Miss Lydia Fairbanks and the Losers Club
Duane L. Ostler
MISS LYDIA FAIRBANKS AND THE LOSERS CLUB
by Duane L. Ostler
Copyright 2015 Duane L. Ostler
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, copied or distributed without the express permission of the author.
The author was formerly identified in prior versions of this book under pen name "E. Reltso."
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters of this book and a real person is purely coincidental.
Cover art: U.S. Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information photo, 1943, picture of Miss Norma Kale, Woodrow Wilson High School English Teacher. Photographer Esther Bubley.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Tom Clyde was sick. He had ringing in his ears, grinding in his stomach, palpitations in his heart, aches in his kidneys, arthritis in his joints, and puffiness in his eyes. In addition to these minor problems, he also had high blood pressure and diabetes flare-ups, not to mention the migraine headaches and agonizing shingles stretching all the way up his arms.
Tom Clyde was sick indeed. But he was no fool. He knew what the REAL cause of all these maladies was. It was not a weak or unhealthy body. It was not inherited poor genes. It was not viruses or flu bugs. It was just one simple thing.
His job.
Inner City Junior High School. Even repeating the name in his own mind caused him to shudder involuntarily, and also caused the gurgling in his ulcers to start. Inner City Junior High School. Take any school in the state, shake out all the bad and rough students and throw them together--and they would be mere pussycats compared to the average students who ranged the halls of Inner City Junior High School every day. The place stank. It was not so much a real odor or physical smell that it reeked of. Rather, it stank of harshness, brutality, failure, bullying, despair, frustration, hopelessness and crime. All of these things and more oozed from the very walls every day.
And Tom Clyde was its principal.
With a sigh, he leaned back in the swivel chair in his office. The chair squeaked in its usual irritating way, adding to the general spirit of discomfort he felt just by being here. One of these days the silly chair was going to break altogether and leave him sprawling on the floor. But such a minor tragedy would be laughable compared to what he had to deal with every day in this awful school.
The telephone on his desk buzzed. "Mr. Clyde?" came his secretary's tired voice. "I just got a phone call from Fred Bozley. You know--he teaches science. He's going to the hospital to have his head examined. He says two students threw books at him in the hall, and hit his head. Apparently there was a bit of blood."
Tom groaned, but at the same time almost felt like laughing. Fred was going to have his head examined! That's what every one of the faculty should do for even working one day in this horrible school--including himself! What sane person in his right mind would ever want to work here?
Tom spoke to the phone on his desk, since he knew Mrs. Jensen was expecting an answer. "Did you call the school district substitute line? Are they sending someone over to take Fred's classes?"
"I called and they said they'd try," she answered. "But you know how hard it is for them to find substitutes willing to come here ..."
Tom leaned farther back with a groan, causing his unhappy chair to squeak a good deal more. The last thing he wanted to do was go in and substitute himself. It would be like stepping into a warzone.
"How about Coach Mane?" he asked with dim hope. Sometimes the coach was willing, and given his size, the kids didn't mess with him too much.
"He's got a class the next hour," came Mrs. Jensen's voice. "He said he could sub for the rest of the day after that, though."
"So we just need to find a substitute for the next hour," said Tom, drumming his fingers grumpily on his desk. It looked like he might have to do it himself after all.
"Maybe," said Mrs. Jensen mysteriously. Suddenly she added, "There's a Miss Lydia Fairbanks here to see you. For a job interview to become a teacher here. She says she has an appointment ..."
Tom instantly understood what Mrs. Jensen was thinking. This Lydia Fairbanks person, who was insane enough to come here wanting a job, could perhaps be asked if she would be willing to substitute for an hour ...
"Send her right in," he said flatly. He straightened up in his chair, causing it to squeak more harshly than before. Then he picked up an old silver dollar he kept on his desk, which he flipped aimlessly through his fingers whenever he felt nervous. It got a lot of use every day.
Should he do it? Should he send Lydia Fairbanks into the classroom? He'd read her resume and knew she had just graduated from the local community college and was hoping to fill the writing teacher opening at Inner City Junior High, which was currently being taught by unhappy substitutes. She clearly had no experience, and for her to even consider applying to this school she was obviously struggling to find a job. It was understandable why--writing teachers were a dime a dozen, and as often as not ended up flipping burgers rather than teaching. But no matter. All that mattered today was finding a sub for the next hour, and Lydia Fairbanks could be just the ticket. But he knew if he did send her into the classroom, she'd probably withdraw her request to become a teacher here. That is, if she had any sense--and if she survived.
The door opened quietly, and as Lydia Fairbanks stepped into the room Tom's heart sank. One glance at her clearly showed she was no match for the tough kids that ranged these halls. Although she was young, she was small and frail-looking, with a plain, unattractive face. She walked with a timidity that seemed to jump out and say, "Look at how unconfident I am!" She fit in this place about like a baby duckling fits in a den of hungry wolves.
"Mr. Clyde?" said Lydia in a barely audible, quiet voice. She stretched out her hand tentatively then pulled it back, clearly at a loss about what to do. Should she offer to shake hands or just sit down? In the end she just sat down, causing her chair to squeak like all the chairs in Tom's office. "I'm Lydia Fairbanks. I'm here about the writing teacher job ..."
It was only too obvious to Tom Clyde that, even if he gave her a job here, she probably wouldn't last a day. It now seemed like a blessing in disguise that Fred was on his way to the hospital. Lydia's taking his class would be just the taste she needed of Inner City Junior High School, so that she would leave its wretched halls and never return again.
But he wasn't going to tell her any of that. He'd start off by pretending this was a real job interview, even though his only goal now was to get her to substitute for an hour. "Yes, I've looked at your resume," said Tom, eyeing her through his puffy eyes, while rubbing his head in an effort to soften his migraine. "I notice you don't have any teaching experience ..."
"Oh, but I can learn!" said Lydia quickly. The pleading look in her eyes jumped out at Tom. "I did a great deal of student teaching while at the community college, getting my degree."
"I see," said Tom, rubbing his sore kidneys. He gazed down at his shoes, wondering why he was feeling a sudden pain searing up his leg. Was this a new malady the blasted school had given him?
The pleading look in Lydia's eyes intensified. "But I'm very good with children and youth," she said hurriedly. "They usually respect me. At least that's been the case in all the classes where I did my student teaching while obtaining my degree--"
"The community college is hardly going to send its trainee teachers into difficult schools," said Tom with a scowl. "This school is nothing like you've ever seen before." He paused, watching as her lip quivered. She must be nearly penniless to want this job so badly. He made a mental note to himself, to make sure she received a full day's pay for substituting, even though she would only take Fred's class for an hour.
"I think perhaps it would be good to try a little test," he said, while gingerly lifting his foot off the floor and moving it around, with the hope that would make the pain go away. "One of our teacher's has unexpectedly had to leave today, and a substitute is needed for the next hour. It's a science class--not your subject, of course. But it seems that we need someone there right now, and you just happen to be here--"
"Wonderful!" said Lydia, rising to her feet and clasping her hands. Tom couldn't stop himself from shaking his head in pity. "I doubt you'll think it's wonderful an hour from now," he said darkly. "But if you're willing to do it, Mrs. Jensen will tell you were the classroom is, and you can go there immediately."
"And if all goes well, will I get a job here?" asked Lydia hopefully. Tom looked at her frail face, so full of hope. Suddenly he felt uneasy to send her into that lion's den for even one hour. She probably wouldn't last five minutes, and he'd end up down there himself, subbing for the rest of the hour.
She continued to stare at him with hope-filled eyes. He looked at her and sighed, wearily. There was no need to dash her hopes. What could it hurt to promise she could have the job if she lasted an hour? He knew he wouldn't see her again. In a matter of minutes she'd be out the door like a rocket.
"Certainly," he said amiably as he rose painfully from his chair. His doctor had said only last week that he might have gout in his left leg. Maybe that was what this new pain was. "Just come back after the class, and we'll discuss it further ..."
Lydia beamed at him, then quickly went through the door and over to Mrs. Jensen's desk.
"Poor woman," mumbled Tom to himself, reaching into his drawer for some of his pills. "She has no idea what she is about to face." He popped several pills in his mouth, wishing they'd bring him the relief they were supposed to.
