Mr. Jones' day hadn't been much different from Ella's. He also found himself watching the clock far too frequently. The few abbreviated classes he did teach were conducted half heartedly and half assed, his mind elsewhere. He did spy the desirable tart in the hallway after last period, clad in baggy jeans and a t-shirt, her blazing hair knotted in two beguiling braids tumbling down her back, a tantalizing taste of what was to come. It took all of his willpower to look away.
The school day ended at 2:00 pm. Jones chatted casually with a few staff members before they left, acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. He claimed he was behind in marking papers and was going to remain in his room for a while working. His colleagues publicly lauded his dedication, privately questioning his sanity.
About an hour later he went down to the front office, ostensibly to take a break, but in reality to ensure that any stragglers, including Principal Cameron, were gone. She had in fact departed soon after dismissal he was relieved to find out, knowing she was frequently one to burn the midnight oil. One by one the remaining staff eventually passed by on their way out. Paul made a note of each, engaging in some cursory small talk on occasion. It was a smallish institution, so he was at least familiar with all of his co-workers. The last person he spotted was Alan Dawson.
Mr. Dawson was the basketball coach, and when he wasn't doing that he taught geography. He wasn't much of a teacher, but he was an excellent coach. Only thirty-two, he stood six feet four inches tall, lean and in good shape. He had been a star player in college but not quite good enough to go pro, so he turned to coaching, and by default teaching. He had previously won a couple of district championships in another state, then had suddenly and unexpectedly transferred to Fillmore High.
"Hey there Mr. Jones, heading out?" he said jovially.
"Nope Al, still got some work to do upstairs," Paul answered.
"Tell me about it," the taller man replied, waving a satchel stuffed with test papers, "Any plans for the weekend?"
"Not really, just gonna take it easy I think."
"Yeah me too, if I ever get this shit finished," Dawson said, glancing down ruefully at his bag. "Well, have a good one Paul my man."
"You too Al, see you on Tuesday."
Believing he was the only soul left on the premises, Mr. Jones exhaled in relief. Just to make certain, he used the PA system to double check, feigning difficulty with the photocopier and requesting if there was anyone still around who could help. When several minutes passed with no response he knew the coast was clear.
"Fucking awesome," he said under his breath.
Sauntering back to his room on the second floor, he made a brief pit stop by the bottom of the stairwell to do one final task.
**********
Ella returned to Fillmore High School a few minutes before her scheduled “appointment” at 5:00. Peeking in the rear view mirror to make sure her makeup and lipstick were just right, she then opened the car door, effortlessly swinging her sexy legs from the driver's seat.
Standing by the automobile she smoothed out her attire, then strode proudly towards a nearby door, her head held high.
**********
Alan Dawson stopped for an iced coffee on his way home. He liked to frequent one particular establishment, the pretty barista having caught his eye. She was a young brunette, twenty-two, a senior in a nearby college, and with a rack to die for. Dawson had shamelessly flirted with her for several weeks, and she returned his attention in kind. The confident, some might say arrogant teacher figured he'd be banging her soon. Her age didn't bother him, in fact he was into younger girls, something that had forced him to leave his previous position.
He had been head coach of a winning program, but rumours were rampant that he was screwing staff, parents, and students. Dawson didn't see the problem. As long as they were of age, what did it matter? Of course administration didn't see it that way. When they got wind of what was going on they gave him a choice. Either resign and leave the state, or be the subject of a full investigation, the chips falling where they may. Dawson thought that if push came to shove he'd be issued a stern warning, given his status as the leader of such an accomplished team. He was mistaken.
So here he was, in his words, "Living in a hick town, coaching a mediocre basketball team, and teaching fucking geography." But he was still the same cocky, self possessed man. After concluding his dalliance with the young lady in the coffee shop, he returned to his car, climbing in.
"Shit," Dawson grumbled, noticing his satchel had fallen open, papers scattered on the passenger side floor.
Reaching down to gather them he was confronted by an even worse discovery.
"Fuck!"
He had inadvertently packed the wrong tests, these having already been graded. Dawson had a decision to make. He was almost home, but the school was not too far in the other direction. Cursing himself, he put the car in gear, heading back to Fillmore High.
