Home > Absinthe(7)

Absinthe(7)
Author: Winter Renshaw

But my mind kept playing the real scenario, and my instinct was to shut down and walk away.

“You there?” I send him a message, biting my thumbnail as I wait.

Five minutes pass, then another five, then ten.

I watch some music videos on YouTube to pass the time.

Kerouac: I’m here. What’s going on?

Absinthe: What’s the most desperate thing you’ve ever done for money?

Kerouac: That’s random.

Absinthe: Just answer it.

Kerouac: I’m not a desperate man and I’m good with my money, so … nothing?

Absinthe: Bullshit.

Kerouac: I’d need to think on this a while. Can I get back to you?

Absinthe: I guess.

Kerouac: What’s wrong? Thought it was weird you went silent on me for a week.

Congratulations! You’ve reached ten Karma points! You may now view the photograph of the Karma user you’re chatting with!

I have no idea how they dole out points, if it’s based on how long you chat or how many messages are sent, but a flashing blue icon in the upper corner blinks at me, begging to be clicked.

So I click it.

And an image fills the screen.

It’s a man, late twenties, with brown hair, hazel eyes, and a perfect smile. He’s incredibly handsome and clean cut, and he wears a navy sweater over a gingham tie. He belongs on a Ralph Lauren billboard. Grabbing a screenshot of the image, I pull up Google and do a reverse image search, which leads me to a stock photo website.

Kerouac’s photo is stock. Not him.

Shaking my head, I’m imagining some beer-bellied pervert sitting in his mother’s basement trying to hook up with people on Karma, lying about his good looks and making himself seem more charming and intelligent than he actually is.

Fucking jackass.

Closing out of Karma, I clap the laptop lid shut and shove it to the end of the bed.

Chapter 6

Ford

“Thank you all for coming here,” I say Monday morning, though I shouldn’t have to thank my teachers for making it to a mandatory mid-summer meeting.

A row of women, all in their mid-forties and sporting suntans, shorts, and t-shirts, are talking amongst themselves, ignoring me. I’d expect this sort of behavior from students. Not seasoned teaching professionals.

“Let me know when you’re finished, ladies,” I say into the microphone.

They glance up, startled, and all eyes are on them. The woman on the far left mutters an apology.

“Yes. That’s better.” I stand before the podium in the Rosefield Performing Arts Auditorium, which is high tech and state of the art, having just been remodeled last year. The first several rows are filled with teachers, secretaries, guidance counselors, and maintenance staff. “I wanted to introduce myself.” A group of young teachers to my left are whispering, giggling. One of them nods, another practically wipes the drool off her chin. I get that I’m young for a principal, that I’m educated, intelligent, and professional, and that I’ve won the genetic lottery in the looks department, but I can assure each and every one of those teachers that I have no intentions of so much as thinking of hooking up with them. “My name is Ford Hawthorne. I’m originally from Connecticut, though I attended college in New York City and subsequently taught there as well before coming to Rosefield.”

The auditorium is finally quiet.

“A little about me, I’m a straight shooter. I don’t sugarcoat. I have ridiculously high expectations for my students, teachers, and staff, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in my career thus far, it’s that in the education system, reputation is everything,” I say. “The reputation of the school, the reputation of the students and staff, of the leadership … it’s all paramount. And everything we do, day in and day out, contributes to that reputation.” I glance at one of the younger women, who instantly blushes. “The second your name or your school’s name has been destroyed, it could take decades to be repaired.”

Moving on.

“A little about me personally? I’m an avid runner. I enjoy classic literature, travel, and I hate small talk.” I smirk. “Over the coming weeks leading up to August 1st, I plan to call you in for some one-on-one meetings, just so I can put your faces with your names. That said, I wanted to keep this short and sweet. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back out there and enjoy your summer break. If you need to reach me, I’ve left a stack of business cards on the table in the back with my contact information.”

The buzz of conversation fills the auditorium once more, and I step down from the stage, heading up one of the aisles. I linger at the back table for a bit, watching as one out of every five people passing by takes a business card, and I sigh.

These people are checked out, but I don’t blame them.

Teaching is one of the toughest, most draining and challenging careers.

“Mr. Hawthorne?” A woman’s voice fills my ear. I glance over the desk to see a petite little thing with a pale blonde pixie cut, a purple dress, and teal earrings. “I’m Sara Bliss, the art teacher at Rosefield.”

She extends her hand.

“Lovely to meet you, Sara,” I say.

“I just wanted to introduce myself.” She fights a smile, her eyes lighting in my presence as she fidgets, and I wonder if everyone makes her fidget or if it’s just me. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I don’t get involved with my teachers. “Rosefield is a good school. Our students are maybe a little more privileged than the average student. And most of them drive nicer cars than the teachers.” She chuckles. “But they’re good kids. At the end of the day, they do what they’re told to do, and they’re so focused on getting into the best colleges that they’re all little overachievers. Even in art class.”

“I see.”

“Anyway, I didn’t know if anyone had told you much about our school … you know, outside of the hiring committee. Thought you might want to hear this stuff from someone who sees it all firsthand.”

“Of course. I appreciate that.”

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around?” She shrugs, flashing a sweet smile.

“Yes, enjoy the rest of your summer, Miss …”

“Bliss,” she reminds me. “Sara Bliss. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

A man with gray hair and a faded white t-shirt emblazoned with the school’s mascot ambles toward my table.

“Bernie,” he says. “School custodian. Been here over thirty years.”

“Bernie, nice to meet you.” I extend my hand.

“This is a good school,” he says, his chin jutting forward as he answers a question I didn’t ask. “Think you’ll really like it here.”

“That’s what I hear. And I certainly hope so.”

“If you ever need anything …” He points at himself before nodding and walking away.

When the last person has left the auditorium, I grab my cards and head to my new office. It’s empty save for a couple of plants the last principal left behind. And a Mac computer sits dusty and untouched on the center of a desk.

Taking a seat in the chair, which is painfully uncomfortable and going to have to be replaced, I stare out the window that overlooks the commons, an open air, upscale food court type of place that wraps around a courtyard filled with picnic tables.

I envision the students filling the area, their little Louis Vuitton backpacks and MacBook Airs in tow as they ask the food service workers if the apples are organic or farm fresh. Students at a school like this are no doubt going to be spoiled and entitled.

My only hope is that I can make a difference, instill a little humility in them so they can grow up to be good people, not just smart people. I hope that long after they’re gone, and even long after I’m gone, they’ll still remember me.

If I can make a lasting impression, I’ll have done my job.

Chapter 7

Halston

My stomach is in knots as I sit on the lid of the toilet in the staff restroom. Today’s my first day at Big Boulders, and Courtney, my mentor, handed me a uniform and told me to get changed. At first, I figured it wouldn’t be a big deal. I wear bikinis all the time at Uncle Vic’s pool. But knowing that I’m wearing this skimpy outfit for the sole purpose of letting men stare at my tits and ass … almost makes me want to throw up.

   
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