Headmistress: A Greenbridge Academy Romance Page 4
This is a lie, of course. I could sue Martha for giving me a boner if I wanted to, but I don’t want to. And I do not want to touch this pinhead’s latest grievance with a ten-foot pole.
“What can I do then?”
I swivel back and forth in my chair a few times and tap my finger to my lips, thinking.
How could I use this to make the entire thing totally backfire? I have an idea.
The thought occurs to me that surely he’s not dumb enough to go for this. He can’t be that stupid.
“Write a letter to the editor of the high school newspaper,” I suggest.
He thinks for a moment. He points at me like I’m some kind of genius, which I am not. “You know, that’s not a terrible idea,” he says.
* * *
How many times had Martha destroyed me in debate practice in high school? As our language arts teacher who doubled as our debate coach, she regularly nuked any half-assed argument. She made us the best debate team in the state.
The day that we’d won our first competition ever against our rival school, everyone knew it was because she had totally desensitized our sense of attachment to our own arguments. We’d worked through all of our emotional reactions. We’d dissected and reworked everything with the utmost precision, both as a team and one-on-one.
It was the one-on-one time with Ms. Moody that I’d looked forward to. Any excuse to stay after school. Not just to be near her and fantasize about taking off her thick black frames, untying her tight bun, daring to taste those full, soft lips, teasing that knowing half-grin with my tongue. But also I wanted to spend time with her. My home life was not the greatest, and despite all the ball busting on the outside, something about her felt safe and warm.
I liked talking to her. Making her smile and laugh just once could make my whole week.
Martha would barely make eye contact when I made advances. She encouraged me to date other girls my age, but she enjoyed our conversations. She told me so much about the history of the school, and about how she dreamed of being headmistress someday.
Looking back, she was correct to resist my physical advances.
But there was no other woman for me. I just knew. Thoughts about her invaded my mind day and night.
And then one evening, everything changed.
When the debate was finished and the rest of the group was off to celebrate, I stayed behind to help Ms. Moody gather up and organize our paperwork and placards.
“Everyone’s going to grab pizza,” I said to her. “You should join us. Let your hair down a little bit.”
But she simply shook her head, gathered her things and took off. I followed her out of the auditorium, down the hall.
I knew at the time it was wrong, but I followed her out to the empty parking lot.
She got into her car. Another chance for me to think twice and just walk away. But here’s the thing. She didn’t even try to lock the door. She put the key into the ignition but she didn’t start it.
I stalked over to her tidy black Honda Accord, opened the back door and slipped inside.
“Do you need a ride home or something?” she asked, her voice more wispy than normal, knowing exactly what I was doing back there.
“You know I don’t need a ride. I need you,” I said, more commanding than I intended.
I could see her throat move as she swallowed. “Miles, we need to talk.”
“I’m done talking. I’m done begging. I’m an adult now, and I’m asking you to join me, as an adult, in the back seat.”
I could see her licking her lips. “Miles…”
“Ms. Moody.”
Her fingers fidgeted up her face and then across her chest. She muttered something like, “This is not really happening.”
And then I did something truly despicable. I deliberately attempted to make her need a release. In my deepest, throatiest voice, I leaned forward and started to speak just inches from her ear. Because I was such a dutiful student under her speech tutelage, I was prepared. I had done a good bit of homework on what to say, but most of it came naturally. Everything I felt, I said.
“I want you. I want to kiss you. I want to touch and look at and memorize every part of your body. I want our minds and souls to touch. I want to show you how excited you make me. I want to run my hands up under that skirt, under your sweater. Feel your breasts, feel your nipples respond to me. I want to grow old with you and make you happy. I want to massage your feet every day after school. I want to take your bun out and play with your hair until you fall asleep. I want you to relax with a glass of wine while I warm your body up for me. I want to warm your pussy with my hands, make you ache, make you whimper my name, fill you with my seed, make babies with you.”
Still facing forward, Ms. Moody breathed out a quiet curse. I could see she was fighting with herself.
“If you don’t come back here with me, I’m going to keep talking to you until your panties are soaked for me.”
“Miles.” She squeezed her eyes tightly and shifted in her seat, her hand on the steering wheel, and then on the ignition, and then on the door handle.
“Do you want me to leave? If you do, I’ll leave,” I offered.
She took a moment to breathe, then shook her head vigorously. Finally, she breathed, “Fuck it,” and climbed into the back seat with me.
For the first time, she looked me straight in the eyes, looking at me not as a child but as an adult. “If we’re going to do this, you need to call me Martha.”
I reached over, cupped her face and was done in by her softness. Maybe some part of me thought she’d be made of stone, or fire. But not only was her skin softer than silk under my touch, but her whole face, whole demeanor changed. It was like she melted into herself, finally having given in to her own wants and needs.
I was ensnared for life the moment she allowed my mouth to land on her soft, smooth, pillowy lips. Kissing her was like tasting happiness. Nothing else mattered.
I don’t know how long we kissed like that before my hand began to slide up her leg. When I managed to hike up her skirt, my hand found the edge of her thigh-high stockings. I moaned at the contact with her silky thighs, and my cock saluted when she moaned in response to my caresses.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since forever, and now that I am, I want to keep kissing you forever,” I whispered to her.
Martha let out a small sigh against my mouth as she welcomed my tongue. The sounds of our mouths tasting and teasing only heightened the desire building in me below the waist. And she smelled so good. My free hand slipped back behind her head, gripping the comb that held the bun in place. With one gentle pull, Martha’s soft chestnut locks fell down around her shoulders.
Her eyes popped open with surprise for a moment but she melted into me when I laced my fingers into her hair.
My hand kept traveling up, between her legs, until I was cupping her mound. She gasped and jerked, and then moaned into my mouth.
It seemed like merely seconds later, all the car windows were steamed over. Both of us panted and moaned as the kissing and petting intensified. My inexperienced fingers massaged the soft material over her folds.
When she put her hand on my bulge, I stopped her. “Just you this time. This is my thank you gift for making me a better debater, a better student, and a better person. Let me make you feel good, Martha. I want your sweet juices all over me. ”
She gasped at my filthy suggestion but ground her body harder into my hand, urging me on. “How do you even know about these things?”
My hand could do naught but oblige the demands of her writhing body. “You always told me to do my research,” I breathed into her ear. “Did I do it correctly?”
“Good lord,” she moaned, her eyes rolling back in her head. I pressed, massaged and rubbed her in her aching places, while my other hand stroked her hair, her cheek, her jaw, her ear.
I was about to work my kisses down her neck and introduce her nipples to my mouth, when our delicious moment came to a s
creeching halt. The floodlights suddenly came on, seemingly lighting up the entire world as if it were the middle of the day.
It was in that harsh light that a startled Martha put a stop to everything once and for all.
“Stop,” she said, pushing against me and sitting straight up, her voice ragged and loaded with regret. Of course I stopped; what choice did I have?
I pulled back and watched her exit her back seat, both of us still panting as she stood and held the door open, presumably waiting for me to make my exit. I did, trying to meet her gaze but once again, my girl had put up a wall.
“Miles I shouldn’t have…I’m so sorry—“
“Martha, don’t—”
“I’ll see you in class Monday. And it’s Ms. Moody.”
9
Martha
By the end of this day I am struggling to keep my head held high.
I begin with the rescheduled staff meeting prior to the start of school.
I start off the meeting by telling everyone about my current situation.
“I don’t want any of you to worry, but we’ve had some pushback about the statue. Specifically, the Chamberlains are suing me. Not the school. I haven’t yet figured out how to respond yet, but I want you all to know that this is not going to include any of you, nor are my own legal costs going to have any effect on any of your budgets or needs through the end of this year or next. I got myself into this mess and I’m going to figure it out.”
Some teachers already have heard, some are surprised.
A discussion emerges about the winter musical. Ms. Fairhope, our kindergarten teacher who typically oversees the winter musical, pipes up. “As some of you know, this year our senior drama students have asked to completely take over the winter musical for their senior project. With Ms. Moody’s permission I’m giving them the green light. They’ve decided not to do a musical but to write their own play.”
One of the teachers asks if the administration will get to read the script before they perform it.
“I will, and of course Headmistress Moody will have the final say over the script, but we have a very talented group of seniors this year and I’m not worried at all about the content,” Ms. Fairhope replies.
Unexpectedly, Coach Judy, our women’s swim coach and civics teacher, pipes up. “Are we sure that’s wise? The last time we allowed children to completely take over an issue of the newspaper, we got a lot of negative feedback. A lot of trash was published in there.”
The journalism teacher, Mr. Clairmont, speaks up. “Wait a minute. That issue was very well received by the students and we won national high school journalism awards for it.”
Judy scoffs. “And Hadley’s parents pulled her off the journalism staff and threatened to sue, if I recall.”
Mr. Clairmont shrugs. “Well, her family’s firm is mobbed up with the Chamberlains’ construction business, are they not?”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘mobbed up,’ but that seems pretty inflammatory,” Judy replies.
The meeting is soon spinning out of control. I do something totally out of character then and check my phone.
A text from Miles is waiting to be read.
He should not be texting me. But despite myself, I can’t hide the small smile and the happiness that flickers across my face.
“What do you think, Headmistress?”
“Hm?” My cheeks burn when I realize I’ve been distracted from the discussion at hand. “Well, I think that litigious families come and go, but if we stand our ground knowing we’re doing the right thing then we have nothing to worry about.”
A few of my staff members exchange looks. “I don’t know,” one of them says. “Those who are old enough remember everything that happened in 1989. We’re not invincible as a school. Yes, it came to a positive end after some time. But the Rushmores aren’t going to swoop in and save the day every single time.”
“I agree with Judy,” another teacher says. “I think we need to double back and be extra careful this year before we go changing anything else.”
A lot of crosstalk begins, and soon I’ve lost control of the meeting.
Suddenly, I remember who I am. I am the fucking headmistress. I steer the meetings. I am in charge here. I am their boss. This meeting is not going to be hijacked by a bunch of namby-pamby scaredy cats. I stand up and clap my hands five times—clap, clap, clap-clap-clap—before raising two fingers in the air for silence.
Half of the staff snicker, and the other half look offended at my use of a teacher move to quiet everyone down. “If you’re going to argue like children, then I’ll treat you like children. Here’s what is going to happen. We’re going to let the drama club do their project as planned, and we’re not going to micromanage it. Because they are not children, and I’m not going to let Ms. Fairhope go back on her word. If anyone has a problem with it, you may come see me personally. You are all dismissed.”
I march out to the hall to get a drink, my hand shaking on the button of the water fountain.
I am so ready for this day to be over, but I have so much more to do.
Things do not improve after school at the PTA meeting.
An innocuous talk about whether the bake sale this year should fund the drama club’s trip to London or fund the chess club’s trip to Moscow breaks down when one parent throws a wrench into the works. “Latin club, chess club, debate, drama…why do we never support more accessible kinds of things? Those things are not going to do anything but pad college applications. What about a vocational club?”
I squint at this parent and realize I’ve never seen her before. While I’m trying to place her, all hell breaks loose.
“This is a college prep school! What is it you think we should be doing instead?” says the chair, Bianca Rushmore.
The mystery parent retorts, “Well, down-to-earth, real-life skills, for one thing. Like get kids prepared to work construction.”
Bianca smirks. “So the Chamberlains can have built-in cheap labor for their company under the guise of vocational classes? No thank you. And besides, the public school system has a magnet school for that.”
One of the teachers comments, “It’s a valid point. Those things are becoming more and more in demand. Maybe we should try to be more relevant.”
Another parent snidely comments, “Then you secure the funding for that and start a club for it yourself.”
Bianca reminds everyone, “PTA is not in the business of starting clubs. We are here to raise money for the existing programs of the school. Clubs are independently funded by parents.”
I quietly step away from the table to examine the sign-in sheet by the door of the conference room. I know the name of every parent and staff member on that list, and yet that one person who instigated this whole argument is not on this list.
“I just think the school is headed in a very elitist direction and maybe we need to go back to its roots,” says the mystery parent.
I turn to examine her skeptically, my inner cautionary flags gradually turning from yellow to red.
“Its roots are long gone, that’s what 1989 was all about, and good riddance,” says Mrs. Shermer, whose whole family is secretly my favorite of the entire school. They don’t have the most money, not by any stretch. But their daughter Addie, a junior, is one of the best and kindest of our student body.
And now it seems, for the second time today, a meeting has lost control for a silly, out-of-the-blue reason. Not that I’m even supposed to be in control. I glance over at Bianca Rushmore, who’s giving me a knowing look. The chair of the PTA nods as if to say, I got this.
Bianca stands up. “I think I know what’s going on here. People are scared because of the lawsuit. They think we need to let the Chamberlains have their way. But if they do, you know what’s going to happen. It’s not up to one family to decide what’s best for the school. We pay Headmistress Moody to lead us, and I think she’s done a wonderful job. We’re not going to let one family bully us.”
Unexpectedly, as everyone leaves, the mystery parent approaches me. “I know one thing, Ms. Moody: you’d better make this lawsuit go away or else we’ll be having bake sales to pay your legal feels.”
I raise my chin. “And you are? I didn’t see your name on the sign-in sheet.”
She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “A concerned parent.”
I reach out a hand for her to shake it. I smile as she takes it and seems to let her guard down and smiles back at me. In a register only she can hear, I say, “You listen to me. I know exactly what you’re doing here. So why don’t you run along to your friends the Chamberlains and report everything you heard here today. But the next time anyone tries to get you to be a mole at a PTA meeting, at least have the courage to sign your fucking name.”
Just when I think I’m free to go home and drown this whole wretched day in a bottle of pinot, I get a call from the head of the board of trustees. They’re having an emergency meeting tonight and I’m to be there.
Well, I think. This is it. They’re going to fire me.
On the contrary, the meeting is to inform me that the school’s counsel will be taking on my case.
I protest to the trustees. “I’ve created this mess and I’m determined to do this on my own.”
Mr. Rushmore shakes his head, as does everyone else up on the dais in front of me. “Ms. Moody, you are not going to do this on your own.”
“I can make it go away. I don’t need you to swoop in like you always do. All due respect.”
Rushmore narrows his eyes at me and repeats my phrase back to me. “All due respect, you routinely take on too much. I did not get where I am today by refusing help.”