching up to it.
“Michelle – I believe we have a meeting.”
Oh no! I completely forgot I'd scheduled this with him. I stand, rustling through my folders for Maddie’s charts and notes. In my frantic motion, I push over the file holder, sending hundreds of papers crashing to the ground.
Cal doesn’t move, doesn’t even budge from where he's standing. Instead, he hovers over me, watching me with a look similar to a lion about to devour a tiny creature for breakfast as I lean down to pick up my papers one by one. He even dares to tilt his head towards my ass as I face his direction.
He reaches his boot out and steps on a paper, keeping it from blowing away. Leaning down slowly, our eyes catch. I can’t stand to hold his attention for too long, and I look away, focused on making sure my papers are okay. His voice softens with a hint of humor as he says, “So, let me guess. You forgot you basically forced me into this meeting.”
I blow a puff of air, sending my bangs flying from my face as I say, “I didn’t forget! I just wasn’t that, uh, prepared. It’s been a long day.”
“Has it now?” He’s basically gloating. Here’s this perfect, stuck-up teacher he’s managed to best.
“Yeah, Cal. It has.”
He quickly corrects me, “Mr. Ross.”
I mutter under my breath, “Whatever.” I’m so not interested in playing this game with him.
He stands, the smile draining from his face as he looks at me annoyed and angry. I quickly muster an apology as I follow him. It was totally inappropriate of me.
“You’re braver than you look. You’ve got some real balls on you. No guy in the club would ever say ‘whatever’ to me.” He takes a few steps towards me, so close that I can make out the faded letters on his black t-shirt and the small stubble on his face. I can smell his cologne – a mix of musk and oil.
But I’m not backing down. Not like Big Wanda and Pussygirl… or whatever Maddie said their names were. I take two steps closer to him. This time, I’m mere inches away from him as I look up towards his face and reply, “No, I don’t have balls. I have an absence of balls. But I’m a teacher, and I don’t take shit.” It’s bold. So bold. I don’t know where it’s coming from. Something about him has made me go weak and strong all at the same time. I want to be like him, and I want to be nothing like him. My head is spinning at the back and forth.
He, again, checks me out, taking me in. I watch him lick his pink, pale lips as he notes, “You may be the teacher, but I already know what you’ve got down there. Too bad it’s covered up by this.” His hand wraps around my backside and lifts the hem of my skirt. His fingers trace around to the front, sliding up against the top of my thigh. As he rounds around to the front, I feel his fingers brush up against my panties.
It’s totally inappropriate. I know this. But I don’t stop him. I don’t step away. In fact, I move in closer, giving him a better feel of the cotton white bikini style panties I’m wearing today. They’re not exactly sexy, but who could've planned this?