Just Desserts (6 page)

Francine, the school secretary, pointed at Ella’s half-open office door as soon as Layla walked in. Layla smiled as if this was just an everyday kind of meeting, and Francine smiled back. Weakly. They weren’t fooling one another. This was not an ordinary meeting.

The principal sat behind her broad oak desk, hands folded in front of her, her expression cool to the point of frigid, causing Layla’s steps to slow as she entered the room. She’d never seen her boss this way and it was more than a little unnerving.

“Good morning,” she said in a voice that sounded confident and professional and just a wee bit brittle, as she came to stand in front of the desk. “Please sit down.”

Layla sat, her back perfectly straight, taking slow, calming breaths. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Have you made a decision?” Ella asked point-blank. For a moment the blunt question hung there as Layla formed her answer. She’d expected more preliminaries.

“I want to continue in English,” she said. Her fingers twisted the lowest button on her cardigan and she abruptly stopped the movement.

“That is not an option.” It was a proclamation.

“No?”

Ella gave her silvery head one firm shake. “No.”

“Then why the meeting?” Layla asked, acting on instinct and sounding far less deferential than usual. “And why should I lose a class I’ve built from the ground up because of one unfortunate incident?”

“The parents, Layla,” Ella reminded her in a tone of exaggerated patience.

Yes, the parents had something to do with it. Private schools were just that—private entities. She could be tossed out on her ear on a whim. High price to pay for the privilege of teaching a more exclusive group of students. However, the decision was based on more than parental pressure. Layla was certain of it.

“It’s Melinda,” she said in a low voice.

“Melinda?” Ella rested her forearms on the desk with a mystified scowl.

“Has she ever spoken to you about taking over my classes?”

“Not recently.” Perhaps not, but Melinda was excellent at planting seeds. She couldn’t have foreseen the fallout from the photo, but she would have set the stage to get what she wanted, just in case Layla had reason to leave the school.

“You don’t believe
she
posted the photo?” Ella asked, sounding shocked.

“I don’t know about that.” To Layla it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. “But I wouldn’t put it past her to have stirred up the parents over this issue. She’s competitive—”
i.e., a sweet-faced barracuda
“—and willing to take advantage of a situation.”

The shocked look remained on Ella’s face, a testimony to Melinda’s abilities in subterfuge and ass-kissing. “She’s an excellent teacher. The students love her.”

“True.” Layla hated to admit it, but the kids did love her. “But she’s wanted my classes since she got here.”

“This sounds very paranoid, Layla.”

It did. But she wasn’t paranoid. She was closer to the situation than Ella and had a few more facts....

“Will you take the transfer to Life Skills?” the principal asked.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Layla…”

“Melinda is sleeping with my boyfriend.” She blurted out the words, even though she hadn’t intended to say them at all. But what the hell? She was beginning to hear the fat lady sing. “She sneaked around with Robert and now she’s trying to steal my classes. No. I will not go to Life Skills.”

Ella’s expression was now one of extreme distaste. Because of Layla blurting out the truth about her private life? Or because Melinda’s actions had been sleazy and unforgivable?

“That is a private matter,” the older woman decreed, answering the question. “Will you take the transfer?”

Layla stood, gathering the strap of her purse in both hands. “I will not go to Life Skills.”

“In that case, after the close of this school term, we no longer need your services.”

Layla heard the words as if through a cotton wool filter. She tilted her head, then gave it a tiny shake. “I’m fired?”

“Your contract will not be renewed next semester.”

“I’m fired.”

“You will not be renewed after you finish out this semester.”

She was so damned glad she hadn’t wimped out and taken the transfer yesterday, only to have this happen. At least now she had some pride left. Not much, but enough to allow her to pack and leave the building with her head held high.

She’d wait until she got home to collapse into a heap of insecurity and quite possibly tears.

She met Ella’s pale gaze. “I don’t think I will finish out the semester.” Down the hall from smug, smirking Melinda, who would know that Layla had been sacked. She’d have won. Yay!

“You’ll break your contract?”

“I’ll take my sick days.” There were nine weeks of classes left after spring hiatus. She’d have two days to spare.

“You aren’t sick.”

“Oh, no. I am. This situation is making me sick. I’m being railroaded under the most ridiculous circumstances.”

Ella’s nostrils flared, but before she could speak, Layla said, “I’ll just go pack up my room.” She turned smartly and started toward the door, maintaining her composure only because she was in absolute shock.

“No.”

The curt response stopped her dead. She turned back. “Excuse me?”

“You will not use your sick days and you will not be allowed back into a classroom here at Manzanita Prep. I’m sorry, but your services are no longer required, effective immediately, and you’ll have to leave the building. Walter will escort you out.”

Walter will what?
Layla felt her throat closing. “I don’t understand.”

Ella held out her hand. “Please give me your keys.”

Layla slowly shook her head, not fully grasping what was happening. She couldn’t get her belongings?

“You’ll get all your personal things back,” Ella assured her.

“But my lesson plans, the materials I’ve developed…I did that on my own time. Those are
mine.
” Layla spoke from between clenched teeth.

“Your personal belongings will be returned to you in short order,” Ella replied. “It would be illegal for us to keep them.”

Layla couldn’t stop the sneer from forming on her face. “And you wouldn’t want to do anything illegal. But you will toss me neatly under the bus.” She took her keys out of her jacket pocket and slapped them down on the table. “I want everything. All the lessons plans, the units, everything. Those are mine.”

And she wasn’t going to get them—at least not until every page was photocopied. She could see it in Ella’s face. The principal wouldn’t want to lose the materials that had won Layla the state merit award for excellence. She would want to hand them off to Melinda or one of her other teachers.

Layla turned on her heel and headed for the door, only to run straight into Walter’s six-foot-two-inch frame. She looked up at the security man’s stern face as he took hold of her arm.

He didn’t exactly frog-march her out of the office, but he wouldn’t loosen his hold. Layla was “escorted” down the hall and out the door into the rear parking lot. Only then did his expression soften.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered.

“Why did she do this?” Layla asked, tears starting to sting her eyes now that reaction was setting in and she was far enough away from the Wicked Witch of the West not to lose face.

Walter’s mouth flattened and he looked slightly embarrassed at his role in the matter. She’d always gotten along well with him. “Common practice so dismissed employees don’t have the opportunity to vandalize anything in anger.”

“I understand,” Layla said automatically. But she didn’t. She didn’t understand any of this. Last Friday she’d been a happy teacher about to go on vacation. Now she was an unhappy teacher without a job.

All because of…way too many things that seemed to align at one time. A perfect cosmic junction of bad luck, and Layla had been smack in the center of it.

The tears that had built up started to fall, streaming down her cheek as she walked to her car, head down. She refused to wipe them away in case Ella or Melinda or anyone else was watching from a window. And the crazy thing was they were more tears of anger than anything else. Layla felt steamrolled. Misused.

And mad as hell about it.

The depression phase would no doubt follow the anger, but right now she was hanging on to her outrage, because it helped numb any other emotions that might come crashing down on her.

She got into the car and slammed the door before staring blankly out the window. So where did she go now?

Home? Sam’s place?

She swallowed the giant lump in her throat and started the engine, hoping she could get out of the parking lot without giving in to the very strong urge to smash her car straight into Melinda’s little blue Mitsubishi Eclipse.

Maybe Melinda hadn’t engineered this, but she was benefiting, and she’d been screwing Layla’s boyfriend at night and smiling at Layla during the day.

JUSTIN’S HEADACHE HAD abated after a couple hours of work, so he had no excuse for snapping at Eden when she asked why he’d taken another cake order when he was already swamped. Wearily, she made a face and headed out of his room, obviously writing his bad mood off to the hangover.

He braced his hands on the table and let his head drop after Eden closed the door with exaggerated care. He’d taken the cake order because he wanted to bury himself in work. Keep from thinking.

Ten years.

His son had made it ten years without him. He’d made it for ten years without knowing anything about his son. And they’d been okay years. No reason he couldn’t continue the way he had up until now—except that he couldn’t shake the questions, which in turn led to the guilt.

What if his son had needed him and he hadn’t been there?

He turned the music up another couple notches and started dropping butter into the mixing bowl. He was, of course, making a birthday cake today. One of dozens he’d made over the past few years, so it shouldn’t bother him. He wasn’t going to let it bother him. Determined, he set to work.

“YOU SHOULD HAVE SMACKED her car,” Sam said adamantly. “Just nicked the bumper, if nothing else. I think you missed an opportunity.”

Layla tried to smile, but couldn’t get the job done. She should have gone home. Should have accepted the transfer to Life Skills. Should have simply gone to work every day and put up with Melinda living her—Layla’s—life, teaching her classes, sleeping with her boyfriend.

Layla let out a low groan. She was ashamed. Embarrassed.

What had happened to her newly discovered rebel self?

Easy. Rebel Layla had gotten smacked firmly backward and now was whimpering in a corner—or rather, sitting on her sister’s purple sofa with an emerald-green afghan pulled over her ugly teacher clothes.

Guess she wouldn’t be wearing those again for a while.

“You’ll get another job,” Sam said as she tossed various items—a necklace, a lipstick, a small pair of needle-nose pliers—into her huge tote bag. Layla could see a Pop-Tart box poking out of the interior. “And until then you can help me. No sweat.”

No sweat. Just get another job. Work at a boutique for free, since her sister could barely afford to pay herself.

Layla tugged the afghan closer to her chin.

“Are you sure you even want to be a teacher?” Sam asked suddenly. Layla scowled at her.

“Of course I want to be a teacher. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher. Why would you ask such a question?”

Sam picked up the tote bag and gave it a slight shake so that everything settled into place with a few clinks and muffled clanks. “Because you’ve never seemed very happy doing it.”

“I’m happy! Or I was happy.”

Sam propped a hand on her hip. “What about all those headaches and stomachaches you keep talking about?”

“When you’re dealing with adolescents, headaches are a given,” Layla said primly.

“Well, I don’t get them in my job, so I don’t see why you have to get them in yours.”