Fat School Confidential (15 page)

    “
You mean…?”

   
Nodding his head, Rodriguez gave a broad grin. His look said it all.

   
I stared at him with incredulity. “Sandra is seventeen. That qualifies.”

   
Rodriguez nodded again. “Yup. It sure does.”

   
I wanted Rodriguez to reveal his source. “Who told you this?”

    “
Carmen.”

   
I didn’t know much about Jill, except the fact that she was one of a bunch of new hires just before the summer program got officially started. She seemed nice enough, though a bit withdrawn. Stick-thin, with a bit of a dirty-blonde, butch haircut, she didn’t strike me as someone who was capable of seducing a student. Then again, given my own terminal naivety, I wasn’t necessarily the best judge of that.

   
Jill would sometimes meet up with Sandra during the twenty minutes of down time between the last class of the day and a group activity the students signed up for. This limbo period was supposed to be taken up with afternoon snack time and small talk. But Jill wasted no time in satisfying her own perverted desires. I felt so bad for Sandra. Here was yet another teen girl who had lost a good deal of weight and felt—at least until Jill came into the picture—a little better about herself.

   
Jill was let go from A.O.S. But I never knew if she was formally charged with anything or if she was even arrested. Evidently, the powers above me were experts in keeping those particulars from prying eyes.

   
And I thought to myself: What the fuck would possess someone to mess around with a student?

   
Jill was just a few years older than Sandra. But she was an adult and Sandra was a minor. She wasn’t a teacher or a B.C. or any other person of relative authority. But she was an adult.

   
In all my years as a teacher, no matter how ‘grown-up’ a student seemed to be—regardless of her looks, or her chronological age, or even her behavior—she was always a child to me. When I was teaching in L.A., one seventeen-year-old was giving me the eye as she sat at her desk. I was standing in the middle of the classroom, when I asked her to retrieve her graded worksheet from my desk. Instead of walking around me (there was a good six or seven feet of clear space around me), she brushed against me with her arm. Glancing back, she made sure I noticed the exchange, smiled and retrieved the worksheet. She knew what she doing, and I wasn’t going to play into it. I pretended to ignore her. Whether or not my strategy worked, I never knew. But at least that girl didn’t try anything else on me.

   
After my illuminating convo with Mr. Rodriguez, I handed the Borders receipt to Frank Mills.

    “
One thousand, four hundred, and sixty-eight dollars, huh?” he asked with a reserved grin.

    “
Sorry, but I didn’t think there was a limit,” I answered.

    “
There wasn’t, but we should probably cap it at two books per student.”

   
Contrasting Frank Mills’s approach in dealing with my book purchases, Bernie Johns—A.O.S.’s CFO—wasn’t as forgiving.

    “
You have got to remember that when someone gives you a blank check, you shouldn’t treat it as such,” he said from his cluttered desk. Beer-bellied, with red, splotchy skin and thinning, gray-brown hair, Bernie wasn’t exactly the picture of vim and vigor that defined A.O.S. A heavy smoker, he’d hide his habit by getting into his late-model black Mercedes on his break time, driving around the surrounding orchards until he had finished his cigarette. Maybe his craving for nicotine wasn’t for me to judge. I wasn’t exactly the picture of health myself. But it was interesting to see that whenever a news crew showed up on campus to interview students and staff about the program, Bernie was nowhere to be found. Was it self-imposed, or was Bill involved? This question, as in many others, would go unanswered.

   
Back in the confines of my office, I mulled over a few things. Like Jill and Sandra. And the first of many crazy book runs. And that Borders Babe.

   
That babe.

   
Summer classes proceeded as normal. It was getting closer to final projects. With my Writing the Rails class, I planned to take the class on a train ride from Fresno to Hanford—a stone’s throw from Visalia. The final project for my Script to Screen class was relatively easier to pull off—and far less expensive. All my students had to turn in was a short script.

   
How much was paper going to cost, anyway?

   
But Mr. Johns—like Bill, was a bean counter.

   
After that initial, bank-breaking book run, I was intent on playing it safe with student purchases. I would stick with the two-book-per-student limit. But the students themselves found a loophole. Instead of buying books for themselves, they acted as go-betweens for the stuck-on-campus Gumbies. They’d buy one book for themselves, and one for their buddies. Not exactly a faux pas technically, it wasn’t something that Bill or Frank would’ve encouraged had they known. As far as I was concerned, the Gumbies were paying the same amount of tuition as the Boulderers and Ascenders (and Elijah, the lone Belayer). And for what? To stay behind just because they were extra sassy with the staff or because they said no to a silly rule? Maybe I wasn’t playing it safe. Maybe I was breaking the rules. But it hadn’t stopped me yet.

   
On my last trip to Borders for the summer, brand-spanking-new Boulderers were in tow, along with Adam, an Ascender. On his first outing and riding shotgun, Charlie Ross seemed hell-bent in destroying his newfound respectable status.

    “
Mr. Rourke?”

    “
Yeah, Charlie,” I replied, not taking my eyes off the road.

    “
You think it’ll be alright if I purchase one of those blended beverages at the café? I have the money.”

   
Charlie was referring to the café inside the bookstore. A student from one of our previous trips must have tipped him off.

    “
Not if it’s sweetened with sugar and topped off with whipped cream, if that’s what you’re asking.

    “
No, of course not, Mr. Rourke,” Charlie answered. A constant with Charlie—in spite of the spirit of rebellion in his Rebel Flag soul—was his southern hospitality and his utmost respect for his superiors. Well, some of his superiors.

   
We arrived, parking steps away from Borders’ entrance. All I could think about was the Borders Babe. I wanted to see her.

    “
Why is Charlie in the café?” asked Rhonda, another A.O.S. student hailing from the South. Loud, boisterous, and unapologetically rude, Rhonda was Charlie’s Bizarro-opposite.

    “
Well, for one, he asked me,” I paused before adding, “and two, he has cash.”

    “
How did he get that? Isn’t that contraband?”

   
Why did I let that slip out? Was she going to snitch on Charlie—or me, for that matter?

   
Pretending I didn’t hear her question, I joined Charlie in the manga section—Japanese graphic novels for mature readers. Blended coffee—no whip—in hand, he was absorbed with a particularly violent title. Winona, a frumpy Goth in shades of black, slinked past us. She, too, was interested in manga. Without so much as a glance, she addressed me.

    “
Mr. Rourke, can we purchase more than two books?”

    “
Sorry, Winona. You know the rules.”

    “
But I have my own money,” she said, matter-of-fact.

   
I gave Charlie a knowing look. “What’s with you guys carrying cash?”

   
They looked at each other, their lips curling in conspiracy. Resigned, I stepped close to Winona.

    “
All right. But buy them now, while everyone’s occupied. And put them in your purse.”

   
Charlie tittered, his face smooshed against his comic.

    “
Thank you so much, Mr. Rourke!” Winona exclaimed, bounding towards the registers.

   
I turned to Charlie, still tittering. “What?”

    “
Mr. Rourke. You are awesome!”

   
While I appreciated Charlie’s sentiment, I felt embarrassed by the attention. Here I was again, cutting corners for students who didn’t give a flying fuck for their program half the time. Ellie was right: I did have some awfully loose boundaries.

   
With Winona making her purchases at the front of the store, Charlie chatted me up over pop culture, movies, and my personal favorite—writing. Walking with him towards the checkout line, I talked about the close calls I had trying to sell my scripts to Hollywood. Clearly impressed, Charlie uttered, “Why are you here?”

   
I shrugged. “I guess, on one hand, my ship never came in. But if I look at it another way, I’ve always been the teacher or mentor type. I was the oldest sibling in my family. I was always a helpful person. Maybe this is what I was always meant to be.”

    “
Mr. Rourke. That’s bullshit.”

   
Charlie and I guffawed like those old coots on The Muppet Show, when—as if on cue—the Borders Babe approached me.

    “
Well, hello.”

   
Composing myself as best I could, I replied, “Hi.”

    “
Is there something I can help you with?”

   
From the corner of my eye, I caught Charlie muffling a laugh. Facing the Babe, I replied, “No, not really. Unless you can help me with my writer’s block.”

   
My Borders Babe—all doe-eyed obliviousness—took the bait.

    “
Maybe I could. I am college-educated.” But before I could ask “How?” she added, “Would you like to have lunch with me?”

   
Did she see my wedding ring?

    “
I, uh… You know, I never got your name.”

   
She inched closer. I stared at the ID dangling from the lanyard around her neck, but I drew a blank. I only hoped she didn’t think I was staring at her cleavage.

    “
Lillian.”

   
Before I could take her up on her invite, the rest of the students arrived. Drifting into the background, she added, “The offer still stands.” And she was gone.

    “
It’s a good thing you’re married, Mr. Rourke.”

   
Adam had to go there. Standing smugly in the middle of the group, Adam seemed nonplussed by his own words. No matter. What was done was done. And that was that.

   
I never did follow up on Lillian’s offer. By the time I went to that particular Borders again, my babe was gone for good. She took a job with the city of Visalia, no doubt in something where she could use her degree.

   
Did I really want to get mixed up with yet another woman? Why was I so unhappy at home? Was I unhappy with Ellie? Or, rather, was I just terribly unhappy with my own lot in life?

   
With summer on the wane, and the remaining kids riding it out on a field trip to Southern California, the campus was quiet. There were a few permanent departures—Elijah being one. He still had significant weight to lose, but his success was apparent. I was going to miss him and his oversized personality.

   
It was late August, Two Thousand and Six.

   
All departments were down to skeleton crews except for teaching. But something was amiss. Strumm, always popular to students and staff (to us teachers at least), butted heads with Bill and the B.C.s one too many times. I was there, on campus and down the hall with Rodriguez when he stormed out of Bill’s office. We followed him to his office, where, grabbing a box, he started packing. His face reddened, he looked as though he’d been sucker-punched.

    “
You all right?” Rodriguez asked, a little warble in his voice.

    “
I’m fired,” Strumm replied, not looking up. Pausing, he chuckled to himself before adding, “I called him a pencil-necked geek!”

   
Rodriguez and I laughed—more out of our own discomfort of the situation than finding it funny. Frank Mills, in full prison-warden-mode, stood outside to make sure Strumm was packing.

    “
Everything all right?” he asked. Nodding in unison, we glanced at Mills. Not enjoying the cool reception, he gave a curt little smile and slid back into his office.

   
Five minutes later, Michael Strumm, was, to pardon the pun, history.

   
Students and staff would be kept out of the loop as to what really happened. And what did happen anyway? Did he verbally disagree with any part of the program? I recalled having a conversation with him about an upswing in student trips to the hospital—for gallbladder surgeries. Was he correlating that with the students’ rapid weight loss, and, more importantly—was he attempting to blow the whistle? Like much of everything that went on at A.O.S., information about exiting and former employees—and students for that matter—was sealed off from lookie-loos.