Page 1 of Teaching Ms. Tingle

Chapter One

Kinsley

Whoever said if we do what we love, we will never work a day in our life was not a teacher.

Do not get me wrong, I adore what I do. I am just two years in as an English Literature professor at Hollow Oaks University so perhaps I won’t always feel this way. To not call it work, however, is laughable. I bust my ass for my students.

Because I am the newest staff here, I guess I feel I must prove myself. My love of classic literature: Bronte, Keats, Austen, all the greats, has driven my syllabus. To shake things up I also included portions on some of the most controversial books of our time: Valley of The Dolls, It, and even V for Vendetta.

Pouring my heart and soul into these courses and my students ought to be enough. As it turns out it is not nearly enough. Not for Dean Vickers. He put me in charge of a remedial class for freshman, asked that I act as an interim house mother for a new sorority, and now…my worst fear.

“Tutoring? I am aprofessor, Mr. Vickers, not a tutor.”

“Wrong, Ms. Tingle,” Vickers glances at me over the top of his glasses dismissively. “As of now you are also a tutor. It is just two students, I am asking this of other staff as well. It is our duty to prepare these kids for becoming adults. Some need a little bit more attention.”

Staring at him dubiously, I doubt very much anyone else is being forced to tutor. How am I going to find time to show special attention to two students? Between my three classes a week, two remedial classes a month, and keeping an eye on those girls at Gamma Sigma Pi Theta, I have no time for myself.

Putting up a stink about filling my empty nights with tutoring wayward students is almost sad. What would I be fighting for? Those long bingo nights with Gran? My nights spent alone watching bad horror movies while covered in Cheeto dust and shame?

“Yes, sir,” I say with resignation. What else is there to say?

Dean Vickers passes two folders across his oak table, nodding his head affirmatively. He mentions both will be a high priority without giving much detail as to why. I thank him for his time—though this wasmytime—and excuse myself.

Tucking the folders atop my stack of books, planner, and worksheets, I rush from his office. Whenever I get called here, I walk away with a bigger stack of work. At what point will I have proven myself to him?

“Morning, Ms. Tingle,” a friendly voice calls. Smiling at the young TA who works for some of us in the English department, I pause to chat.

“Morning, April,” I respond with a genuine smile.

We talk about the end of the first semester and some new English courses. Talk turns to the coming football season, one half of the school is looking forward to. April flushes as she mentions Kane Hilton, Hollow Oaks’ star running back.

As she goes on about the revered senior, I am looking for an escape. Not because I mind April behaving the way a young woman her age does over the hot, charming, admirable jock. No, I am downright rotten for my reasoning.

I myself have an awful crush on the team’s hottest player.

“I am sure you have plenty to offer,” I assure her, meaning my words despite the bitter taste of jealousy they're loaded with. “Just have to actually offer it to him, I suppose. See you later, April.”

Excusing myself, I ignore the flaming of my cheeks as I rush down the hall. I endure dozens of similar discussions about Kane. Just about all the ladies in my classes seem absolutely smitten with him. Obviously, I cannot blame them, not that I could share that with them—or with anyone.

Once I reach my office, I slam my door shut, clocking the lock with a huff of a sigh. I need to get over this stupid crush of mine. It is outrageous. It is improper and of course impossible. Since I took notice of him last spring, I have done all I could to avoid him completely.

Thankfully, English literature is not high on a football player’s list of needed courses. Still, he has come into a few of my classes looking for a friend. Once he even had to pick up homework for his roommate. Each time I have encountered him, I become almost mute. I cannot talk to him at all.

“Stop thinking about a problem that is not yours,” I tell myself as I sink into my ergonomic chair, dropping my pile of things with a thud.

Sitting back with a sigh, I kick off my sensible flats beneath my desk, wiggling my toes. Grabbing my phone from the tower of trouble I have to deal with today, I navigate to a music app. Shuffling for a moment, I turn on my favorite horror podcast, turning it on low so I can concentrate.

“Who will be my new wards?” I wonder aloud as I drop the files, opening the top one with a bright pink post-It sticking out.

Flipping it open, I almost choke on the bottled water I just took a sip from. No. No way on earth. Is Dean Vickers out to ruin me? He must be, there is no other explanation for what I see laid out before me. I even close the folder, take a breath, and open it again. Nope, it still says what I thought.

“Kane Hilton. How could it be him? How could he do this to me?”

Pulling the folder off the pile, I flip through his records. Lots and lots of post-It notes stick out on several pages. Bad behavior. Delinquent papers, missed tests, and... throwing a football in the middle of a physics class. I have heard all the good talk about the young football hero.

Now I am faced with a pile of bad behavior.

Turning up my podcast, I spin to gaze out over the quad. I do not see the wandering students or the scattered leaves. I am focused on page after page of information about Kane. Not just because I have to be prepared to tutor him. Because I am hungry for any morsels I can get on the man.

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