I think about that scene from The Breakfast Club, where Andy the jock talks about the humiliation the kid whose ass cheeks he taped together must’ve felt. I think about Callie, and the care and affection she feels for her students—how hearing about this is going to crush a piece of her.
And I think about Simone, just a girl trying to figure herself out—and the isolation and embarrassment and the fucking hurt she’s going to feel. Because kids know when you’re laughing with them, even if they don’t see it. They know when they’re a punchline. And it’s soul shattering.
“Why would you do that?”
Nancy shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I believe her—and it’s horrifying. That she would inflict this kind of cruelty on someone else without any real reason at all.
Her mouth twists. “Simone’s a freak—have you seen her? She tries too hard to get attention—to get noticed. So, we gave her what she wanted . . . we noticed her.”
“That’s genius!” someone in the back—I don’t even know who—calls out.
David Burke’s not laughing, but he’s the only one. Even DJ joins the party—they sneer and giggle—a room full of pitiless little monsters.
I slam the side of my fist on the desk. “That’s enough!”
The chatter cuts off quick when they see I’m pissed, when they realize this is not fucking okay with me. They go wide-eyed and silent.
“I have never been more disappointed in you than I am right now.” I shake my head. “All of you.”
They’re supposed to be better than us. More accepting, more open, more understanding—a green generation, with hands reaching across the world, and love that always wins. They have more advantages, more resources and benefits than any who’ve come before them—and they still put so much energy into tearing each other to shreds.
Sometimes it feels pointless—like we’re trying to hold up a dam that’s crumbling beneath our fingers. Because kids are kids—no matter the century. They’ll always be so young. Too young to know what matters, what’s important, and how fast it all goes. Too young to not be selfish and stupid and sometimes just straight-up mean. They haven’t lived long enough to know how to be anything else.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying. Trying to make them better—everything I know they could be. By any means necessary.
So, I bring the hammer down.
“Research paper.”
And they groan.
“The topic is, propaganda and the ‘othering’ of groups in the lead-up to World War II. Five pages—minimum.”
“Nice fucking job, Nancy.” Dugan, a flannel-wearing, long-haired member of the skater crowd, throws a balled-up piece of paper at her.
“Knock it off,” I tell him.
Then I up the ante. “And I want you to write it by hand.”
Skylar Mayberry’s arm rises like a rocket.
“I don’t understand. What does that mean?”
I pick up a pen and a piece of notebook paper and demonstrate. “I want you to write . . . a research paper . . . by hand.”
She squints at me. “Why?”
“Because I want you to actually think about what you’re writing. The words and ideas you’re putting down.”
David Burke’s hand goes up next. “They didn’t teach script in my elementary school.”
“Me neither,” Brad Reefer joins in.
“You can print.” I point at them. “And use white-out or a pencil. If you hand me an assignment that’s filled with scribbles, I’ll give it back and make you write ten pages.”
They moan in agony again.
And it’s music to my ears. Growth is painful; change is hard. So, if they’re unhappy—it means I’m doing my job right.
~ ~ ~
During the weekend, on Sunday, Callie and I hit the grocery store together—because even something as boring as grocery shopping is better if I can look at Callie’s ass while doing it.
“Pork rinds?” I ask as she puts a massive bag in the cart.
“My dad loves them. Colleen and I have been rationing them, hiding the bag, or he’ll eat them until his stomach pops.”
She looks especially hot today, with her hair pulled up into a high ponytail, a touch of pink shine on her lips, wearing snug black jeans and a royal-blue sweater that highlights her creamy skin and hugs her round tits perfectly.
I come up behind her when she bends over the cart, rubbing my ever-hardening dick against her ass. “I’ve got some pork for your rind right here, baby.”
And I’m only half-kidding.
She turns, her face scrunching, and pushes me away. “Ew . . . you’re disgusting.”
I grab her hips and pull her flush against me.
“You know you like it.”
She peers up at me, biting her bottom lip.
“Yeah . . . maybe I do.”
She reaches up and pecks my lips—and I taste the promise of more to come. If we ever finish fucking grocery shopping.
I move to the back of the cart so we can get on that, and almost crash into another cart.
A cart that’s being pushed by Tara Benedict.