Teaching Her a Lesson Pt. 01

"Panic, probably?" Louisa shrugged. "It's different for you guys. You're not supposed to have to deal with that stuff. I don't even know what I'm going to do with her for this. Under a month to graduation, and she probably got herself expelled for assaulting a faculty member over some fucking chapstick."

"We could always go old school and put her in the stocks," I joked. But it was a half-hearted thing. I may not like Taylor, but I knew well enough what kind of future she had in store for her in a town like this with no diploma. Bye bye income. Bye bye opportunities. Maybe she could put that body to use at Jumping Jack's, the strip club over on East Jefferson. I drove past it twice a day.

"You know, just the other day I was reading one of the magazines they send us. You know, all this ridiculous army surplus stuff and toys for departments with money to burn. Don't even know why they send it to me. Anyway, read about this new riot suppressor they got, more humane than tear gas, sucks the fight right out of 'em. No joke, first thing I thought of was our girl there. Maybe we could order a few dozen gallons of the stuff and see if Taylor could actually make it to graduation."

We shared a chuckle. "With the way my second period's been lately, it just might be the way to go."

"I'll send you the article." Louisa stood, her grin shifting from mirth to commiseration, and she patted my shoulder. "You OK? Might not be a bad idea to see the nurse. Sometimes even a little mild action like that can put you through the ringer. Hell on your nerves."

"Thanks, but I think I'll be OK, Louisa."

"Don't mention it. All right, no more stalling, Barbour. Let's do this." The trained officer took a deep breath, bracing herself for another encounter, and then she was gone.

Sure enough, as I left the school a couple hours later, there was a scrap torn out of a magazine in my mailbox with a post-it from Louisa. "Discount on bulk?" it read, with a winky face next to it. Beneath was a picture of a spray bottle, white with red print.Serenex.

Say goodbye to unrest, read the bold letters at the start of the pitch beneath.

I was in early Monday. Early enough that I'd been sitting in the mailroom for close to an hour when Officer Barbour arrived. She was wearing her usual uniform, even had a spring in her step.

"Morning, Louisa."

"Good morning, Mr. Canon. How are we today?"

Did she not know my first name, or was she always that formal? We knew each other only professionally, so I honestly wasn't sure. "Doing all right, but the week is young. Say, about that whole mess Friday... have you already filed the paperwork on that?"

The spring promptly disappeared, her feet anchoring in place at the mere reference to Taylor Stern. "Not quite. By the time I could get her parents to come pick her up, it was going on five, so I figured I'd finish it up this morning. Why, she start something else over the weekend? I swear, if that girl starts cyberbullying another faculty member..."

"Huh? No, no, nothing like that. I was only wondering if, maybe, we could give her one last chance."

Louisa grimaced. "Gee, I don't know about that. Accosting a teacher like that... that's crossing a big line. I can fudge the little stuff, but that's a tall order."

"I know. But I was thinking maybe she and I can work something out. I feel like I owe it to myself to give it one last shot. Some good karma going into the summer months, you know?"

"I'm really not supposed to let things like that slide, you know..."

I squared with her. "Hey, I get it. Really, I do. And I'm not saying we let her off easy. Hell, let's put the onus on her. We give her a choice. She can work with me after school, every day, until the end of the school year. Get caught up on all the stuff she missed, cheated on, all that. I'll talk with her other teachers and get assignments from them, too. Let her actually do the work, earn real passing grades. Or if she says no, well..."

Louisa mulled it over. I liked that she was the sort of woman who wasn't thinking about the perks of avoiding the paperwork mess of expelling a student, or the pitfalls of an entitled brat and whatever pieces of work who'd raised her suing the school when Taylor decided to twist her version of our altercation. No, it was plain in her eyes that she was considering what was the right thing to do. For Taylor, and for whatever principles she held dear. Good woman. Ms. Salata was lucky to have her.

"All right. Talk to her, see what she says and let me know."

"Right. She's in my sixth period, so I'll be in touch right after that."

"As soon as you can, all right? I can't delay this any longer than that. If I take four days to turn in a report on an assault, even a minor one--"

"Understood. As soon as possible. You got it, Louisa."

After sixth period, the discussion with Taylor went about like I expected. She got her lip balm back, and, smirking and self-satisfied with her conquest, she magnanimously agreed to let me show her mercy. I'm not sure she believed we'd really expel her, and she probably thought she could make our detentions (as she insisted on calling them) so miserable that I'd call it quits after the first day or two. Ordinarily, she might have been right.

But I had been busy, and I was done with ordinary.

She didn't notice the taste. That was good. It was a bit of a gamble, administering it in that way, but subtle was better. And nothing in the whole world could have been more predictable than the way she smeared the Serenex-coated lip balm on right in front of me, as if her glossy lips were a manifesto of her refusal to be subdued by some petty school teacher. It was only a faint dose I'd coated the outer layer of the lip balm with, and so would take longer to set in. (I'd tested that myself several times the day before, and was still fighting off the headache my mild overdose had given me.) But it would work. By the time she showed up after school, it would be working. No more fight in her.

And then, we'd... rewrite her essay. Or something.

No, not "or something." I'd sit her down in front of one of the school's cheap laptops and make her write it. That was it. Nothing else. I ought to be ashamed --was ashamed -- that other thoughts even entered my mind. No matter how terribly she'd mistreated me, I wasn't about to take advantage of a teenage girl. I probably couldn't get away with it anyway, probably. No, I was only doing a good deed. The Serenex was merely an extreme measure to address the extreme situation which she had created.

I'd done my research. That had been during Saturday class, eyes flitting repeatedly to the half-asleep unfortunates as if worried they'd see what I was reading. For once, I let them sleep. I was envious, honestly, still exhausted myself after the most restless, dream-filled night of sleep of my life.

So very red.

Serenex was banned in most of Europe for doing exactly what it advertised being able to do. It introduced a neuroactive agent percutaneously that suppressed the chemical process behind the brain's "fight or flight" response. In essence, it kept someone from resisting. The manufacturer's website boasted a successful test in which they'd offered volunteers $500 to resist being detained, and in the end, hadn't wound up having to pay them a cent. The larger web was full of articles decrying its use by autocratic governments and wealthy persons of less than honorable intent; a proposal was already before the UN to declare its deployment a war crime, but it had so far not passed as the Chinese government was among Serenex's most prominent clients.

In my own trials, once I'd given the dose time to set in, I'd headed out to the back yard where I'd seen my next door neighbor Cassie was out doing yard work. She'd been in my class two years back when I'd still been teaching English 10, and we got along well. Recently, however, I'd been ducking her, as she was selling those absurd $30 coupon books as a fundraiser for the volleyball team and, as the saying goes, I gave at the office. Sunday, I'd agreed to it immediately, handing her the money without a second thought. It was surreal remembering our encounter now, how she'd suggested -- even with a joking tone -- that I buy a second one. Another $30 gone. When she laughed and said maybe a third would come in handy, I'd already fished the money out of my wallet and held it over the fence before she shook her head and awkwardly declined to take it. Even in hindsight later that night as I flipped through one of my two coupon books, there had been a lingering sense that a third one might have been useful. As someone who'd not used a coupon in his life, it was proof enough for me. After that, I secluded myself in my office and picked up a book, worried that advertisements on the TV and internet might deprive me of the rest of my life savings.

What I had left of them, that is. Getting my hands on it, and on such short notice, had been the real obstacle. Luckily for me, my old pot dealer from before the state went legal had a connection he referred me to, and for only a little bit more than those test subjects had passed over. The single canister I'd purchased, however, had cost me an order of magnitude beyond that. As I walked away from the exceedingly sketchy fellow who'd sold it to me, I'd felt mostly pretty glad the kindly black market chemical suppressant salesman hadn't simply murdered me and taken everything I had. After that, the $60 donation to Cassie and the volleyball team was just gravy.

All in all, making such a sacrifice for the betterment of one exceptionally wayward student... I'd felt very noble.

At least, when I wasn't letting my thoughts dwell on somewhat more ignoble thoughts. Fantasies, merely. Nothing I was actually going to do. No, I'd have her write her essay for me.

And maybe apologize. But that was it.

Absolutely it.

School let out at 2:55. By 3:30, I was pretty sure Taylor had decided to blow off my leniency. I was such an idiot. A fool who'd burned every cent he'd saved to help a student who refused to let herself be helped. After finishing up as much as I could stomach of all the work I'd delayed that weekend with this imbecile scheme, I typed up an email to Louisa letting her know Taylor had blown me off after all, to disregard my earlier message and go ahead and let the hammer drop. Taylor had been given every opportunity to make amends and instead--

"So, we doing this or what?" came a voice from the doorway.

I looked up, and there she was. She wasn't wearing her outfit from earlier in the day; now it was a thin white tank top and a pair of athletic shorts cut high on either side. They might almost have met the school's past-the-fingertip rule if not for an entirely too perky ass lifting them higher.

"It's almost four o'clock, Taylor. You were supposed to come here after school."

"Itis after school," she retorted, ignoring the fact that I was already holding my briefcase. She sat right down in her usual seat, the one as far from my desk as possible so that her inevitable tendency to chit-chat was less audible. It was easier than actually hounding her over it. "I had to get a workout in. This body don't maintain itself, yo. Wouldn't kill you to hit the gym yourself, Mr. Canon."

I disregarded the slight, whether or not she had a point. "I meant immediately after school and you knew it. It's too late now. I did my best to lead you to water, but it seems you wouldn't let yourself be compelled to drink."

"Uh, what? You want me to drink something?" she cocked her head to the side. Probably feigned confusion.

"Forget it. I'm sending Officer Barbour an email to inform her you've chosen expulsion."

She frowned. "Oh. That sucks." Her disappointment sounded on par with learning that her burger had arrived without ketchup.

"You say that now, but when you're thirty-five and have only just managed to claw your way up from crew to night shift manager at Wendy's, trying to provide for your children on starvation wages because you wouldn't apply that intellect of yours toward the end of achieving the slightest modicum of self-discipline, then you'll really know how much it sucks."

Taylor drummed her fingers on her desktop, crossing her long legs in my direction. "What, so you're shaming fast food work now?"

"No. The shame isn't in the nature of the work, it's that you have all this potential, but instead of using it, you're going to settle for a harder, less rewarding life. All so you can feel like your i-d-g-a-f branding is on fleek. Or however they're saying it these days."

"Not bad, Canon. Not bad. So I'm expelled, then?"

I sighed. "You're not even going to try to talk me out of it? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Cool apathy to the bitter end."

"I mean, if you say so. Expulsion sounds hella shitty, but it is what it is, I guess." She shrugged, and then reached into her backpack to produce the chapstick. She smeared it back and forth across her lips once again. "Man. My stepdad is going to kill me. Fuck. Ah well."

I froze. Chapstick. The Serenex.

I'd been thinking about little else all through my prep, wondering if it was affecting her, if anyone would notice, if someone would figure me out, expose my plan, if I'd spend the next ten years in prison and the next forty explaining why on job applications at Wendy's. But when she hadn't shown up, I'd gone right back to festering over Taylor Stern and her insufferable apathy and entitlement, such that when she strolled in an hour late after stopping for a workout, I'd forgotten all about it, and all about those tempting thoughts at the periphery of my imagination. But there she was, unwittingly reapplying a fresh dose and calmly -- dare I say serenely -- abiding by my judgment.

I looked to my laptop, still open, the email asking Officer Barbour to suspend the girl still open, cursor blinking, mouse hovering right over the Send button. I ought to. She'd been given more chances than she deserved, and blown them all. I couldn't really mean to sustain this operation. Could I? It was only going to get harder from here. I wouldn't have chapstick to return every day.

Maybe I owed it to myself to at least give it one day. Just one very, very, very last chance for her. Then absolutely no more excuses.

"Hold it," I said as she neared the door. She stopped immediately. Why was that so satisfying?

"What now? Am I expelledand I have to hear a lecture about it first?"

That should have been telling, that she even hinted that she might endure a lecture if the door was already closing behind her. But I was in analytic mode. I had to test it. Make sure it wasn't just attitude. After the way she'd wigged out Friday over a tube of chapstick, who could say what whims motivated this young woman? No, I had to be sure.

"First off, Taylor, I think an apology is in order," I started. She only looked at me blankly, as if uncomprehending what she might have done. "For your outbursts Friday, and for wasting my time today."

"Oh. Sure, if you say so. I'm sorry for Friday, and for today. OK?" The lack of sincerity could not have been clearer, but she still rolled her eyes to slam the point home.

"No. It's not OK." And it wasn't, but I also needed more data. Was she humoring me, or was it actually working? "I... Hmm." I tapped my lip. How to test it? Instantly a dozen answers stampeded from that too-loud part of my subconscious, but I silenced it immediately. There had to be a way. Something I could use to see if she'd put up with that she normally wouldn't.

"Go to the board," I said. Taylor complied, though her foot was tapping. Impatient? Or eager for my next directive? "Now I want you to write on the board: I will not copy other people's work."

"That's it? Just 'I will not copy other people's work,' nothing else?" she asked, picking up a marker.

"Um, also write, 'and I will behave myself in class.'"

"'I will not copy other people's work, and I will behave in class,'" she parroted. "Whatever gets you off, I guess." I gritted my teeth at her choice of words. My briefcase was concealing an erection so hard it was almost painful.

I watched as she turned and wrote it on the board. I tried not to notice her ass, the ass oh-so-faintly jiggling with each stroke of the marker as the movements in her arm vibrated down her torso and into those shorts. But moments later she was finished, and she looked over her shoulder expectantly. "Now what? Cartwheels or something?"

"Ninety-nine to go," I ordered casually. It was mercy to my professional pride that she turned before seeing how baffled I was by my own words.Really? Writing penances on the dry erase board?I'd never even heard of a teacher employing such a tactic except in media. Was Dolors Umbridge in my subconscious or something? It was exactly the sort of pointless tedium that made a studentless inclined to take any satisfaction in reading and writing, or to have any respect for the disciplinary process.

With another roll of the eyes, however, Taylor turned and began writing. She wasn't working especially quickly, but she was working. As the text gradually filled the upper portions of the whiteboard, first she bent at the waist. Oh lord, those legs. What was above those legs. Then as she neared the bottom, Taylor simply squatted down so she could get her arm at the right angle. Her shorts were rode right up her crack, and when she stood to start work on the next column of scribing, they stayed there, painting each ass cheek separately. As hard as it was not to notice, my attention was really on the broader picture.

I'd told her to do something -- something pointless, boring, a Sisyphean chore -- and she was doing it. She looked sulky, and occasionally muttered something petulant under her breath. (Mostly under her breath, anyway. Drugged or no, it was still Taylor Stern here.) But the point was, she was doing it!

"Keep writing while I talk at you, all right?" I interjected as she reached the fifties some twenty minutes in. Twenty minutes in which I had gotten almost nothing done despite sitting at my desk and going through the motions of it. That ass was almost distracting enough to justify a dress code -- but, as I'd said to colleagues who'd defended the policy in the past, the fault was really on those who let themselves be distracted. And was I ever distracted.

"Were you gonna say something or what?" she asked, her voice reflecting back at me off the whiteboard. Her hand must be cramping up, as she took a moment to shake it out, flex and unflex her grip, before continuing. Her buttocks rippled with each vigorous shake.

I snapped out of it, but barely. "So today, this is our project, but tomorrow, I thought maybe we'd get to work on your essay. I know you have opinions -- do you ever -- but I'd like to see if you can't put them down on the page."

"I mean, if you say so," she said noncommittally.

I pressed. "And you are going to show up tomorrow?"

"Is that a question? Like, do I have a choice?" Evidently her hand wasn't all that was getting uncomfortable. Taylor raised both hands over her head, arching her back and grunting with satisfaction at her stretch. The tank top strained at the effort her breasts were putting into popping out, yet meanwhile her butt seemed to be fighting to keep all eyes on it. In an instant, I knew that would be the feature of tonight's dreams, just as the friction-filled gyrating struggle for the chapstick had been the focus of every night this past weekend.

"No. You don't have a choice."

"So why did you ask it like a question then?" she muttered, getting back to work.

"And you'll show up immediately after school tomorrow, right?"

She sighed, plainly annoyed. "Fine."

I licked my lips. It was soeasy. "And... you'll apologize."