Misconduct

I leaped to the right, landing on my left foot as I held the racket with both hands and slammed the tennis ball back across the court. Popping back upright, I raced to the center again, oxygen rushing in and out of my lungs as I bounced on my feet.

The next shot fired out of the ball machine low and high, and I lurched my arm back, taking the racket over my head and swinging hard, sending the ball straight for the ground and out of bounds on the other side of the net.

Shit.

I ran my sandpaper tongue over my lips, desperate for water from all of the exertion as I ran frontward, backward, and left to right, trying to keep up with the speed, trajectory, and spin I’d programmed into the machine.

I’d clearly overestimated the shape I was in.

Sure, I exercised. I ran and used my own small equipment to do strength training at my apartment, but tennis required muscles I rarely used anymore.

Every six months or so, I’d start to miss the game, the new challenge that every serve would offer, and I’d use my membership to access the pristine private courts at the gym.

I never played anyone, though. I hadn’t played with a partner since the first round of Wimbledon, July second, five years ago, shortly before I moved to New Orleans with my brother. That was the day I’d gotten a code violation, a default on match point, and so, with no hope of winning, I’d walked off the court before the game was officially over and never returned to competitive tennis again.

My brother had tried comforting me, telling me that I couldn’t expect to get my head in the game after what we’d been through earlier that summer. It had been a hard time.

Hell, it had been a hard two years prior to that, but it was still a moment I wished I could go back and change. My last match on a professional court had been my worst, and it was the only thing in my life I was ashamed of.

I’d behaved like a brat, and despite everything I’d accomplished up until that point, that’s how people remembered the old Easton Bradbury.

But I would make damn sure that this Easton Bradbury never made that same mistake.

It was strange how something that felt like second nature at one time now felt so foreign. I used to do this every day. I’d wake up at five o’clock in the morning, eat a light breakfast or drink a protein shake, put on my gear, and hit the court for five hours.

In between I’d do my home study and eat, and then I’d go back out for either more practice or another workout.

At night I’d ice sore joints and muscles and read before bed.

I didn’t go to school, I didn’t go to parties, and I didn’t have friends. That’s probably why Jack was my BFF.

I grunted, feeling the ache in my grip as I squeezed the racket and backhanded the next tennis ball, sending it over the damn baseline.

“Damn it,” I mumbled, pulling to a stop as I put my hands on my hips and dropped my head. “Shit.”

I dug the remote out of the waistband of my tennis skirt and pointed it at the ball machine, powering it down just as a ball came flying toward me.

I ducked and then twisted my head in the other direction, hearing a car honk behind me.

Jack sat in his Jeep Wrangler laughing at me as “Untraveled Road” by Thousand Foot Krutch blared from his car.

I rolled my eyes and walked for the gate, handing the remote to the attendant and grabbing my gym bag. I tossed my towel into a bin before swerving around the fence and down the sidewalk.

“You only caught the end of that,” I protested, climbing into the passenger seat. “I was hitting balls like crazy.”

He smiled to himself, shifting into gear and pulling away from the curb. “You know you could play with me, right?”

I snorted. “No offense, but I want to be challenged, Jack.”

His chest shook with laughter. “Brat.”

I smiled and dug my phone out of my duffel before stuffing the bag onto the floor between my legs.

Jack had actually been a great sparring partner when I was younger. He’d even competed before it became obvious at an early age that it just wasn’t a passion for him.

When my parents noticed that I was more interested and a lot more pliable, they let him off the hook and nurtured me. I never understood why it was so important for one of us to be competing at a high level in a sport, but I basically just wrote it off as a desire for them to be in the limelight and live vicariously, both of them amateur athletes in their day.

“You only come out here sporadically, and you always want to be alone,” Jack commented, turning onto St. Charles and traveling past Tulane, heading toward the Garden District. “It’s like you’re forcing yourself to do something you don’t want to do. As if you still feel obligated to play.”

Spills of gold fell across my lap from the sunlight peeking through the trees overhead, and I checked my e-mail as I tried to ignore Jack’s constant invasiveness.

He’d been like this since that summer five years ago, but I thought once I’d graduated college, he’d refocus more on himself.

“Easton?” my brother pressed.

My eyelids fluttered in annoyance, and I scrolled through messages, forgetting my brother as soon as I saw one from Tyler Marek.

I swallowed the thickness in my throat, my eyes moving over his name and trying to ignore the strange hunger that filled my stomach at the enticing thought of an interaction with him.

“Easton?” Jack pushed again, his voice sounding annoyed.

“Jack, just put a cork in it,” I barked, clicking on the e-mail and reading Marek’s message.

Dear Ms. Bradbury,

I was under the impression that we’d handled this.

While I understand you are a trained professional, there are certain things I will allow and certain things I will not. My expectations for my son’s education follow the state standards, and I suggest you find a way to do your job—like all the other teachers in that school—that does not increase the burden on families more than the tuition we already pay. In the future, I expect the following:

1. My son is NOT permitted on social media for homework. I encourage an atmosphere free of distractions, so I demand work where this is not required. No argument.

2. I will be notified BEFORE anything less than an A for an assignment is entered into his final grades.

3. The rubrics for the presentation grades don’t make sense. The presentations happen in school and are not something I can see, assess, or help him with. Performance assignments should not be graded.

4. Observing more experienced professionals in your field may yield a better understanding of student learning. If you’d like, I’d be happy to suggest to Principal Shaw that you shadow more adept teachers.

I trust that we will not have any other problems and you’ll prepare accordingly. My son will NOT be bringing his phone to class in the future. If you have any concerns, please contact my office anytime for an appointment.

Sincerely,

Tyler Marek

Silvery shots of pain ran through my jaw, and I realized I was clenching my teeth and not breathing.

I closed my eyes, drawing in a long, hot breath.

Son of a bitch.

I dropped my head back. “Ugh!” I growled, slamming my fists down on my thighs.

“Whoa,” I heard Jack say to my left. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, seething. “A burden on families,” I bit out, barely unlocking my teeth. “This asshole is a millionaire, and social networking is free! What the hell is he talking about?” I shouted at my brother. “Son of a . . . !”

“What the hell happened, Easton?” he demanded again, this time louder as he swerved and then righted the steering wheel. A streetcar passed us on the left, its bell dinging.

I ignored him and looked down, scrolling through my phone. I’d programmed in parents’ home and work numbers the first week, so I clicked on Marek’s and found his cell phone number.

It was a Saturday, so I was guessing he wasn’t at work. I refused to e-mail back. I wanted this dealt with now.

“Easton, what are you doing?” I could see my brother working the wheel nervously and glancing at me.

I shook my head, laughing to myself. “Shadow more adept teachers,” I mocked, repeating his e-mail in a fake masculine voice as I looked to my brother with the phone ringing in my ear.

“I have to take time out of my hectic day to notify him personally every time his little prince gets a B?” I continued, complaining. “And why? So he can threaten me into not entering the grade?”

“Did a parent e-mail you?” he asked, slowly putting the pieces together.

I nodded. “Yeah. He expects and demands that I make changes, because he has a hang-up about my methods. Arrogant, entitled—” I stopped myself before my temper got away from me.

When there was no answer, I pulled the phone away from my ear and ended the call, clicking on his work number next. For men like him, the office never really closed. Perhaps he had a receptionist who could make an appointment.

The phone rang twice, and then I heard a click as someone answered.

“Good morning. Tyler Marek’s office,” a woman’s pleasant voice chirped. “How can I help you?”

My heart pounded in my ears, and I could feel the pulse in my neck throb. I held back, almost wishing he wasn’t in his office after all.

I needed time to calm down.

But I swallowed and pushed forward anyway. “Yes, hello,” I rushed out.

“Easton, keep your cool,” I heard my brother warn from my side.

I bit my lip to keep the anger out of my voice. “I’m Easton Bradbury calling for Mr. Marek,” I told her. “I’m sure he’s not in today, but—”

“Just a moment, please,” she interrupted, and disappeared.

I sucked in a breath, realizing that he was in after all.

“Marek?” my brother asked. “Tyler Marek?”

I glanced at him, arching an eyebrow in annoyance.

“Easton, get off the call,” Jack ordered.

His arm shot out, trying to grab the phone, but I slapped his hand away.

“Watch the road!” I barked, pointing at the street ahead.

“Easton, I’m serious,” he growled. “Tyler Marek has a workforce of more than ten thousand people. He may be a senator, for crying out loud. It isn’t your place to argue with him.”

I shot him a look. My place?

My brother was worried about his career, but I didn’t care who Marek was. He was still a man.

Nothing but a man.

“Ms. Bradbury.”

I turned my head away from my brother, suddenly hearing Marek’s voice in my ear.

Thick anticipation filled my chest, and I dropped my eyes, disappointed that I was actually excited.

“Mr. Marek,” I replied curtly, remembering why I had called. “I received your e-mail, and I’d love to . . .” I trailed off, wiping the sweat off my hairline. “I’d love to schedule a meeting to sit down and work out a plan for Christian.”

“We’ve already met,” he pointed out, his voice clipped. “And it was not a productive use of my time, Ms. Bradbury.”

I tried reasoning. “Mr. Marek, we both want what’s best for your son. If we work together—”

“Ms. Bradbury.” He cut me off, and I could hear people talking in the background. “Apparently I wasn’t clear enough in my e-mail, so let me save us both some time. My son has no problems with any other teacher, so it goes without saying that you’re the problem.” His stern voice cut me, and I felt like shrinking. “You suffer from an overindulged sense of entitlement, and you forget that your job is on a yearly contract.”

My eyes widened, taking in his threat that my job this year could belong to someone else next year. I fisted the hem of the skirt at my thigh.

“Now, I’m a busy man,” he continued, sounding condescending, “and I don’t have time for silly young women who don’t know their place.”

My skin stung from where my fingernail dug in. His son didn’t have problems with me. Perhaps I graded harder than other teachers, and I might have had unorthodox methods, but most of the students enjoyed my class, including Christian. When he participated. If he ever challenged me, it was because his father wouldn’t allow him the freedom to have the tools to participate like all the other students.

“Now, can I get on with my day and consider this issue settled?” he sniped.

Heat spread over my skin, and I bared my teeth. “You can go to hell,” I shot back, raging. “No wonder he can’t stand you.”

“Easton!” Jack burst out next to me.

But it was too late.

My eyes widened, and my hand tingled, nearly losing my grip on the phone.

What the hell did I just say?

I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say. I didn’t just say that to a parent.

I did not say that to a parent.

There was only silence on the other end of the line, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to find the words.

“Mr. Marek,” I inched out in a softer voice. “I’m sorry. I—”

But then I heard a click, and the line went dead.

“Shit!” I cried, bringing the phone away from my ear and seeing CALL ENDED on the screen.

“He hung up.” I looked at my brother. “I’m screwed.”

Jack shook his head at me, his lips tight, clearly furious with me. He swerved to the left and downshifted, taking a sharp turn onto Poydras.

“Where are you going?” I asked, thoughts of Marek calling Shaw right now running through my head.

Insulting a parent wasn’t good.

“To his office,” he answered, his tone unusually defiant. “You’re going to go apologize before he has a chance to file a complaint.”

To his office?

“I . . . I,” I stammered. “No!” I yelled. “No. Absolutely not! I can’t talk to him right now.”

But my brother didn’t say anything. He just kept driving.

I put my hand to my forehead, panicking. “I can’t believe I just said that. What was I thinking?”

“You weren’t thinking,” he retorted. “And you’re going to go beg for forgiveness.”

I shook my head. “Jack, it’s completely inappropriate,” I pleaded with him. “Please. I’m not dressed right.”

But he ignored me again, speeding into the Central Business District and closer to Marek’s office.

I looked down at my navy blue and white pin-striped tennis skirt with pleated ruffles on the back. It barely hit halfway down my thighs.

My peach-colored shirt was long-sleeved, but it was skintight, serving the purpose of absorbing my sweat but definitely not my humiliation.

I closed my eyes, groaning. I couldn’t be less armed for a meeting with him.

—

Jack dropped me off in front of the building while he went to park in a garage. I stood out on the front sidewalk and tipped my head all the way back, scowling up at his building.

Big silver letters were posted on the front, spelling MAREK, the candy-apple-red glow behind the name reminding me of the dress I was wearing when I’d first met him.

The whole building was his?

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, forcing the muscles in my face to relax.

Heading inside, I approached one of the check-in stations. I peered to the right and saw security running people through metal detectors.

Placing my palms down on the cool black granite counter, I forced a small smile. “Hello, I . . .” I hesitated, my nerves firing. “I needed to speak with Tyler Marek. If he’s in,” I added.

“What’s your name, miss?” the young man asked, picking up his phone.

“Easton,” I breathed out, willing my heart to slow down. “Easton Bradbury.”

He waited, then finally spoke into the phone. “Hello. I have Easton Bradbury to see Mr. Marek.”

“I don’t have an appointment,” I pointed out, whispering to him.

He offered a placating smile and waited for what the other person had to say.

He nodded. “Thank you,” he told them.

Hanging up the phone, he typed something into the computer quickly, and before I knew it, he handed me a badge with a bar code and pointed me toward the elevators.

“He’ll see you,” he said, nodding. “It’s the sixtieth floor.”

“Which office?” I asked.

But he just laughed and continued to shuffle papers without looking at me.

I let out a sigh and made my way through security, letting them scan my card and push me through.

I took the elevator up, making several stops on the way for others to get off.

We stopped at three odd-numbered floors and three even-numbered floors, and I pursed my lips, knowing that didn’t mean anything, but it still made me uncomfortable.

If we had stopped at two odd-numbered floors instead, the odds would’ve added up to an even number, and everything would’ve been fine.

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. God, I am sick.

The only person left in the elevator, I watched the blue digital numbers reach sixty.

I straightened, steeling myself as the doors opened.

And I understood why the clerk had laughed at me when I’d asked which office. The sixtieth floor was Marek’s office, apparently.

Ahead stood two tall wooden doors and desks belonging to two assistants on either side of the doors, one man and one woman.

The woman looked up from her computer and nodded toward the doors. “Go in, Ms. Bradbury.”

I ran my hand down my clothes, smoothing them over before reaching up and tightening my ponytail.

But I’d already lost hope of salvaging my pride. Why hadn’t I at least convinced Jack to take me home for a change of clothes?

Grabbing hold of a vertical bar serving as a door handle, I pulled one of the big doors open and stepped in, immediately spotting Marek ahead of me, standing behind his desk.

“Ms. Bradbury.” He glanced up, one hand in his pocket as the other pushed keys on his computer. “Come in.”

His eyes left mine and dropped down my body, taking in my appearance, I would assume. Despite the air-conditioning chilling the room, I felt my thighs warm and heat pool in my stomach.

I squared my shoulders and approached his desk, trying to ignore the sudden powerless feeling.

Out of habit, I counted my steps in my head. One, two, three, fo—

But then I stopped in my tracks, catching something out of the corner of my eye.

I looked to my right, and my eyebrows shot up, seeing an oval conference table on the other side of a glass partition, filled with people. A lot of people.

Shit.

I swallowed, turning for the doors again. “I’ll wait.”

There was no way I was speaking to him with other people in the room.

“You wanted to see me,” he snapped. “Speak.”

I turned. “But you’re busy.”

“I’m always busy,” he retorted. “Get on with it.”

I groaned inwardly, understanding why he was so open to seeing me now.

A weight settled in my stomach, but I hid it as well as I could as I stepped toward his desk again.

I kept my voice low and gave him a fake close-lipped smile. “You’re enjoying seeing my dignity as a muddy puddle on the floor, aren’t you?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, and he locked eyes with me again. “I think that’s understandable after your behavior, don’t you?”

I averted my eyes, licking my lips.

I hated his gloating, but I couldn’t say he was wrong. I’d earned this dose of humility. No matter how vile his e-mail was, I should never have lowered myself to his level. The animosity would only hurt Christian.

“Mr. Marek.” I took a deep breath, bracing myself. “I had no right to say what I said,” I told him. “And I was very wrong. I know nothing about you or your son, and I lashed out.”

“Like a brat,” he added, staring at me with condescension.

Yes, like a brat.

I dropped my eyes, remembering how I’d never gotten angry as a child. When I started to become a woman, though, I raced to fury, throwing my racket when I’d fault or yelling when I was frustrated.

I’d been under stress at the time, I’d been caged, and I’d hated the loss of control. Now I had control, and I resented anything that threatened it.

Marek kept pushing into my space—the meeting the other day and then the e-mail today—but I knew my job.

I knew what I was doing. Why didn’t he see that?

I raised my eyes, staring back up at him. “I truly apologize.”

“Are you really sorry?” He grabbed a gray file folder and a pen as he rounded the desk. “Or are you more afraid you’ll lose your job?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re insinuating I’m apologizing out of fear?”

He cocked his head, telling me with his amused eyes that’s exactly what he was thinking.

“Mr. Marek,” I said in a firm voice, standing tall. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do. I don’t need to beg for anything or bow down to anyone. If I apologize, it’s because I know I did something wrong,” I affirmed. “It was a cruel thing to say, and you didn’t deserve it.”

A hint of a smile peeked out, but he hid it almost immediately. He let out a sigh, his eyes softening, and he turned around, making his way for the head of the conference table.

“Ms. Bradbury is Christian’s history teacher,” he pointed out to everyone at the table, looking back at me and grinning as he tossed the folder onto the table. “She doesn’t think much of me.”

I snorted, but I didn’t think anyone heard it.

The man seated to his left laughed. “You’re not alone, honey.” He tipped his chin at me.

Marek grabbed a piece of paper, balled it up, and threw it at him, only making the man laugh more.

The two seemed close, and I faltered at seeing Marek playful.

“I’m Jay, his brother.” The man rose from his chair and held out his hand.

I hesitated for only a moment before walking to the other half of the room and up the step to the table.

The office was massive, but it was partitioned by what had to be a ten-foot-long pane of glass separating—but not closing off—the room into two parts: Marek’s office and a private conference area, probably for his convenience.

After all, why go down to another floor and meet with your personnel when you could make them all come up to you?

I shook Jay’s hand, at once liking his easy smile and humor. I couldn’t help but glance over, seeing Marek watching me.

His navy blue suit went well with the steel-gray walls, and I liked how some of his black hair had fallen out of place over his temple.

Everyone at the table—men and women—were dressed in business attire, and they looked like they’d been here a while. Papers, laptops, and phones were spread over the table in no discernible order, and I had to push away the pinpricks under my skin, urging me to organize their shit.

Plates with croissants and bagels were scattered about, while half-filled glasses of water sweated with condensation, their ice cubes having long since melted.

I wondered how long they’d been here. On a Saturday, no less.

“You don’t have to worry, Easton. We’re fine,” I heard Marek say, and I shot my eyes back over to him. “Apology accepted, but my e-mail does still stand.”

I rubbed my thumbs across my fingers, trying to remember what he was referring to.

He’d called me Easton.

“I’m against a fourteen-year-old on social media, and I can’t imagine I’m the only parent uncomfortable with it.” His tone was firm but gentler than it had been on the phone. “Adjustments will have to be made.”

Ah, back to this.

I kept my face even, about to suggest again that we sit down and talk through this, because I wasn’t giving up, but someone else spoke up first.

“Social media?” a man to my right asked. “Jesus, Facebook has taken over my kids’ lives. It’s all they do,” he blurted out, chiming in on the conversation and looking around to his colleagues. “You know, my sixteen-year-old actually wants a mount in the shower with waterproof casing for his phone. I’m surprised he hasn’t glued it to his hand.”

I hooded my eyes, focusing on a spot on the table and hearing laughter sound off around me as everyone started backing Marek up.

“It’s an epidemic,” a woman agreed. “And dangerous. Do you know how many sexual predators find their victims online?”

Do you know how many victims of sexual predators drink water? Ban water!

Grunts of approval chimed in, and I could feel myself losing the moment of relief I’d felt when he’d accepted my apology.

My fists tightened, and I knew I needed to leave. Now.

“Exactly,” someone else replied. “The more we put ourselves out there, the more disconnected we are from real life. I’m sick of seeing people’s faces buried in their phones.”

“Complete time suckage.” Jay shook his head, speaking up. “And kids have no attention spans anymore because of it.”

I no longer liked Jay.

I glanced at Marek, who watched me with a hint of a smile on his face as the wall against me grew higher and higher.

“And there are so many stories where kids are getting bullied,” another gentleman droned, “or put in danger because of it. I mean, has being able to Instagram what you had for lunch really made our lives better?”

Everyone started laughing, and every muscle in my body tensed like steel.

“Kids don’t need social media,” someone maintained. “Not until they’re old enough . . .”

Yada, yada, yada . . . I stopped listening. Everyone continued sharing their own two cents, but I just stood there looking at him.

He held my eyes, his mouth opening slightly as he raised the glass to his lips and took a small drink of water. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed and confident, because he knew he’d gotten what he wanted.

He still didn’t see me as a capable woman. He still didn’t respect me.

And when his eyes started falling down my body, raking over my waist and down to my bare thighs, I knew that he wanted something else.

The only thing he thought I was good for.

I inhaled a sharp breath and held up my hands, cutting everyone off in the middle of their rants. “You’re absolutely right,” I told them, my voice hard. “You’re all absolutely right.”

I offered a tight smile and looked around the table, everyone having gone quiet.

“Social media is a double-edged sword, bringing both advantages and”—I looked at Marek—“definite concerns. I agree with you,” I placated.

Marek cocked his head, looking at me with interest as everyone gave me their full attention.

“However,” I stated matter-of-factly, “it is here to stay. Whether you like it or not,” I added.

I lifted my chin and let my eyes wander around the table as I began to circle. “We live in a data-driven world, and it is not something that will change.”

I walked slowly around the table, speaking to everyone and feeling Marek’s eyes on me.

“Let me break this down for you,” I told them, crossing my arms over my chest and speaking slowly. “Every time we get a text or a tweet or a Facebook notification,” I explained, “we get a shot of adrenaline. The constant influx of information has become an addiction—like a drug—and when our phones beep or light up, we get a small rush.”

I met their eyes.

“And like all drugs, it isn’t long before we need our next fix.” And I gestured to their phones on the table as I spoke. “Which is exactly why you all brought your phones into this meeting with you right now instead of leaving them in your own offices,” I speculated. “Sooner rather than later, you know you’re going to feel that desperation, which will prompt you to check for a new e-mail or message. You’re addicted to the information, same as your children.”

“But in school?” a woman burst out. “Why should they have phones in school or be allowed to play around on social media for homework?”

“Because you let them have it at home,” I shot back, trying to keep my tone gentle. “Do you expect the craving for it to end when they step onto school grounds?”

She twisted her lips and sat back in her chair.

“How does a teacher compete with the kind of hold social media has over his or her students’ attention?” I asked them. “Because even if they’re forced to be without their phones, they’re thinking about their phones. They’re hiding them. They’re texting under their desks. They’re sneaking to the bathroom to use them . . .” I trailed off, hopefully proving that the battle was real.

“I have two choices,” I continued. “I can either fight it and treat it as a nuisance, or . . .” I calmed down, looking at Marek. “I can embrace it as a tool. Not only is their technology ensuring one hundred percent participation in my class,” I pointed out, “but it is also teaching them community and digital citizenship.”

I lowered my chin, pinning him with a hard look. “They do not merely attend a class, Mr. Marek,” I explained, seeing his eyes narrow on me. “They interact with one another on multiple forums, seeing through social barriers and expressing themselves in the tolerant community that I oversee. They’re learning, they’re engaged, and they’re treating one another well.”

I moved around to his other side, standing more confidently than I had since the open house.

“Now, I understand you’re a smart man,” I went on, “and you couldn’t have gotten where you are without being determined and intelligent. But I also think that you do whatever you want and say whatever you like without fear of accountability. I always have a very good reason for everything I do. Do you?

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” I advised, “and I won’t be so arrogant as to tell you how to do yours.”

And before anyone had a chance to speak, I twisted on my heel and walked out.