Perfecting the Odds Read Online Free PDF Page B

week.
    “ You haven’t missed the first bell yet, Mrs. Bennett.” Winston looked through her as the automatic door opened. Clearly disgusted, Winston jerked out her arm, gesturing for Karis to enter first.
    Karis plastered on a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. “Thank you, again, Ms. Winston.” Karis quickly passed her, trying to ignore the eyes burning judgment-packed holes into her back.
    Skipping steps up the stairwell, Karis nearly tripped as the bell rung. She bolted down the hallway and stopped before room B 222. All that cardio seemed to be paying off. She dropped her baggage, adjusted her pencil skirt, and smoothed her hair. Bringing her bags onto her shoulders again, she stepped inside, carrying with her a heavy air of authority.
    “You’re late, Mrs. Bennett. Again ,” accused the always-eager, mouthy Abigail LaCoste seated in the front of the room.
    “You look lovely as always today, Mrs. Bennett,” purred Jonathan O’Brien, known to Karis as the boy who will do anything besides using what’s between his ears to get an A.
    “ Excuse me, Abigail. I’ll have you know that Mrs. Bennett was never late before having children.” And a dead husband , she thought, reverting her standard cynical sarcasm. Cut me a break, kid . Teenagers these days were much more direct, teetering on rude. Karis would have never spoken to a teacher with such indignation, especially not a teacher like herself. Not my Robby , she thought, smiling to herself. “And Mr. O’Brien, not as lovely as your completed homework assignment, I’m sure.” Jonathan blushed furiously, and she smiled knowingly at him. So smart, yet so lazy.
    “You hate when people refer to themselves in the third person. What gives?”
    Karis narrowed her eyes at Abigail. “I am more annoyed by people who state the obvious.” The girl cowered at the response and quickly turned her attention to her notebook.
    “ Scholars, please have out your red, green, blue, and black pens. We will revise these essays again. Why?”
    In unison, the class responded, “We revise because writing is never finished, Mrs. Bennett.”
    ***
    2:45 p.m. Monday was finally over. Karis packed her stacks of essays, turned off the light, and locked her classroom door with a groan of relief. Walking down the hall, she thought about her after-school schedule this week: gymnastics and viola practice for Grace; Boy Scouts and guitar practice for Bobby. She hated when parents involved their children in too many activities. She and Robert had always agreed that school came first. But since his passing, the need to give them joy was quickly turning into a compulsion--to give them a full, richly active childhood, and more importantly, to protect them from pain, may it be physical or emotional.
    She sacrificed most of her time for her children and her students, but every day after school, she allowed herself “me” time. As she drove to the gym, she fought the urge to take any exit toward home. Ahhhh, bed. Sweet relief. With two kids who would definitely need homework help and the sixty essays in her bag, sleep sounded more than good; it would be downright therapeutic. But getting to the gym was the hardest part. Once she finished working out, the effects were always worth more than sleep: she felt awake, relaxed, and ready to tackle the rest of the evening.
    Walking through the front doors of the gym, she wrinkled her nose at the pungent combination of sweat, chlorine, and rubber. Heading quickly for the locker room, an all-too familiar voice interrupted her.
    “Hello, Karis, how’r you doing today?”
    Jennifer Williams. Turning toward her distraction, Karis muttered, “Fine. How are you?” How would a person describe the mediocre History teacher? A lesser woman would say aloud what she was-- the half-wit cocktail to start Karis’s “happy” hour: a shot of annoying, two shots of nosey, and a splash of judgmental. But no need to start a cat fight. That shit would