Misconduct

  “What’s your name, miss?” the young man asked, picking up his phone.

  “Easton,” I breathed out, willing my heart to slow down. “Easton Bradbury.”

  He waited, then finally spoke into the phone. “Hello. I have Easton Bradbury to see Mr. Marek.”

  “I don’t have an appointment,” I pointed out, whispering to him.

  He offered a placating smile and waited for what the other person had to say.

  He nodded. “Thank you,” he told them.

  Hanging up the phone, he typed something into the computer quickly, and before I knew it, he handed me a badge with a bar code and pointed me toward the elevators.

  “He’ll see you,” he said, nodding. “It’s the sixtieth floor.”

  “Which office?” I asked.

  But he just laughed and continued to shuffle papers without looking at me.

  I let out a sigh and made my way through security, letting them scan my card and push me through.

  I took the elevator up, making several stops on the way for others to get off.

  We stopped at three odd-numbered floors and three even-numbered floors, and I pursed my lips, knowing that didn’t mean anything, but it still made me uncomfortable.

  If we had stopped at two odd-numbered floors instead, the odds would’ve added up to an even number, and everything would’ve been fine.

  I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. God, I am sick.

  The only person left in the elevator, I watched the blue digital numbers reach sixty.

  I straightened, steeling myself as the doors opened.

  And I understood why the clerk had laughed at me when I’d asked which office. The sixtieth floor was Marek’s office, apparently.

  Ahead stood two tall wooden doors and desks belonging to two assistants on either side of the doors, one man and one woman.

  The woman looked up from her computer and nodded toward the doors. “Go in, Ms. Bradbury.”

  I ran my hand down my clothes, smoothing them over before reaching up and tightening my ponytail.

  But I’d already lost hope of salvaging my pride. Why hadn’t I at least convinced Jack to take me home for a change of clothes?

  Grabbing hold of a vertical bar serving as a door handle, I pulled one of the big doors open and stepped in, immediately spotting Marek ahead of me, standing behind his desk.

  “Ms. Bradbury.” He glanced up, one hand in his pocket as the other pushed keys on his computer. “Come in.”

  His eyes left mine and dropped down my body, taking in my appearance, I would assume. Despite the air-conditioning chilling the room, I felt my thighs warm and heat pool in my stomach.

  I squared my shoulders and approached his desk, trying to ignore the sudden powerless feeling.

  Out of habit, I counted my steps in my head. One, two, three, fo—

  But then I stopped in my tracks, catching something out of the corner of my eye.

  I looked to my right, and my eyebrows shot up, seeing an oval conference table on the other side of a glass partition, filled with people. A lot of people.

  Shit.

  I swallowed, turning for the doors again. “I’ll wait.”

  There was no way I was speaking to him with other people in the room.

  “You wanted to see me,” he snapped. “Speak.”

  I turned. “But you’re busy.”

  “I’m always busy,” he retorted. “Get on with it.”

  I groaned inwardly, understanding why he was so open to seeing me now.

  A weight settled in my stomach, but I hid it as well as I could as I stepped toward his desk again.

  I kept my voice low and gave him a fake close-lipped smile. “You’re enjoying seeing my dignity as a muddy puddle on the floor, aren’t you?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted, and he locked eyes with me again. “I think that’s understandable after your behavior, don’t you?”

  I averted my eyes, licking my lips.

  I hated his gloating, but I couldn’t say he was wrong. I’d earned this dose of humility. No matter how vile his e-mail was, I should never have lowered myself to his level. The animosity would only hurt Christian.

  “Mr. Marek.” I took a deep breath, bracing myself. “I had no right to say what I said,” I told him. “And I was very wrong. I know nothing about you or your son, and I lashed out.”

  “Like a brat,” he added, staring at me with condescension.

  Yes, like a brat.

  I dropped my eyes, remembering how I’d never gotten angry as a child. When I started to become a woman, though, I raced to fury, throwing my racket when I’d fault or yelling when I was frustrated.

  I’d been under stress at the time, I’d been caged, and I’d hated the loss of control. Now I had control, and I resented anything that threatened it.

  Marek kept pushing into my space – the meeting the other day and then the e-mail today – but I knew my job.

  I knew what I was doing. Why didn’t he see that?

  I raised my eyes, staring back up at him. “I truly apologize.”

  “Are you really sorry?” He grabbed a gray file folder and a pen as he rounded the desk. “Or are you more afraid you’ll lose your job?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You’re insinuating I’m apologizing out of fear?”

  He cocked his head, telling me with his amused eyes that’s exactly what he was thinking.

  “Mr. Marek,” I said in a firm voice, standing tall. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do. I don’t need to beg for anything or bow down to anyone. If I apologize, it’s because I know I did something wrong,” I affirmed. “It was a cruel thing to say, and you didn’t deserve it.”

  A hint of a smile peeked out, but he hid it almost immediately. He let out a sigh, his eyes softening, and he turned around, making his way for the head of the conference table.

  “Ms. Bradbury is Christian’s history teacher,” he pointed out to everyone at the table, looking back at me and grinning as he tossed the folder onto the table. “She doesn’t think much of me.”

  I snorted, but I didn’t think anyone heard it.

  The man seated to his left laughed. “You’re not alone, honey.” He tipped his chin at me.

  Marek grabbed a piece of paper, balled it up, and threw it at him, only making the man laugh more.

  The two seemed close, and I faltered at seeing Marek playful.

  “I’m Jay, his brother.” The man rose from his chair and held out his hand.

  I hesitated for only a moment before walking to the other half of the room and up the step to the table.

  The office was massive, but it was partitioned by what had to be a ten-foot-long pane of glass separating – but not closing off – the room into two parts: Marek’s office and a private conference area, probably for his convenience.

  After all, why go down to another floor and meet with your personnel when you could make them all come up to you?

  I shook Jay’s hand, at once liking his easy smile and humor. I couldn’t help but glance over, seeing Marek watching me.

  His navy blue suit went well with the steel-gray walls, and I liked how some of his black hair had fallen out of place over his temple.

  Everyone at the table – men and women – were dressed in business attire, and they looked like they’d been here a while. Papers, laptops, and phones were spread over the table in no discernible order, and I had to push away the pinpricks under my skin, urging me to organize their shit.

  Plates with croissants and bagels were scattered about, while half-filled glasses of water sweated with condensation, their ice cubes having long since melted.

  I wondered how long they’d been here. On a Saturday, no less.

  “You don’t have to worry, Easton. We’re fine,” I heard Marek say, and I shot my eyes back over to him. “Apology accepted, but my e-mail does still stand.”

  I rubbed my thumbs across my fingers, trying to remember what he was referring to.

  He’d calle
d me Easton.

  “I’m against a fourteen-year-old on social media, and I can’t imagine I’m the only parent uncomfortable with it.” His tone was firm but gentler than it had been on the phone. “Adjustments will have to be made.”

  Ah, back to this.

  I kept my face even, about to suggest again that we sit down and talk through this, because I wasn’t giving up, but someone else spoke up first.

  “Social media?” a man to my right asked. “Jesus, Facebook has taken over my kids’ lives. It’s all they do,” he blurted out, chiming in on the conversation and looking around to his colleagues. “You know, my sixteen-year-old actually wants a mount in the shower with waterproof casing for his phone. I’m surprised he hasn’t glued it to his hand.”

  I hooded my eyes, focusing on a spot on the table and hearing laughter sound off around me as everyone started backing Marek up.

  “It’s an epidemic,” a woman agreed. “And dangerous. Do you know how many sexual predators find their victims online?”

  Do you know how many victims of sexual predators drink water? Ban water!

  Grunts of approval chimed in, and I could feel myself losing the moment of relief I’d felt when he’d accepted my apology.

  My fists tightened, and I knew I needed to leave. Now.

  “Exactly,” someone else replied. “The more we put ourselves out there, the more disconnected we are from real life. I’m sick of seeing people’s faces buried in their phones.”

  “Complete time suckage.” Jay shook his head, speaking up. “And kids have no attention spans anymore because of it.”

  I no longer liked Jay.

  I glanced at Marek, who watched me with a hint of a smile on his face as the wall against me grew higher and higher.

  “And there are so many stories where kids are getting bullied,” another gentleman droned, “or put in danger because of it. I mean, has being able to Instagram what you had for lunch really made our lives better?”

  Everyone started laughing, and every muscle in my body tensed like steel.

  “Kids don’t need social media,” someone maintained. “Not until they’re old enough…”

  Yada, yada, yada… I stopped listening. Everyone continued sharing their own two cents, but I just stood there looking at him.

  He held my eyes, his mouth opening slightly as he raised the glass to his lips and took a small drink of water. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed and confident, because he knew he’d gotten what he wanted.

  He still didn’t see me as a capable woman. He still didn’t respect me.

  And when his eyes started falling down my body, raking over my waist and down to my bare thighs, I knew that he wanted something else.

  The only thing he thought I was good for.

  I inhaled a sharp breath and held up my hands, cutting everyone off in the middle of their rants. “You’re absolutely right,” I told them, my voice hard. “You’re all absolutely right.”

  I offered a tight smile and looked around the table, everyone having gone quiet.

  “Social media is a double-edged sword, bringing both advantages and” – I looked at Marek – “definite concerns. I agree with you,” I placated.

  Marek cocked his head, looking at me with interest as everyone gave me their full attention.

  “However,” I stated matter-of-factly, “it is here to stay. Whether you like it or not,” I added.

  I lifted my chin and let my eyes wander around the table as I began to circle. “We live in a data-driven world, and it is not something that will change.”

  I walked slowly around the table, speaking to everyone and feeling Marek’s eyes on me.

  “Let me break this down for you,” I told them, crossing my arms over my chest and speaking slowly. “Every time we get a text or a tweet or a Facebook notification,” I explained, “we get a shot of adrenaline. The constant influx of information has become an addiction – like a drug – and when our phones beep or light up, we get a small rush.”

  I met their eyes.

  “And like all drugs, it isn’t long before we need our next fix.” And I gestured to their phones on the table as I spoke. “Which is exactly why you all brought your phones into this meeting with you right now instead of leaving them in your own offices,” I speculated. “Sooner rather than later, you know you’re going to feel that desperation, which will prompt you to check for a new e-mail or message. You’re addicted to the information, same as your children.”

  “But in school?” a woman burst out. “Why should they have phones in school or be allowed to play around on social media for homework?”

  “Because you let them have it at home,” I shot back, trying to keep my tone gentle. “Do you expect the craving for it to end when they step onto school grounds?”

  She twisted her lips and sat back in her chair.

  “How does a teacher compete with the kind of hold social media has over his or her students’ attention?” I asked them. “Because even if they’re forced to be without their phones, they’re thinking about their phones. They’re hiding them. They’re texting under their desks. They’re sneaking to the bathroom to use them…” I trailed off, hopefully proving that the battle was real.

  “I have two choices,” I continued. “I can either fight it and treat it as a nuisance, or…” I calmed down, looking at Marek. “I can embrace it as a tool. Not only is their technology ensuring one hundred percent participation in my class,” I pointed out, “but it is also teaching them community and digital citizenship.”

  I lowered my chin, pinning him with a hard look. “They do not merely attend a class, Mr. Marek,” I explained, seeing his eyes narrow on me. “They interact with one another on multiple forums, seeing through social barriers and expressing themselves in the tolerant community that I oversee. They’re learning, they’re engaged, and they’re treating one another well.”

  I moved around to his other side, standing more confidently than I had since the open house.

  “Now, I understand you’re a smart man,” I went on, “and you couldn’t have gotten where you are without being determined and intelligent. But I also think that you do whatever you want and say whatever you like without fear of accountability. I always have a very good reason for everything I do. Do you?

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job,” I advised, “and I won’t be so arrogant as to tell you how to do yours.”

  And before anyone had a chance to speak, I twisted on my heel and walked out.

  SEVEN

  EASTON

  “

  W

  hat will you do with the textbooks?” I asked the librarian as I unloaded the old history books I’d been storing in my classroom.

  She grabbed the stack and started pulling them off her counter, one by one, to load onto a cart.

  “I think they’ll be donated,” she answered. “Although I hear you don’t even use the new fancy ones we paid good money for.”

  I smiled, bending down to my rolling chair to pick up another four books to hand to her.

  “Not that I don’t appreciate them,” I teased¸ and she shot me a wink.

  If anyone had a problem with me not teaching from the textbook, it certainly wasn’t her. She had been teaching in Orleans Parish for more than thirty years and had been in all types of schools, from the advantaged to the destitute. She knew how to make do with what you had and had told me the first week that the best teachers were facilitators. The more the kids did for themselves, the more they learned.

  “Hey,” someone chirped.

  I twisted my head, seeing Kristen Meyer pushing her rolling chair toward the checkout desk as well.

  “What’s up?” She heaved a sigh, sounding out of breath.

  “Just getting rid of the old history texts,” I told her. “You?”

  “Ugh.” She unloaded a stack of what looked like typical library books on geology. “Is it winter break yet?” she whined.

  I let out a laugh. It wasn’t even
October yet.

  “All right, I’ve still got a few things to do before I head home for the day. Thanks,” I told the librarian, and then looked to Kristen as I leaned down to start pushing my chair back. “Have a good night,” I singsonged.

  “Wait,” she shot out. “I’ll come with you.”

  She hurried, dumping the rest of the books on the counter and pushing her chair, following me out.

  I exited through the double doors, moving out of the way and holding one open for her.

  The school was quiet – all of the students and many of the teachers having already left for the day – and I breathed in, smelling the rain that I knew was coming. The sky had been dark this morning, heavy with thick clouds, and the current weather filled me with trepidation as the wind in the trees carried the warning of a storm that would, without a doubt, be angry.

  A hurricane was in the Caribbean, heading for the Gulf, but as of right now, it wasn’t set to hit New Orleans. I hoped we were only looking at a tropical storm, but either way, the school was closing for the next two days in anticipation of flooding.

  “So,” Kristen drawled as we pushed our chairs on their wheels down the hallway. “I heard something that can’t possibly be true.”

  I kept pushing my chair, our heels echoing in unison down the hall.

  “I heard that you” – she spoke slowly – “showed up at Tyler Marek’s office this weekend and told him off.” I could feel her eyes on me as I looked straight ahead. “And that you were wearing a miniskirt, no less,” she added.

  “I wasn’t wearing a miniskirt,” I grumbled. “How the hell did you hear that?”

  She squealed, her mouth opening in a gasp. “So it’s true?”

  I turned away and continued down the hall, squeezing the chair in my fingers.

  He’d talked to Shaw, after all?

  Shit.

  “It’s okay,” she soothed. “It’s just that Myron Cates is one of Marek’s vice presidents,” she told me. “His wife and I became good friends when I taught her son last year, and she said her husband came home Saturday from work having witnessed a bold young woman serving Tyler Marek his ass on a platter.”