But then I remembered. This presentation was different. Guy was today’s speaker. Today I’d see him in the flesh instead of scouring all those Facebook posts.
Heart thumping, I gathered up the journals into a pile and grabbed a couple to take with me. If all else failed, they’d distract me from the hungry rumbling in my gut.
Robin, our principal, was British. An import from Cambridge. A dusty relic from the sixties hanging grimly onto the barest semblance of youth, with his diamond stud earrings, wispy strands of reddish-gray hair and musty checkered shirts that smelled of old laundry. He walked around the school wearing granny glasses and bedroom slippers and sported a shark’s tooth necklace he claimed was from his surfing days at Zuma Beach. Unable to afford the California lifestyle and keen to dodge the draft, he’d drifted up to the Midwest in the late seventies and found his niche in teaching. He eventually moved up the system to head the team at our alternative school, which he ran according to liberal sixties educational strategies.
I’d been at the school for six years and loved it. It was a super-relaxed place. Teachers and students on a first-name basis, and courses that snailed on forever at the students’ own pace. No deadlines, no lectures, plenty of interactive group projects as well as a big emphasis on music and the arts, and a whole lot of feel-good, self-esteem building sessions.
We took in the outsiders, the bullied, the disillusioned, and the disenfranchised. Kids would come into the classroom bruised, battered and alienated by the regular school system. Nervous aggression coiled like a tight spring in their gut. But once they realized there were no tight-assed discipline freaks around and they could work at a speed that suited their own individual needs, they usually settled into the calm daily routine without too much protest.
The door of the multi-purpose room swung open and Robin stepped out. He stopped dead in his tracks and held the door for me, grasping the metal bar. Dry, ropey veins stood out on the back of his hands. He glanced at the bare skin above my breasts. Everyone knew Robin was a bit of a lech but he was harmless. His heart was in the right place, especially when it came to the kids.
He leaned close. “Not coming in, Anna?” His breath smelled of liver masked by a thin veneer of mint.
I shrank back feeling like a mouse facing the exterminator. “I was gonna grab my lunch.”
“No need, luv. Guy and Brian are bringing munchies.”
“In that case I’ll stay.” Cringing inwardly, I ducked under his armpit, heading for the safety of the back row.
“Front row’s all free,” he called, encouraging me forward. “Let’s make them feel welcome.”
He scurried off as I slouched into the front row.
Since I was living from hand to mouth, I had no Kindle or iPad to hold discreetly on my lap while the expert burbled on about the latest evidence set to revolutionize classroom practices. My phone was a vintage flip phone with no internet capability so scrolling through Facebook was out. Instead, I flipped through the first journal.
Journal writing was part of my daily routine. Students would take ten or fifteen minutes to free-write in their notebook. Even if they spent the time doodling, the one requirement was that they keep their hand moving until they’d covered at least a page. And with every new intake of students, I’d stand at the front of the class, put hand to heart and make a solemn vow that I wouldn’t report or censor anything written between the covers of those precious books. Once a week I did a page count and assessed accordingly. But I always lingered far longer than necessary. The stories were just too damned compelling. Their painful, comical, sometimes deeply romantic details formed a vivid mosaic of the angst-ridden teenage mind. Not to mention, there was a whole lot in those journals that reminded me of my own sorry past.
I studied the first page. Written in pink Sharpie, the most recent entry described a hot tub party with Snoop Dogg and Einstein as guests of honor. When I burst out laughing at the image of a fuzzy-haired Einstein reclining in a smoke-wreathed hot tub, chugging a bottle of champagne, while scantily dressed dancers gyrated around him, an unfamiliar voice cut into my daydream.
“Haven’t even used my best icebreaker and she’s already laughing.”
I looked up to see Guy – the first time I’d seen him close up.
In person.
Tall and lean with a head of cropped brown curls, his shrewd, caramel eyes glinted behind gold-rimmed glasses. His face was pleasing. A smattering of light freckles dotted the bridge of a slim nose with gently flared nostrils. Well-shaped lips with defined edges seemed etched into the angular face with its slightly pointed chin. And his clothes were immaculate. Black denim designer jeans and a gray tailored shirt with an expensive sheen to it. The edge of a chunky silver watch peeked out from under a starched cuff.
“Guy Franzen,” he said, holding out his hand.
I shook it hoping my palm wasn’t clammy.
“Anna Holt,” I managed to croak. A tic or maybe a tiny smile played at the corner of his lips. He pumped my trembling hand up and down, seeming reluctant to let go. My throat felt suddenly dry.
A stockier guy appeared behind him. Thick black hair sprouted from his receding hairline, and he sported a full gray-flecked beard and striped acrylic sweater over saggy-assed chinos.
I looked down at the journals, now tucked under my left arm and in danger of slipping out onto the floor. “Creative writing. Kids have such great imaginations.”
“And that’s the kind of thing that really interests us,” Guy
