Chapter 41
If there was one thing Heather didn’t feel like doing today, it was going to Ms. Gorsky’s history class. After the incident in the hallway, Heather’s level of self-consciousness around the woman was epic. While their PDAs had been returned the next day, Ms. Gorsky still stared at Heather at times during class, the barest hint of a malevolent grin distorting her jowls.
As Heather neared the classroom, Mark intercepted her in the hallway.
“Did you hear the news?”
“What news?” Heather asked, angling through the mass of students toward the doorway to the classroom.
“Ms. Gorsky’s out sick. The flu bug got her.”
“What a shame. Who’s the sub?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. I figure it’s a day of freedom no matter who it is.”
“You’ve got that right,” Heather said, sliding between two girls blocking the doorway.
As she pulled out her book, notebook, and pencil and slid into her seat, a sudden hush fell upon the room. Heather half expected to look up and see the Pope himself—white gown, pointy hat, and all.
The woman bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Pope, although all the boys in the room appeared to have suddenly found religion.
“Hello, class. I am Mrs. Johnson,” said the dark-haired woman in the dark skirt and blouse. She peered over dark glasses positioned well forward on her perfect nose. As Mrs. Johnson stood in the doorway, Heather wasn’t sure why all the dark adjectives were suddenly popping into her mind. After all, the skirt was navy blue, not black, and the blouse was a red, tending toward scarlet, that bled down into navy blue lace that perfectly matched the skirt. Her hair, pulled back into a tight bun, would have looked prudish on most women, but on Mrs. Johnson it merely looked aggressive.
As the substitute made her way across the front of the room toward the teacher’s desk, Heather had a brief déjà vu moment. Mrs. Johnson moved like one of the dancers in the musical Cats. And the way the boys followed the woman’s movements reminded Heather of an audience at the US Open Tennis Tournament. If this kept up for the entire class, all the guys would have whiplash.
Glancing across the classroom, Heather spotted Jennifer staring around in wide-eyed wonderment. She had also noticed that the herd of normally babbling males in the room had become as enthralled as kittens watching a dangling strand of yarn. It suddenly struck Heather: another sexy female named Johnson. Christ. What was it about that name?
“Please close your books and take out a single blank piece of paper and a pencil. Ms. Gorsky has left instructions for a pop quiz.”
A low groan arose from the group as the spell broke.
As the lengthy quiz progressed, Mrs. Johnson moved among the desks, glancing down at each student’s work, once again causing the male members of the classroom to lose all semblance of concentration. Heather had no doubt the quiz would set some sort of record in gender-gap performance. From what she observed out of the corner of her eye, it would be a miracle if any of the guys scored above 50 percent.
By the end of the class, Heather’s impression of Mrs. Johnson had improved significantly. Heather had to hand it to her; the woman was a consummate professional. Mrs. Johnson collected the test papers and moved through the scheduled work with such comfort, self-confidence, and skill that Heather wished Ms. Gorsky could be out permanently.
Well, come to think of it, she had wished for that long before Mrs. Johnson’s arrival. Her reflections were interrupted by the sound of the bell and the subsequent jumble of movement and noise that accompanied the hourly student migration pattern.
As Heather opened her locker, Mark stepped up beside her.
“Have you got an oxygen tank in there? I think I need some.”
“You and about fifteen other guys.”
Suddenly Mark straightened, a more serious look settling on his chiseled features as Mrs. Johnson walked past.
“What are you looking at, basketball puke?” Doug Brindal’s grinning face came nose to nose with Mark’s. “Haven’t you already learned not to chase after women out of your league?”
The snarl that twitched at the corner of Mark’s lips barely registered in Heather’s brain before he moved, lightning fast. Mark grabbed a fistful of Doug’s shirt, just below the throat, and slammed him back hard into the locker. Doug dangled in Mark’s grip, his feet barely touching the floor.
Heather lunged forward, grabbing Mark’s arm, trying to pull it free, but the corded muscles felt like rolled steel.
“Mark! Stop it. Please!” Heather begged as several students swung their gaze toward the commotion.
Mark glanced down at her, sanity leaching rapidly back into his face as he loosened his grasp on Doug.
The senior stepped forward, giving Mark a hard shove in the chest that somehow failed to move him. Pushing his way through the onlookers, Doug yelled back, “You’d better watch your back, Smythe. I will be.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Heather pulled Mark into the crowd and down the hall toward their next class. As Jennifer joined them, Heather leaned over to her friend and whispered, “Someone please call the testosterone police.”