High School Yearbook – The Drama (third in the high school series)

By Paul Swearingen

Cherié thinks she’s set to coast through her senior year in high school ... until her principal blackmails her to take over editorship of the yearbook. She discovers that neither her principal nor her advisor are what they are supposed to be. She nearly gets creamed in a hallway fight, but her chubby guardian angel makes sure that she survives and uncovers some unusual events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Swearingen
• Release date: Jan 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452485089

Paul Swearingen

Paul Swearingen is a retired English/journalism/Spanish teacher who managed to survive 34+ years in public, private, and government schools. He also was a radio newsman and disk jockey, a newspaper editor and photographer, a personnel manager for a large retail store (now defunct), and a long-time publisher of the National Radio Club's magazine, "DX News". He lives in Topeka, Kansas, where his main current duty is to keep his garden under close control.

Book preview

High School Yearbook – The Drama

Paul Swearingen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Paul Swearingen

Discover other titles by Paul Swearingen at Smashwords.com:

High School Football – The Temptation

High School Diversity – The Clash

High School Newspaper – The Danger

High School History – The Treasure

High School Yearbook – The Drama is a work of fiction, and all characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblances to real events, locations, or people, living or dead, are coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

High School Yearbook: The Drama

Chapter One

Cherié stretched and yawned, adding a little yelp at the end of the stretch. Mrs. Benton raised her chalk from the green chalkboard, turned, and put one hand on her hip but kept the piece of chalk at the ready. She glared over her half-moon eyeglasses at Cherié, who widened her eyes and cocked her head as if to say, Gee, lady, I have no clue what you want from me, and then at Terri, who grimaced and shook her head. Ms. Benton glared at the entire class, rolled her eyes in temporary defeat, and turned to finish writing the day’s assignment on the board in a flowing script that reminded Cherié of her first-grade teacher’s handwriting. Score one for Cherié on the first day of her last year of high school, she thought.

Ah, first grade. She actually remembered learning something in that class and maybe even through most of the rest of her grade school classes, except fifth grade, when they’d suffered through three teachers and finally the principal to finish out the year. That year had been a lost cause for sure, but this one was going to be the best.

She settled back into her seat and mentally reviewed her hair, clothes and makeup. Perfect. She’d made some careful choices before leaving the house: just a light touch of blush to accent her tan; a sleeved yellow top that hid the bruise on her shoulder, accentuated her curves, but didn’t make her look like a slut; jean shorts that were faded but not ragged; slightly-scuffed yellow flip-flops; black polish on her toenails; her light-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail.

The door opened, and Cherié watched a rather small, frightened-looking proctor walk in and hand Mrs. Benton a slip of paper. Mrs. Benton nodded, and the proctor scampered out the door and silently closed it behind her.

Miss Chase? Seems as if the principal would like to have a word with you. She held out the call slip away from her as if it were a slice of overripe limburger cheese, and Cherié stood, stretched a little for effect, and took the slip.

I’ll be back … soon, Cherié tossed over her shoulder as she exited, and she could feel her pony tail wagging like a finger waving no-no at a baby. What now …? she thought, and she checked the call slip to make sure that the principal really wanted to see her.

She took a few steps down the hall and stopped and looked around her. The last thing she wanted was for Lennie to pop out of some hiding place and grab her again as he had a two days ago during enrollment when she was looking for her locker in the back hallway. Luckily, several other girls came around a corner to look for their lockers, also, and she had managed to pull away from his grasp. The bruise on her shoulder was starting to fade today, but she didn’t want to have to cook up an explanation as to how she’d received it.

She’d met Lennie in yearbook class last year. Their paths rarely crossed as he usually was out interviewing, or more likely taking extra-long lunches, so Cherie had not spoken a dozen words to him all year, although she knew that he was on the school’s swimming team. Then, during her first dip in late May at the local pool, she discovered that he was a lifeguard – unfortunately, the hard way when she attempted a backwards flip off the diving board and banged her head on the end of it. He’d dragged her out and had given her CPR whether she needed it or not, and after that Cherié found herself at the pool most of the summer, working on her tan while watching him sit on his chair and flex his muscles until she tired of that spectator sport and split up with him two weeks ago. They’d even talked about how they both were so smart not to enroll in yearbook class to free up time during their senior year and how they’d spend that time together. He was eight months younger than she, and why she’d thought they’d be compatible, she had no idea … especially after she’d caught him in a compromising position with a freshman chick behind the snack bar. ‘Practicing lifesaving techniques’, indeed. He was so pathetic, trying to claim that deep French-kissing had anything to do with resuscitation.

Oh, well. She now intended for this year to be both Lennie-free and stress-free, sort of a necessary fill-in between her junior year and college. She needed only the first semester of Junior English, which she somehow had neglected to pass last year, and a few electives to complete her credits. The business law class was not going to be difficult, although American Government did require some outside study, but fifteen or twenty minutes per day with the textbook, and she’d be good to go in that class.

The hallways had not cooled down yet from the August heat outside. Most classroom doors along the hallway were shut tight, and the slapping of her flip-flops was all that she could hear in the empty hallway. No sign of Lennie.

She pushed open the main door to the office. The door squeaked in protest, and a secretary peered around a computer screen at her.

The principal wanted to see me? Cherie waved the call slip at her.

Cherié Chase? Go on in. He’s waiting for you. She pointed to her left at an open door.

Mr. Barnett was on the phone as she approached his desk, and he waved her into a chair in front of his desk. Yes, tomorrow at ten would be fine. And bring the documents from the file on him. Yes, all of them. Okay, see you then; thanks. He carefully laid the phone in the cradle and stared at it.

Why do I always get … He stopped and frowned at Cherié and pulled another sheet of paper from one of the stacks on his desk.

Well … Miss Chase. Seems as if we have discovered a bogus grade for one of last year’s final exams.

’Bogus’? What does THAT mean?

Bogus as in obtained by a method that we commonly call cheating around here.

WHAT? She half-rose from her chair. I don’t cheat. I don’t need to cheat. In fact, I didn’t really need to take any of my finals last year. My teachers all told me that my average was good enough to pass in all of them. Except … Junior English.

The principal peered at the paper again and then slid it into a red file folder and then into the center drawer of his desk. Well, this report certainly wasn’t from your Junior English final last year. And I hope Ms. Benton is keeping you on the straight and narrow in that class this time around, Ms. Chase. Now, I’m not at liberty to reveal just how we determined that you were guilty of cheating on your yearbook final exam, as it involves other parties, and I think you can understand why I can’t reveal names. He leaned back in his chair and stared at her.

She opened her mouth but then closed it and stared back at him. It had to be Lennie. The yearbook class final was somewhat of a farce anyway, and now he was trying to get back at her for dumping him by claiming she’d copied his answers from his yearbook exam. What a scumbag! Best to say nothing; just as she had told the principal, she hadn’t cheated on any final exams in any of her high school classes. Let him break the silence; she wasn’t going to say anything that he could use to incriminate her.

He pulled another folder out of his desk; she could see that it held her transcript.

Cherié. I understand that you were … He flipped through the papers and then laid the packet on his desk, tapping the center of a page. Okay, here it is. You were sports editor on the yearbook staff last year and did quite a bit of photography. Is that correct?

Well … yes … She stopped. Let’s see what he REALLY wants from me, she thought.

He held up his hand. Miss Chase, we have a situation here. Frankly, your grades through the semester in yearbook class are good enough for me to throw out this cheating accusation, especially since the advisor is no longer with us, and I think we can work through this and help both the school and yourself out in the process.

Cherié cocked her head to one side. So that’s what was really going on. Situation was a principal’s term for crisis, or deep doo-doo for someone. As in I’m in deep doo-doo. In middle school it had been when a hall monitor had separated her and another girl who had made fun of her braces and Cherié had taken a swipe at the girl, fingernails extended. Today the crisis seemed to involve a principal who was desperate enough to blackmail her with some kind of made-up story of cheating that never happened. Lennie could never be that creative.

Mr. Barnett, I decided not to be on yearbook staff again because I wanted to concentrate on … ah … academic classes to give me a better chance to get ready for college. Another term, this time a student code word; academic meant easy, pud classes that you could make a high grade in without too much work. Yearbook wasn’t necessarily a hard class, and she’d made straight A’s in it and her preliminary journalism classes, but the memories of late-night work sessions to make deadlines while other kids were out partying still haunted her. How much fun time had she missed out on, anyway? She also wanted to stay away from Lennie, although she really didn’t know for sure whether or not he’d enrolled in the class again this year.

Let me put it to you this way, Miss Chase. As I mentioned, Mrs. Williams resigned last year, and we now have a new journalism teacher, one who is somewhat … ah, inexperienced in teaching, although she’s properly credentialed and has worked in the field. The person that we expected to be yearbook editor this year, last year’s assistant editor … er … is no longer with us, and frankly, there’s no one left on the current staff who can take over and run things.

So Janie was pregnant after all, huh? Cherié took a deep breath and expelled it. No longer with us, my ass; she’s probably stuck at home, taking online classes at her leisure and puking her guts out every morning. What a little slut; maybe we would have had a better book if she hadn’t been doing the horizontal dance while the rest of us were working our butts off nearly every evening.

She shook her head. Mr. Barnett, no offense, but ‘Miracle Girl’ isn’t part of my name. It was a fun time experience last year, for sure, and I appreciate your … um … ignoring this accusation, but I just don’t think that I want to spend so much time this year on yearbook when I need to concentrate on keeping my grades up so I can get into college.

College? Yes, I’m well aware that you want to go on to college, and I know your progress in yearbook class will be exceptional again. We’ve set up an independent study for our newspaper editor already, and we can do the same for you, so both of you would have more time to work on your publications. Finally, I believe I can influence the … ah … party who claimed that you were cheating that perhaps what … er … he or she observed was not all that it seemed to be.

I just don’t …

The principal took a folder from the top of the desk, opened it, and held it up in front of Cherié. She read the top line: Scholarship Application.

Cherié, that’s an almost-guaranteed scholarship from our school foundation to any college in Kansas. It isn’t something that we publicize, but it goes only to those who demonstrate financial need, good work habits, and … well, loyalty to Niotaka High. It’s one that the principal has the prerogative to award to a suitable student at the end of the year. And Cherié, that student could easily be you.

Cherié scanned the paper. The figure $5,000 leaped out at her before he closed the folder and slid it into a desk drawer.

Mr. Barnett, can I think about it? I have to talk to my mother, and … She’d just string him along a bit more; the scholarship offer he was dangling in front of her was the real incentive here, not the feeble blackmail attempt.

That’s fine, Cherié. I’ll be in the front hall before school tomorrow. You talk it over with your mother and let me know then. I’m sure she’ll look at this as a very positive opportunity for her daughter.

Of course she would. Money wasn’t falling off the trees in HER back yard, and he knew it.

Cherié stood up and turned. Manners, girl! She turned back and reached across the desk and shook the principal’s hand. Thank you, Mr. Barnett. Oh … did you have anyone in mind for assistant yearbook editor? If I took the position I’d need someone well-qualified to help me out.

He gave her a startled look. Ah … our counselor says he is working on a potential co-editor, a former staffer like you. But he says the young man already has accepted a swimming scholarship from a college in another state, so you would still … ah … be in the running for this one.

Swimming scholarship? Oh, no. Lennie. She took a deep breath.

I’m sure I can work with just about anyone, Mr. Barnett. I’ll let you know. She turned and trudged out of the room. Two for two, so far: She’d lost her free time and probably had to figure out a strategy now for dealing with Lennie, but at least she’d survived a blackmail attempt, and most important of all she was in line for that scholarship. But only if she could survive yearbook. So much for an easy senior year …

Chapter Two

Ms. Benton barely looked at Cherié when she pulled the door open and continued with her lecture unchecked. Cherié scooted into her seat and looked at the book on the desk of the nerdy-looking boy next to her. He pointed at the page number and pushed his glasses up his nose.

Same old crap. Don’t verb a noun. Don’t preposition the end of a sentence. Ol’ Benton is going to bore us until we learn or die, apparently. Head of the language arts department or not, she certainly didn’t know how to liven up things. Listen and write, listen and write – that’s all she knew how to make us do. Oh, and not to mention taking endless tests on grammar, usage, and gawd knows what else.

She chewed on the end of her pen and looked out the window. But just for a second or two. Now was not the time to bring down the wrath of Bent One on her. At that point her teacher ended her lecture, tapped on the chalkboard, and walked slowly to the back of the room, peering over her half-moon glasses at students’ paper as she passed their desks.

Cherié sighed and peered at the chalkboard behind the teacher. Yep, their first essay was 500 words, complete with outline, to be chosen from the five subjects listed below the assignment description. Benton was famous for weeding out the weak with her first assignment of the year. Jeez – maybe she should have come to class last year more often, or had done a better job of sweet-talking the male teacher she’d had then, or better yet she should have appealed to his sweet tooth with any one of the products of her recipes which included chocolate.

She looked around the room and counted. 28. Bet we’re down to 24 by tomorrow and 20 by the end of the week, she thought. She glanced at the chalkboard again. Ecology, recycling, overpopulation, new jobs, school improvement. Why just pick one topic? Here’s one: The world would be a better place if certain English teachers were recycled into fresh protoplasm, thus creating new jobs and definitely improving the school.

She tapped her pen on her notebook cover. The sound of the voice from behind made her jump.