Free A Measure of Discipline by Diane Adams Page A

the door, and I shoved the wrapper with the other Reese’s cup back into my drawer. When I’d given my notice, they told me they were going to turn my job into a student position. The thought almost made me laugh, but I smiled and agreed that it was a fine idea. It meant I’d spend my two weeks training a couple of poor suckers to do something that was much harder than anyone outside the position understood. Harder wasn’t the right word; it was more time consuming. It ate up time, sometimes far into my evening. It wasn’t unusual for me to still be at work at six or seven o’clock at night, long after everyone else had gone. I wondered what these kids would think about that; thankfully, that was not my problem. I straightened my tie as I got up and shrugged to settle my sports jacket on my shoulders. I smiled and opened the door.
     
    “Hi!” The greeting was perky, and I blinked. The greeter was a bit shorter than I was, long legs bared by a short blue skirt that flounced just south of her crotch. Her T-shirt stretched tight across the front of her chest and almost managed to meet the waistband of her skirt. A blue headband that matched her skirt caught wavy blonde hair back from her face; big blue eyes stared out at me from a model’s face. She grinned and bounced on her toes. Bounced. She beamed. “I’m Brittany.” Of course she was. I stepped aside and let her in, my hopes for quick instruction quickly dissipating.
     
    Two hours later she took a bathroom break, and I collapsed into my chair. It had been the most trying two hours of my life. Brittany wasn’t stupid, far from it, but on the scale of annoying, she rated about a five thousand on a scale of ten. I was going to kill whoever told her I was gay. I was going to kill them in the most painful way I could imagine. I never understood why people thought that every set of boobs was a gay man’s friend. I rubbed a hand over my face, ate the other peanut butter cup, and texted Adam.
     
    “This sux. Save me.” I sent it in hopes of some comic relief, but he didn’t answer. Ms. Pep returned.
     
    “I’m back!” she singsonged as she came through the door. I groaned to myself and got up to let her take my chair. She flounced over, settled in, and we took up where we’d left off. I showed her how to do the job, and she filled my ears with the latest gossip about Adam Lambert. I detest Adam Lambert.
     
    “Lunch,” I announced at noon with relief. She was done for the day; I had another student to take through the paces that afternoon. I remembered too well coming to the office everyday when I was in school, making my classes fit around the job. Thinking about it made me feel sorry for her. Working your way through school was no picnic. Brittany jumped up out of the chair and smiled widely at me.
     
    “I had fun!” she told me. “This is a great job. Want to eat lunch with me and my friends?” My compassion died off as I suffered an anguished mental image of her with a group of her friends. I barely kept my eyes from reflecting the horror I felt at the thought of being trapped with them. Rah rah rah, holy crap. I managed a smile.
     
    “That’s nice of you, but I don’t think I can today,” I said. My hand closed around the phone in my pocket, and I willed it to ring. It remained silent, of course. My smile felt strained. “I have stuff to do. You did great Brittany. See you tomorrow, right?”
     
    Her smile diminished for a brief second and then resumed its normal 1,000 watts. “Of course I’ll be right here, eight thirty on the dot!” She gave a little wave, grabbed her blue and white backpack from where she’d left it beside the door, and was gone in a whirl of energy that was exhausting. I fell into my chair and stared at the closed door. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. If I had to deal with another “Brittany” that afternoon, I’d shoot myself.
     
    I worked through lunch. Training didn’t excuse me from what