Schools Out Ocean View Series

School's Out

#

The bell rang. It was a shrill, piercing ring that echoed through the halls and rattled the eardrums. Every human being in the cinder block building lived and died by the ringing of the bell. It told them when to eat, when to sit, when to walk, when to urinate. The bell was their jailer, and its prisoners mere children.

The bell today sounded exactly the same, but it was the sweetest sound any of the prisoners had ever heard. I speak, of course, of middle school. It was summer break in Ocean View Middle School as of the first sentence, and hordes of children poured from their penitentiary and into the streets, pardoned for the next two and a half months.

Behind her desk in a forgotten corner of Ocean View Middle, Miss Carter sighed with relief.

Those little bastards are finally gone

, she thought. She leaned back in her chair and put her feet upon her desk, savoring the vanishing chatter as the students emptied the corridors like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

Miss Carter taught eighth grade English. Eighth grade: that pivotal time of life when girls became women and boys remained boys. Caught between childhood and adolescence, awkwardness hung like teenage stench in the air.

Her classroom was a stifling box at the end of the hall. The walls were decorated with pictures of famous authors, their literary quotes, and rows and rows of books. To the right of Miss Carter's desk was a white board, covered with the student's poetic scribblings.

In the center of the room were the personal desks and chairs, lined up in neat rows and columns in order to put each child in a little box on a little grid. A3 - Charlie Lester. C1 - Suzy Cameron. D5 - Hoobastank Spanakopita. These were a few of the former inmates.

And what rowdy inmates they were. Ocean View Middle's students were not known for good behavior or good grades. They weren't particularly athletic or artistic (if a person is good enough at either poor grades or behavior can be excused). They had the ambition of an arthritic old mutt. Gum stalactites clung beneath each desk. Gum stalagmites rose from asbestos floor squares, neglected by the lazy janitors. Work ethic was not a virtue Ocean View Middle concerned itself with.

Being a middle-school teacher was hard enough, but Miss Carter bore an additional burden. She was sexy.

Her dark hair was lustrous and her skin smooth. Her eyes were brilliant sapphires, her nose had a dainty upturn, her lips full as the moon on August 30th, 2023 (check your calendar to see how full the moon was). She kept her long hair tied up in a bun, which endowed her with professional-level hotness. Her body was tight, and her ass looked great no matter what pants she wore. Her breasts were large and perky. Her cheeks were pink with a natural blush, adorned with a small beauty-mark. Each eyebrow hair was as precise as a professional marching band (NOT a high school level one).

This sexiness created a trifecta of dislike.

The first arm of the trifecta was the students. Male students ogled her, too immature to check her out through their peripheral vision like a civilized man. They made comments about how they'd like to show her their race car beds or poke her titties with a pencil. Because they couldn't have her, they resented her.

Female students found her intimidating because of her looks. Their bodies were changing, they were self-conscious, and anyone who had the gall to look so good all the time was their enemy. They spread nasty rumors. "Miss Carter sleeps around." "Miss Carter killed her ex-husband." "Miss Carter eats babies."

The second arm of the trifecta: the other teachers. They found Miss Carter's sexiness intimidating. The male teachers weren't much better than the eighth graders. They wanted to show her their non-race car beds and poke her titties with their cocks. They said this to her face though, not behind her back like the eighth graders. Miss Carter had been dragged into many sexual harassment meetings about it, and the other teachers began to suspect she was doing it for attention. This was false; Miss Carter did not bring her tits to school for attention. She brought them because they were attached to her chest.

The female teachers were jealous of Miss Carter and the attention she got. Many spread nasty rumors about her. They said she never bathed her snatch. They said she killed her ex-husband. They said her ovaries were like withered Turkish prunes, too shriveled to bear children, and even if she did, the child would be a monster of Frankenstienian proportions.

The third arm: the parents. Despite Ocean View's reputation as a cool place where lots of people fucked in humorous situations, many of the parents of Ocean View Middle were prudes. They felt little, innocent children like theirs should be kept away from sex objects like Miss Carter. They were too young to see someone so beautiful. Children should be taught by frail, dried-up old nuns, they thought.

It should be noted that on the other side of the world, children much younger than eighth grade were enlisted in armies, fighting for warlords for scraps of food and kept loyal by drug addictions and the ever-present threat of violence. Those children would kill to get an education from anyone, especially a fox like Miss Carter. Alas, they were forced to kill for much stupider reasons. So maybe the Ocean View parents should chill out a bit.

Back to the parents. In addition to thinking Miss Carter should leave her good looks at home, the wives were mad their husbands found her attractive. The husbands couldn't help it, but the women acted like they could. They hated Miss Carter for trying to steal their husbands, although she did no such thing.

The husbands were even worse. They were jealous there was another single woman running around who was hotter than their wives. When the husbands laid their eyes on Miss Carter, they felt like they had settled for their wives, even though many of those husbands had married up and were lucky to find

anyone

who was willing to put up with their bullshit. They hated Miss Carter for looking better than their soul mates and baby-mommas.

Today, at the end of her first year of teaching at Ocean View Middle, Miss Carter felt like no one liked her.

She was right.

Miss Carter hadn't grown up in this neighborhood like so many of the parents and grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents who'd never left town and popped out babies like a Pez dispenser. She'd come from a more affluent private school,

Oceani Victoria

, further up the coast. There, students chose Latin or ancient Greek as a second language in fourth grade. They learned calculus in fifth grade. By sixth grade, they read at the collegiate freshman level. Not even most college freshmen can say that.

The children at Ocean View Middle were slower, duller, more prone to consuming glue, either orally or nasally. In Churchillian nature, they fought in the halls, in the classrooms, on the beaches, on the playgrounds, on the fields, and in the streets. They were boisterous, smelly, and doggedly determined to do as little as possible to help themselves.

Miss Carter savored the silence as the last kid left the building. She had a week of finishing grading papers, cleaning up, getting her classroom in order, before she was off for two glorious months.

Her summer was all planned out. She did the same thing every year since grad school three years ago. Reading, gardening, then a Mediterranean cruise for two weeks in July. Two weeks of reading book after book on the deck of the ship, tanning in her bikini, and maybe meeting a handsome European man who would rail her passionately. Then it was back to her normal life of gardening, reading, and trying to find a handsome American man who would rail her passionately. European men were 3-0 in getting with Miss Carter. Americans were 2-4,237. So far, America was losing.

To clarify the previous paragraph, Miss Carter had had sex all three times she'd taken the cruise, and she had sex with two serious boyfriends in the States who'd both ended up being dumpster fires. 4,239 American men had hit on her, and two had succeeded in bedding her. Those lucky, lucky two.

A knock at the door interrupted her daydream. She removed her feet from her desk just as the Principal, Mr. Fereder, hobbled in without waiting for permission. He was thrice her age, with coarse gray hair sprouting from every orifice. Yes, even those ones. He wore glasses with lenses as thick as Miss Carter's ass. His eyes were shrunken, his skin was cracked, his back was hunched.

Mr. Fereder ran the school like a warden. Discipline was swift and strict. He lamented the days when he could spank misbehaving students and teachers alike (he was especially interested in spanking Miss Carter). He was a relic of a bygone era, but the district didn't replace him. They figured he'd die on his own soon enough.

Selfishly, Mr. Fereder refused to die. Year after year, he came doddering back to Ocean View Middle (go Condors!), and year after year people put up with his musty old bullshit.

"Miss Carter," he wheezed, exhausted from his walk down the fluorescent school hall. "Please come to the auditorium in fifteen minutes for our in-service meeting."

"I will," said Miss Carter, who did not need to be reminded. She was as punctual as a Japanese bullet train. She'd only overslept an alarm once, as a two-month-old. Ever since then, she'd been up at 6:30 each day and in bed by 10:30 at night.

Mr. Fereder stood in the doorway, leering at her. He had no intention of reminding any of the other teachers personally about the meeting. He'd come to leer.

"Last day go well?" he asked.

"Just fine, thank you," said Miss Carter. She grabbed her red pen and began grading papers. This was a time before text generative AI, so it was simpler than nowadays.

"Any miscreants to report?" Mr. Fereder asked gleefully.

"Not a one," said Miss Carter.

"Very well then," lamented Mr. Fereder. He gazed a moment longer at the school's Aphrodite, then shuffled out the door.

Miss Carter sighed again. This was just the type of behavior that made Mrs. Hapsburg start the shriveled ovary rumor. Miss Carter took some solace in the fact that one day she'd be too old for people to drool over her. It was an extreme overreaction; she may as well wish for death to get rid of hiccups.

Besides, she was going to die before her looks fully faded. But she didn't know that, and it isn't important to the story. Only I, the narrator, know the most intimate details and futures of every character in this story. That's right, I know things about Miss Carter you'd never dream of. Things she'd prefer to remain secret, and I am happy to oblige. I'm not going to air her dirty laundry for you. Maybe in a sequel.

At 3:28 PM, Miss Carter began the two minute walk to the auditorium. At 3:30 on the nose she sat in an aisle seat in row G, alone. The auditorium's scarlet curtain was drawn behind a proscenium of concrete blocks. The chairs were dark shades of formerly vibrant colors. Creamsicle orange, smiley face yellow, fire engine red. The chairs smelled of teenage farts.

The other teachers sat in rows A-E. They tittered to themselves and cast frowning looks in her direction. It was the largest clique in school, and Miss Carter wasn't invited.

At 3:33, Mr. Fereder waddled onstage. It had taken him 18 minutes to get from Miss Carter's classroom to the center stage microphone.

"Good morning," he rasped.

"Good morning," the teachers echoed.

"Errr, evening. I mean afternoon. No, evening," he babbled. It was evening for Mr. Fereder; he went to bed at 5:30 PM.

"An introduction is in order," said Mr. Fereder. "I'd like you to meet your new principal, Mr. Johnson. I will be retiring at the end of this sentence."

With that, Mr. Fereder wandered offstage, never to be heard from again. The teachers looked at each other, unsure of what to make of such an abrupt departure. But then, from the wings, a chiseled face emerged.

Mr. Johnson was strapping, with a boyish smile and strong chin. His thick dark hair was styled in a pompadour haircut. His eyes were brilliant blue, the same shade as Miss Carter's. His nose was large and strong, but not too large or too strong. He wore black slacks and a sensible tie.

He did not wear a wedding ring.

Miss Carter was suspicious. Mr. Johnson seemed too young, too put together to be Principal. But she only felt that way because she was used to doddering Mr. Fereder. Mr. Johnson was 33, plenty old enough to be a Principal.

"Good afternoon," said Mr. Johnson.

At least he knows what time of day it is

, Miss Carter thought.

"Good afternoon," the teachers echoed back.

"I know you can do better than that, good afternoon!" said Mr. Johnson.

"Good afternoon!" the teachers said slightly louder.

Miss Carter scowled. She was of the opinion that speakers who needed to ask twice for a greeting should have inspired the crowd better the first time. He was not off to a promising start in her book.

"I wanted to thank you all for coming, I know it's unorthodox to announce new staff changes now," Mr. Johnson said. "But Mr. Fereder didn't want to upset the student's routine during the year, and he was also incredibly eager to begin his retirement. So, I'll be taking the reins."

For the next half hour, Mr. Johnson described his dreams for the school, which would be important if this story was about school. But this story is about sex. Suffice to say, Mr. Johnson promised a whole lot of changes while also promising not to upturn the apple cart. It was a politician's promise: everything will be the same, but better. The changes will be non-disruptive, you won't notice anything. We're going into a bright new future together, please don't blame me when things go wrong because my plan is underfunded, poorly thought out, and relies on technology that doesn't exist yet.

All in all, Miss Carter left the meeting feeling tense about the upcoming year. Mr. Johnson was as impressive as a crushed soda can on the side of the road.

If it weren't for his looks, he wouldn't have gotten this job

, she thought to herself.

Mrs. Hapsburg had said the same thing about Miss Carter when she started. Miss Carter was committing the very sin that kept turning people against her.

#

The next day, Miss Carter was grading papers at her desk. Although the students were long gone, the teachers still had to come to school for the rest of the week before they began their summer breaks.

A note on the teacher's summer breaks; many were not really breaks. Teachers were paid so poorly in Ocean View that virtually every one of Miss Carter's coworkers took a second job in the summer. Some roofed houses. Some moonlighted as house cleaners. Still more flipped burgers, often working alongside (or worse, under) the same students they had been masters of days ago. Politicians saw nothing wrong with this system, and neither did millions of voters across the country.

Miss Carter was one of the few who had summer off. She lived off the residuals from a modeling contract she'd taken when she was 22. Her face was plastered all over billboards across Appalachia and the Midwest. Ocean View had no billboards of her. Ocean View had no billboards period. In that respect, it was better than many other cities.

Miss Carter drew a red X across another lazy simile. The author had compared a punctual character to a Japanese bullet train.

Lazy, lazy, lazy,

Miss Carter thought. She flunked the paper and moved on.

The next child's essay was written by Hoobastank Spanakopita. He stated he wanted to play for the Ocean View Seamen when he grew up, Ocean View's AAA baseball team.

Miss Carter rolled her eyes. Hooba never shown an ounce of athleticism in his life. He was fat as a blue-ribbon hog with half the brains and twice the appetite. He never showed interest in baseball or sports in general. He couldn't count to nine innings. This kid was living in a fantasy world about his abilities, just like many adults, including the author of this story.

A gentle knock came at her door. She braced herself for the interruption, the lame excuse to check her out, the casual ogling. But no one came through.

The knock came again.

"Come in," said Miss Carter.

Mr. Johnson stepped through the door, dazzling her with a brilliant smile. He walked to her desk with his hand extended. He had a powerful walk, the kind of walk that said, "I'm in charge here."

"Hi, I'm Mr. Johnson," he said, taking her delicate hand in his massive paw and squeezing. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," said Miss Carter, peering at him through her black-rimmed reading glasses. He was even more handsome up close.

"English, right?" asked Mr. Johnson.

"French-Canadian, actually," said Miss Carter.

"I didn't know Ocean View Middle had French-Canadian classes," exclaimed Mr. Johnson. "Bonjour, eh?"

"No, my heritage is French-Canadian," said Miss Carter. She giggled at her misunderstanding. "I teach English, yes."

"Oh good," laughed Mr. Johnson. "For a moment I thought I had the wrong school." He strode around the classroom, studying the wall with the pictures of famous authors: Hemingway, Shakespeare, Le Guin, Austin, Melville, Cervantes, Angstrom. The big ones.

On the white board were student's attempts at haiku, a relic from last week. Mr. Johnson strode to the white board next, scratching his chin. Miss Carter followed, knowing she should try to make a good impression with her new boss. It also gave her an excuse to check him out from behind. The sight was worth standing up for.

"These works were submitted as part of the final," explained Miss Carter. "The students had to write a haiku."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," said Mr. Johnson, "But doesn't haiku follow a rigid 5-7-5 structure?"

"They do," said Miss Carter.

"Then why do so many of these have—" there was a brief pause while he counted. "Forty syllables?"

"They got confused with iambic pentameter," explained Miss Carter. "The English department in this school lacks resources."

"Apparently mathematics does too," said Mr. Johnson. He sat on a desk and leaned back, taking the white board in. Miss Carter took note of his rippling muscles, bulging through his dress shirt and slacks.

"What did you do before this?" asked Miss Carter, sitting on the next desk over and crossing her legs. Her tights stretched, giving a hint at what her skin looked like beneath the black sheathes. Mr. Johnson, ever a gentleman, watched out of his peripheral vision, keeping his eyes on the white board.

"I taught gym," said Mr. Johnson. "Easiest gig in education. Get paid to whip balls at kids all day," he joked.

"That'd wipe the smirk off their faces," said Miss Carter.

"I was kidding. Miss Carter, I get the feeling you don't like kids," said Mr. Johnson. "Are you sure that's a good trait in a teacher?"

"It's not that," said Miss Carter, turning away from him. "It's just... hard, adjusting to life in Ocean View."

"Tell me," said Mr. Johnson, eager to make a connection with his employee, but also to make a connection with an attractive woman. His animal senses were clawing at the back of his mind. Needling him. Pushing him to sniff out a mate.

Mr. Johnson was very single.

He'd spent the past several years devoting his life to children. His own education had been subpar, even by Ocean View standards. Mr. Johnson himself had passed through the Ocean View school system, but over at Ocean View West, the poorest, most neglected branch of the Ocean View school system. His science books preached the geocentric theory. Mathematics was still called Al-Jabr. And sex education was non-existent.