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Learning Curve
Terry McLaughlin
Lesson learned?High school history teacher Joe Wisniewski may be in a rut, but he dug it himself and he's not planning on getting out anytime soon. The last thing he wants is to mentor a starry-eyed newcomer, so when he gets an unexpected assignment–Emily Sullivan, a student teacher with a steamroller smile and dynamite legs–he digs in deeper and ducks for cover.Emily has looked up to the legendary "Wiz" for along time. In her opinion, the man is coasting these days, and she's sure a little change in his routine is exactly what he needs. Besides this assignment is her chance to prove to her family–and herself–that she can stick to one project.The question is: Will Emily get Joe fired up or just plain fired?
Joe tried to reach that comfortable state of ennui
The one he liked to wallow in right before the start of a new school year. But everything felt as if it was slipping out of his grasp. As if Emily Sullivan had ripped all the self-indulgent pleasure out of his back-to-school misery and twisted it into something…something even more twisted than usual.
Ideas crackled through his brain like static. He couldn’t stop considering all the possibilities, imagining all the delights of an ongoing ideological duel with a well-educated, intelligent adversary. The thrust and parry that could be played out before a captive but fascinated adolescent audience. It was tempting. It was intriguing. It was downright stimulating.
But Joe didn’t want to be tempted or intrigued. He certainly didn’t want to be stimulated. And definitely not by some chirpy student teacher with short skirts and big, wide eyes. Eyes with sparkly silver spikes that…
Stop right there. Get a grip, Wisniewski.
Joe took a deep breath, but regretted it instantly. There, just beneath the odors of musty texts and stale coffee, was a faint trace of something fresh and floral.
It was going to be a long, long year.
Dear Reader,
All of us have been touched, in some way, by special teachers who opened our lives to the possibilities beyond the classroom basics. In Learning Curve, Emily and Joe are given a chance to say thank-you for the lessons they’ve learned.
The teachers I tend to remember are those who shoved me out of my comfort zone and dared me to try something new. One of them told me I should try to write a book, and even though I laughed at the time and waited more than ten years to follow his advice, his praise meant enough to make me take that first uncomfortable step into a new world. This book is dedicated to him—my own small way of saying thank-you.
I’d love to hear from my readers! Please come for a visit to my Web site at www.terrymclaughlin.com, or find me at www.wetnoodleposse.com or www.superauthors.com, or write to me at P.O. Box 5838, Eureka, CA 95002.
Wishing you plenty of happily-ever-after reading,
Terry McLaughlin
LEARNING CURVE
Terry McLaughlin
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Professor Tom Gage, who told me I could write—
and then made me believe it, too.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER ONE
JOSEPH P. WISNIEWSKI listened to the slap and shuffle of his Birkenstocks echo along the empty corridor of Caldwell High School. He knew where his steps were taking him, but he wasn’t sure why anymore. That echo seemed to ping around the empty spaces inside him, searching for the answer.
He’d give himself until the end of the term to figure things out or hand in his resignation. To quit teaching.
He navigated a crooked course along the wide vinyl hall dulled by Mr. Stenquist’s ineffective floor wax, avoiding the sunlight flooding through the open classroom doors to nurse his hangover in the shadows. It wouldn’t be so easy to detour around the back-to-school business with his fellow faculty that was sure to nudge his early-morning headache into a mid-afternoon migraine.
“Suck it up, Wisniewski,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over the last batch of four-day stubble he’d feel until deep into Thanksgiving vacation. “This is why you get paid the big bucks.” Steeling himself to confront another school year, he shouldered his way through the office door.
Linda Miller glanced up from her command post behind the reception counter. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Joe’s grimace eased into a smile. The middle-aged secretary’s crusty personality masked a gooey cream center. Linda might be mouthier than the average clerk, but she anted up pay phone coins for teen crises and found more niches for hopeless grads than the local armed forces recruiting office. “Hey, Linda.”
“What? No tan from the tropics? No handwoven shirt from Nepal? No bruises from a dustup with a jealous husband? Exactly what kind of summer vacation did you take?”
“The restful kind.” He turned to pull two months’ junk mail and memos out of his office box. “And I told you that black eye was a misunderstanding. Pamela was legally separated. The divorce decree was in the mail.”
“Hmmph.” She came around the counter with her nose in the air, sniffing with a smirk. “Aramis. A seductive scent. With undertones of Excedrin and Scope that almost disguise the subtle hint of too much Scotch.”
“Come on, Linda. Even you can’t smell Excedrin.”
“No, but I can see that whatever you took isn’t living up to its advertising.” She pinned him to the wall with a look that made him feel like he was ten years old and smeared with enough incriminating evidence to get grounded for life. “Just look at yourself. What a waste of tall, dark and handsome, not to mention all that education. Have you ever once used those over-the-top looks or that under-the-radar charm to pursue anyone suitable to be the mother of your children?” She shook her head. “You know, your brains are interesting enough when they aren’t pickled, and your conversation’s kind of pleasant when you bother to move beyond the grunting stage.”
Because he was just about to grunt a response before moving out of firing range, Joe stood his ground, resigned to taking a few more lumps. Knowing Linda, they were coming.
“Shame on you. Forty years old and nothing much to show for it.”
“Thirty-nine.”
“The way you look today, fifty would have been a generous guess.” She wagged a scolding finger under his nose. “Well, it looks like you’re finally going to pay the piper.”
The waving finger made his stomach pitch and roll. “I’m really not in the mood for a lecture on overindulgence at the moment.”
“That’s right—when it comes to lecturing, you’re the pro. But I’m not talking about talk.”
Something about the gleam in her eyes set off alarm bells that intensified the throbbing in his head. “What is it? What’s going on?”
The phone interrupted. Linda’s lips spread in a smile that hinted of hell on earth. “Duty calls,” she said, patting his arm before she retreated to her post. “Duty calls us all, sooner or later.”
He followed her into the cramped area behind the counter, dumping his unread mail into the wastebasket. Carefully nudging the clutter on her desk aside with one hip, he settled in to wait while she recited the late registration litany for a new parent.
“…Yes, I’m sure that would be all right, Joyce.” She tried to wave him away, but he dodged and stuck. “Donny can take the forms home Monday after classes.”
“Tell me,” he said with a growl when she dropped the receiver back in its cradle.
She folded her hands over a stack of fall sports schedules. “Maybe if you kept in touch, you wouldn’t come back to nasty little surprises.”
Behind him, another door clicked open. “Joe?”
“Speaking of nasty little surprises,” Linda muttered under her breath.
He turned to see Kyle Walford, Caldwell’s principal, step out of his office. Joe’s headache shifted into migraine mode ahead of schedule.
“Joe, buddy. Looking good.” Kyle swept a hand through his hair and smoothed down his tie as he moved toward the reception area. Joe wondered, not for the first time, how Kyle’s wife got the greasy stuff out of his ties. Then he wondered if there was any way to get out of grasping that same hand when Kyle offered it in greeting.
“Where have you been?” said Kyle. “I tried calling you all day yesterday.”
“That’s odd. There was no message on my machine.”
Kyle threw a companionable arm around Joe’s shoulders, an awkward position for them both since Joe was several inches taller. “Well, you’re here now, and there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
“I was going to check on a few things before the faculty meeting.” Joe dug his heels deep into his Birkenstocks, resisting Kyle’s attempt to maneuver him into the principal’s office. “I don’t want to be late.”
“You can’t be late if I’m not there,” Kyle pointed out, flashing even, white caps.
Joe remembered that Kyle’s smile had been bartered for a local dentist’s outfield billboard. He didn’t smile back. “Who is it that’s important enough to keep everyone waiting?”
“Well, Joe…it’s your student teacher.”
It wasn’t often that Joe got angry enough to worry about high blood pressure. But he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his system now. There it was, coiling in his gut and rippling along his jaw. He didn’t want his classroom turned into some sort of petri dish, didn’t want a stranger probing into the hows and whys of what he did—especially when he didn’t know how and why himself anymore. He just wanted to get his job done and make his escape every afternoon shortly after three o’clock. “I don’t have student teachers, Kyle.”
“Plenty of teachers do, sooner or later.” Kyle playfully punched Joe’s arm. “And now it’s your turn.”
“I don’t have student teachers, Kyle.”
“You’ve got one now.” Kyle’s fingers twitched a bit as he smoothed his already smooth tie. “Come on into my office and I’ll introduce you.”
EMILY SULLIVAN RECROSSED her legs, right over left this time, and reminded herself not to swing the suspended foot. Bruising the principal’s shins wasn’t the way to make a professional impression.
She reached down to tug at the hem of her skirt and watched it snap back into place a couple of inches above her knees, just like it had snapped back the other six times she’d tugged at it. Maybe she should have gone with the ankle-length skirt. Oh, well. No use second-guessing her morning fashion decision—and she did tend to step on that longer skirt and trip when getting out of chairs. Tripping and falling flat on her face probably created a less professional appearance than swinging a shin-bruising foot.
How could anyone relax in the principal’s office? Okay, the principal probably managed just fine. And at least she wasn’t staring at the fake walnut paneling from a juvenile delinquent’s point of view.
A delinquent adult’s, maybe. Her family certainly seemed to think so. That was why she had to clinch this student teaching assignment. It was her last, best chance to launch her grown-up life—even if, at twenty-nine, she was rusting on the launch pad. She’d studied subjects from anthropology to zoology, she’d waited tables in Dublin and sold perfume in Marseilles. She’d done just about everything but decide what to do with her life, blithely hopping from one campus, one major, one country, one job, to another. Now it was time to choose a career and stick with it. She’d run out of hopping room.
Kyle walked in, wearing his alligator-on-campaign grin. A dark, rangy man trailed him into the room, closed the door, and slouched against it, his hands in his pockets. Emily got a brief impression of worn jeans, wrinkled white shirt, black hair in need of a trim and waves of hostility.
“Emily Sullivan,” said Kyle, “meet Joe Wisniewski.”
She rose, hand extended, lifting her chin to look her new master teacher straight in his bloodshot eyes. So this was The Wiz, the infamous seducer of impressionable young minds and restless older women. He was exactly what she’d imagined, right down to the scruffy sandals.
What she hadn’t imagined was the potent appeal tucked inside the Heathcliff packaging. The sexual left hook knocked the wind out of her before she saw it coming.
“How do you do?” she managed to ask when she got her breath back.
Silence. Emily fought the urge to tug at her skirt until it morphed into a shroud. She wanted to wear it as she slipped into the hole in the ground she felt opening beneath her. And just when the absence of sound or movement had stretched her nerves to the snapping point, The Wiz shrugged away from the door and took her hand in his.
“Fine,” he said. His dark laser beam stare locked in on Kyle. “Just fine. Thanks.”
Emily slipped her hand out of his oversize grip and sank back into her chair. She would have preferred to dive under it instead, to tuck her head in the emergency position and pray that the impending nuclear blast didn’t spew too much radiation in her direction. Something was wrong—understatement alert. The tension in this office was a palpable, living thing. A thing with pastrami breath and a sinus condition, camped at an open fire. Which would explain why it was getting so warm in here. And hard to breathe. She tried to swallow without gulping out loud.
“So…” Kyle’s smile wavered a bit at the edges. “You might remember Emily’s brother, Joe. Jack Sullivan?”
Another marathon silence followed the question. Then, with a flick of a glance in Emily’s direction, Joe grunted. “I might.”
“He was a senior the first year you taught here at Caldwell, wasn’t he?” Kyle didn’t wait for Joe’s answer. “You made a big impression on young Jack, I hear. A big impression.”
