What Teachers Do You Remember?

~ By Vonnie Davis

I was blessed to have the same English teacher for both my sophomore and senior years of high school, back in '64 and '66. Miss Campbell was a walking grammar force. A compact lady, she always wore a suit, a matching three-strand set of beads, and thick heels. Her class was ruled with her iron-clad-pursed lips. She stalked the aisles between the desks, beads rattling in her fingers and looking down her nose at us as she barked grammar rules.

Heaven help you if you slouched in your chair or came to her class with a pencil that needed sharpening or didn't have neatly written homework ready to turn in. She suffered no fools.

Back then, we diagramed sentences and learned the structure and meaning of every word contained within one.

Miss Campbell with a fuzzy head of red hair owned an ugly faded brown suit she wore only on days she planned to spring a surprise quiz on us. Word quickly spread through the halls. "Quick! Study! Campbell's wearing that nasty brown suit." We were all trembling with nerves when we walked into her room. The map was pulled down to cover the precisely written quiz on the blackboard. And when she zipped that map up, you had ten minutes of brain-wracking hell ahead of you. While I remember all she taught me--and it was a lot--I never saw her smile.

My son, a language arts teacher, operates by a rule: Never let your students see you smile until after Christmas. His students call him Professor Shubert. He puts on a demonstration the first day of school. A 5th degree black belt, he sets up a concrete block display to break with his hand.


Then he glares at his students and tells them there will be no disciplinary problems in his class. He tells them his room is a safe zone. No one gets to them unless they go through him. Some days he plays his guitar with raps he's made up with grammar rules. He has them place their chairs in a circle and he teaches by the Socrates method to encourage them to think on a deeper level. Every year he's voted the best teacher at the school.

Oh, he can be cranky. His room is his domain. He teaches his way. His students score high. And he expects to be left alone. He's happy his classes have not been audited or evaluated in three years, although he did ask the principal to sit in on one of his Socrates sessions to show him how this ancient method could work with 7th and 8th graders.

To Steve's delight, the students asked the principal questions, too, forcing him to join in the discussion. The administrator found Steve's students quiet, respectful, engrossed in the subject matter, and doing well. This included the lower-ranked classes Steve had emotionally built up by telling them no one thought they could learn this way. But he had faith in them. They snatched onto his faith and excelled. Steve believes in teaching up, not teaching down.

Steve and my high school junior granddaughter. She attends the Maryland School of the Arts for vocal music and theory.

Allison Moore the heroine in NIKO: Licensed to Kill is a high school Art teacher. I wonder what impression she makes on her students? Is she strict or open to new teaching styles? Boring or engaging?

EXCERPT FROM NIKO: LICENSED TO KILL ...

While the young man wasn’t blatantly tall, he was excessively male. Sex appeal oozed from every pore on his skin. Alyson’s body responded, which surprised her. She’d thought that part of her body long dead after a near sexless marriage.

With the firm and muscled, yet slender build of many European men, she judged him to be around thirty. He had an olive complexion and short, wavy black hair styled like that of a GQ model. His eyes were dark and angry.

What’s his problem? I’m the one held here against my will, hungry and thirsty. And, dammit, I have to pee.

The older man sat while Macho Male prowled the room like a tightly-reigned panther.

“Ms. Moore, I’m Field Supervisor Henri Moreau. I head the French task force on counterterrorism. The irritated man behind me is my second in command, Niko Reynard.”

The young man deigned to spare her a nod in greeting. Oh, she knew the type.

She nodded once in return with a dose of her own attitude. After all, she hadn’t been a teacher all these years without perfecting a piercing glare. One of his dark eyebrows quirked in response and a corner of his mouth quivered for an instant as if he were a heartbeat away from laughing at her. She hiked her chin and held eye contact with him for a few seconds.

Touché.

Okay, so she was being bitchy, but after all she’d been through today, frankly she didn’t give a crap.

“We’ve reviewed the Louvre’s security tapes and completed a thorough background check on you.” Moreau flipped open a manila file. “You’re a high school art teacher from Asheville, North Carolina. Went to university at Duke. Additional studies in New York City. Worked for two years at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.” His head nodded as he cited her life’s history, almost as if it were nothing more than another series of boring facts—which unfortunately it was.

“You’ve been teaching art for thirteen years. Married for twelve. No children.” His gaze rose to hers. “You’re recently divorced. Your husband…”

“Ex-husband.” She crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. She may have to put up with this interrogation, but she didn’t have to like it. Nor did she appreciate having strangers inventory her personal life, no matter how damn boring it was.

He spared her the briefest of smiles. She closed her eyes, sensing what was coming next. “Your ex-husband is now living an openly gay lifestyle--"

A wounded sound escaped from her chest, her broken heart giving one last whimper of pain, perhaps. Robert had hurt her so badly.

Macho Male stopped pacing behind his partner and nudged him with his elbow. “Gentillesse, Henri.”

"Of course, one must always be gentle." The older man glared at her. "If it is appropriate."

 

BUY LINK:  http://a.co/4H8W7Xn    

BOOK TWO... JEAN-LUC: Once is Never Enough releases June 13th.  

Full Swing

Summer is in full swing for me now. Being a teacher, it took me a few weeks to realize that I didn't need to corral the neighborhood kids into a straight line and lead them into a classroom somewhere. They don't want to learn about isosceles triangles on a sunny, hot July afternoon. They just don't.

I now have the balance of doing some school prep and a ton of writing just right. I don't wake up in a panic, thinking I'm late for classes. I've stopped keeping paperclips in my pockets.

I no longer answer to "Mrs. DePetrillo."

Instead, I've taken up a permanent residence in an Adirondack chair on my patio. My laptop and The Werewolf are my only colleagues each day. While I talk to both regularly, neither reply, which is good. It means I haven't lost my marbles yet.

At least not all of them. There's still time.

I've sprinkled in the perfect amount of socializing too. I've had beach dates. I've met people for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I've gone to concerts. (Harry Connick, Jr. most recently. Sigh.) I've weekended in Vermont and had a beach house overnighter with some girlfriends.

I've socialized with fictional characters too. Lots of them. They enjoy visiting me, telling me their tales, insisting I write their stories. The summer is so productive for me as a writer. I almost forget what it's like being a teacher. Almost.

I'm currently polishing a short story called One Night in The Labyrinth. It's about a graphic novelist and a toy designer who meet at a Comic Con-like event. Both Star Wars fans and in touch with their inner children due to their jobs, fall in love they must. (Say that last part in your best Yoda voice.) I'm hoping to submit this story to a publisher who had a call for one night affairs. If it doesn't get picked up, I'll self-publish it. I've had a blast writing it and look forward to the next project.

The good news is there's plenty of summer left, which means plenty of writing still to do!

How do you like to spend your summer?

Toodles,
Chris
www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com Adult Romance
www.christymajor.weebly.com YA Romance
www.christineteaches.weebly.com The Writing Teacher 

THE PENGUIN KILLER by Vonnie Davis ~ Chapter One

 Jump to the first story

She had just one wish for the holidays—for her new neighbor to drop dead.

 

Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the most charitable, joy-holly sentiment, but the man was slowly driving her insane. Since Zack Romano moved into the other side of her duplex, her quiet existence had evaporated. The man was simply too big, too friendly and too boisterous. If he invited her over for one more of his weekly family get-togethers, she’d scream. His family, which had to include half the town, was just as loud as he. She was seriously thinking of having their common wall soundproofed.

 

Vanessa Baker snatched several bags of groceries off the passenger seat of her car, turned toward the sidewalk leading to the brick duplex and groaned.

 

Her wacko neighbor had done it again.

 

She rolled her eyes. Where had nutso found the room?

 

He’d added another blown-up decoration to his ever-growing menagerie of inflatable lawn ornaments. His half of their postage-sized front yard was a mish-mash of cheap holiday embellishments. She eyed his newest addition and gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Someone please tell me what an air-filled heart held by a bear has to do with Christmas.

 

Weren’t the half-dozen angels singing the same chorus over and over sufficient for yard decorations? Or the three deer with their heads bobbing out of beat with said angel music? There was the eight-foot-tall snowman next to the six-foot Santa. Wasn’t that enough?

 

Her gaze slid to the green, blown-up, evil-looking Grinch with eyes that glowed yellow in the night, and she groaned. Beside it, Santa wore shades and rode a motorcycle. Animated elves worked at a toy bench and a gaggle of blown-up penguins marched along the sidewalk. Inflatable candy canes and round ornaments the size of basketballs hung from his half of the porch roof. Dozens of strands of lights were strung around every porch pillar, window and across his half of the roof to highlight Santa in his sleigh pulled by six reindeer.

 

What an ugly looking mess.

           

            Thank goodness there were only twenty-seven days remaining in December. Their house had to be the joke of the neighborhood. Was it any wonder traffic had picked up on her once quiet street?

 

She carried her groceries up the wooden steps to her porch and smiled at her simple and tasteful pine wreath with its red bow decorating her front door. Evidently Mr. Decorate-Every-Inch had never heard the adage “less is more.”

 

After putting away her groceries and changing clothes, Vanessa hurried back outside to tackle the large box in her trunk. The salesman at the hardware store had groaned and grunted when he loaded the carton containing five-foot high wooden bookshelves. Seeing him struggle worried her. Frankly, she hadn’t given any thought to how heavy the box would be for her to drag inside her home.

 

In years past, her ex-husband handled the heavy work, but Dave and his dark moods moved out last Christmas Eve. With all that followed—learning he moved in with a woman he met online and taking with him all of their savings—she was more than happy to see this year limp to a close.

 

Twenty-twelve had nearly destroyed her.

 

Perhaps it had.

 

The giggling Vanessa her friends all loved had been replaced by a crabby, cynical, complaining woman. At the top of her New Year’s resolution list was “find the giggling Vanessa again.” Maybe by next October, she would.

 

She unlocked her trunk and studied the best way to remove the large carton and get it inside to her living room. How difficult could it be? She wrapped an arm around the box and pulled, hoping to hug it to her side. It barely budged.

 

Shoving the sleeves of her sweatshirt up to her elbows, she put every ounce of her strength into the job. By the time she’d tugged and pulled enough of the carton out of the trunk to allow gravity to upend it onto the street, she was sweating. Then she bent, putting her shoulder to it, held her breath and lifted the heavy item on an exhale and a loud grunt. Vanessa staggered under the weight across her shoulder. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. The carton weaved her back and forth. For a few seconds all she could do was stagger.

 

She made it up the step of the curb to the sidewalk, nearly dropping to her knees with the effort.  Her thigh muscles quivered with the strain of the weight, and she gritted her teeth. “Come on, Vanessa, you can do this.” Thank goodness the walkway to her steps was only ten feet long. She tried not to think of the four steps to her porch.

 

A loud rumble roared down the street, and her stomach clenched. Her neighbor’s behemoth truck—big and loud just like its owner—swerved to the curb.

 

“Nessa! Don’t. I’ll carry that in for you.”

 

How many times do I have to tell him my name is Vanessa. She turned to inform him she didn’t need or want his help. Her movement threw her load off balance. Arms clasped around the box as she fell backwards. Her back slammed on the hard ground. A loud pop sounded as the box thudded across her face. Pain exploded in her nose and head.

 

“Nessa! My God.” Knees pushed into her side. “Here, let me get this off you.” Zack lifted the box off her as if it were no heavier than a bag of air.

 

Wet warmth flowed over her lips.

 

“Oh, Sugar, looks like your nose is broken.” Strong fingers moved from the bridge of her nose to its tip. The pain made her eyes cross. “Hold on, let me get my first-aid kit.”

 

His heat was gone and running footfalls sounded on the concrete. Slowly the spinning stopped, and she blinked to bring things into focus. Was her face smashed? She gingerly fingered her forehead, nose and cheeks and grimaced when she pulled back a blood-covered hand.

 

Zack settled on his knees next to her again. “Some people bleed more than others when their nose breaks. Don’t be alarmed.” His voice was calm and authoritative as he snapped on latex gloves. Cool alcohol wipes were gently pressed across her face.

 

“Ith my noth broken?” My God, was that her voice? Why was she speaking with a lisp?

 

He was shining a light in her eyes. “Good retina response.” Chocolate eyes lowered to within inches of hers, minty breath swept across her face and a lock of dark, wavy hair fell across his forehead. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were trying not to smile. “And, yes, Sugar, your noth is broken. I’ll do my best to set it so it’s still pretty and straight.”

 

“Thet it? No!”

 

Zack gave a nonchalant shrug. “Set might be an extreme word. I’m just going to make sure it’s straight.”

 

Fingers slowly pressed into her nose. More stars exploded behind her eyes. “Don’t touch my broken noth.” She batted away his hands.

 

“Do you want to be called ‘witch’s beak’ the rest of your life?”

 

“Witheth beak? Ith it that bad?” What would her students think? She could just hear her eighth grade math students calling her names and laughing at her. Still, did this yay-hoo know what he was doing? “If my noth needth thet, I want a profethenal to thet it.”

 

He tore open a paper packet and removed two gauze cylinders. “I’m an EMT. Believe me, I’ve handled worse than a broken nose.”

 

EMT? Was that why he charged out of his house at all hours? Not that she was one to notice or watch his broad shoulders move with an easy grace when he ran.

 

He shoved the gauze up her nose.

 

More fireworks exploded in her head.

 

“Ow! You big thithead. You hurt me on purpoth.” Her one hand tightened in a fist. If he hurt her again, she was going to belt him.

 

Those brown eyes of his held humor. “Thithead? Sugar, we don’t know each other well enough for such intimacies.”

 

“Thop calling me ‘thugar.’”

 

“Can't." His fingers were more gentle now. "It's part of my plan. Maybe if I keep calling you Sugar, you'll start getting sweet on me."

          "Yeah, right."

           "Do you have pain anywhere?”

 

“I think my back might be broken. I heard thomething pop when I fell.”

 

Zack’s hands stilled. “Are you in pain?” His dark eyebrows furrowed. “Move your fingers for me. Good, that’s good.” He shifted to her feet and wrapped his hands around her sneakers. “Push your toes into my hands. Excellent. Now your heels. Good, good.” His fingers slowly worked their way up her legs, probing, exploring.

 

“Thop feeling my legth.”

 

“I’m checking for broken bones.”

 

His hands squeezed her thighs and she shot him a dirty look. “You’re coping a feel, you thex fiend.”

 

“Are you enjoying this?” His gaze swept to hers.

 

“Thertainly not.” Well, maybe a just a teeny-tiny bit.

 

“Then I’m not copping a feel. When I do, you’ll enjoy it. Believe me.” His hands swept over her ribs in an expert manner.

 

“You pompouth jerk. You are tho full of yourthelf.”

 

"And your're so cute when you're miffed about something. Which I gotta admit is most of the time." Evidently satisfied she had no broken bones, he rolled her slightly and peered under her back. “I found the source of the popping noise.”

 

“Oh?”

 

He heaved a sigh. “Yeah, you killed one of my penguins.”