Professor Head Ch. 04 - Heather Pt. 01

How the Extra-Curricular Activities Began -- Heather Part 1

When I began teaching at this school, I had just moved to a new state, my wife and kid had died within the previous year (that affair was far worse than tragic), and my anger, paranoia, and depression had run me straight toward nihilism. If I could tolerate liquor, I'd have simply chosen to be drunk all the time. I was a mess, but I plastered a smile on my face and went through the motions to continue life.

Happily, I found the creative outlet I needed, and between classes I penned my own thoughts. I used paper, too. Actually writing the words helped far more than typing. It took several years before I settled back into using a computer.

Most of the students in that first class worked diligently. I began with a shell of a syllabus outlining a few requirements, but I figured these students were adults and I figured they would act marginally as if they were.

I know, I know...I expected youthful idiots with raging hormones to engage with their responsibilities when fucking adults consistently refuse to do so. Even in the depths of nihilism, I fell into the classic trap of having expectations for people.

I learned a great deal that semester, too, and my syllabus grew wildly. The basic class structure didn't change much, though. The mid-term and final exams were each twenty percent of the grade, and the final project weighed heavily at fifty percent that first semester, as well. Class discussion went from ten percent of the grade to twenty-five percent in later semesters -- each exam and the project dropped five percent in value each... and this was because of Heather. This twenty-two year old grown-ass child never came to class, and she expected credit for participating when she, well, didn't.

After the first class, which she deigned not to grace with her presence, I received an email explaining that her obligations with the volleyball team necessitated her absence...from every single class I taught, and she asked for instructions on how to make up the work.

Most sports enthusiasts don't take my classes. I probably had more cheerleaders in Creative Writing than any other athlete, and I even understood that occasional absences, even regular ones, would come up. But every single class?

I checked the volleyball schedule as I had zero knowledge or interest in it. Collegiate volleyball ends in December. My first semester teaching was the spring semester. I found this...vexing.

I contacted my supervisor as well as every single one of her other teachers, and she had used the same bullshit on each of them. All the teachers suggested I let it slide because the school's volleyball coach could get...challenging, and they all used the same phrase. "Rich, seriously. It's not worth it."

My supervisor, however, called me.

"Blythe," he preferred that over Richard. Eh, Mom named me after her father. I liked it. "Honestly, you've had enough shit over the last couple years." He knew my recent history, and talked the department into hiring me, anyway. I appreciated the man. "If you challenge this, you'll technically win, and the entire School of Humanities will cheer you on silently." I smiled. That sounded like fun. "But it could get ugly."

"Oh?" My smile widened. Ugly, I had become accustomed to.

"Yeah. David Marks is a dick who thinks his team is more important than academics. And we're not talking about football where the school makes millions off it." Yeah, we force the football players to do their fucking work, too. "Rumor has it he stalked Chambers in the Spanish department. And I know he ran off Wilkins two years ago. No one could prove anything, though."

"So if I buck this, I'm signing up for a challenge from Marks."

"He's going to see it as you challenging him, and he's gonna try spiking you."

I snorted. "Okay. Well, I'll tread lightly."

"...I appreciate that."

"...but I ain't givin' away a free grade, either."

"...I appreciate that even more." He paused. "I didn't ask you here to engage this asshole, but I think you're just the man to end these particular shenanigans, so, if you want to take it on, then you have my support."

"Alright. I'm gonna suggest she drop the class, and we'll go from there."

He chuckled, knowing full well how fruitless that suggestion would be, and we ended the call. A few moments later I received an email from him with a link to a web page that outlines requirements for athletes. His only comment lightly suggested I adhere to school and department policies.

I smiled as I composed my reply to Heather.

"Volleyball season ended in December, so, according to school policy, you are not due any special privileges regarding attendance, assignments, or grading because of Volleyball commitments. If the volleyball team still requires so much of your time that you cannot attend my class, then I strongly urge you to drop my class immediately. If you would like to participate in my class and improve your writing, then I would love for you to stay in my class. Please do not waste your time or mine. Consider your schedule carefully, and let me know your decision by either dropping the class or showing up and participating in them for the rest of the semester. Prof RBH."

Within an hour, I received sixteen threatening phone calls. Heather called me. Heather's mother called me. The coach called me. The Athletic Director called me. I even received a call from the Chancellor's office. Each caller tried to explain to me that I was acting outside of the school's guidelines, but I politely refuted them with chapter and verse. I told them all that Heather should solve the problem by dropping my class. None of them thought this a suitable resolution, and as Blake predicted, David Marks took my adherence to policy, and not his creative interpretation of policy, as a direct challenge.

I began revising my syllabus at that hour. Like I said before: I learned a great deal that semester.

As I locked up my door to leave campus, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to stare into the chest of a remarkably large man whose left nipple pointed distinctly through his athletics department polo. He had to be at least six foot eight inches tall, he was muscular, but lanky. He thought he was bigger than he actually was. He angrily snarled, "Are you Professor Head?"

I smiled, "I am. And you are?"

"I'm David Marks, and you..." he punched two fingers into my chest, not enough to harm me, but definitely enough to shove me into the door, and as you probably know by now, I'm a fat man of the sit-in champion variety. So he shoved me pretty hard. "Will not..." he poked into my chest again, also pushing me into my door, "fuck with my student." For good measure he launched his two fingers into my chest one last time. I could feel the bruises rise. I mean, I'm a doughy old bastard.

What many people don't seem to think about is how much muscle it takes to haul around the weight of an extra person on your frame all the damn time. Also, I had an overwhelming lingering rage built up for the better part of a year that still needed an outlet. I considered ending the encounter after he poked me the first time, but it seemed like he was just getting started. So as he poked me that final time, right in the middle of my chest, I grabbed his fingers, squeezed them together, and backwards, and rotated my fat ass ninety degrees to the right.

I crushed every bone in the fingers I wrapped my hand around, and when I twisted his hand and arm, those crushed bones moved around. When I rotated, he had to move with me. I pushed him face first into the wall, and I held him there as I pulled out my phone.

I called the campus police. I explained who assaulted me, I explained that I defended myself, and I explained that I would keep him subdued until they arrived. I also requested an ambulance because I obviously needed extensive medical care for the pokey boo-boos on my chest.

Dispatch gave patrol everything in the CAD. Names, who assaulted whom, and both the humanities department and the athletic department knew about the altercation before the police even arrived -- I called them. As a bonus, reporters from the local paper and TV stations, not to mention the student paper, all showed up shortly after the police arrived. Yup, I did that, too, though the local TV station already had the news from the dispatch call. Ah police radio scanners....happily still not illegal.

There was no keeping it quiet. And, yes, I decided to be a raging Dick about this. SWIDT?

By the time the campus police arrived, Marks had reduced himself to blubbering sobs of pain as he slumped against the wall under my harshly-applied wrist lock. To be completely fair, I fucked up his hand with a viciousness he hadn't run across before, and I'm sure it hurt like Hell. I felt zero compassion for the shit nugget, though. I figured he deserved what he got.

When the officers arrived and ordered me to release him, I did, and Marks immediately got to his feet and sucker punched me in the jaw. I soccer-flopped and went down like an extra-large sack a'taters, and the cops tazed him three times before he finally became somewhat compliant. Most of the people I tell this story to don't believe it, but I let him hit me. The cops seeing him battering me like that sure made the entire scene look like I was the victim. I mean, I guess I actually was, too.

I learned later that Heather observed it all from around a corner.

Marks and I were both treated to a hospital visit, but he went in cuffs, and I went home after some concussion checks. He hit me pretty hard, after all. More boo-boos. Alas.

I figured that would be the end of the challenges. I figured incorrectly. For reasons I cannot fathom, Heather refused to drop my class. To this day I have no idea what good she thought staying in my class would do her, but she did.

She plagued my life that semester. Every other day she sent me another email asking for make-up work and excused absences. I tracked every single one, each denial of her asinine requests, each reminder of upcoming assignments, as well as the mid-term -- which she skipped -- and by the last week of the semester, she had positioned herself to epically failed the class.

Meanwhile, the athletic department somehow refused to fire Marks. In addition to the aggravated assault and battery charges he faced, I filed for an order of protection, and I had him violated on it every chance he gave me, and he gave me many chances. His legal fees that semester cost more than my yearly salary.

He actually attacked me again just before the end of the semester, and I destroyed his other hand that time. By then the campus police were sick of hearing from me, and, each time they arrested him, they were less gentle. Still, somehow winning volleyball games trumped felony charges.

This...did not amuse me. At all.

*****

On the final Monday of the semester, I sat in my office reading through final projects. I had a few days before final grades were due the following Monday, but I felt a slog coming. Most of my students' writing had improved dramatically, and that's how I measured my own success or failure, but only a couple students in that class produced works that were a joy to read. Most of it...eh...brutal.

A brisk knock rapped at my door.

"Come in." I spoke kindly; at least I tried to.

Heather's mother stormed into my office wearing a Hillary Clinton Professional Skirt Suit, Satan's favorite perfume, and a scowl matching both of her inspirations.

"Oh good." I took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. "What're you trying this time?"

I'd grown weary of her attempts at bullying me, bribing me, coercing me, and even begging me to give her daughter a decent grade. She didn't seem to understand why nothing she tried worked on me, but I'm a paranoid Dick, and I had security cameras in and around my office even before Marks attacked me. I had them constantly on standby, and they recorded any time they detected movement. My supervisor, Professor Blake, and I had thus far watched every single attempt she made with hilarious glee. At least she provided some sardonic entertainment.

"Trying? I don't know what you mean."

"You've made threats you couldn't back up, you offered money I expect you actually do have, you tried begging, and you even hired some muscle to convince me." This had not gone well for the muscle. He currently faced charges that would lead to a decade or more behind bars.

Her face went pale.

"That fuck, by the way, is damned lucky I didn't kill him."

"He's...he...he's my brother-..."

"I know, and if I could prove that you asked him to run me off the road, your ass would be sitting in jail right along with him."

We glared at each other for several seconds, and her countenance shifted entirely. "Maybe we could start over? I'd like to understand your position, and maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement." Oh swell; now she wants to be buddies....a God-damn psychopath. That's all I need.

"So you can't beg, bribe, or coerce me, but now you want to be friends? How colossally stupid do you think I am?" Her face, briefly open and friendly, slammed closed, and she descended into calculating anger. "Fuck you, and fuck your over-developed sense of entitlement. You're not even a part of this. Heather's old enough to drink; she's damn sure old enough to take her lumps when she fucks up in a college class. Why do you think you should even have input in this discussion, much less that you should get to dictate any-damn-thing?"

"Her father and I pay for her tuition. That's why I get a say."

"Yeah, I looked into that after your last visit. Heather's apparently a damn good volleyball player. She has a full scholarship including room and board. Whatever you pay for, that's between you and her, and it has nothing to do with her scholastic or athletic achievements....nor her poor choices."

Heather's mom took a deep breath, let it out, and plaintively said, "you are ruining her promising future! Can't you just be a little understanding here?"

"Understanding?"

"Yes! Compassionate? Caring? Concerned about the welfare of others?"

"I told her at the beginning of the semester that if she could not manage the meagre requirements of this class," I shoved a copy of the syllabus across the desk toward her, "then she should drop the class."

"You...did?" She looked utterly stunned. "Coach Marks told me you changed your class rules after the start of the semester in order to interfere with his program."

"Mrs. Johnson, I didn't even know Coach Marks or his program existed until Heather didn't show up for the first class," Heather's mom's surprise only grew as I continued, "...and then she sent me an email full of demands. Would you care to see it?"

She nodded, and it looked like Heather's mom had finally broken through her outrage to reach an ah-ha moment. I searched through my inbox, found the email thread, and turned my monitor around so she could view it. After several moments, her eyes closed as she dropped her head and caught her forehead in her hand.

"Oh God, and I-..."

"Stop." I spoke fiercely, and her eyes shot open. "Don't say something that will only compound your family's problems." She shut her eyes again and nodded.

"Look, I've lived an interesting enough life, and I don't want any part of any of this, Marks, his program, or whatever shit your family's going through. The only reason I'm involved in any of this is because your daughter," she looked up and groaned audibly, "signed up for my class and then decided to work super hard on NOT having to do any of the work. You and I can go our separate ways, and I won't be after you or anyone in your family at all."

"But my brother-..." I rudely interrupted because I'm not going there.

"As I said, he's lucky to be alive." She dropped her eyes again. "Get a good lawyer, work out a deal with the prosecutor, and, when they ask me my opinion, eh, we'll see what I tell'em."

"There must be something I can do to sway your opinion..." As I looked her dead in the eyes, she reached up and unbuttoned the top button on her blouse.

I raised an eyebrow. You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me...

"I read about what happened to your family." Oh good. My favorite topic of conversa-... "...it must be lonely, now. D'you build up a lot of tension?" She pulled open her blouse. "I'm sure I can help."

I slowly dropped my eyebrow and leaned back in my office chair. Heather's mom wasn't wrong; I stayed pretty lonely. I wasn't overly interested in her relieving my loneliness, but tension...eh...maybe.

I mostly wondered how far she'd go with this.

She appeared to be about my age, and she looked pretty damned good. Her figure remained remarkably trim with a nice round ass and hefty breasts. She had shortish blond hair, almost a bob cut, and when she smiled, her eyes danced with a hint of playfulness. I contemplated how to take that playfulness. Paranoia kept me deeply suspicious.

Before pulling her blouse off entirely, she glanced at the door, noticed it stood wide, and pulled her blouse back together while she went to close it. She even had the good sense to lock up before turning her head and giving me a smoldering stare from over her shoulder.

Right...

I offered no response. No interest. No denials. As she turned around, she unwrapped her blouse from her shoulders and displayed hilariously over-perky softballs held fast by her bra. She wore no sexy lingerie, mind you; this strip-tease was clearly a spur-of-the-moment decision. That bra would double well as the business portion of a water balloon slingshot.

I kept my eyes on hers. Yeah, she looked good, but I trusted her in no way whatsoever.

She stepped back to the chairs in front of my desk and draped her blouse over the one she hadn't sat in. As she unzipped and removed her skirt, she finally spoke, "I'm sorry about the...durable...underwear." I kept my mouth shut and my face closed off as she began to circle around my desk and approach me. "I didn't think I'd be doing this."

"What is it, exactly, that you didn't think you'd be doing?"

She stopped at the side of my desk in shocked surprise. The pantyhose covered her completely from the waist down, and seeing the top half a little closer, her breasts appeared to have been purchased and installed. Alas.

"I...thought I'd...see if I could...relieve...some of your tension." She smiled.

"So, you thought more bribery might work," her smile faded and her countenance fell. "Seems to me you'd have a hard job ahead of you." Her eyes flicked back up along with the corners of her mouth.

She took another tentative step toward me and bent slightly to slide a couple fingers around the top of my knee. "Is there a job you'd like me to put ahead of everything else?"

The seduction got to me. I despised her, and I wanted her. How irritating. So...

"Remove. Every. Stitch. Of clothing."

Her eyes shot open.

"Now."

She paused for only a fraction of a second before leaning against the edge of my desk and slowly and delicately removing her pantyhose. She glanced up as she rolled them around her ankles.

I kept my face as impassive as I could as I considered the multitude of possibilities running through my head. Without thinking about it, as she leaned down to pull her panties off, I grasped her left tit. The fun part of this was the displeased look on her face -- but the tit itself? The feel was all wrong, like human flesh wrapped around a water balloon filled with thick jelly. I had zero interest in these tits...except as a path to humiliating her. After the brief examination, I released her flesh and flicked her nipple to get another micro scowl.

I inhaled and exhaled in mild disappointment at both her tits and her continued duplicity. I meant to make her feel insecure. It obviously worked.