Creepy Teacher: A Psychological Thriller (6 page)

The inside truth about Bailey Howard was that she was painfully shy. If that didn’t show externally, then what did? Did she seem brave? Courageous? There was no way!

Shy as a turtle who hides in a shell.

Insecure. Uneasy. Awkward. Scared.

Those were the words that Bailey Howard imagined would more likely be taped on the back of her shirt.

But a smile still pained her face, even this morning, at the hope that Eric Cady genuinely meant that she seemed brave. She’d known the rest for years—having a brain, using it, not being a follower—but to be called brave lit her with sunshine inside.

And now, whenever she turned back to glance at him in Mr. Renly’s Algebra class, her heart went aflutter.

Weird.

Too bad Carla Cummings has to strain so hard cranking around to laugh and toss her hair in Eric’s direction without a clue that Eric had spent two hours on the phone last night with the shy, plain, turtle brain in the front row, Bailey Howard.

Me
, Bailey thought, spinning forward again with a grin.
Not the BJ queen of the cheerleading squad
.

Mr. Renly was being especially strange today, moving on the balls of his feet at the chalkboard, jouncing side to side as if he needed to crap his pants, and saying something about mating Beluga whales in reference to advanced quadratic functions.

He was trying to be funny, Bailey decided, although it wasn’t working.

Everyone just stared at his posterior creepy side with screwed up faces, trying to follow along, or ignored him completely.

The X and Y were apparently male and female Beluga whales, respectively, C squared was Captain Hook’s Pale Beluga Whale Ale, and Z was the number of Beluga babies that popped out nine months later.

Idiotic!

Last night, Bailey had told Eric about Mr. Renly’s creepy comments—about her
blessings
and about her
being more than just a lilac scented body
—and Eric had suggested she report it to principal Jenkins. No, probably not, Bailey had answered. She didn’t want or need that kind of extra attention, which would probably only start rumors and teasing, such as being called “Renly’s Blessed Lilac Child” or something similarly stupid and embarrassing.

Besides, she was already back to wearing her plain, over-sized t-shirts anyway.

*     *     *

In English class,
students got to use “technology” if and when—and only if and when—reading a digital copy of the book being taught. At present, said book was
Great Expectations
, by Charles Dickens. Almost every student’s preferred reading device was their smart phone. And almost every student had their smart phone ready for action on their desk.

Go figure.

Switch to silent.

Texting engaged.

Bailey Howard rarely screwed around during class, although today her mind buzzed with more interesting topics than the poor orphaned lad, Pip, who dared to dream of someday becoming a gentleman. Plus, her phone kept lighting up with messages from Jany Fry.

“What did he talk about?” the first one read.

“Who?” she answered.

“Never mind, I’ll just text him.”

“Please don’t.”

“Then tell.”

“He talked about me,” Bailey replied.

During the second half of today’s English class, students diligently typed Charles Dickens-related search queries into their smart phones—yeah, right!—and gathered internet research on the man—yeah, right!—for a paper due next week, meaning next Friday. In reality, most students would begin to think about the paper next Thursday night.

“What did he say about you?” Jany asked.

“Ask me later.”

“No. Tell now.”

“He likes my smarts.”

“Liar.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Smarts?”

“My word, not his.”

“What else?”

“I’m brave.”

“Laughing my ass off now…”

Bailey turned to Jany, sitting in the desk beside her. While Jany mimed a laughing fool, Bailey made a face.

Jany dove into her phone again, tapping furiously, and touched send. Her text came one second later.

“His party?”

“Going with him.”

“Shopping tonight?”

“Yes, please.”

*     *     *

Bailey used her
lunch break to call her mom at work. Her mom was the daytime assistant manager at Office Megastore, and she got her lunch break at eleven forty-five.

“Mom, a guy named Eric Cady invited me to a party at his parent’s barn tomorrow night. It’s a barn on Hwy 8, right out in the open for the entire world to see. Both of his parents are doctors, and Eric will not be providing alcohol. Can I go? I need to tell him yes by study hall.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

“Why?”

“Mom…”

“Call your dad.”

“Mom…”

“Will his parent’s be there?”

“Who throws a party with their parents?”

“Call your dad,” her mother said again.

Her parents always did that, passed the decision back and forth to each other. It was so annoying, especially because the only vote that mattered in the end was her mom’s. Her dad’s standard answer to almost everything that steered Bailey away from the house was, “I say no, but ask your mother.”

“Fine, I’ll call dad,” Bailey said, “but what’s
your
answer. That’s all he’ll need.”

“Not when it comes to you attending a party at some barn with a guy,” her mother said. “He’ll have plenty to say about it, believe me.”

“Mom…”

“What’s this hero’s name again?”

“Eric Cady.”

“Well, call your dad, Bailey, and meanwhile, I’ll check my sources on this Eric Cady. He’s a junior, I presume?”

“A senior.”

“Wonderful. Good luck on that with your dad.”

Reaching for some kind of hope, even if tentative and subject to change, Bailey said, “How about I tell dad you’re a definite yes pending the approval of your sources.”

“Replace yes with maybe,” her mother said.

They disconnected, and she typed a text to her dad, saying, “Dad, call mom about Eric Cady’s party. Please answer by twelve fifteen today. Please answer yes. Thank you. I love you.”

As she sent it, she spun around, looked up, and crashed awkwardly into Mr. Renly.

The bell rang.

She gathered herself, apologized, and split.

His coffee breath had chuffed directly into her nose.

*     *     *

In 5th period
study, Eric Cady walked in late. Bailey had taken a table by herself, not to be rude, but because she didn’t honestly know if Tony Avery and Kylie Westin would accept her at their table without Eric present.

So much for bravery and being courageous!

It was hardly expected, Bailey decided, especially since she had only sat with Tony and Kylie once, and really, they had gotten up to mill around anyhow, leaving her and Eric to study together alone.

She took out her Algebra textbook now, and buried her nose in it to avoid seeming like a weirdo who wanted to sit with the popular kids but wasn’t cool enough to try.

Truth and reality sucked!

She needed to work on her people skills, she decide.

When Eric did arrive, the librarian called him over and handed him a tardy slip. He took that in stride to the table where Tony Avery and Kylie Westin were sitting, set his bag down, then looked around the room.

Again, Bailey ducked her head into her book.

Stupid.

Peripherally, she watched him thumb a gesture toward her table, say something to them, then lift his bag and make his way over. Tony and Kylie stayed put.

She looked up and acknowledged him with one of those backward-chin-tipping nods, the kind she rarely used because they looked so…absurd.

“I didn’t see you when I walked in,” he said, taking a seat across from her.

Bailey wondered what he had said to Tony and Kylie, but she wasn’t about to ask. Instead, she said, “Did you get a tardy?”

He dragged his Algebra book from his bag. “Yep,” he said, showing it to her. “Everyone keeps stopping me with questions about tomorrow. What should they bring? What time? Where’s the barn? Are Clayton kid’s welcome? On and on. It’s endless.”

“Could be worse,” Bailey offered. “You could have just experienced a hallway collision, like I did, with Mr. Renly. I turned around, and he was right there in my bubble.”

“I would have flattened him,” Eric said. “What was he blabbing about today at the chalkboard anyway? Dolphins? I can’t figure that guy out. He’s on a strange wave.”

“Beluga whales,” Bailey said.

Her smart phone went beep, beep.

Finally, a reply from her dad…

“I say no, your mom says yes. The answer is maybe. We chat tonight.”

Eric guessed correctly—either that, or he was a genius at reading disappointed facial expression. He said, “I can pick you up at home tomorrow, if that helps.”

Which sent a flutter clear through her body, from the top of her forehead to the tip of her toes.

“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” she told him. “My dad wants to chat with me about it tonight.”

“No problem,” Eric said. “My parents have been chatting with me, too. Parents worry too much. It’s all good.”

“I hear that,” Bailey said.

I hear that? Wow! A talking chimp is more intelligent.

She felt as if she had regressed since yesterday.

Ugh.

T
hat feeling didn’t
last.

After school, Bailey started cleaning the house. She felt great inside. Wonderful, in fact. Happy to the brim, like she’d never felt before. Not like this anyway. Nothing but fortunate things had happened to her all day, including Eric Cady overall, minimal anxiety and drama at school, and Monica Elski had agreed to work for her tonight at the Chicken Shack.

How could life be any better?

Now, she honestly felt like cleaning. And the kitchen, none the less. Odd. Her parents would think she was just trying to earn their good graces. Sure, there was some truth to that. But not much, actually. She had little fear they’d tell her no about Eric’s party. No, what it was, she knew, was that her mind was buzzing with such positive energy, and so many new ideas, that she didn’t feel like sitting down. With her thoughts racing, she feared that sitting down would allow anxiety to overcome her.