The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.
Book Blurb
In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School . Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie. Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.
Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.
For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal. In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget. Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan, Six Red Apples.
Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice. And, eternal friendship.
Chapter 4
An end of the day fire alarm had delayed Mr. Harrison’s faculty meeting to the second day of school. According to Cindy Barker, my Language Arts counterpart, the head administrator was a stickler for relaying his rules and regulations and inspiring his teaching staff with philosophies that had secured his position for the past thirty years. It was hard to believe he had already been principal at Boaz High School for four years when I started as a freshman in August 1987.
“Get comfortable, this will take a while.” Cindy said as she and I, along with fifty or so other teachers, marched into the auditorium.
“How long? Cullie is waiting in my room and will be starving if I’m not back in thirty minutes.”
“At least an hour. Don’t think you can slip out. The last thing on Harrison’s agenda is introducing new teachers. He would fire you if you weren’t here to receive his recognition.” Cindy said checking her iPhone.
“What is Mr. Harrison’s policy concerning cell phones.” I said in case he didn’t cover this.
“For emergencies only, or for teaching purposes. He believes electronic devices are the bane of education. I’ve heard him call them ‘a tool of the devil.’”
Mr. Harrison and Patrick Wilkins walked across the stage with the assistant principal taking a seat in one of eight chairs behind and beside the giant podium at the center of the stage.
“Welcome ladies and gentlemen, my fellow teachers. I apologize for any inconvenience that may have been caused by the fire alarm at the end of the day yesterday. It was a malfunctioning cooler in the lunchroom. It overheated and triggered the alarm.
“I want to do something a little different this year. I suspect most of you have met our new teachers, but I wanted to take this opportunity to formally introduce them and allow you to learn a little more about them. Please, if you are one of our seven new teachers please come on the stage. Patrick and I have you a chair waiting.”
I hated being the center of attention, unless it was in my own classroom with my own students. I always felt everyone would know my story, my dark story, and would conclude that I was a person to be avoided. I reluctantly made my way to the stage.
Mr. Harrison went in alphabetic order. I was the last one he asked to come to the podium and give a short bio. Before Kenneth Alverson said a word, standing beside Mr. Harrison, he laid out the rules. I could tell my principal was a man who followed the rules. Mr. Harrison had said to tell everyone our professional history, including educational background and teaching experience if any, also to describe our personality in two or three words, and next, to tell the group what we liked to do in our spare time. Finally, he said, with a laugh, to tell everyone our deepest and darkest secret, ‘if it is one you don’t care to keep as a secret.’
Oh, this was just perfect. I had to impress everyone with my ability to remember four things I had been asked to share and, if that wasn’t bad enough, I had to make up a secret that I didn’t mind sharing. For a second, I thought I would be truthful and share how I was brutally raped fifteen years ago by five local men who everyone here knows. I guess Brenda Peyton, and her story, changed my mind. I needed to stick with something less horrible, a lite and funny story. Brenda shared how she had dreamed the night before she married that she could have done better finding a husband. She said she was thankful Brad was such a loving and forgiving man. She had the entire group roaring.
When it came my turn, I noticed Mr. Harrison looking at his watch. I figured he believed his agenda was behind schedule. Sometimes blessings come carefully disguised. I kept my speech short, totally on point, four points. I didn’t have any trouble remembering my outline but was a little disappointed that my secret didn’t earn a single laugh, at least not any I heard. “My secret is also a dream. I won the Nobel Prize for Literature.” I hoped no one thought I was being arrogant. I also hoped they would appreciate a cynical and paranoid personality type. These two descriptors didn’t garner any laughs either.
“I’m glad you’re here. And, I’m excited about learning a lot from you.” Cindy said when I returned to my seat. She must have noticed the beads of sweat across my forehead. I wished I hadn’t pulled my hair back this morning.
“Stop trying to be funny. You’re my inspiration. I’ve heard that two of your former students are now working on a creative writing master’s degree at the University of Alabama. The Boaz community is blessed to have an English instructor of your caliber.”
“We better listen to General Harrison or we both will be in the soup line.” Cindy said turning her iPhone face down on her lap.
For the next forty-five minutes our leader shared his teaching rules and regulations, along with his educational philosophy and vision. Most of what we were told I had already learned from reading the Pirate Practice, the school’s policy and procedures handbook for teachers and students. The only new thing I learned was Mr. Harrison believed in the power of prayer since he closed out his time with a plea for the Divine one to bless the new school year.
Mr. Wilkins, the assistant principal was younger, much younger than Mr. Harrison. He was probably in his mid-forties, like me. I whispered to Cindy, asking her if he had graduated from Boaz High School. She didn’t know.
Two things I quickly learned and hated them both. Mr. Wilkins oversaw lesson plans and demanded teachers have the following weeks submitted to him, both electronically and physically, by Thursday of the current week. This was so antiquated. Real teaching demands teacher flexibility. Teaching English Literature demands a heightened degree of teacher mobility. Literature, especially fiction pieces, are like mining gold. You never know what direction a promising vein will take you. No matter what the handsome Wilkins said, I would stick to my methods, those that had proven profitable since I learned Mr. Dawson’s secrets during my first year at Marymount High School in Los Angeles.
The second thing I didn’t like among Wilkins commands was his requirement that all supplemental materials had to be approved by him. What the hell? Later, back in my classroom and with Cindy searching for a snack in my little refrigerator in the corner of my room, I asked her about this arcane issue.
“He’s afraid the students will be exposed to something offensive, especially contrary to his Biblical beliefs. You know he is the Education Director at First Baptist Church of Christ?”
“Does Wilkins not know this is a school, an institute for learning, possibly even higher learning? Does he not know that even things offensive may be the truth?” I said, feeling my heart rate rising, just as it always did when I heard of any injustice.
“Welcome to Boaz Miss Katie Sims, this ain’t New York City.” Cindy said popping open the only Sprite I had and trying to incorporate a phrase from the popular salsa advertisement.
“I love Picante. I also love colloquialisms, local and national.” I said realizing Cullie had been sitting at my desk in the little office beside my classroom. “Sorry for the long faculty meeting. Are you ready to head out?”
“Been ready for an hour. Mom, can we go shopping this weekend?”
“I thought we had already been. Remember? Two days after we got here, even before visiting Darla?” I was guessing Cullie had figured out her clothing choices didn’t fit with the Southern girls in Boaz, Alabama.
“My jeans aren’t tight enough, nor are my blouses.” Cullie said crumbling a potato chip bag and tossing it towards a trash can in the corner.
“No way, but we will go if you will be reasonable.”
“Hey, you two, I’m leaving. Thanks for the Sprite.” Cindy said walking toward the hallway.
The Pencil Driven Life 