Forces of Nature

Is Your Stud Muffin Ticklish?

"Is his name really Egbert?" I asked.

Mel and I were sitting at a study booth in the school library, where she was about to explain my new solo economics class to me.

She paused in spreading out the contents of a binder to laugh, shaking her head. "I don't think so. But he just looked like an Egbert, and I figured in front of two dozen impressionable teenagers it was the better choice."

"Better choice over what?"

"Creating a curse word for each letter of the alphabet to cuss him out with before I punched him in the throat." She said all of this with a beaming smile. But beneath her cherry demeanour I knew she was positively seething.

Mr. Phelps hadn't conceded defeat like any other smart person would have. Instead he'd tried his hardest to rebuke everything Mel was saying, informing her that without a formal meeting between him and the headmaster to confer over what my best interests were, and without providing an acceptable reason by his standards for withdrawing from the class, I wasn't going anywhere.

Of course, that was when Mel had produced the last four of my tests, all of which I'd failed with a D or lesser mark. She'd brandished them at Mr. Phelps and words like "targeted bullying" and "continued emotional abuse" were directed his way.

Then, with hand wrapped around my biceps and a cheery expression that was meant to infuriate him even more, Mel said, "There is no way my girl is going to learn anything from someone who wouldn't know the first thing about the economic market even if I whacked him upside the head with Economics for Dummies," and we departed to a room so silent I could have heard a pin drop.

Tucking my knees to my chest, I rested my chin on them and proceeded to stare at Mel with a mixture of admiration and awe.

"What?" she said opposite me, somehow knowing I was eyeballing her without taking her eyes from the page she was perusing.

"I am so glad I've never been on your shit list." I pointed a finger in the general direction of the library doors. "Seriously, you just slayed the dragon without breaking a sweat back there."

"Slew," she murmured, frowning over another sheet of paper.

"What?"

"It's slew. Not slayed. I slew the dragon." Putting the sheet of paper in front of me so I could read it, she let out a sigh and folded her arms on the table, leaning close. "But forget that. What I want to know is, why didn't you come to me, Noah?"

"I had it handled. And I told you a while back he was picking on me," I added, though my voice sounded lame even to my own ears.

Mel's eyebrow arched in challenge, daring me to refute what she was about to say. "No. You told me he was made a few comments you didn't like. At no point did you inform me your teacher was destroying your property, giving you failing grades, and laying his hands on you. Is there anything else that's been happening that I am not aware of?"

I suddenly felt two feet tall under Mel's voice of authority. "No. That about sums it up."

"Are you sure?"

I gave a meek nod. Her expression softened, and she held out her hand. I took it without hesitating. "Sweetie, this isn't a situation you should have to handle. It's situation you shouldn't have been in in the first place. That man's behaviour is unacceptable and simply put, it's an abuse of authority."

I nodded along with her. She'd told me on the way here that Mr. Phelps was on probation for the next six months, and any other incidents during this period would result in his immediate termination.