I’m still waiting for Mr. Bridges when I remember I have his number, so I shoot him a text, reminding him of his appointment with me. And I wait. Nothing. After another thirty minutes, I figure he considers his time more valuable than mine, so I pack my stuff up to leave. I’m backing out of my classroom, pulling the door shut to lock it behind me when I walk into someone. Turning my head to see who I accidentally bumped into, I look up, and up, and don’t stop until I hit the most arresting pair of blue-green eyes in existence. Even better are the slightly parted full pink lips that lie beneath those eyes. Holy motherfucker. He runs a hand through his blondish hair that’s thick and just slightly wavy, and all I want to do is bury my fingers in it.

“Miss Monroe?” His voice is deep and raspy, almost sounding like he just woke up.

“Yes.”

“I’m Beckley Bridges, English’s father. Sorry I’m late. I was out of town and just got back,” he offers a bit brusquely as an explanation.

“Oh. Well, I was heading out, but in that case—”

“Good,” he cuts me off. “This can’t take too long.”

What? This is about your kid, for Christ’s sake.

“Um, no, but …”

“Fine.”

He looks at me expectantly. I open the door, and we walk in. We both take seats, me at my desk and he in one of the chairs I have arranged next to it. I have to pull everything out of my bag, and it takes me a minute to find it, all while he sits and thrums his fingers on the desk in an annoying manner. As I’m pulling my folders out, one gets stuck on the side of the bag, and the entire contents go flying out of my hands. All the papers end up scattered across the floor, in complete disarray. I glance up, and he arches a brow as he leans forward, rests his elbows on his crossed leg, and steeples his fingers.

Rat bastard. He’s trying to intimidate me or make fun of me. Or at least that’s the way I interpret it. I huff as I get down on my knees to retrieve the mess created. He doesn’t offer to help, but I can feel those remarkable eyes of his burning holes into my back. Dammit!

When I have all the papers back in hand, I now have to make some sense out of them. Sitting down, I proceed to go through them in search of English’s.

“Did you do this with each of the parents?” His snarky comment makes me grit my teeth.

“Yes, Mr. Bridges, I purposely dropped my entire class’s folders on the floor, threw them about so I didn’t know what was up or down, and then had to put them back in order before each meeting.” I toss him a sickly sweet grin. And as an afterthought, I add, “Oh, and that was after I waited,” I check my watch, “an extra hour and forty-five minutes for each appointment to arrive.”

“Guess I deserved that.” If I think I’m going to get another apology, I’m off the charts wrong.

I mutter a nasty comment and continue to organize my papers. When I find English’s, I pull them out and proceed.

“So, English is very bright and shows a great aptitude for vocabul—”

“Yeah, let’s cut to the chase. Tell me what I don’t know. She’s got great vocabulary, math, reasoning, blah, blah, blah, skills. What do I need to do at home?”

Before I knew what I was doing, I blurted out, “Talk less about penises, vaginas, and X-rated topics and hug her more.”

His leg drops down, and his shoulders lift and square. “Care to elucidate?”

I’ve definitely touched a nerve. A raw one. His full pink lips flatten and thin into a firm line.

The explanation I give him on the alphabet game doesn’t satisfy him. To the contrary, it further inflames him.

“So, let me get this straight. You play a game and ask for things that start with each letter. My daughter, in her innocence, supplies you with said things, and in her defense, we don’t fluff up anatomy in our home, Miss Monroe. We don’t call vaginas pee-pees, nor do we call penises wee-wees. We don’t make a fuss about them. They are what they are. So, when she answers you, this is what happens?”

I quickly shrivel like a flower in the Georgia August sun directly in front of this man. Now I must find a way to gain my confidence back. “The point is, Mr. Bridges, English can’t be saying those things in class.”

“No, Miss Monroe, the point is, if your students say things such as that, you need to be better prepared to handle them. Is this the best they can do for teachers these days?” he mumbles. Only it’s loud enough for me to pick up on. All the confidence and faith I’ve built over the past few weeks is utterly shattered by a few carelessly muttered words.

His eyes spear me as he asks, “Is there anything else on your agenda for English, because if we’re going to discuss this kind of drivel, I consider this meeting concluded.”

There isn’t a thing in the world that comes to mind for me to say to this horrid man. Beckley Bridges is the world’s biggest prick.

Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but I push them away, forcing myself to smile and shake my head. He stands, and without so much as a single syllable, strides out of the room. I didn’t even get him to sign the form he was supposed to because I don’t trust myself to speak. Oh my gosh. I am stunned, glued to my seat, and it’s not until an hour later that I find the energy to get up and leave.

When I get home, my hand still trembles as I slowly turn the handle to open the door. Michelle sits there waiting.

“Another stellar night of meetings for teacher of the year?” her cheery voice asks.

My hand covers my mouth as I keep repeating in my head, you will not cry, you will not cry. I rein it in and vigorously shake my head.

She sits straight up on the couch. “What the hell happened?” She wants to know.

The bits and pieces edge their way out, and she’s every bit as shocked as I am.

“See, this is when I need my mom or dad. They would advise me on what to do.” My hands clench, and I swear I want to punch the guy.

“Maybe he had a bad day?” she volunteers in a weak voice.

“Oh, Michelle, what am I going to do? I have to call him back because I didn’t get him to sign English’s paper. I don’t know if I can be civil to the assface.”

She massages her forehead and says, “Can you send it home with the little girl? My teachers used to do that kind of thing all the time.”

Pulling off my glasses, I pinch the bridge of my nose to ease the ache that’s there. “I’ll need to discuss this with my principal. I hope she doesn’t think I’m incapable of handling these types of things.”

“How can she? He didn’t give you a chance.”

The next morning, I arrive at school early with the hopes of catching Susan to discuss my little issue. When I explain, I almost have to close her mouth for her.

“He did what?” she asks at last.

“You heard me correctly. I don’t know exactly how to handle him.” Because he’s a shithead and I hate him.

Her pen slams the desk for a few seconds, and then she says, “Let’s send the form home for him to sign with the student. She’s very bright, correct?”

“Yes. And the word game was done in all innocence. I shouldn’t have mentioned it to him in retrospect, but I let him provoke me, and that was my fault.”

“I can see why you’re angry. He shows up so late, which by the way, I would’ve been long gone, and then is such a smartass with you. Maybe you shouldn’t have brought that up, but you’d think he’d want to hear how awesome his kid was doing.”

“I agree. Or that’s what all the other parents were interested in.”

“Oh, by the way, your reports are fantastic. Listen, don’t let this get the best of you. Keep doing what you’re doing, and that’s being an excellent teacher. You have a genuine concern for your students. This will pass, Sheridan.”

Susan makes me feel a bit better about the situation, but I can’t shake the negative mood his encounter has shrouded me in.

My students’ cheery faces perk me up, and the day is running well until activity time on the playground. It all starts innocently enough when English is play sword fighting with the boys. She’s not one to hang out with the other girls much. It’s usually a sports activity for her. But somehow she’s found a stick, and I see it all happen in slow motion. She takes the stick and holds it with both hands, swings around, and acts like she’s slicing off one of her classmate’s heads. It’s all intended to be playful, but the stick has a pointed edge, and it accidentally cuts the boy’s neck. Even though it’s superficial, he grabs his neck and starts screaming, “My head is falling off!”

Then all hell breaks loose. Teachers run from all corners, including me, to examine the wailing boy, and English is telling him to, “Buck up,” and that it’s only a scratch. Then she proceeds to tell him to, “Quit being such a sissy pants and act like you’re wearing big boy panties.”

The truth is, I want to roll on the playground and die laughing because she’s right. I’m wondering if Jordan isn’t exaggerating just for the extra attention. Susan takes Jordan by the hand and walks him to the nurse’s office. Now I need to have a chat with English.

“English, where did you get that stick?”

“Over there.” She points to an area that’s off limits.

“You know you’re not supposed to go over there, don’t you?”

Her lower lip pokes out, and she bobs her head.

“Then why did you do it?”

“I wanted to get the stick so I could play with it like on Star Wars.”

Ahh, she was acting like it was a light saber. “Okay, but you still did something wrong. You understand that, right?”

“I was only play acting. And Jordan is a baby.”

I hold my hand out so she can give me the stick. “See the sharp edges on it? That’s why it hurt him. Sometimes things that don’t look dangerous can hurt others.”

“I don’t think he was really hurt. It was only a scratch. I get those all the time.”

“Yes, but it could’ve been worse. And maybe your scratches don’t hurt you as much as Jordan’s hurt him.”

“Jordan is mean to me.”

“Why haven’t you told me this before?”

“Because it’s not good to be a tattletale.”

I’m going to have to keep an eye on little Jordan. I hold out my hand, and English puts hers in it. “How about you come with me?” We go inside to Susan’s office where I give her my rendition of the story. She tells me Jordan insisted the nurse call his mother, which she would’ve done anyway.

When Mrs. McLean arrives, I expect her to be like any normal parent—brush it aside and move on. It’s nothing but a red welt by this time. In the morning, it will probably be gone. But no. She wants English’s parents called. Susan and I look at each other, and her eyes roll while my nostrils flare. Jordan seems to be the prima donna here.

“Sheridan, I can call him if you’d like,” Susan offers.

“No, that’s fine. I’ll do it.” To be perfectly honest, I’d rather jam bamboo under my fingernails, but I have no other choice than to make the call. I walk back to my classroom and find my phone to do the dreaded deed.