Date: Mon, 14 Jun 2010 00:56:04 -0500
From: Scott Turner <scotty.13411@gmail.com>
Subject: Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned-Chapter 6

   Lessons Taught, Lessons Learned
    By Scott Turner

   Chapter Six

Disclaimer: This story is complete fiction.  It occasionally depicts
consensual sexual activity between adult men.  If this is not your cup of
tea, is illegal where you are or if your parents don't want you to possess
or read such material, then please find another story or website. What
follows is copyrighted by the author, © 2010, and may not be reposted,
reproduced or published without the expressed written consent of the
author.


     Scott needed a fierce squint to shield his eyes as he grasped the
handle of the office door.  The slowly setting September sun bounced off
the building's snow white exterior and expansive front windows, assaulting
his face.  He was surprised by the door's heft as he tugged the handle
outward.  Stepping across the threshold, he blinked into the dim sanctuary
of Attorney Bedford's waiting room.  An electronic chime drew his attention
to the glass partition between the cozy anteroom and the receptionist.  He
quickly glanced around, letting his eyes adjust.  Slatted wood blinds on
the windows protected the mahogany leather couch and loveseat from the
brash sunlight, casting bright white stripes across the oval coffee table,
adorned with fanned out copies of Country Living, The New Republic, Food
and Wine and the edges of a few others with obscured titles.
     The attractive redhead looked up and smiled as she slid the glass pane
to the side.  "May I help you, sir?"
     Scott took two steps forward and leaned forward at the waist,
answering her invitation with a shy grin.  "Uhm, I think so.  I don't have
an appointment, but I wondered if Mr. Bedford might be available."
     She glanced over her shoulder toward a hallway exiting the rear of the
spacious inner office and then quickly scanned the panel of her phone.  "It
appears he's not occupied.  Can I tell him who's here or what it concerns?"
     Scott nervously shifted his weight from the right to the left foot and
he shrugged a shoulder.  "Well, it's only a social call.  I'm Scott Turner.
I met Mr. Bedford last week at the Kiwanis Club meeting and he said to stop
by if I was in the neighborhood.  And today I was, so I..."
     She smiled softly and nodded once before picking up the phone.  After
punching a few numbers, her eyes took in Scott with obvious approval before
attending again to the receiver.  "Mr. Bedford?  Mr. Scott Turner is here
to see you, if you're free."
     Before she could look up again and say "he'll be right with you," the
faint clicks of a distant door caught his ear.  He glanced over the red
hair just in time to see Jonathan emerge from the shadows.  He wore
charcoal gray pleated pants and vest.  The white shirt, lightly starched,
bore sharp creases up each sleeve, rolled up to mid forearm, and the red
silk tie was loosened an inch or so below his unbuttoned collar.  His eyes
were a bright complement to the solicitous smile.  Jonathan swung open the
door to the waiting room and thrust out a hand.  "Scott!"  It sounded like
Scawt.  "Glad you stopped by!  To what do I owe the honor?  Not business, I
hope."
     Scott accepted the handshake, gave into the tug through the doorway
and returned the smile.  "Nope.  Just doing a little shopping in the
neighborhood and thought I'd stick my head in and say hey."
     Jonathan leaned back on a vacant desk.  "I was worried you might want
to give me the business for the verbal accosting I gave you in front of New
Allsted's finest the other day.  I suppose I should apologize for that."
     Scott brushed it away with a subtle wave.  "No problem.  All in fun.
Sorry I didn't call first, but you'd said they have good pie and coffee
across the street.  I skipped lunch today."  He patted his flat stomach,
"And my belly's telling me to do something about it.  I have a couple hours
before heading back up to school for tonight's football game."  Then he
paused.  "If your calendar's full, that's okay..."
     Jonathan checked his watch, thought for a second and then nodded his
head.  "Tell you what.  I got a couple of clients coming in around six and
need to make just one phone call right about now.  You go and grab a booth
over there and I'll take care of this doofus on the other end of this thing
in a few minutes.  That should give me about an hour to take a break."  He
looked at his secretary.  "Theresa, my dear, you don't mind if I take an
hour off today, do you?"
     She and shrugged then grinned.  "I guess you've earned it.  You
skipped lunch today too."  Then she put on a stern face, obviously phony.
"But it's Friday, remember, and I'm leaving in a half hour."
     Jonathan matched her playful earnestness.  "Then I'll take my keys
with me so I don't get locked out again."  He looked at Scott and rolled
his eyes.  "You have no idea how many times I've gotten myself locked out
of my own office and had to call this sweetheart at home to come back and
let me in."
     She reached for the ringing phone and glanced up with just her eyes.
"Seven times."  Then she picked up the receiver.  "Bedford Law Office.  How
may I help you?"
     Both men's voices hushed and Scott stifled a snicker.  "I'll go grab a
table and order a couple of coffees.  You go take care of your doofus and
come on over when you can."
     Jonathan gave him a nod and a tap on the shoulder before turning
toward his office.  "Sounds good."  He turned back around and mouthed to
Theresa.  "No calls.  Take a message."
     Fifteen minutes later, Jonathan slid into the booth across from Scott.
He smiled and sighed.  "Good to see you, Scott.  Missed you at Kiwanis
yesterday."
     Scott slid forward on the shiny vinyl bench.  "Yeah.  I'd planned to
be there but ran in to some technical issues with the copy machine
Wednesday afternoon, so I had to go into school early."  Jonathan's eyes
frowned a hint of sympathy before Scott asked, "Take care of the doofus on
the phone?"
     Jonathan rocked a bit left and right, apparently trying to adjust his
butt to the surface of the seat and grinned.  "He's got `til the end of
business tomorrow to decide whether or not he wants me to hand him his ass
in front of a judge and jury in a couple months and ruin his holidays."
     The scary looking woman who had seated Scott and poured his coffee
appeared to be about sixty.  Most of her hair was still black, but was
streaked with slivers of silver and pulled tightly back along the sides
into a bun on the back of her round head.  Every feature above the neck
gave way to either bags or jowls.  Dark eyes darted back and forth amid
puffs of flesh before she grunted.  "Oh, I didn't know it was Jonathan
gonna be joining you."  She tapped the eraser of a stubby pencil on her
pad.
     Jonathan looked to his right and up, grinning.  "Ada, my dear!  Ya'
miss me?  You've been well, I hope, and the lovely Miss Sara?"
     She scoffed.  "Well, it's been a couple weeks since you been in.  I'm
about the same.  Sara's another story.  Said to say hi, IF I saw you
anytime soon."
     "Sorry, hon.  I've missed you too." He motioned toward Scott.  Ada
Mercheson, this is Scott Turner, the newest member of our high school's
faculty.
     Scott nodded and smiled as he hoisted his mug an inch.  "Nice to meet
you ma'am.  Great coffee."
     She sniffed.  "Thanks.  Good to know you."  She looked back at
Jonathan.  "Usual?  Or you want menus?"
     "You know me, dear.  Too early for dinner and I know that menu almost
as well as you do.  I'll just have the same old, same old."  He glanced at
Scott.  "A slice of her fresh strawberry-rhubarb pie, warmed, with a scoop
of vanilla is ab-so-lute-ly heaven!"
     Doubt flashed in Scott's eyes with a quick squint.  "Fresh
strawberry-rhubarb?  We're coming up on mid-September."
     Ada snorted at the novice.  "Wonderful invention called the freezer.
We make up a few hundred pies every June.  You're lucky there's still some
left."
     Scott blushed.  "Then I'll have what he's having.  Uhm, warmed, with a
scoop of vanilla please."
     Ada clicked her teeth.  "Gotcha."
     Scott smirked as Ada headed for the swinging door to the kitchen.  "I
suppose you're on a first name with all the staff here?"
     Jonathan snickered as the door flapped out a dull cadence.  "Actually
she's not staff.  She owns the place."
     Scott's brows knit as he glanced out the window.  "But the sign out
front says Abner's."
     Jonathan brushed a wavy lock of hair back from his forehead.  "Abner
Mercheson is Ada's ex."  He tugged on the knot of his necktie and stretched
his neck a bit.  "Thanks to the sharply-honed skills of her brilliant
divorce lawyer, Abner Mercheson is no longer part of the equation around
here.  It'd been `Abner's' for a quarter century, so no sense in changing
the name.  She's the only competition downtown for Gustavson's.  They divvy
up the trade pretty good, with Mr. Gustavson grabbing up the breakfast
crowd.  Ada gets the late afternoon and dinner group and they share the
lunch trade pretty evenly."
     Scott coughed on his sip of coffee.  "Someone actually married her
once?"
     Jonathan laughed.  "Yeah, ain't it a hoot?  Abner and Ada were
together over thirty years."  He glanced warily toward the kitchen again,
looked back at Scott and winced with a whisper.  "Like my Uncle Thomas used
to say, `you could throw that woman in the pond and you'd be skimmin' ugly
off the surface for a month.'"
     Scott scrunched his eyes tight and laughed in concert with a slap on
the table.  "Great line!"
     Jonathan grinned.  "All things considered, which is a whole `nother
story, she actually seems in pretty good humor today."  He glanced back
toward the kitchen with what looked like some caution, then looked back
with the same smile.  "But beneath that jaundiced shell of hers is a sweet
heart as big as this dining room.  Really is a wonderful woman and a
devoted mother.  Her daughter, Sara, is an absolute goddess with the gift
of a free and giving spirit.  The Almighty must'a set aside the whole
genetic thing when He designed the lovely Sara Mercheson.  Unlike her
mother, she's as beautiful outside as in.  A guy can't help but fall in
love with the girl."
     Scott swallowed nothing in particular and blinked twice.  Shit.  Shit,
shit, shit.
     The lawyer leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.  "So,
Mr. Turner, how is New Allsted treating you?  The kids giving you fits
yet?"
     Scott shook his head.  "I'm loving it.  A few of the kids are giving
me...oh, something less than fits, I suppose, but the staff at the high
school is great and I'm really having fun.  Actually, the town reminds me a
lot of my own hometown north of here, and the kids are...well, hell,
they're kids acting like kids."
     Jonathan's attention was rapt, nearly intimidating in its intensity.
A bystander might have suspected that Scott Turner, Jr. was unveiling some
deep cosmic secret that Jonathan had been puzzling over for ages.  The
young teacher suddenly felt like he was the only other person in the small
restaurant.
     Ada set down their plates of pie and ice cream.  "Be right back with
some more coffee."
     Jonathan looked up at her again.  "Thank you hon', and could you bring
us a pot?"
     She clicked her teeth with a nod, humphed and left.
     Scott shifted his weight and plopped his elbows on the table top,
clearing his throat.  "So, anyway, I made good on the drop-in.  Now you
have to tell me."  Jonathan arched one brow as he sliced through the pie as
Scott picked up his fork and pointed.  "But I've been curious since we met.
Just how does a `son of the sovereign commonwealth of Virginia' wind up in,
of all places, New Allsted Wisconsin?"
     Jonathan sighed and scratched his head.  "Well it's kind of you to
wonder."  He chuckled through the corner of his upturned lips.  "And, I
guess it is kind of a wonder at that."  He thought for a moment and said,
"Let's see...the Jonathan Bedford story in a nutshell: I was born and
raised in the west end of Virginia, but the family tree's roots reach back
to Tennessee.  That's where a lot of my people are from.  If ya' look back
in the lineage far enough and you, being a history guy and all, ya' just
might find a name or two you'd recognize, coming out of Tennessee that is,
but most of my closest relations are Virginians.  Not FFV, mind you, but
Virginians through and through."
     Scott grabbed his lower lip between his teeth and pondered the puzzle.
`Bedford...Tennessee.'  Jonathan leaned back with a smirk and Scott again
felt the lawyer's scrutiny.  "Nothing jumps out right away, but then my
strong suits are in the founding era and in more modern
history—twentieth century mostly.  Gimme a hint."
     An impish grin slid between his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee.
"No sir.  You're the scholar here.  Figure it out.
     Scott mulled it for another few seconds, quickly coming back to the
present.  "But you haven't answered my question.  How in the hell did you
land here, of all places."
     Jonathan had just shoveled another mouthful of pie and ice cream in
and held up a hand to ask for time to respond.  A dab of cream clung to his
upper lip and whiskers.  He licked it off with the tip of his tongue and
sighed.  "Well, like I said, my father was born in Tennessee, but his
father—my granddad—moved his wife and kids back to be with his own
family in Virginia about fifty years ago.  That's where father met my
mother.  Grandpa had bought some land, and then some more and then a little
more, and when he passed on my old man came into one of the bigger tobacco
farms in Lee county, place called Pennington Gap.  It's hardly a huge
concern, by Virginia standards, but big enough.  I grew up there with my
two brothers and a sister.  I hated tobacco farming, so I saw to it that I
could get out of high school by the age of 16.
     "You didn't graduate?  How the hell..."
     "Oh, I graduated alright.  Would have been first in my class if not
for my age.  Local policy said that thirteen grades, if you count
kindergarten, had to be completed in order to be in the running for
valedictorian.  So, since I'd earned all the credits I needed, and there's
nothing in being valedictorian besides the braggin' rights, I just took my
diploma and headed for Charlottesville."  He leaned over and in the hushed
tone of a confession added, "I was, uh, I guess what you'd call a child
prodigy.  School always bored me `til I got to college.  I started my
undergrad work at UVA that year.  Lived with my aunt out in Farmington, a
few miles away, and after dabbling in a number of academic disciplines,
finally decided to major in philosophy."  He snickered and his eyes smiled
along.  "Heh.  Most of my life, most of my family thought I was just a
little bit nuts."  He sucked on his fork as his face registered some
satisfaction.  After a moment's reflection he came back to Abner's.
"Majoring in philosophy seemed to confirm it."
     Scott rolled his eyes.  "Started college at 16?  Aw, Jeez!  Studying
philosophy at Mr. Jefferson's university at any age...that's a frickin'
dream!  I'd love to just visit there and sit in his library.  I'd just
close my eyes and soak up the atmosphere.  You know, just try to sort of
commune with him."
     Jonathan answered Scott's reverence with an admiring chuckle.  "Oh,
he's there.  Trust me."
     Scott leaned over.  "And then what?  I mean, that's still a far cry
from small town Wisconsin."
     Jonathan shrugged.  "Well, I finished my bachelor's degree in three
years, did pretty well on my LSAT and got myself accepted to a few law
schools.  Meantime, I had a final falling out with most of my family, and
my father said he'd pay for the law school, but the further away the
better.  So I told him to stick his money where the sun don't shine, `cuz
Michigan had offered a nice scholarship.  But the greater distance set just
fine with me and I made a bee line for Ann Arbor."
     Scott was saddened, curious about the rift, but didn't pry.  He just
nodded.  "Good law school there."
     "Better'n most.  And in my last year with U of M, I clerked for one of
the justices on their state supreme court.  He was a real fossil and
usually a prick to boot, but the résumé boost it gave me landed me a good
job with a big firm in Lansing.  And that just plain sucked."
     Scott cocked his head.  "How so?"
     Jonathan laughed.  "The money was good, for a first year practitioner,
but it was all corporate crap and a lot of grunt work.  Most of what they
had me doing was cover-your-ass minutiae for business clients who were
afraid of being sued, or who wanted to sue somebody back, and a lot of the
hooey the partners sent me to do could've been done by any paralegal with
half a brain.  I started hankering for the courtroom.  That's what I'd had
in mind when I started law school anyway.  Yearned for the life of the
advocate; the intellectual gladiator in the arena, not the i-dotter and
t-crosser in a windowless office."  He picked up half the crust on his
plate and popped it into his mouth, chewing on it slowly and washing it
down with ice water.  "So, a couple a summers ago, I visited a law school
friend of mine up in Madison.  Fell in love with the place.  A month later,
I took some vacation time and came back and spent four days driving around
these parts."  He tapped both index fingers on the table, "and I came into
this place for lunch one day."  He pointed to the lunch counter about
twenty feet away.  "I was eatin' Abner's meatloaf...wonderful stuff, by the
way, and the recipe hasn't changed...and I overheard a couple of guys
bitching and moaning about not being able to find a decent attorney in
town, or in the county for that matter.  The one guy said he had to go to
Janesville or Madison to meet with a lawyer to handle his suit against the
county.  He was all riled up that they were illegally interceding on his
property and threatening to just take it if he didn't shut up and roll
over.  He was wailing that the county was going to put him and his farm out
of business."
     He pushed his plate to the side and refilled both mugs again.  Then he
leaned over the table and squinted.  "Well, at first, I was skeptical to
say the least.  Couldn't find a decent lawyer?  Ya' can't swing a dead cat
around without hitting a lawyer who's looking for a good, money-makin'
case.  So, I struck up a conversation with the aggrieved gentleman, took
his claim, went before the judge and got a delay that'd give me time to
quit the old job and relocate here.  I hung out a shingle, as we say, and
then got a half-million dollar settlement.  And old Mr. Schimmel still owns
his land."  He shrugged nonchalantly.  "Made a bit of a name for myself in
these parts at the same time.  Biggest settlement this county board's ever
agreed to, and taught them all a thing or two about the limitations to the
principle of eminent domain."  He shrugged again.  "Right place, right
time, I guess.  Ever since, I've been in general practice right across the
street."
     Scott laughed through his nose as he chewed and swallowed his last bit
of pie.  "What a great story.  That takes a set of balls.  Quit a job
almost blind to what's ahead except for one client."
     Jonathan looked at the ceiling.  "Well, a relationship in Lansing had
just gone to Hell in handbasket, so there was more than just grit and
gumption to motivate me.  Bruised ego and a wounded heart helped."
     Again, Scott wanted to pry, but didn't.  Instead, he looked around.
"And it all started right here."  He pointed a thumb toward the front
window.  "Is that why you leased the office over there?"
     Jonathan shook his head.  "Leased?  Hell, I bought the building.  The
two accountants upstairs are leasing space from me."  He winked.  "But yes,
I'm happy to say my balls have served me well."  It looked to Scott like a
leer in his eyes.  "Still do."  He raised a mug in salute.
     Scott coughed again, wiped his lips, and then dropped the crumpled
napkin on his plate.  He was fascinated not only by Jonathan's story, but
also by his animated face.  He was incredibly handsome, but every thought
that spilled from between his lips brought with it it's own perfect move of
the eyes or the brows or the cheeks.  He thought, this man must be deadly
in front of jury.
     Jonathan leaned back and propped his elbows on the back of the booth.
"And, Scott Turner, what's your story?"
     Scott shook his head.  "Aw Jeez.  You know how many times I've had to
go through this in the last couple of months?  Job interview, new town, new
colleagues, interview for the paper, giving everybody my bio...Jesus!  I'm
getting tired of myself!"  He laughed.  "And nobody who knows me very well
would think that's possible."
     Jonathan laughed with him.  "C'mon now.  I asked for it, so it's not
all about ego."  He wiggled his brows playfully.  "I told you mine, now you
tell me yours."  His smirk lingered as their eyes locked for a second.
     Scott fought a grin and sighed.  "Okay, I'll give you the short
version, `cuz you have to get back for the clients that are coming in.  I
grew up almost three hours northwest of here, not far from LaCrosse.
Plenty of farms in the area, but none that grew tobacco.  I'm an only
child.  Like I said, my dad's a lawyer and mom's an interior decorator."
     Jonathan interrupted.  "I heard tell that your father's a politician
as well?  Senator Scott Turner?  That would make you a junior?"
     Scott just nodded.  "State senator.  Elected to his first term two
years ago.  And, yep, I'm Scott, Jr., `Scotty' to family and a few friends.
Anyway, I was the all-American boy in high school: student government and
all that crap, played some baseball and then went to UW after I graduated.
Of course, I had to stay in high school until the usual age. I had pretty
serious thoughts of law school myself at the time, and really had a career
in politics or government in mind when I started out in Madison.  But I
took a turn toward the school of education about half-way through.  I
worked in the state senate for about a year and dabbled in student
government my first couple years.  I still have several friends up there
and love to get back to the city whenever I can."  Then his eyes really
gleamed.  "And, I have a spanking new pair of season tickets on the
thirty-yard line for Badger football games, if you ever want to take one
in."
     Jonathan smiled politely.  "Well, from what little I know of you, the
calling to education fits you well.  It's a nobler high road you're
starting out on, and we're already hearing great things around town.  That
piece in the paper the other day sure set the bar high for you.  I'm sure
you'll measure up.
     Scott blushed a bit, and Jonathan changed direction.  "Well, that
really is the `Reader's Digest' version of the Scott Turner, Jr. story, but
it'll do...for now."  He paused again.  "Truth is, I've never been much of
a sports fan, but I guess you're never too old to learn.  Let me know when
you have an extra seat to share at a home game.  Maybe you can teach me a
thing or two about the game."  A coy smile crawled beneath his moustache.
"I don't know the difference between a wide receiver and a tight end."
     Scott fought to squelch a half-dozen untoward responses.  Finally, his
face registered some innocent surprise.  "You look like you're quite the
athlete.  I would have thought..."
     Jonathan's head shook quickly.  "Naw.  I mean, I do run and I work out
at the Y.  But their facility here in town is kind of dinky.  I watch my
diet and take care of myself.  But I've never been much of a jock.  My
solitary time away from the job leans toward good music, good books, good
wine and good food."  Then he added.  "And good company, when I can find
it."
     Scott raised his mug.  "Then it's all good."  He drained what was left
of his coffee.  "I'll let you know about that football game.  The Badgers
are away the next two weekends, but Ohio State is coming up to Madison
after that.  Check your calendar.  First Saturday in October. I haven't
offered the other ticket to anybody else yet.  Let me know."
     Ada put down their tab and Scott snatched it.  Jonathan tried to
protest, but Scott insisted.  "My idea.  My invitation.  My treat."
     Jonathan acceded.  "Well, if you'll recall, the idea was mine.
Today's invitation was yours.  Then I'll get the tip."
     Looking around the place Scott grinned.  "I'd say you already gave
that old gal a hell of a tip.  She owns this little gold mine."
     Jonathan winked.  "Yeah, but she's paying me pretty nicely for it."
     As they slid out of the booth in tandem, Jonathan asked, "So, you
gonna join the Kiwanis Club?"
     Scott shrugged.  "I've thought about it.  It's a pretty old crowd, but
an hour once a week wouldn't do me any harm.  And I think Jim Daley has a
point.  It'd probably do me some good to get to know a few folks outside of
the school system."
     Jonathan winked.  "And you'd get to have breakfast once a week with
this good old southern boy.  Now, if I could only get the restaurant to add
grits to the menu."
     Scott laughed.  "In Wisconsin?  Fat chance."  He scooped up the bill
and nodded to the short hall behind their booth.  "I need to visit the
gent's room and then I'll meet you up at the register."
     Standing at the urinal, Scott's was happy to give his chubbing member
a breath of fresh air.  `Don't get ahead of yourself, buddy,' he scolded
his swollen tool.  `The guy's hotter'n hell, has Matthew McConougly good
looks and charm, sharp as a razor, felt like he could be interested in us,
but...'  The door to the bathroom opened and Scott quickly tended to the
finishing touches with a couple shakes and gentle squeeze.  He nodded with
a grin at the young face he recognized from the halls at school as he
stepped toward the sink.  The pimply-faced kid averted his eyes, obviously
unaccustomed to running into a teacher outside the hallowed halls of the
school building.  He remembered that Jim Daly commenting, "a lot of the
kids seem to think that we just appear in our classrooms at seven and then,
`poof' just disappear at four.  It doesn't occur to many that we have lives
away from school."  Such appeared to be the case with this young lad.
Scott was amused.
     After washing his hands, he strolled toward the front counter.
Jonathan was leaning on the counter next to the till, opposite Ada.  A
busboy had stepped in to man the cash register, and was focused on counting
the exact change with his austere boss right behind him.  As he neared, he
heard Ada scoff, "Much trouble?  Are you in much trouble?  You being a
lawyer makes me think your idea of `much trouble' and mine aren't even
related.  You know I'm not one to intrude.  Besides, you created this
little...whatever it is...all on your own."
     The lawyer's brows shot up.  "I know that, well, sort of.  But just
explain to her how busy I've been the past couple weeks.  This is the
farthest I've been from my desk or the courtroom in days!"
     Scott handed the busboy a twenty and tried to focus his attention on
the lad in front of him rather than the conversation to his side.  "I'm not
your message girl, you tell her.  You started this...whatever it is.  You
manage it.  You fix it.  You do whatever it is you do.  You've got her
number."
     "She's just trying to make me feel guilty."  He glanced up at Ada.
"Tell her it's working and that I'll give her a call as soon as I can."
     Scott took his change from the lad, another face he recognized from
the high school, but whose name was unknown.  The kid grinned.  "There ya'
go Mr. Turner.  Thanks.  Have a great weekend."
     Scott turned and questioned `Ready?' with his eyes.
     Jonathan nodded, first to Ada then to Scott.  He emitted a sigh and
sense of relief as Scott pushed the door open.  Before he could say
anything, Jonathan chuckled a light laugh.  "The gal's daughter, Sara.
Feeling neglected.  Long story."  His eyes darted across the street at the
young couple standing outside his door.  "Maybe another time.  I'm afraid
duty calls."
     Once outside on the sidewalk, Scott glanced across the street.
Standing face to face, Scott asked with some sarcasm, "Did you remember
your key?"
     Jonathan patted his hip pocket and nodded with a bright smile.  "Give
me a call about that game.  I've never been to Camp Randall, but I've heard
that game day in Madison can be fun."
     They parted, each with a smile on his face.  Scott's was forced.


     * * *

     He dug his hands deep in his pocket on his way across the parking lot
and hunched his shoulders.  It was an unusually cool night for
mid-September and a brisk breeze bore down on new Allsted from the north.
He bit his lip.  Let's see.  He's brilliant, has enough charm and
personality to feed a village of depression victims, has a body by
Michelangelo, looks to drool over.  And it seems he loves the daughter of
one of the homeliest women I've ever laid eyes on.  He looked to the sky
and muttered, "You're just fuckin' with me again, aren't you?"  But I need
a lawyer for mock trial and he's the only one in town I know.  Well, there
is Victoria Ripley, but she's on the school board and would've volunteered
if she actually wanted to do the work.  Nah, she just wants it to get done.
Besides, she seems pretty plastic.  Don't think I'd want to work with her
any more than I have to.  Nope.  Jonathan and I would work well together.
We already get along great.  Bedford?  Hmmmm.  I gotta look into the name.
He'd be impressed if it really takes some digging.  Said it was a history
thing.  I teach history.  Should probably know this.  I'll bet he's hung
like a donkey.  How the hell can Sara Mercheson be good lookin'?  Abner
must be hot.
     Millie was taking tickets at the gate.  He flashed his faculty ID. It
seemed silly to him, but she'd explained in no uncertain terms that it was
especially important for the new staff members to show it.  "I don't know
the new elementary and middle school teachers yet.  Have to treat you all
the same.  Besides, how would it look to the paying public if it appeared I
was letting some people get into a game without buying a ticket?"  Part of
him was surprised she didn't take it and make sure it was his name on it,
but she was a bit preoccupied by a group of elementary kids running around
near the concession stand.
     He smiled and nodded at a dozen different students, some of whose
names he was still struggling to remember.  From the handicapped and senior
citizen section, Zach called his name and waved as he walked past.  He
turned and gave the young couple a thumbs up.  Zach's girlfriend, Kayla,
grinned shyly and waved.  Michael and Natalie Jacoby sat not far away at
the end of the bleachers where most of the parents sat, as far as possible
from the other end and the rowdier student crowd.
      Jim Daley shouted his name from a third of the way up the mid section
and he and Helen scooched to the right indicating there was room next to
them.  He smiled, nodded and ambled up the stairs following his mentor's
directions.
     As he eased onto the bench, Helen spoke first.  "Someone's been
looking for you, Scott."  Her knowing, nosy grin told the story.
     Jim nodded.  "We ran into Tara down by concessions and she asked if
we'd seen you.  I told her I thought you were around somewhere or that
you'd be showing up sooner or later."
     Scott nodded and pulled his collar up against the sharp breeze.
"Jeeze, that wind is raw.  Yeah, I stopped down to see Jonathan Bedford
after school today.  Wanted to see if he might be interested in helping out
with the mock trial team.  Then I ran home to take care of the pets and
grab a bite to eat."
     "Bedford, huh?"
     "Yeah.  He seems like a great guy.  I think he'd be able to work with
kids and can teach areas of the law that are above my head."
     "Isn't Vicky Ripley trying to hunt down a legal volunteer for your
group?"
     "Yeah, she said she would, but I already kinda know Jonathan and think
he'd be great with the kids."
     "What'd he say?"
     Scott shook his head.  "Kinda funny.  We got shooting the breeze about
so much other stuff that I actually never got around to asking him."
     Jim sipped his coffee and said nothing.  Helen interrupted, "You have
pets, Scott?"
     He felt strangely relieved for the topic change.  "Yep.  A
three-year-old chocolate lab and the fattest cat in the world."
     "Oooh, I love labs.  What's his name, her name?"
     "It's his name, and it's Brett.  Brett the Dog."
     Helen's grin was quizzical, quirky.  "Brett?  For a dog?"
     Jim patted her hand.  "It's a long story, dear.  A good one, but I'll
explain it to you later. "
     Helen looked past Scott and grinned, her brows raised.  Scott turned
at her cue and looked directly into a tall, steaming Styrofoam cup.  Tara
giggled.  "Hot chocolate.  I saw you from down there and you looked cold."
     Scott smiled back and nodded, carefully taking the cup and moving
another inch or two toward Jim.  She wiggled her way in between Scott's
right hip and a burly gentleman wearing bib overalls over a flannel shirt.
Scott caught the guy's eyes following Tara's butt as it barely found room
between the two of them.  The large local didn't mind one bit.
     The Ramblin' Raiders lost a tough one on a field goal with just
fifteen seconds left on the clock.  As Scott and Tara walked together
toward the gate, she nudged his shoulder with hers.  "If you'd like to stop
and have a drink or whatever to end the week, there's a nice place a couple
miles west of here.  It's a younger crowd, compared to the Essen Haus, and
not as busy after a football game.  Not all school folks and we don't have
to talk all about work.  Want to join me?"
     Scott thought for a second and shrugged.  "Yeah.  Been a long week,
and a long day.  I could use a belt or two."
     "Good.  It's called Champs.  On the right about a half mile past the
Episcopal Church."
     Scott thumbed at the parking lot across from the field.  "I got here
late so I parked over there in the Army Reserve lot.  I know where it is.
I'll just meet you out there."
     Scott was at the bar sipping a beer when Tara walked in.  She plopped
onto the stool next to him and dropped her purse on the bar.  She nodded
and waved at the bartender.  "Hi, Freddie.  You still here?"
     Freddie was a stout forty-something with closely shaved graying hair
in the shape of a horseshoe around a shiny crown.  He had a ready smile.
"Everybody has to be somewhere, Tara.  Wouldn't be anyplace else.  How's
the teaching thing working out for you?"
     She beamed.  "Oh, it's great!  Everything I'd hoped for."  She
motioned toward Scott.  "Freddie Mulvaney, this is Scott Turner, our new
history and government guy.
     Freddie extended a thick hand, difficult for Scott to wrap in his own.
"Good to meet you, Freddie."
     "Back atcha, Scott.  History, government, huh?.  God I hated that
stuff!"
     Scott held tight to a mouthful of brew and nodded.  He swallowed and
wiped his lips.  "Most of `em do, Freddie.  The tough part is to get `em to
not hate it.  If they tolerate it, it's a good day."
     The barkeep nodded but his smile turned into a scowl in a flash.
Scott was relieved to calculate that the bartender was glaring past him,
over his shoulder.  He bellowed, "God damn it, Kink!  If I have to tell you
again to keep that fuckin' beer off the pool table, I'm gonna throw your
sorry ass out of here again."
     Scott glanced back at a skinny guy with frizzy hair and a vacant face.
The guy picked his beer glass off the green felt and shrugged an apology.
     Freddie shook his head.  "Dumb fucker.  That brillo hair reaches all
the way in between his ears, I swear."
     Tara nodded back and to the side with a nod.  "We're gonna go grab a
booth and talk shop, Freddie.  Don't want Scott pissing you off too,
talkin' all that government shit."
     Freddie said good bye with a grin, a nod and a wink.
     On the way back to the table, she glanced back at Scott.  "He's been a
fixture around here for years.  Used to date his cousin, and the bar
sponsored his softball team.  He's been serving me here since I was right
out of high school."
     "He's...what's his name...Peyton's cousin?"
     She giggled.  "You're thinking Hayden, and no, not that ass wipe.
Mikey is Freddie's cousin.  I was at Mapleton High, Mikey was here in New
Allsted, the two schools cross paths a lot.  We met when we were juniors
and dated until just after the senior prom.  After that, we stayed friends,
but went our separate ways.  Kind of like you and your last girlfriend."
     There was no pause.  "Nice.  And good to know a friendly bartender, I
always say."
     "Words to live by."  She took a long draw from her beer.  "Hey, Chris
had a good game tonight.  At least he didn't run half way across the field
and maul any opponents after the whistle."
     "Oh, don't get me going.  I'm gonna maul that little shit on Monday."
     She plunked her glass down on the table.  "Huh?  I meant Chris Propst,
you know.  I thought you and he were getting pretty tight."
     Scott huffed, "Oh, Chris is a great kid, most of the time.  But he
drives me nuts.  He pulled a real shitty one on me today."
     "What?  Do tell."
     "Well, he's LD right?  He's reading and writing at about a sixth-grade
level."
     Tara nodded.  "Well, I didn't know that, but okay."
     "So, I tried to box him in so that he'd at least have to try and take
advantage of an extended timeline to finish a test.  He's supposed to leave
study hall for Judy Ronzani's room sixth hour.  I worked it out so that he
wasn't welcome in the choir room or in the art room and I figured he'd have
to go to Judy's.  But, he pulled a fast one and did what he's never done
and just stayed in study hall."
     She waved a hand at Freddie for a couple more beers.  "Ha!  Who's his
study hall teacher?"
     "Sheila Bauermeister."
     "And you hadn't let her in on your plan?"
     "Didn't think I'd have to.  Chris never just stays in study hall."
     "Until today."  She giggled again.  "You've been outsmarted by a
seventeen-year-old learning disabled football player."
     Freddie put down a couple fresh brews without a word.
     "Chris is a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them."  He picked
up the beer and nodded his thanks to Freddie, then took a mouthful.  "I'll
deal with him on Monday."
     He wiped his lips and plopped his cheek into the palm of his hand.
"So, how's your Nana doing?"
     A somber curtain fell over Tara's lovely face.  "That's sort of why I
wanted to get together tonight.  I'm not sure I can handle this.  Tell me
about your grandma, Scott."
     He held a breath and gritted his teeth for a moment.  "Uhm, what would
you like to know?"
     "Oh, I don't know.  You said to let you know if I ever needed an ear
to bend or a shoulder to cry on...said you'd been through this shit.  She
goes for hours and hours in this, this catatonic state where she looks like
Nana but nobody's home.  She just glances around, silent as a statue."  She
shook her head.  "And then she gets so angry.  Nasty sometimes, especially
at Gramps.  He catches hell all the time for not doing things she never
asked, or told him to do; she bitches at him for not knowing what she's
talking about when nobody realizes she's rambling on about something that
happened fifty years or so ago, or maybe never happened at all.  She thinks
he ought to remember trivial shit from her childhood.  They didn't even
meet `til they were both, like, twenty."  She shook her head again.  "So
tell me about your grandma.  Evelyn, wasn't it."
     "Yeah, Evelyn Nesmith Turner.  Just Gran to me.  Most of her life, she
was a philosopher/ warrior who lived to comfort the afflicted and afflict
the comfortable, and to dote over and spoil and kick the ass of her
favorite grandson.  She was a genuine treasure."
     "She didn't get really bad until you were away at college, right?"
     "Yeah, the early Alzheimer's set in when I was in high school.  The
year before I left for Madison, Dad convinced her to move out of the house
and into a nursing home.  After that, I only got to see her when I was home
for breaks."
     "Well, and I hate to ask, but can you tell me what's coming our way?"
     Scott recalled his most awful experience in Evelyn Turner's room at
the nursing home.  She'd been restrained by an orderly, a gentle black man
who withstood her "Uncle Tom" insults with heroic sympathy for his patient.
She was reliving her dark days as a foot soldier in 1960s-era civil rights
battles.  Scott paused.  "Uhm...I think you should talk to the doctors
about that, Tara.  I guess it varies from patient to patient."
     Her eyes were full of fear now.  "Did it break your heart?"
     "I just don't think it'd do you any good to hear my horror stories.
Gran was Gran.  Your Nana's your Nana."
     "I know what you're saying.  I just hoped for a glimpse..."
     Instinctively, he put a reassuring hand on top of hers.  "I decided a
while back to remember the happy times: the stories she'd tell about the
various battles she fought, some of the famous—and infamous--people she
met along the way, the principles she fought for, the lessons she taught
me."  He read the encouragement in her eyes and continued, "Tell me about
some of the happy times with Nana."
     The smiles returned.  "Making lefse.  She taught me to make lefse when
I was about twelve."
     Scott gushed.  "You know how to make lefse?  I love lefse!"
     Lefse, the tortilla-thin potato bread, is a mainstay in households
throughout the upper Midwest, particularly those with a trace of
Scandinavia on any limb of the family tree.  Most Norwegians scoff at the
uninitiated who turned up their noses at the bland delicacy.
     Tara cocked her head. "You're Norwegian?  Turner?"
     "Mom's side.  Her mom's maiden name was Olafson.  Grandma Gert, yeah
it was Gertrude, died when I was only about four, I barely knew her.  Her
sister, mom's Aunt Lena still makes it for the whole damn tribe: all her
kids' families, her nieces and nephews.  She's eighty four and loves to
brag about making over 200 sheets of it every Christmas.  I need to learn
how before she dies."
     "With all due respect to Aunt Lena, I'll teach you.  I make a damn
fine sheet of lefse.  Nana schooled me in rolling it just thin enough but
not too thin, and to fry it to just the right number of brown spots on each
side."
     Scott raised his brows.  "I'm impressed!  You're a woman of many
talents."
     "Oh, I'm full of surprises.  That's only one of them, and a pretty
boring one."  She leaned over the table, her breasts nestling on her
forearms and her beautiful blue eyes saying more than her mouth was.  She
grabbed her glass and pointed at his with it.  "Finish that up and I'll buy
a couple more."
     Scott drained his in a hurry.  "Thanks, Tara, but I gotta get going."
     She pouted her lips and wrinkled her nose.  "So soon?  It's Friday
night, it's only about eleven..."
     He put the glass down.  "I know, but it's been a long week and a long
day and I'm really, really tired, and..."
     She waved a hand.  "I got it.  But we need to go out and raise hell
one of these nights, Turner.  Jus' you and me."
     He stood up and extended a hand.  "Come on, I'll walk you out, unless
you're gonna hang here with the gang.  Maybe you and Freddie want to get
caught up?"
     She took his hand.  "Freddie wants to get caught up, all right, but
not like that.  Take me to my car and I'll think about teaching you how to
make lefse."

     * * *

     Scott looked out at the AP History class and beamed.  "You guys were
great today.  Thoughtful, probing questions.  Outstanding answers to mine
and each others'."  He pointed to Mason Willingantz, the new young student
from Iowa.  "You sir, were particularly on the ball today.  It's good to
see you falling into the routine so quickly."
     Mason looked at his hands and blushed.  Zach Jacoby reached across the
aisle and swatted his shoulder with the back of a hand.  He whispered, "Way
to go."
     The bell rang and Scott pointed here and there.  "Zach, Sam, gimme a
minute, will you."  Zach just nodded and Sam Alphonse halted in mid-step
with a question mark on his face.  "Not in trouble, Sam.  Just making a
couple of adjustments."
     As the last kid exited the room, Chris Propst filled the doorway,
right on cue.  "Chris, right on time.  I'm making a small change in plans
that I should have thought about a couple weeks ago.  Sam and Zach both
have anatomy next hour.  No need for you to carry Zach's stuff while he's
still on crutches.  You can stay here and be on time for government every
day; Sam can play the mule for a couple more weeks `till Zach loses the
sticks."
     Chris pursed his lips and finally mustered a quiet, reluctant nod.
     Taking the spotlight off Chris, Scott glanced at the tall, dark wide
receiver.  "So, Sam.  Playing Pharoah in `Joseph' in a few weeks, huh?"
     Sam grinned sheepishly and nodded.
     "It's a tricky part, a bit over the top.  Having fun?"
     The young man's mahogany face erupted in white teeth and he nodded
like a bobble head doll.  Even Chris quietly offered his admiration for his
friend's showing in rehearsals.
     Scott cautioned with a point of his finger.  "Of course, doing that
Elvis impersonation puts you under a microscope.  Everybody knows how the
character should act and sound.  You got the moves and the vocals to pull
it off?"
     Sam's hips gyrated twice and struck a pose with his pelvis jutting to
one side.  He curled a lip and mumbled a baritone, "Thank yew.
Thangyewveryymush."
     Scott laughed.  "Okay, you guys have to get going.  Chris, you can
settle in and get ready.  We're going over Friday's test today."
     Chris dropped his books on a desk and slid into the seat, never
meeting Scott's eyes.
     After finishing attendance, Scott squared the stack of pages on the
podium.  "Okay gang.  This is the first major test of the year.  Big help
or big hit to some of your averages.  Overall, good work.  You'll notice
there aren't any letter grades written on them.  You do the math.  You know
the breakout on grades.  Divide the score by the 80 possible points and
you'll get a percent in decimal form.  The score's not at the top of page
one, it's on the bottom of page three."
     Mickey Theobald lifted the top two pages and looked.  "What's passing,
Mr. Turner?"
     Scott stopped and turned.  "Aw, Mickey.  Wrong question.  Don't set
the bar so low.  How `bout `What's an A'?"
     "Would you tell me if I asked that question instead?"
     Scott shrugged.  "Nope.  Do the math."
     Mickey leaned over and muttered.  "Hey, Philip.  Lemme use your
calculator.  I didn't think this was gonna be math class too."
     Chris didn't bother with calculations when he saw the red 32 at the
bottom of the blank third page.  He noted the "See Me after class" next to
the score and scowled, sliding the paper underneath his folder.
     With a couple minutes left in class, Scott summed up.  "So, federal
doesn't mean `national' after all.  It comes from the Latin, foeder,
meaning `treaty.'  The federal system was put in place as a treaty among
thirteen states that had always been mostly sovereign.  And what does
sovereign mean again, Charlene?"
     Charlene Masters flipped back a page in her notes.  "It means `the
highest authority;' it basically means independent from other, outside
powers.
     The teacher smiled and winked.  "Atta girl."  He handed her a short
stack of green sheets.  "One for everybody, please."  As Charlene handed
out the assignment, he explained.  "It's Monday.  This essay assignment is
pretty straightforward, and you can see you have some choices to make.  On
Thursday, I'll collect a two-page essay from everyone dealing with the
original nature of our federal system of government, and of your views on
the right and proper relationship between state and national government
today.  I've given you seven specific areas of our lives that our
governments try to manage.  You can pick three and discuss them in both the
historical and the modern context."
     "Does the writing count on the grade?" an unidentified voice asked.
     Scott didn't turn or break stride down the aisle.  "Only the spelling,
punctuation and grammar."  Groans.  "But it's only ten percent of the
total."
     "Jeez.  First it's math, now it's English."
     "This is a full service joint, Mickey.  And, of course, if I can't
read it I can't grade it, so some of you might want to use the computer."
     The bell rang.  Everybody except Chris Propst grabbed their backpacks
and stood.  Chris remained seated, slowly sliding his supplies into his
bag.  Scott sank into the desk in front of Chris's, straddling the seat
facing backward.
     "What'd ya think of that grade, Chris."
     The youngster shrugged.  "It's an F.  I can do the math, Mr. Turner."
     "I know you can, but that's not what I asked.  What do you think of
it, Chris.  Does it bother you?"
     "I guess I earned it.  I'm used to it.  I did my best, and that's okay
with me."
     Scott's hand shot to the top of his head.  "But you didn't do your
best, Chris.  I see your best on the field, I snuck into rehearsal the
other night and saw your best on the stage."  He saw a slight smile on
Chris's face.  "And sometimes, I see your best in here, asking and
answering questions, discussing this stuff with your friends."  The grin
evaporated.  "But this test is not your best.  And we had an understanding
last Friday.  You were going to Ms. Ronzani's room out of study hall to
finish those essay questions with the help you're entitled to."
     "No, Mr. T.  YOU had an understanding on Friday.  You shut me out of
the choir room sixth hour.  You shut me out of the art room sixth hour.
I'm scheduled for a regular study hall sixth hour.  I stayed in study hall.
No harm, no foul."
     "Okay, Chris."  He bowed his head in mock concession.  "Well played,
I'll admit.  But you're no stranger to this.  You know that the law
requires us to give you additional time because of the disability."
     "I ain't disabled!  The law sucks."
     Scott held up a hand.  "So, screw the law.  I have an ethical
obligation then.  It'd be just plain wrong to know what I know about you
and stand by and watch you sink.  It'd be just flat-out wrong."
     Chris gazed hard and scowled.  "Yeah?  And who else are you being so
generous with?  Who else is getting cut some slack on the time to do a
job?"
     "Sorry, bud.  That's none of your business.  These are called
individual education programs, and you and all the others have some privacy
rights I have to consider.  I wouldn't share your accommodations with the
other students.  But you know you're not alone."
     Chris rolled his eyes, the tears starting to well over the bottom
lids.  "Oh, yeah, right!  Like they all don't know you're treating me like
some charity case retard?  Who are you trying to kid?"  He forced a smile
and a sarcastic chuckle.  "It's like you said the other day, I might have
been born at night, but it wasn't last night."
     Scott sighed a huge sigh.  "Come on, Chris, we've been over the word
choice thing.  You wouldn't refer to Sam as a nigger."  Chris's eyes bugged
at hearing him say it.  "Please, if not out of respect for your peers, you
know that I find that offensive, right?"
     Chris cowered an inch.  "I'm sorry, Mr. T."
     "Okay.  Here's the deal from where I'm sitting.  I'm not expecting
your essay on federalism until Friday.  I recommend you take it to
Ms. Ronzani's room every day this week.  She's available and her aide,
Mrs. Smallidge is no slouch on the writing end of things, I'm told."
     "Ronzani's a pain in the neck and you don't wanna hear what I think of
ol' lady Smallidge.  You'll get my essay on Thursday.  It'll be the best I
can do."
     "Chris, I spoke with Mr. Rasmussen and Ms. Ronzani this morning.  You
fail this essay and we're going to change your schedule.  You'll be moved
to Ms. Ronzani's attendance list every day sixth hour and be forced to go
there.  You don't, and you'll be marked absent...unexcused...technically
truant."
     Chris erupted.  "You can't do that!"
     "We've been over this before too—whogets to decide what I can and
cannot do.  Your name's not on the list.  We can and we will.  You want to
play a game of chicken with me, Chris, and I'm all in."
     The final bell rang signaling the start of the lunch period.  "I gotta
go.  I'm gonna get stuck in the back of the line now anyway."
     "I'm sorry for that, Chris, it's just that..."
     This time, the student held up a hand.  "I get it!  Okay?"  He took a
quick breath.  His voice cracked a tad when he looked at Scott.  "I know
you're trying your best, Mr. T.  Really I do.  You might not be trying to
hurt me on purpose..."
     Scott's turn to interrupt.  "I get it.  Okay?  Get to lunch."
     Scott let last night's leftovers sit in the teacher's lounge fridge
and went instead to his desk.  He pulled up Chris's record on his computer.
Mr. and Mrs. Propst worked second shift, he remembered.  He might be able
to catch one of them at home before they left for the metals factory.
     After just the second ring, a woman's voice answered with a chipper
"Hello?"
     "Mrs. Propst?
     "Speaking."
     "Hi, Mrs. Propst.  This is Scott Turner, Chris's government teacher at
the high school."
     "Oh, Mr. Turner!  Chris has spoken so highly of you, and we read about
you in last week's paper.  How nice to hear from you!"  There was a pause,
and before Scott could pick up his end of the conversation, she asked
hesitantly, "Or is it?"
     He combed the top of his scalp with the tips of his fingers.  "Well,
I'm concerned about Chris's grade in my class and hoped you could give me
some advice."
     She laughed a tired laugh.  "Oh...let me guess.  You're pulling out
all the stops to help him, and he's refusing to take advantage of all he's
entitled to, right?"
     "Well, uhm...yeah, that's about it.  He failed a pretty major test on
Friday and his current average in the class is a low D."
     She sighed a tired sigh.  "I wish I had the magic words to give you
Mr. Turner, and I appreciate the call, but `Topher is every bit as stubborn
as his father, especially where special education and being labeled and all
that is concerned.  Can you imagine living with two just like him?"
     "Well, I guess you have my sympathies in that regard, but..."
     "Honestly, Mr. Turner, here's what usually happens.  He digs a hole,
then when it looks like he's about to lose credit or become ineligible in
something, he finally swallows his pride and admits to Zach how much
trouble he's in.  You know those two are joined at the hip, right?"
     Scott grinned.  "I'd noticed.  They're the first pair of students I
met when I came on board..."
     "Oh, I know!  The boys both think you're the best thing to happen to
that school!  I'm told that all the kids feel that way!  You should be very
proud of the nice things they all said about you in the paper."
     The previous week's Gazette had run what Michael Cox had told him
would be a puff piece on all of the district's new teachers, and Scott had
received more than his share of what Craig would call "great ink."
     "Well, ma'am, thank you.  That was all very flattering and all that,
but..."
     "We'll speak with him, Mr. Turner, but I can tell you now where
that'll get us.  He swears he's going to reconvene the team of teachers who
put together his IEP in a couple months and get out of the special
education program entirely.  You know he's going to be eighteen pretty
soon, right?"
     Scott's chuckle was sad, every bit as resigned as her voice.  "Oh...he
might have mentioned it once or twice."
     "So, Mr. Turner, thank you very much for the call, but I've got to get
lunch on the table.  Of course we'll talk with Christopher, but I wouldn't
expect much of a change until Zachary jacks him up a notch nearer the end
of the quarter, when final grades are right in front of them."
     "Okay, Mrs. Propst.  I just felt I needed to call and let you folks
know what was up on my end."
     "And we really do appreciate it.  Well, I'm sorry, but I do have to
run now.  You have a good afternoon."
     "You too, ma'am."
     The line went dead.
     Scott sighed.  "Un-fucking-believable.  They're waving the white flag
and want me to pick one up too."

     * * *

     The following morning, Scott looked down as he tapped the soles of his
shoes and brushed them over the mat inside the doorway nearest the faculty
lot.
     The canary colored shirt caught Scott's eye. He'd seen a few students
on campus in Madison wearing the same one a few months earlier. It fit
snugly across the young man's tight, tawny back.  "Great Fun.  Less Guilt."
The mop of brown hair that just touched the back collar told Scott what
he'd already guessed.  He stepped up to the foursome chatting and laughing
in front of Jared's open locker.  Three pairs of eyes looked past their
friend when Scott entered their view and their smiles faded in an instant.
Desiree Compton actually winced.
     Scott laid a hand on the boy's left shoulder.  "Um, Jared."
     The lad looked over his shoulder without turning.  "Good morning,
Mr. Turner.  How's it going?"
     Scott nodded once.  "Good, thanks.  Want to turn around please?"
     Jared's grin widened with every shuffle of his pivoting feet.  It was
downright devilish by the time Scott had full view of the message on the
front: "Drive Him Home Safely."  In the shirt's center, between the first
two words and the last two was the image of an unwrapped and unrolled
condom.
     Scott shook his head and rolled his eyes.  "Aw, jeez, Jared!  Drive
him home safely?  Plenty of fun?  For cripe's sake, why that shirt?  In
school?"  The teen's chin poked his own chest as he glanced down the front
of the tee.  His eyes feigned innocence as Scott implored, "Care to
explain?"
     Jared fought back the smile that had momentarily
flashed. "Uhm...really, Mr. Turner, you're, like what...30?  College
educated and all that.  Do you really need an explanation?"  Jared's small
entourage chuckled and it quickly doubled in size.
     "I'll be 24 in a few months, thank you.  Don't hit the fast-forward
button on me.  Thirty will get here soon enough.  And, no, I don't need an
explanation of the message here.  I was hoping you'd explain the lapse in
judgment by wearing this particular shirt to school this morning.  Or any
morning, for that matter."
     "Well, I do believe that this particular shirt gives a message about
safe, responsible behavior.  Don't you agree with safe, responsible
behavior?"
     "Of course I believe in that.  A reasonable person would also see a
message promoting casual sex, and it's a pretty clear violation of the
policy that you've discussed with me, that you've discussed with
Mr. Cox..."
     Jared rolled his eyes.  "And now you're gonna bust me...for THIS?
It's a safe sex message.  That's a good thing.  I might be saving lives
here."
     Scott waved him down the hall.  "It's a casual sex message as well, on
the pro-side of the question I'd say.  Out of bounds.  Last week it's a
drinking team, this week it's all the fun and none of the guilt.  Gimme a
break."
     Jared raised a finger.  "It says `Great fun and less guilt.'
Nothing's foolproof, ya' know."
     "Tell ya' what.  Let's let Mr. Cox make the ruling.  He thinks it's
okay and I'll get off your case, but you know I don't have much wiggle room
to just walk away from this."  He motioned down the hallway toward the
office.
     Jared kicked his locker shut.  "Oh right!  Mr. Cox making a ruling
implies a certain amount of judgment on his part.  That assumes a certain
level of thinking.  You're givin' him way too much credit."
     Scott let that go with a shake of the head and nod toward the office.
"Come on, Jared.  This way.  I gotta do my job.  We've been over this.  It
didn't have to be me.  I just have the dumb luck to be the first to see you
this morning.  Now, come on.  Lead the way, but let's get going.  I'm not
going to be late for first hour on your account."
     Like a wildfire through a drought-stricken cornfield, word of Jared
Steinmetz's crusading blow for student free speech raced down the hallway.
As teacher and student strode through the gauntlet of gawking gazes, Jared
basked in the laughs, a few high fives and a smattering of applause.  A
couple hooted at Scott.  "Major bust there, Mr. Turner!"  Scott ignored it.
"Thanks for keeping us all safe from the dangerous clothes around here,
Mr. Turner.  My folks will sleep better tonight."  He shook his head again
and kept a steady pace following closely behind the young perp.

     Early that afternoon, after setting his lunch tray on the kitchen
window counter, Scott hurried to the office to check his mail and see of
Michael Cox was in.  Cox was standing, squat and stoic in the hallway
between the office and the library, patiently scanning the students mulling
about waiting for the bell to ring.
      Cox nodded and grinned as Scott approached.  "Good call, this
morning, Scott.  You got `im, just like I want."
     Scott sighed.  "Yeah, thanks.  Rumor has it Jared won't be in class
today.  So I won't be seeing him next hour?"
     The assistant principal shook his head.  "Nossir!  In-school
suspension for the day.  He does it again, then mommy and daddy have to
come and pick him up and it's a few days out of school."
     "I didn't see a call for homework.  I thought when kids go to ISS,
we're supposed to send work down there to keep `em busy."
     Cox rolled his eyes.  "I, uhm, have been otherwise occupied with some
of the kids who aren't going out of their way to piss on the student
handbook.  He can make up the work tomorrow."
     "Excuse me, Mike, but he's just in there staring at the wall?  How
`bout I drop off today's assignment, and tomorrow's reading assignment to
keep him busy."
     Cox shrugged.  "Well, I wouldn't knock myself out for him.  If he has
to struggle tomorrow, that's on him."
     Scott bit his lip.  "I'll have one of the kids run a textbook and a
couple handouts down and give it to Ms. Springer, and she'll have him tend
to it?"
     "Suit yourself.  I suppose Geri will be happy with Jared having
something to do. Steinmetz'll be back in class tomorrow."
     Thankfully, the bell rang.

     * * *

     Scott didn't see the door's edge swinging out, aimed squarely at the
side of his head.  He was momentarily distracted by the fine form of Andy
Faber's ass as it disappeared into the library.  Lucky for him, Bruce
Rasmussen saw Scott through the window in the guidance office's door.
Bruce's voice brought him back to the real world.  "Whoa.  Sorry Scott.
Good thing one of us is looking where they're going."  Bruce was still one
step inside the guidance office, but clearly wanting to get out the door.
Mr. Turner, however, stood in his way.  "Looking back and moving forward is
a good way to get clocked."
     Scott stepped back a foot and with a guilty grin.  Nearly busted for
first-degree lust.  "No doubt a bit of advice you give your young charges,
Bruce?  Keep looking forward?"
     Bruce pushed the door all the way open and held it, allowing Scott to
slip past.  "I got a million of `em."
     Scott went to the unofficial file of student achievement summaries.
The official transcripts were kept in the main office's vault.  He needed a
little more information on a few of his students.  "Just need to look at
the test scores of a couple kids who are struggling.  Maybe there's
something I'm missing."
     Bruce smiled his approval then switched gears in a flash.  "Hey!  You
can maybe help me out.  You know where Zach Jacoby is?  I sent a note to
his study hall to come to my office, and it came back marked `Absent'.  I
know he's here today and he's not in the library.  But I know I saw him
hobbling down the hall before first hour.
     "Yeah, he was in the AP class today.  He did say something about
soaking the leg in the training room.  He hits the hot tub there a couple
times a week, I think."
     Faye, the guidance office secretary hit the hold button and
interrupted them.  "Missy Gardner's mom on hold for you, Bruce."
     He checked his watch.  "Right on time.  Tuesday morning, quarter to
eleven."  He sighed and his tight grin showed his resignation.  He grumbled
in a low voice, "Time for Mrs. Gardner's weekly update on why we shouldn't
be doing anything differently than when she was going to school here, and
how applied mathematics is going to destroy Missy's chances for success in
college."
     Scott had heard some of the same lines from a couple other parents.
The picture was becoming familiar.  "One of the `It was good enough for me'
crowd?  Or is it `But they're not even trying to understand my daughter'?"
     Bruce winked.  "A bit of both.  Depends on which one of us ignored the
poor girl yesterday.  You're catching on."  He glanced toward the door to
his office.  "Would you do me a favor?"
     Scott eyes followed the note Bruce was already waving.
     "Could you drop by the training room on the way to your room?  If
Zach's there, his mom wants him to call her at home, a.s.a.p."
     Concern flashed in Scott's eyes.  "Something wrong at Jacoby's?"
     Bruce handed him the note.  "I believe something's very right.
Natalie sounded very pleased, but said she wanted to talk to Zach directly,
and that he could be the one to share any specifics.  If I'm any good at
listening between the lines, I think this is about the academy
appointment."
     Scott beamed.  "Really!  Annapolis calling?  He'll wet his pants.  And
isn't listening between the lines what you do for a living?"
     Bruce stepped toward his office door.  "Well, it's not a done deal,
and I've been wrong before.  Thanks for giving him the message.  If it's
what I think, he'll love it that you're the one to give it to him.  I gotta
go."  He closed the door.
     Give it to him.  I'd love to.
     Coach Bidwell's office door was a dozen feet beyond the entrance to
the boys' locker room.  The musty mixture of stale sweat, Cruex and a mix
of colognes hit Scott on about the third of fourth stride after passing the
doorway.  He liked it.  The coach was leaning back in his chair, phone
glued to his ear and a foot propped on the corner of his desk.  He
acknowledged the young teacher with a pair of raised brows and the wave of
a hand.  He said, "Hang on a sec," into the receiver and pulled the phone
away a few inches.  "Hey, Scott.  What brings you into the den?"
     "Don't want to interrupt coach.  Zach here?"
     He motioned with a thumb.  "Jacoby's soaking in the training room.
Just past the lockers, then the showers.  Door on your right."
     Scott nodded and waved a thanks.  "Tough one, Friday.  Kids looked
pretty good though."
     Bidwell smirked.  "My ass.  That defensive line's gonna think this
week's practices were dreamed up by Satan himself."
     Don McLean's voice wafted through the air.  The athletic department
had a good sound system.
     Scott paused a few feet from the door, still in the shadow of the
nearest bank of lockers.  The young man sat perched against the back of a
deep, oblong silver tub.  His beefy upper arms and elbows were perched on
the whirlpool's ledges and he held what looked like the latest Sports
Illustrated a half foot above the churning water.  The steam floating from
the surface had matted his dark brown hair down into nearly straight bangs.
He obviously hadn't shaved that morning, a rarity for this budding man, and
the dark stubble gave an even more masculine, mature look to the square jaw
and sweat-sheened brow and cheeks.
     Scott swallowed hard and cursed himself, then cursed Bruce Rasmussen
for not getting out of the guidance office a minute earlier, before
Mrs. What's Her Name called.  Puppies.  Think of sick, homeless puppies.
Dishwater.  Greasy, dirty, cold dishwater, up to your elbows.  That whiney
Sally Struthers commercial you saw on the way out this morning.  Anything.
Just don't start throwing any wood!
     He wrapped on the metal doorframe and cleared his throat.  "You're
kinda young to be listening to "Starry, Starry Night, aren't you."
     Zach glanced up from the magazine and his face lit up.  "Hey,
Mr. Turner!  Actually, it's called "Vincent," but a lot of people make that
mistake.  My folks have been playing this guy's music at home forever and I
kinda like him."  He dropped the magazine on the floor, clearing the view
of his broad, defined chest.  A sprinkling of dark hair complemented the
perfectly contoured pecs.  In another year, the young man could be marching
around Annapolis sporting tee shirts that could only inspire envy.  Or
lust.  Scott aimed for envy and promised himself to lock onto Zach's eyes.
Now, stay there.  Zach brought a hand out of the water and wiped the hair
off of his forehead.  "What brings you into Bidwell's domain?"
     "Ah, Bru...I mean Mr. Bru...Rasmussen, that is.  Mr. Rasmussen got a
call from your mom and he couldn't track you down.  I told him you were
probably here and he asked me to deliver the message."
     Zach's amusement at the verbal stumbling flashed, then vanished. "My
mom?  Something wrong?"
     Scott raised a hand.  "Oh, no!  He said she sounded really happy, but
wants you to give her a call as soon as you're free."
     Zach gripped the edges and his arms flexed.  "Well, I'm free now.  She
never calls me at school."
     He started to stand and Scott's eyes zeroed in on his own shoes.  The
sloshing water finally quit sloshing and Zach asked, "Will you grab me that
towel, Mr. Turner?  I'll dry off a little, then I'm gonna need a hand
getting out of here."
     Scott's eyes shot a razor straight line toward the towel sitting on a
nearby table.  He leaned over and grabbed it.  Eyes locked back on Zach's
rich brown orbs, he dished it forward, afraid to let his view roam anywhere
else.
     Zach's glance signaled mild confusion about his teacher's intense
gaze, so Scott forced himself to relax.  The student motioned to the left
side of the tub.  "Can you come over here?  I'm gonna need to borrow your
shoulders for leverage to lift the gimpy leg outa here.  Topher usually
helps me out, but that's after school.  It's a good thing you're here, `cuz
that goober's so short.  You can give me another four or five inches."
     Or I could give you all seven, if you ask real nice.  Stop that.  No
boners allowed!  His mind conjured up puppies again.  Sick orphaned puppies
drowning in greasy cold dishwater, Sally Struthers whining about starving
children as she drowns the helpless little things in a filthy sink.
     "You might want to lose the sport coat, Mr. Turner.  You'll probably
catch a splash or two, and a few drops of water on the white shirt'll be
okay.  But I don't wanna get your coat wet."
     Great.  And I put on the flat front pants today.  Puppies.  Drenched
now in vomit.  No.  Roseanne Barr buck naked on her back, flabby legs
spread wide.  Joan Rivers next to her.  Same position.  No, Joan Rivers
with her face buried in Rosanne's pussy.
     "Oh, this coat's old.  Let's just get you out and dried off so you can
get make that call.  Your mom's probably waiting by the phone wondering."
Rather than removing the jacket, he buttoned it closed, obscuring the front
of his still smooth trousers.  Mostly smooth, he reckoned.  For now,
anyway.  I'll have to find a way to get back at Rasmussen for this.
     "Whatever you say.  Ready?"  Zach raised his arm ninety degrees.
Scott snuggled in underneath the half-embrace.  Zach teetered as the
scarred left leg came out of the water.  Instinctively, Scott's right arm
wrapped itself across the small of Zach's trim, tight waist and there was
nowhere to look except to keep an eye on the young man's midsection.  And
below.  Zach's shallow, oval navel winked at him from the center of
deliciously cut abs, introducing the thin, happy treasure trail that led
Scott's eyes to the dark, matted bush.  Obviously, Zach hadn't started
grooming anything below the neck.  If Kayla had ever been here, she
obviously didn't mind the foliage.  Maybe she liked it.  The soaked pubes
gave way to a lazy, pink, cut cock tilting to neither side.  It was at
least four, probably five, inches soft and waved back and forth to Scott
when Zach leaned harder into him.
     The head of Scott's member was now dancing against the soft cotton of
his boxers, sending a muffled plea for the attention it usually got at
times like this.  Not now dammit.  Puppies drowning in grease-slicked
vomit, pleading eyes and gasping yelps.  That bitch Sally Struthers whining
about starving kids.
     Zach turned and spoke directly into Scott's ear.  His breath was warm
and moist.  "Okay, I'm gonna pull the left one over the side with my weight
on the right.  Then I'm gonna have to lean hard, cuz you have to take it
all so I can get the right one out.  Ready?"
     Hard.  Take it all.  "You bet.  Let's do it."
     "I can take a little weight on it.  Just need to keep it straight
until I get the brace back on."
     Keep it straight.  It's getting there.  Fuck.  Hurry up.  "Okay.
Let's go Zach.  Lean into me and we can do this."  Roseanne Bar...Joan
Rivers...vomit-soaked puppies...fat Sally Struthers whining, "won't you
please help?"  Tammy Faye Baker crawling onto the bed with Roseanne and
Joan, tits dragging across the sheets.
     Every muscle in Zach's left arm, from his armpit down to the fingers
that dug into Scott's left shoulder tensed and bulged at once sending a
jolt of muscular energy across the back of Scott's neck and shoulders.  The
good right foot sprang from the water, clearing the tub's edge and landing
flat.  Zach hopped on the leg once to get a stable stand.  Scott saw the
small puddle a micro-second before the foot came down on it.
     Zach cried, "Whoa, shit!" His right arm grasped the air for support
that wasn't there.  The left clung to Scott, pulling him impossibly closer.
Instinctively, Scott followed the shifting weight.  He pivoted into the
young column of hot flesh, grasping Zach full around the waist from both
sides, pressing the side of his face against Zach's gasping chest, holding
him upright.  He could feel Zach's right nub against his earlobe.  Zach's
right hand found the table from which the towel had come and he steadied
himself.  Still shocked, Scott held tight.
     Scott gritted his teeth and growled.  "You okay?  You got it now,
buddy?"
     Zach giggled and patted Scott's back.  He looked down on the top of
his teacher's head.  "Got it, uhm, buddy."  He breathed out an exaggerated,
"Whew.  That was too close.  Sorry about the swearing, but I was scared
there for a second."
     Scott released the student and stood back nervously, but his stubborn
cock had enjoyed the unexpected, fast dance far too much.  He ached a
wonderful, embarrassing ache.  Quickly glancing down to check the front
flaps of the sport coat, he judged that they were still drawn close in
front of his fly, concealing his groin's glee.
     "The hell with the language, Zach.  You were scared?!  Your folks
would have killed me if anything'd happened to you in my hands."  He picked
up the towel again and handed it to the blushing teenager.
     Zach began drying the rest of him, starting with his flaccid member
and ball sac.  "Nah, they wouldn't have killed you, Mr. Turner.  They think
you're the best."  He perched his butt on the edge of the table, draping
the towel over his back and started zig-zagging the terrycloth left and
right.  "So do I, ya' know.  You probably just saved me a whole lot of pain
and misery."
     Scott cleared his throat, trying in vain to not admire Zach's arms and
pecs as he tugged the towel left and right behind him.  He couldn't do it.
He had to exit.  Now.  "Well, you better get some clothes on and give your
mom that call.  She's probably wondering what's going on in here."
     "K, Mr. Turner.  He pointed to the chair on the other side of the tub.
Hand me the brace, will you.  He patted his left thigh.  "I can't wait `til
I don't have to keep this thing so stiff all the time."
     Scott nodded, giving the brace an underhand toss, and turned for the
door.


* * *

     Al McConoughy, the teachers union president, raised a hand to quiet
the murmurs of about a hundred of New Allsted's teachers.  A special
meeting had been called for the sole purpose of reviewing the proposal for
the union's "work-to-rule" move: every teacher doing only what the contract
required and nothing more.
     McConoughy raised the other hand to get the attention of a few
stragglers.  "Okay folks, let's get settled.  Since this is a special
meeting, we'll dispense with the formalities of reviewing minutes and all
the official falderal.  I'll just yield the floor to Armin for a review of
the proposal you've directed his team to develop."
     Jim Daley leaned to his left and spoke softly through the corner of
his mouth.  "Armin Slattery's a middle school science teacher.  Been here
about fifteen years, lead negotiator for the past five or six.  He's
well-connected at the state organization and a tough-as-nails bargainer.
His family is union from way back.  Old school.  Word is that his dad led a
six-month strike against American Motors down in Kenosha back in the day."
     Scott remembered the old AMC Gremlin that his neighbors had and he
smirked.  "Ugly cars.  No surprise they went belly up."
     Armin Slattery was a sturdy man with horned rimmed glasses and a
healthy crop of male pattern baldness that he showed off every time he
looked down to review his notes.  He looked, Scott thought, like the
"before" photo in a Hair Club commercial and was clearly moving toward the
jowly phase of his face's life.  "Ladies and gents, I wish I was reporting
under happier circumstances.  I was pretty new here the last time we made a
move like this.  It wasn't any fun then and, if you vote to go here, I'm
sure it won't be any better this time `round.  But the team is heeding the
members' call for a plan, and this is what we've come up with."
     He talked through a three page outline with the members following
along.  In the first phase of the plan, the only thing that would change
would be arrival and departure times.  The contract required that teachers
arrive no later than fifteen minutes before the teaching day began and that
they remain on the job for thirty minutes past the final bell.  At the high
school, this would mean being in no earlier or later than 7:30.  Out the
door at 3:30.
     Scott leaned to his right.  "What about Kiwanis?  We didn't quite make
it back here by 7:30 last week."
     Jim shrugged.  I've been coming in just ahead of the kids every
Thursday for years, and every principal's been okay with that, including
Kim.  But once we start this, either Kiwanis has to get set aside, or
you'll probably have to leave some meetings a little early.  I'll probably
do a little of both."
     Slattery continued.  "Now, obviously this won't affect the kids that
much, but it's hugely symbolic.  It's an attention getter.  The message we
send is what's important, so it needs to be as noticeable as we can make
it.  The folks out there need to know they can't take it for granted that
we'll be here at all hours giving away our time.  They need to see empty
halls with doors closed and lights off on evenings and weekends.  The
neighbors need to notice that we're coming in en masse and leaving like a
herd of neglected cattle.  The more they notice our unity in this first
phase, the better."
     McConoughy piped in.  "Many of you know that Desiree Deaver, our
P.R. chair is out on maternity leave.  We're looking for somebody to step
up and take care of the publicity side of things for the time being."
     Jim nudged Scott.  "You have a little experience with press
conferences and writing releases, don't you?  Between the campaigns you've
worked and all the hats you wore up in Madison..."
     Scott thought back to his time on the UW Board of Regents and the
stint with the Wisconsin Student Association.  "Bits and pieces.  What's
involved?"
     Jim's arm shot up and he didn't wait to be called on.  "Hey, Al.
Quick question here.  What all would that entail?"
     "Well, at first, it'd be getting some good ink in The Gazette.  I plan
to write a letter to the editor outlining our grievances.  I thought that
should run with a full-page ad that details the schedule of the other
phases Armin's going to discuss.  We want folks out there to know in
advance what they'll be looking at just as long as the board refuses to
play nice.  We want to give the voting, tax-paying public fair notice of
what could happen here, and then leave the ball in their court.  And, I
think it'd be great if we had a picture or two of all of us arriving to
school at the exact same time on that first day.  Stage it a bit, signs and
all.  It'd be a great splash."
     Scott thought of Marty.  He'd love something like this.
     J.P. Masterson started shaking his head before his hefty arm rose.
"Mack Templeton never met a public employee that he didn't despise.
Remember last time?  He and his Gazette bent over backwards to ignore us
and our cause on the pages of that rag.  Never carried a single release we
put out there, and then he blasted us every week on his editorial page for
a month and a half."
     Jim Leaned over again.  "Templeton's the owner and publisher of The
Gazette.  The paper's been in his family for three generations now.  One of
the few really independent papers today in the whole Midwest."  He snorted.
"Hate to say it, but John's right on this one.  Mack's a right-wing nut.
Hell of a bridge player, but no friend of ours.  Still, Scott, it sounds
like it'd be up your alley.  It's not out front with the visible
hell-raisers, shouldn't take too much time and it'd be good for the cause."
     Scott got Jim's point on visibility.  For their first two years,
teachers in New Allsted were considered `probationary' and their contracts
could be non-renewed without cause.  He didn't fear Kim Watson, but
sprouting a reputation as a thorn in the side of the establishment wasn't
smart politics for a newcomer.
     He whispered.  "Let me think about it.  I can give Al a call, right?
I mean, if nobody else steps up in a day or so?"
     He got a short nod in return.  "Think it over.  I'm sure they'd be
tickled to hear from you."
     Phase Two of the plan would kick in right after Thanksgiving, if the
board was still refusing to negotiate.  It called for teachers to stop
taking any work home with them.  All grading would be done during
contracted school hours only.  In addition, they'd resign en masse from all
volunteer committees that served the district.  No curriculum planning and
professional development for which they didn't fill out a time sheet and
get paid.  They'd stop volunteering for extras like crowd control at high
school games and chaperoning dances.  Rather, building administrators would
have to assign the jobs on a rotating basis, everyone taking their turn for
a task that paid nickels and dimes and many of them didn't want to do
anyway.  Jim had explained that principals hated doing that, as it
undermined morale and often put teachers in situations for which they were
ill-suited.  "Folks like Emilia Lawson get told they have to cover a
wrestling match or the Homecoming Dance."
     Scott snickered at the idea of the "Ice Queen" amid the bumping and
grinding of a school dance, or trying to subdue a rowdy crowd of wrestling
fans in the bleachers.
     "The real kicker here," Jim went on, "is the grading.  Kids and their
parents will really notice when tests and homework start taking days and
days to get handed back.  A good essay test can take a week."
     Phase Three was scheduled to hit right after the Christmas break.  All
of the spring coaches whose teaching contracts didn't specify coaching
duties would quit.  The district would have to recruit parents and other
non-educators to field the baseball, track, golf and tennis.  Fund-raising
for the band's summer trip would come to a screeching halt.  All the annual
spring field trips would be quashed.  It threatened the college-bound kids
the most.  No ACT prep program, no letters of recommendation.  It even
threatened to scuttle the spring prom and faculty participation in the
commencement ceremony.
     Laura Ingersoll stood up.  She was one of the natives on the staff.
She'd grown up in New Allsted, gone to college up in Oshkosh and returned
to teach high school science.  "This part borders on cruelty.  We're
holding the kids hostage.  This doesn't just take a stand; it urges us to
wreck their lasting memories of high school while we try to sabotage their
futures!  I teach all juniors and seniors.  Most of us at this meeting work
with the younger kids in elementary and middle school.  Maybe you don't see
how important these things are to their high school years.  No prom?  Being
absent at graduation?  Withholding letters of recommendation?  Come on!  We
can't do this!  We can't use kids this way!"  She turned around in front of
her chair.  "Mr. Daley.  I still remember you chaperoning my junior prom.
You made the DJ play "Blue Bayou" so you and Mrs. Daley could have a dance.
It was cute."  The crowd chuckled and Jim actually blushed a tad.  "And I
still remember the speech you gave at our graduation.  Those things stick
with us.  They last a lifetime.  We just can't use the kids this way."
     Jim didn't wait for recognition from either Al or Armin, but just
stood.  Every hushed face turned in his direction.  He tugged at his ear
with a benign grin on his face.  "Those of you who know me know that I'm a
raging moderate on most things."  A gentle chuckle rippled through the
assembly.  "It seems that the longer I hang around the less certain I am
about most things.  Life was a lot simpler for me when I still knew
everything."
     The group let out a more robust chuckle and even Laura Ingersoll
grinned with a subtle eye roll.  The sage went on.  "But here we are, and
this is a place that we didn't choose."  He crossed his arms and leaned
back a little, taking a stance Scott had seen while observing Jim's classes
a half-dozen times.  "John Q. Public loves us individually for a lot of
reasons, all of them good.  They know that we do what we do because we have
a calling, because we love kids.  They admire us for it and most of them
will casually say `I could never do your job.'  The ones who know anything
really mean it.  A lot of them are about as sincere as when they say `Nice
weather we're having, huh?'
     "But, while they love us individually, they also often ignore the fact
that we're a group of highly-trained professionals.  They'll remember me
fondly for cutting a rug with Helen, or for giving a twenty minute talk at
another graduation."  He nodded toward his former student.  "Thank you for
that Laura.  Both were my pleasure."  He shrugged his shoulders in
frustration.  "But then they'll call Rush Limbaugh and castigate us as a
class because we can't solve, abate, predict, prohibit or prevent every ill
that comes their kid's way.  From low reading scores to low self-esteem,
it's all our job.  Family dysfunctions and addictions?  Our job.  Learning
disabilities and peanut allergies?  Our job.  Underage drinking,
shoplifting, boorish behavior at the mall, sexual harassment and sexual
orientation, teen pregnancy?  Our job.  That, folks, has been a ballooning
fact of life for us forever, and I don't think it's gonna change anytime
soon.  But, we keep tolerating that absurd view of us and our
responsibilities.  Because we love the kids.
     "But, folks, there's a fine line between showing them that we love
their kids, and being doormats.  I don't mind being the doormat now and
then, because I love the kids.  But I reserve the right to decide when to
lay down.  Nobody can be a doormat without first giving their permission."
He looked straight ahead at his one-time student, Ms. Ingersoll.  "With due
respect, Laura—and it's a lot of respect I have for you—this board is
the group who's using the kids. They're betting that we won't withhold all
those freebies that they've taken for granted for so long, because they
know we love the kids.  Thank you again, my dear, but I didn't dance with
Helen, give the graduation speech or write your letter of recommendation
because anybody paid me to do it.  I did it because I care a whole lot
about you and your friends.  But I don't have to do it.  And, for me
anyway, today, if this board is going to treat me like hired help on an
hourly wage, then I'm ready to act like hired help on an hourly wage.  For
me, if this group so votes, then our adoring public will get what they pay
for, and no more.  If this board won't even negotiate with us in good
faith, then Jim Daley is done being a doormat for the time being."
     The auditorium erupted, and Laura Ingersoll quietly took her seat and
began clapping her hands.


     * * *

     "In a good Democracy, the ones who know what a state or town needs
from their schools are the folks who live there."  Scott circled the
mis-capitalized D before reaching down to scratch his bare foot.  Brett the
Dog looked up with only his eyes and the fattest cat in the world nudged
himself more tightly between Scott's calf and the back of the couch.
"Washington should keep its big fat nose out of New Allsted's decisions
about educating New Allsted's kids.  Senators and congressmen from Florida
and California and Texas got no right to mess around with Wisconsin's
schools"
     Scott hit `got' in `got no right...' with the red pen and grinned.  He
had to admit, Chris had outdone himself on this essay.  Perhaps the threat
to change his schedule out of study hall and into Judy Ronzani's room had
done the trick.  Maybe he finally enlisted Zach's assistance.  I could use
Zach's assistance.
     The phone's shrill scream made him jump.  Brett's eyes followed
Scott's feet to the floor and then followed Scott's quick glance toward the
clock.  It was nearly ten.  "Who the hell calls after nine at night?" he
muttered to the fattest cat.  The cat looked up and acquitted the lamp
before ordering Scott's hand to arrest the guilty telephone receiver.
     "Hello?"
     "Hey, Scott!"  it sounded like `Scawt.'  "I hope it ain't too late."
Over the phone, the drawl sounded even sexier then he'd remembered.  That
dialect seemed to ebb and flow depending on the situation.  He'd never
heard the man say "ain't" until now.  He didn't imagine many judges or
juries had heard it either.
     "Jonathan!  No, it's not too late.  I was just finishing up some
essays on federalism and was going to wrap it up here.  Gotta let the dog
out to do his business, gonna make a nightcap and pack the briefcase
and..."  He was spewing a nervous ramble and gritted his teeth to stop it.
"Whatever...no, it's not too late."
     "Great!  Hey, the reason I'm calling is I just had a sudden change in
the weekend's plans and wanted to know what you're doing on Saturday.  I
woulda asked you this morning at Kiwanis, but the plans I had kinda fell
apart just this evening."  They'd both been to the morning meeting, but
there wasn't an empty seat nearby when Jonathan came in, so they were at
opposite ends of the table and there was no time to chat after they had
adjourned.
     Scott set down the folder of essays and cradled the phone in the crook
of his neck, tapping his thigh as he stood to lead Brett to the back door.
"Like this coming weekend?  Tomorrow?"
     The lawyer gave a husky chuckle.  "Not tomorrow, `cuz you gotta teach
and I gotta do a deposition.  Ah'm talkin' Saturday."
     "This coming Saturday?"
     "Uh, sure.  You ever listen to National Public Radio?"
     "NPR?  Sure.  Mostly if I'm in the car and on weekends.  Hang on a
sec, will you?"  He quickly put the phone on the kitchen table and slid
open the patio door, grabbing the metal clasp on the rope that lay just
outside the door.  Brett heard a dull ckink and felt a pat on the butt
before disappearing into the darkness.  He picked up the phone and inhaled
a large, soothing breath.  Calm down.
     "Sorry.  Just had t' hook up the dog and let 'im out."  Oh God.  Don't
do the drawl back at him.  "Yep.  Yes.  I catch NPR now and then."
     "Then you know that show that comes outta Madison?  `What D'ya Know?"
     Scott smiled.  "Michael Feldman's show.  I love it!  I've been in the
audience a couple of times during the live broadcast,.  He's hilarious."
     Jonathan cleared his throat and sounded like he was smiling.
"Weeeelllllll, here's the deal.  I know it's short notice and all, but I
had plans to spend the day up there with an old law school friend of mine.
We were gonna hit the farmer's market, then go to the show at ten, grab a
bit to eat someplace and then I have tickets to see Dr. John at the Civic
Centre in the evening."
     "Sounds like you have a great day planned, but you're talking in the
past tense.  I had plans...we were gonna go...  What's up?"  And who the
hell is this old friend?  Stop it.
     "Well, that's the thing.  It was going to be a great day, until Brad's
appendix blew up this afternoon.  Now, how many twenty-eight year olds do
you know who need an emergency appendectomy?  I mean, good lord almighty!
I got the message from his sister when I got back from court this
afternoon, and then talked with his brother tonight when I got home.  I'm
gonna run up there tomorrow and see him.  But then I got thinking about it
a bit ago.  You doin' anything on Saturday?  I don't want to tromp around
Madison alone, and sure don't want to burn the tickets I got for the radio
show and Dr. John."
     "Is your friend okay?"
     "Aw, hell, Brad'll be fine.  Strong as an ox, and his little brother
said he's resting snug as a bug.  He oughta be out in a couple days."
There was a pause.  "So, what do ya' say?  Want to head to Mad Town for the
day and most of the evening with yours truly?"
     Scott had grabbed a rocks glass from the cupboard and was turning it
between his thumb and forefinger, thinking fast.  "Well, we'd have to stop
and eat somewhere in between the radio show and the concert, right?"
     "Of course."
     "Ever been to the Avenue Bar?"  A half-dozen cubes hit the bottom of
the glass.
     "Can't say I have."
     Two fingers of bourbon hit the ice.  "Then I'll spring for the eats
since you have the tickets.  The Badgers are playing away in Iowa.
Kickoff's at one thirty, and the place has four or five big screens in the
bar.  Good food too.  So, we could stroll the farmer's market in the
morning, catch the radio show from ten `til noon, wander the crowd at the
square for a little more.  Then we could walk down East Washington Avenue a
few blocks, have a sandwich and a couple beers and catch the game on TV.
You said you needed some schooling in college football."
     "That I do."
     "Then we could loiter on State Street for a couple hours before
heading over the Civic Centre.
     "Sir, I do like your quick thinking."
     Scott took a sip and nodded into the phone on his way back to the
couch.  "And I'm glad you called."
     He was lowering into the sofa's cushion when he glanced at the mantle
over the fireplace.  A framed picture of him with Ashley and Lil' Scotty
looked back.  He froze.  "Awwww...shit!"
     "Beg your pardon?"
     He put down the drink and pushed himself back into the couch.  "I'm
sorry.  I just said oh shit.  I just remembered that I do have plans this
weekend.  Pretty serious ones.  My godson down in Rockford turns three
tomorrow, and I promised I'd head down there for the party on Saturday
morning.  Staying until Sunday.  I'm sorry, Jonathan, but there's no way in
hell I could miss that."
     Jonathan sighed.  "Nor would I ask you to.  It's too bad you're busy,
but that's a top-notch excuse.  So, this is family?"
     "No...well, yes...sort of, I guess you'd say.  Like I said the other
day, I don't have any brothers or sisters.  But my best buddy from college
has two kids: a daughter he got by marriage and this little boy he had with
his late wife."
     "Oooh.  Late wife?  Oh, my."
     "It's kind of a long story, and I can give you the full version some
other time.  The long and short of it is that Marty, he's my buddy, is a
widower today with two great kids.  His son is my godson and I haven't seen
them in ages.  I promised I'd be there.  Sorry I didn't think of it when
you first called."
     "No harm done, Scott."  It still sounded like `Scawt.'  Scott liked it
and grinned as Jonathan went on with grace.  "I'm sure your presence there
will be a blessing to both the kids and their daddy."
     Scott laughed.  "Well, blessing might be a bit of a push, but I have
been looking forward to it."  He inhaled a half breath and held it.  "But
it was great of you to think of me, Jonathan...and I'm really glad you
called."  He recalled their meeting over pie and coffee earlier in the
week.  "Uhm...maybe Ida's daughter, Sara, would like to spend the day up
there with you.  Sounded like you were in the doghouse with her."
     "You know?  I was just thinking the same thing.  I'm pretty sure
she'll be free and I sure do owe her a call, not to mention some quality
time together.  I am kinda in hot water on that front."
     Scott frowned, hating himself for suggesting it.
     Jonathan sighed again.  "So, I guess I'll have to take a rain check,
if you'll give me one."
     "I'm the one who should be asking for the rain check.  You called me
and I begged away."
     "Well, consider yourself owing me one, then.  I'll hold you to it.
So, I s'pose I'll let you call it a day and I'll do the same thing over
here.  You take care, now Scott."
     Scott smiled softly.  "Thank you, Jonathan.  You, too."
     He set down the phone, looked back at the grinning kids above the
fireplace and sighed.



Author's Note: It's great to be back.  Millions of thanks to everyone who
has contacted me to inquire, prod, nudge, cajole and just generally give me
hell.  Thanks to Ted, Kory and Scott for coming back too, along with their
polish, and to Peter and Walter for advice and input on this and that.
Please note that my contact information has changed from the previous
posts.  The prefix to my email addy is the same, but I've moved to gmail.
I'm throwing in the towel after the attacks on my Hotmail contacts lists,
and am looking for a clean start with a clean inbox.  Hope to hear from
you.

scotty.13411@gmail.com