Teacher Education

Teacher Education

 

When it comes to teaching the teacher,

Russell has a plan.

 

R.R. Ryan

© Copyright 2025 by R.R. Ryan

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic, sexual nature. This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

Trigger warning: This story contains rape.

 

Teacher Education

Somewhere, USA

Shabby Heights High School

 

The place reeked of old glue, fear sweat, and the chemical ghost of an ancient Expo marker, filling Mrs. Henrietta Booker with a light sense of dread. The fact that the school was in the worst part of town didn’t help matters. Reentering the teaching system after twenty-plus years wasn’t any walk in the park. There had been changes she wasn’t prepared for.

The horror stories she’d heard made it all the more unbearable. However, this was a new start for the rest of her life.

At 7:25, the intercom buzzed a reminder that attendance was to be submitted via the district’s new online portal. A system Henrietta Booker couldn’t navigate. Even after two full days of desperate clicking, two failed “Lunch & Learns” in the faculty lounge, she was hopeless with the portal.

The screen flickered, blue-banded, unresponsive to her cautious stabs at the enter key. Mrs. Henrietta Booker reached for her lesson planner. A spiral-bound, ten-year-old book. After picking it up, she ran a thumbnail along the stiff edge and inhaled the light, musty odor that lingered on everything in Room 418.

Through the glass panel in the door, the first trickle of seniors slouched into view. They drifted in twos and threes. Clutching phones and grimy binders. Some wordless kid flipped her the bird as they passed.

That was the point when Henrietta braced herself for the onslaught of ghetto redneck kids. Adjusting the lapel of her navy suit jacket (threadbare, dry-cleaned twice, one button replaced with a nearly matching stand-in), she waited. Ready for the one face she already knew by reputation.

The subfolder, with its single yellow digital sticky note. Watch Heidecker. Parent meetings. Bullying. Parent won’t respond to calls. Vice Principal Lemmons has given up. Good luck.

Digital sticky notes, what’s the world come to, she thought.

After a while, Russell Heidecker made his entrance not by volume, but by velocity. When he hit the door with his shoulder, it let out a bang. Filling the threshold with his body and his heat. Every line in his frame was deliberate. Even the loose way he slouched. A matinee idol playing bored.

In truth, he wore the same black hoodie as yesterday. The same torn jeans. And the same predatory expression. His blonde hair was cropped high and tight, and his jawline was so sharp it belonged on a magazine cover. As he passed her, he didn’t look at Henrietta. However, he grinned in her general direction. After which he stalked to the back row and dropped into the seat with a thump.

“Okay, everyone. Please, if you’d settle down. I’d like to begin,” Henrietta said, voice barely higher than a library whisper.

No one responded.

Glancing at her, Russell yawned. Stretching his arms over his head, he murmured something to a girl two seats away. The girl tittered, snapped her gum, and punched her phone with both thumbs. The rest of the class followed suit. A synchronous shifting of bodies and phone screens.

The uncomfortableness grew, and Henrietta reached for her roll sheet, cleared her throat, and attempted to take attendance.

“Heidecker?” She tried for neutral but failed.

A pause. Then: “Present, your honor.” The room snickered.

“Thank you,” she said, and went down the list. A boy in the first row drew a veiny cock on the back of his neighbor’s neck with a Sharpie. The recipient did not notice, or pretended not to.

“Today,” Henrietta began, “we’ll continue our discussion of the roots of the American Revolution. You’ll recall—”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Booker?” Russell’s voice cut across the room like a wire.

She swallowed.

“Yes, Mr. Heidecker?”

He leaned forward, hands laced behind his neck. As he flexed his body, he stretched the material of his shirt tight across a barrel chest.

“I’m just wondering, is it true you used to be a sex ed teacher?”

The words did not compute. The class fell instantly silent, waiting.

“No,” Henrietta said, pulse spiking. “I’m certified in social studies. History and civics.”

“My bad,” Russell said. “Just something I heard from Mr. Alexander. He said you had... unusual methods.” He winked at the girl beside him, who covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“That’s inappropriate,” she said, the words shrill. Henrietta felt heat climb her neck. “Let’s move on.”

The kids were ready for some smartass comeback, but Russell didn’t reply. The back row vibrated with suppressed laughter. Someone whispered, “Thicc,” and the laughter grew.

Despite the giggling, she pressed on, voice quavering.

“If we turn to page seventy-three—”

“Do you need a hand turning the page, Mrs. Booker?” Russell again, tone all concern.

“No, thank you,” she said.

With that, he nodded, lips curled in a parody of politeness.

“Just being a gentleman, ma’am.”

The rest of the hour crawled, a sequence of minor humiliations. Every chance he could, Russell picked at every word, interrupted her with fake questions, or disguised insults. “Are you a natural blonde or do you bleach your hair?” was the first question. “Did you ever meet Hamilton, Mrs. Booker?” Later, he asked, “Were you alive back in the good-ole-days?” When she turned to diagram British colonial policy on the whiteboard, he pantomimed ‘fucking’ the air to raucous applause.

Her hands shook so badly that she dropped the marker, fumbled it again when she stooped to retrieve it.

No one missed this. Russell clapped slowly and sarcastically, and the class joined in.

At 8:20 sharp, the bell rang. As students packed up, Henrietta raised her voice over the din.

“Russell Heidecker, please stay after class.”

This pleased him, fit his plan, so he stayed in his seat. With his legs spread, hands folded over his crotch, a lazy smirk etched into his face. When the room finally emptied, he rose and sauntered up to the podium. Dominating the situation, he loomed over Henrietta Booker. So close she could smell his cologne—clean, expensive, foreign to the antiseptic stench of the classroom.

“Yes, Mrs. Booker?” he asked, using her name like a punchline.

Henrietta gathered herself. She had rehearsed this, in her head, a dozen ways.

“Your behavior this morning was unacceptable. I want you to know, I will be documenting—”

He leaned in, both palms flat on the podium.

“You want to document me, huh? Maybe take me home, file me in your special little cabinet?”

“I’m serious, Mr. Heidecker.”

“So am I. You know, you could get a lot more respect if you didn’t dress like you were auditioning for Golden Girls. You got a body, Mrs. Booker. Maybe you should show it off, instead of hiding it under all this...” He plucked at her blazer lapel, the touch so light it barely registered. Still, she recoiled. “You ever think about that?”