She Always Says 'Yes'

Chapter 2: The Faculty Lounge

The faculty lounge was a sanctuary of muted fluorescent lights and the faint, lingering scent of stale coffee and old paperbacks. The hum of the refrigerator, its coils whispering against the wall like a tired sigh, was the only sound cutting through the murmur of conversation.

Tom Hampton sat at the long, scarred wooden table, his fingers tracing the rim of a chipped mug that had once held coffee but now held only the faint, bitter residue of yesterday’s brew. His shoulders were slightly hunched, a habit he hadn’t realized he had until he caught himself in the reflection of the half-empty window looking out towards the beach.

The faculty lounge was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the teachers could retreat from the noise and chaos of the school day. It was a room filled with the detritus of years—stained couches, worn-out chairs, and a table that had seen more coffee rings than Tom could count. The walls were adorned with posters of upcoming school events, yellowed with age and faded from the sun.

"I just don't know how to get through to him," said Mrs. Delgado, a history teacher with a voice like gravel and a habit of chewing on her pen cap. She was slumped in a chair across from Tom, her dark eyes tired and her usually crisp blouse slightly rumpled. "He’s always late, he skips assignments, and he’s got this look in his eye like he’s already checked out. Like he’s not even here."

Tom frowned, his fingers tightening around his mug. "Who are we talking about here?" Tom asked, setting his mug down with a soft clink against the table.

"Steven Moss," Mr. Jacobs answered, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He was a tall, lanky man with a perpetual five o'clock shadow and a penchant for wearing rumpled suits. He was the school's principal, a position he'd held for as long as Tom had been teaching at Crest Beach High. "He's been causing trouble all year. I've had to pull him out of class more times than I can count. And the language! I've never heard such... such..."

"Such what, Henry?" Mrs. Delgado asked, raising an eyebrow. "Such creativity? Such honesty? Such raw, unfiltered emotion?"

Mr. Jacobs huffed, his cheeks flushing. "I was going to say 'such disrespect,' but yes, I suppose you could call it 'creativity' if you wanted to put a positive spin on it."

Tom listened to their back-and-forth, his mind only half-present. He had heard the complaints about Steven Moss before, but the name didn't spark any particular interest in him.

He had a dozen students like that every year—ones who tested the boundaries, who needed more attention than the curriculum could provide. But then Mrs. Delgado leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Kristy Green," she said, her eyes flickering toward the door as if expecting someone to overhear. "She's the one who's really got me worried."

Tom's fingers stilled on his mug. Kristy Green. One of his best students. Sharp, observant, always with a book in hand or a question ready. She was the kind of student who made teaching feel worthwhile. He couldn't imagine her being a problem.

"Kristy?" Tom repeated, his voice barely above a murmur.

His mug froze halfway to his lips. Kristy Green? The girl who always raised her hand with perfect grammar, who wrote essays that made him think she was secretly a poet? The one who never skipped class, who actually listened?

Mrs. Delgado exhaled sharply, as if the very thought of it was exhausting. "She’s been late to class three times this week. She didn't show up at all one day last week. Like, she skips class to go surfing or something. And when she does come in, she’s got this… this look in her eye. Like she’s bored. Like she’s waiting for something else to happen. At least she's not boy crazy like some of the others." Mrs. Delgado sighed, running a hand through her short, dark hair. "But I've seen her doodling in her notebooks instead of taking notes. And she's been arguing with me in class, questioning everything I say. It's like she thinks she knows better than me."

Tom raised an eyebrow, surprised. Kristy had always struck him as respectful, if not a bit reserved. He couldn't imagine her arguing with a teacher, let alone questioning their authority. "Arguing about what?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

Mrs. Delgado rolled her eyes. "History, of course. She's got this... this fixation with the present. Like she thinks everything that happened before is irrelevant. Like she thinks she can change the past just by wishing it."

Tom leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. This was not the Kristy Green he knew. The Kristy Green he knew was quiet, thoughtful, always prepared. She was the kind of student who asked insightful questions, who challenged him to think deeper about the texts they were reading. She was not the kind of student who skipped class or argued with teachers.

Mr. Jacobs cleared his throat, drawing their attention. "I've had a word with her, of course. Told her that this kind of behavior won't be tolerated. But it's like talking to a wall. She just nods, says 'yes, Mr. Jacobs,' and then goes right back to her old ways the next day. I've thought about sending her to detention, but..." Mr. Jacobs trailed off, his gaze drifting out the window where a group of students huddled under the awning, laughing and smoking cigarettes.

Tom frowned, his fingers tapping against the chipped mug. He didn't want to believe that Kristy was causing trouble, but he couldn't ignore the evidence. "Have you tried talking to her, Henry? Really talking to her, I mean. Not just giving her a lecture or a detention slip."

Mr. Jacobs turned back to Tom, his expression thoughtful. "I’ve tried, Tom. I’ve had it out with her more than once. But it’s like she’s not even listening. She just… nods. Smiles. And then goes right back to it."

Tom exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting back to the window. The beach beyond was a stretch of golden sand, dotted with the occasional surfer riding the waves. He could almost hear the distant crash of the ocean, a constant reminder of the world outside the school’s walls. "Maybe she’s just bored," he suggested, more to himself than to the others. "Maybe she’s not getting what she needs from school right now."

Mrs. Delgado snorted. "Bored? That girl’s got more energy than a caffeinated squirrel. She’s not bored. She’s restless. And that’s dangerous."

"Is it that bad? She's supposed to be graduating in less than three months," Tom said, his voice softer than he intended. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Maybe we're just not connecting with her the way we should."

Mr. Jacobs shook his head, his expression grim. "It's not just you two. It's everyone. She's been skipping PE, too. The coach says she's been using the locker room to change after school, but she's been seen lingering there longer than she should. Like she's waiting for someone."

"Oh, I'm not complaining about her," Tom corrected. "She's one of my best students." Tom's voice was firm, defensive. He couldn't reconcile the Kristy Green he knew with the one they were describing. "She's always prepared, always engaged. She asks insightful questions and challenges me to think deeper about the texts we're reading. She's never skipped class or argued with me."

Mrs. Delgado sighed, running a hand through her hair again. "I know, Tom. I know she's a good kid. But something's changed. She's different this year. And I'm worried about her."

"It's strange. That hasn't been my experience with her at all this year," Tom said, his brow furrowed in thought. He picked up his mug again, swirling the cold, bitter dregs of coffee before setting it back down with a soft thud. "She's always been one of my most engaged students. She's curious, eager to learn. She's never been disruptive or disrespectful."

Mr. Jacobs leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Well, Tom, maybe you're just not seeing it. Maybe she's putting on an act for you. Some students are good at that, you know. Playing the system."

Tom shook his head, his jaw set. "I don't think so, Henry. I've taught Kristy for a while. I know her. I know her writing, her voice, her way of thinking. She's not acting. Not for me, anyway."

Tom's voice was steady, but his fingers tightened around the mug again, the ceramic cold against his palm. He could feel the weight of their stares, but he didn't look up. He wanted to believe them, because that would mean he was failing as a teacher. But he couldn't reconcile what they were saying with what he knew.

"Maybe she's just going through a phase," Mrs. Delgado offered, her voice softer now. "Teenagers do that. They change overnight. One day they're perfect, the next day they're trouble."

Tom exhaled sharply through his nose.

He could hear the faint, rhythmic thump-thump of his pulse in his ears. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like a swarm of restless bees, casting a sickly glow over the worn linoleum floor. Outside, the wind carried the salty tang of the ocean, a constant reminder of the world beyond these four walls.

"Oh, I have some news about the PE locker rooms," Mr. Jacobs said, his voice taking on a serious tone. "I've been talking to the school board, and we've decided to close and lock them after the last class of the day."

"Close the locker rooms? Why?" Tom asked.

Mr. Jacobs sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "There have been too many thefts lately. Kids leaving their stuff in there, then coming back to find it gone. We think if we lock them up, it'll put a stop to it."

Mrs. Delgado nodded in agreement. "It's a shame, really. I know a lot of kids use them to change after school to hit the beach."

"I know Mrs. Delgado, but we can't have that kind of risk anymore." Mr. Jacobs replied, his voice firm and final. The weight of his words settled over the table like a heavy blanket.

Tom looked out the window again, his gaze drifting to the beach where a group of students stood near the edge of the sand, their laughter carried on the breeze.