Page 1 of Forever the Bully
Chapter One
Hazel Miller
C-c-c-cruuuuuunch!
That sound. That terrible, awful, horrible sound. A herald of horror. Harbinger of financial doom. Reality of my klutzy existence crashing into the tangible plane of the universe in the most shittastic of ways.
Worst of all is knowing exactly what has taken place in the instantaneous seconds that have conspired to ruin my life.
Dramatic much?I chastise myself, even as I bang my forehead against the steering wheel. Not hard enough to knock myself loose from this cycle of clumsy destruction I live in. That wouldn’t be possible, sadly.
When I parked in thestaff-onlylot this morning, it had seemed like a stroke of luck to find a spot so near the doors. I hadn’t minded being right next to the ridiculously oversized pickup truck driven by the not-at-all giant-sized principal of our school.
It had felt like a laughable juxtaposition to see my Mini Cooper in all its adorable pint-sized sparkle tucked beside the hulking beast belonging to Principal Britt. The enormous tires and wide cattleguard that stretch well past the yellow lines painted on the pavement were no match for my tiny economical princess.
Now, my glittery red paint is streaked along the gleaming chrome of his truck’s rear bumper. He’ll kill me. Not even a semester into teaching and I’ll be thrown out on my ass. Fired and probably blacklisted forever. Not for being incapable of teaching creative writing to ninth graders. No. I’ll be kicked to the curb for damaging Principal Britt’s precious compensation-mobile.
A sharp rap on my window startles a scream from me. The teasing voice that follows does nothing to calm me.
“You okay there, Ms. Miller?” Jeremiah Graley, the advance placement geometry teacher, and second to last person I’m comfortable seeing my epic screw up, asks.
He’s fun to stare at with his perpetually scruffy face, penchant for wearing button-down shirts open over vintage band T-shirts featuring tours he most likely saw live, and nearly indecently worn out blue jeans. But then he opens his mouth. The students think he’s awesome. But we teachers? I mean, I haven’t been here for an entire report card cycle and I already know to steer clear of the guy.
Whenever he looks at me, there’s something about the way he squints his eyes as if he’s watching a bug attempt to disarm a missile. And the sarcasm. Seriously. Fate save me from the sarcastic way he drips condescension into every conversation we’re forced to have.
And yay me. I’m about to be forced into another conversation with him right now. An afterwork conversation. AnI don’t get paid enough to do this after the final bell ringsconversation.
I roll my window down.
“Yes, Jeremiah. I’m fine. Doesn’t it look like I’m fine? Why would I possibly not be okay? I’m perfectly okay. Perfectly perfect!”
Slightly hysterical? Yeah. But okay. Sort of. In the loosest sense of the word.
“Hostility serves no one, Ms. Miller.”
See what I mean? Pompous prick.
“Easy for you to say. Principal Britt’s not going to torch your entire life.” I’m not exaggerating, either.
Mrs. Draper in the front office told me the last creative writing instructor quit teaching entirely and took a job at one of thosedrink wine and paint four-season trees with your girlfriendsplaces because of him. Allegedly, the woman had spilled coffee on the sleeve of his coat, and he harped about it so much she finally quit just to avoid being constantly nagged about a ridiculous coffee stain.
Denting his precious truck has to be so, so much worse. Especially since, there’s zero likelihood I can pay out-of-pocket for the repairs. Nor can I afford my insurance company nailing me with a rate hike if I submit the claim to them. Bottom line, I’m screwed in the least comfortable way possible.
Chapter Two
Jeremiah Graley
“It only needs be dramatic if you permit it to be so, Ms. Miller. Just have Britt send you the invoice for the repair and move on. Things happen.”
Hazel Miller has the most expressive face of any woman I’ve ever seen, and it’s immediately obvious I’ve said something wrong. Again.. Right now, her expression is one I’d expect if she discovered the cafeteria was serving rancid dog food instead of marginally edible pizza.
“Says you. You’ve been teaching here for what? A decade? Your student loans are probably all paid off, and you’re not scrambling to afford to pay them while also hoping to buy groceries.” Her tone is scathing, and my immediate instinct is to abandon this conversation and escape her irritated scowl.
Live to fight another day and all that. I want Hazel Miller to like me, but every single time I attempt to interact with her, I seem to make her tolerate me less. Before I can make whatwill undoubtably be a poor excuse to flee the scene and follow through on it, her words register.
Hazel is worried about finances. She’s struggling? How is that possible? I know starting salaries for teachers aren’t great, but from what I know of her, she’s a single adult with no dependents. Student loans can’t possibly be eating that deeply into her wages. Sure textbooks and living expenses can be annoyingly high, but the loans are low interest and borrowers are allowed to pay them back over a long time. She should be okay, even if her parents didn’t do a great job saving for her education.
My gut doesn’t like the picture my imagination paints of Hazel being stressed about money. Especially not if this accident made her financial worries worse. This accident I know will be impossible to get Ted Britt to be rational about.
