Rubberta Origins Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The teacher

“So, just get the denominators the same and add. Simple! Any questions?” She’s not really asking. The class of students groan in unison. A quick glance would reveal that most the kids were looking in any direction but their brown haired teacher. The ceiling is coated with spit wads from a plethora of bored learners. Faint outlines of the previous message of “Welcome to Miss Tendere’s class!” have discolored the green paper on the bulletin board. Letters have been removed and rearranged to say what’s on a prankster’s mind, “See Miss Tendere’s ass!” That first ‘S’ was created by manipulating the two ‘c’s. A white border surrounds the formerly green bulletin board. What the original color was, only the pudgy professor knows.

A lone hand rises from near the back of the room. All heads turn toward the young boy attached to the raised appendage. All but one that is. Quiet groans echo around the classroom with a couple of “Don’t ask her a question!” and “Her answer won’t help.” And the raised hand and the low sound of voices go unnoticed by the brown haired teacher who’s gazing at the clock. “Three thirteen,” she whispers to herself, “It’s almost time …”

Then she turns to the whiteboard filled with science facts, math equations, and English diagrams from the last month and erases a small hole. In its place she writes the word, ‘Homework’ followed by 50 questions, all odd.

“Miss Tendere?” A young female in the front row asks, “Could you, please, give us some even ones so we can use the answers to figure out—”

Ponytail whips and blue eyes blaze as the teacher turns causing the words to seize up in the girl’s throat. Randi opens her mouth to rebuke the student with, “I explained it perfectly!”, but the bell sounds freeing them all from her wrath.

The class races out the back door leaving the classroom empty. Remnants of “Terror Tendere” reach her ears, but the thought of what’s to come brings a smile to her face. “It has to be true. Tracey wouldn’t lie to me.”

In moments, the stack of papers to grade are shoved into her briefcase on top of the rest that have been collecting from the last week. “The briefcase is full. I’ll have to empty them out on the table.” Thoughts of the dreaded Week of Grading temporarily breaks her out of her good mood, but that passes in a flash. Then she fishes for a scrap of paper in her purse that’s large enough to fit a sink.

Keys to the last 20 apartments she’s owned as well as her car key come out first. Next she finds a paper with scribbling on it. Not the one she was looking for. “Shopping list. That would have been handy … When did I shop last?” She sets it on the keys. “I should go and pick up some food so I don’t – Oh!” Out comes her makeup kit. “Wow, I haven’t used this in a while.” She raises the lipstick to her lips. “But it’s just Tracey. I don’t need to dress up to hang with her.” The lipstick and makeup add to the pile as she returns to the purse.

Crinkling sounds follow the next grab. “Yuck, an old, moldy sandwich. I should throw that away, but I need that paper.” Another thing joins the pile. “My magazine. I should read that article.”   “Water bottle. Not that thirsty.”   “Phone! That’s where that was!”   “Breath mints. Always a good time to freshen your breath and make a good impression.”

“Here it is!” Like a trophy, she gently extracts the business card. “3501 N. West St.” The mountain of stuff gets dropped on the maw of the purse and consumed as she brings the straps to her shoulder. With a spring in her step, she heads to the peeling, burgundy Dodge Dart that had seen better years.

Looking at her empty hand and then to her bag she asks, “Now where are my keys?”