Learning Curve

The one he liked to wallow in right before the start of a new school year. But everything felt as if it was slipping out of his grasp. As if Emily Sullivan had ripped all the self-indulgent pleasure out of his back-to-school misery and twisted it into something…something even more twisted than usual.

Ideas crackled through his brain like static. He couldn’t stop considering all the possibilities, imagining all the delights of an ongoing ideological duel with a well-educated, intelligent adversary. The thrust and parry that could be played out before a captive but fascinated adolescent audience. It was tempting. It was intriguing. It was downright stimulating.

But Joe didn’t want to be tempted or intrigued. He certainly didn’t want to be stimulated. And definitely not by some chirpy student teacher with short skirts and big, wide eyes. Eyes with sparkly silver spikes that…

Stop right there. Get a grip, Wisniewski.

Joe took a deep breath, but regretted it instantly. There, just beneath the odors of musty texts and stale coffee, was a faint trace of something fresh and floral.

It was going to be a long, long year.

Dear Reader,

All of us have been touched, in some way, by special teachers who opened our lives to the possibilities beyond the classroom basics. In Learning Curve, Emily and Joe are given a chance to say thank-you for the lessons they’ve learned.

The teachers I tend to remember are those who shoved me out of my comfort zone and dared me to try something new. One of them told me I should try to write a book, and even though I laughed at the time and waited more than ten years to follow his advice, his praise meant enough to make me take that first uncomfortable step into a new world. This book is dedicated to him—my own small way of saying thank-you.

I’d love to hear from my readers! Please come for a visit to my Web site at www.terrymclaughlin.com, or find me at www.wetnoodleposse.com or www.superauthors.com, or write to me at P.O. Box 5838, Eureka, CA 95002.

Wishing you plenty of happily-ever-after reading,

Terry McLaughlin

For Professor Tom Gage, who told me I could write—

and then made me believe it, too.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

JOSEPH P. WISNIEWSKI listened to the slap and shuffle of his Birkenstocks echo along the empty corridor of Caldwell High School. He knew where his steps were taking him, but he wasn’t sure why anymore. That echo seemed to ping around the empty spaces inside him, searching for the answer.

He’d give himself until the end of the term to figure things out or hand in his resignation. To quit teaching.

He navigated a crooked course along the wide vinyl hall dulled by Mr. Stenquist’s ineffective floor wax, avoiding the sunlight flooding through the open classroom doors to nurse his hangover in the shadows. It wouldn’t be so easy to detour around the back-to-school business with his fellow faculty that was sure to nudge his early-morning headache into a mid-afternoon migraine.

“Suck it up, Wisniewski,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over the last batch of four-day stubble he’d feel until deep into Thanksgiving vacation. “This is why you get paid the big bucks.” Steeling himself to confront another school year, he shouldered his way through the office door.

Linda Miller glanced up from her command post behind the reception counter. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Joe’s grimace eased into a smile. The middle-aged secretary’s crusty personality masked a gooey cream center. Linda might be mouthier than the average clerk, but she anted up pay phone coins for teen crises and found more niches for hopeless grads than the local armed forces recruiting office. “Hey, Linda.”

“What? No tan from the tropics? No handwoven shirt from Nepal? No bruises from a dustup with a jealous husband? Exactly what kind of summer vacation did you take?”

“The restful kind.” He turned to pull two months’ junk mail and memos out of his office box. “And I told you that black eye was a misunderstanding. Pamela was legally separated. The divorce decree was in the mail.”

“Hmmph.” She came around the counter with her nose in the air, sniffing with a smirk. “Aramis. A seductive scent. With undertones of Excedrin and Scope that almost disguise the subtle hint of too much Scotch.”

“Come on, Linda. Even you can’t smell Excedrin.”

“No, but I can see that whatever you took isn’t living up to its advertising.” She pinned him to the wall with a look that made him feel like he was ten years old and smeared with enough incriminating evidence to get grounded for life. “Just look at yourself. What a waste of tall, dark and handsome, not to mention all that education. Have you ever once used those over-the-top looks or that under-the-radar charm to pursue anyone suitable to be the mother of your children?” She shook her head. “You know, your brains are interesting enough when they aren’t pickled, and your conversation’s kind of pleasant when you bother to move beyond the grunting stage.”