Well, I kid you not, no sooner had I finished picking my lower jaw up off the floor, yet again, then Frances herself walked stoically through the foyer. She carried a box, shopping bag and her purse, having evidently just cleared out her desk after hitting “SEND.” As she pushed open the front door of the admin building, Mueskes blasted out of his office and gave chase. His face was purplish red, a necktie practically strangling him, his left hand frantically clutching a piece of paper.
Melanie looked to me, and I to her. As if on cue, we bolted out of our chairs and into her husband’s office. Sydney flew out of her own and hissed, “Not without me you don’t!” The three of us landed in Mueskes’s large, floor-to-ceiling windows, each of us taking a bay, the best seats voyeurism could buy. Beyond the brick wall and the wrought iron gate, Frances threw her stuff onto the passenger seat of her car and walked around the back. John Thomas slammed his body against the door she had just closed and yelled something. She waved her hand, indicating she’d have none of it, and got into the car.
Mueskes moved around to the hood and held up his hands, the paper flapping in the wind, as if his stupid, fat ass wasn’t something she’d just love to run over. Frances put the car in reverse to back away from the lunatic headmaster, but he darted around, now pressing his girth and the piece of paper against her driver’s side window. But Frances flipped him off, looking down to shift before gunning forward in a fierce enough fashion. One might have thought Mueskes’s days were over. But alas he was left standing, staring at the back end of a battered Toyota Corolla.
The three of us pulled back from the windows, suddenly embarrassed by what we’d all witnessed. At least I was. Sydney said simply, “What the fuck was that all about?”
Melanie looked to me, and I to her. As if on cue, we bolted out of our chairs and into her husband’s office. Sydney flew out of her own and hissed, “Not without me you don’t!” The three of us landed in Mueskes’s large, floor-to-ceiling windows, each of us taking a bay, the best seats voyeurism could buy. Beyond the brick wall and the wrought iron gate, Frances threw her stuff onto the passenger seat of her car and walked around the back. John Thomas slammed his body against the door she had just closed and yelled something. She waved her hand, indicating she’d have none of it, and got into the car.
Mueskes moved around to the hood and held up his hands, the paper flapping in the wind, as if his stupid, fat ass wasn’t something she’d just love to run over. Frances put the car in reverse to back away from the lunatic headmaster, but he darted around, now pressing his girth and the piece of paper against her driver’s side window. But Frances flipped him off, looking down to shift before gunning forward in a fierce enough fashion. One might have thought Mueskes’s days were over. But alas he was left standing, staring at the back end of a battered Toyota Corolla.
The three of us pulled back from the windows, suddenly embarrassed by what we’d all witnessed. At least I was. Sydney said simply, “What the fuck was that all about?”
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