High School Pictures

By Dan Wesolowski

There is a sex scandal brewing at Pedro Beach High School. A certain faculty member is profiting from cyberpornand a certain website has some disturbingly familiar young females on it. Fellow teachers Gina Cha and Drake Simo form an uneasy alliance and expose a rather burned-out peer.

Gina stopped drumming and sipped her tea. And from what

I read in the L.A. Times the other day, the only truly profitable Internet

sites are the ones that are sex-related. So it figures.

Gina seemed to have her own script. Drake hadnt read it and

wasnt sure where he fit into it. So sex even sells on the Internet?

You know it. Sex sells especially on the Internet. The Internet

is almost made for it, Gina put down her tea and ticked off her fingers.

Its affordable, extremely accessible, and still fairly anonymous.

Drake Simo is an ex-bicycle racer and dedicated technophobe with a one year teaching contract. As he examines the evidence, he also examines Southern Californias ravaged landscapes. For him, the experience is an eye-opening introduction to the darker side of the Internet. For tenure track Gina, other motives are at work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 5, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462840427

Dan Wesolowski

Dan Wesolowski lives near Santa Barbara, California with his wife, Anna. He bicycles 20,000 miles a year. He types his books on a manual typewriter.

Book preview

1   

Drake hated cars.

Always had.

And probably always will, he thought to himself as he strapped down his books and mounted his bicycle.

It was 7:20 A.M. on another Southern California day and he pedalled slowly into the morning fog. His destination, Pedro Beach High, was four miles away. He rolled slowly through a STOP sign and hung a right into the striped bike lane.

A large, white pick-up with a gleaming, corrugated, tool trunk in its cab overtook him and honked. Hey asshole, yelled the balding driver through an open passenger window. Stop at intersections. He flipped Drake off, patched rubber, and swerved into the bike lane. Drake watched as the truck roared down the bike lane and through a yellow light at a traffic signal farther up the road.

Drake then braked abruptly as a panel van rolled a STOP sign and almost clipped his front wheel. Its driver had a cell phone in one hand.

He shifted to larger gears and continued past a construction site that would eventually contain the Pelican Ranch housing development—an upscale townhouse community with a gated entrance and entry-level models for $500,000.

Bulldozers scalloped what had once been a wetland into what would soon be stucco walls and pink roofs and asphalt driveways. Such unoriginal and generic planning would soon be marketed as authentic Spanish styling in glossy real estate brochures.

Drake shook his head. He missed the wetlands, and wasn’t particularly fond of gated communities that catered to wealthy Internet specu—

Another car honked and swished by closely on the left. Another passed even closer without honking.

Drake glared after them, but it made no difference. It never did. They just kept going. He neared a massive intersection with complicated turn lanes and traffic signals. As he stopped and waited for a red light, a Metropolitan Transit District bus pulled alongside.

Hey, Mr. Simo, yelled a teenager from an open window.

Yo, Mr. Simo, yelled another. Both had shaved heads.

Drake recognized them, grinned, and pointed his index finger in acknowledgement.

The light changed and the bus roared off. Drake coughed as black smoke puffed from its exhaust pipe. A waddled ball of paper arced from the bus’s window and bounced off the leg of his faded corduroys. Laughter mixed with the exhaust and traffic noise.

Good morning, gentlemen, Drake rolled through the traffic-clogged intersection. Another road maintenance project was under way. A portion of the intersection was blocked by cones, and the normal two lanes were funneled into one. An open trench was surrounded by orange-vested workers. One wrong swerve would send Drake into this trench.

Watch it, Buddy, yelled an orange vest. This here is a hungry hole.

His comment elicited laughter from his coworkers. Drake successfully threaded the construction gauntlet, but there was even more road work beyond the intersection. He dodged a pothole and maneuvered into the car lane so he could avoid debris and gravel on the road’s shoulder.

A huge shopping mall loomed on his left. It contained various big box retail outlets, a pizza parlor, an adult bookstore, a tanning salon, a video rental outlet, a yogurt shop, a juice bar, a coffee shop, a massage parlor, and a vast parking lot that resembled an airstrip. Two years ago the entire mall was an open, marshy lot with a baseball field tucked in one corner. Kids rode mountain bikes and looked for frogs on the rest of it. Now, those kids looked for cool stuff in the malls. Like those kids in the MTD bus. Like those kids in Drake’s classes at Pedro Beach High.

He pedalled over a freeway overpass, through two more intersections, dodged more potholes, construction cones and road debris, and ultimately hung a left into the high school’s parking lot.

Pedro Beach High was built on a small hill that rose to the main administration building, Harrder Hall. Small quads of singlestory classrooms surrounded this main building. In typical Southern California fashion, the single-story buildings sprawled around the hill in a helter-skelter, space is no object arrangement. A large parking lot had been hollowed from one side of the hill and was visible from much of the campus.

Hey Mr. Simo, yelled a student in a black trenchcoat who was lounging at the brick wall which marked the school’s entrance.

Drake saluted and grinned at the student. He rolled up the driveway, through the parking lot and past the gleaming blue van that belonged to his department chairman, Phil Haggard. He dismounted at the sidewalk which led through the main quad. Removing his helmet, he walked his bike to a door that led to the teacher’s lounge. Once inside, he stashed his bike next to the Pepsi machine, unstrapped his books, and walked quickly to Harrder Hall.

Another English teacher, Sam Wilton, emerged from Harrder and walked towards him. Morning, Drake, Wilton nodded. Wilton had taught at Pedro Beach High for twenty-eight years and hoped to stick it out another ten. He was pudgy, had spaces between his teeth, and walked with short steps and a forward slant to his body. Like an animated Tower of Pisa, he always seemed in danger of toppling over.

He also seemed to have a limitless collection of short sleeve sport shirts with similar patterns in similar dark tones. The result was that he always seemed to be dressed the same. Close examination of these patterns invariably revealed stains that had accumulated through the decades.

Morning, Sam. What’s happening?

Sam paused and motioned Drake over. He huddled close. Careful Drake. According to Phil, the boss is on the warpath, he hooked a thumb toward the administration building.

The boss was Pedro Beach High’s principal, Ellen Closet. Closet was a short, slightly dumpy individual with stern features and a no-nonsense pageboy haircut that was dyed blonde. She seemed to have a perpetual frown on her face, and very few good things to say.

At least, not to Drake.

Rumor had it that her husband—an economics professor at nearby Pedro State University—spent many weekends at the gaming tables in either Las Vegas or Santa Ynez. Drake frequently speculated about both their finances and their private life. Drake liked to speculate. And daydream. Ellen, on the other hand, typically liked to wear tight skirts made out of heavy material. These accented her rear end and still shapely legs. Maybe when she was younger—

Drake, are you still there? Wilton had inched closer. Drake shifted his books and stepped back. Sam smelled of coffee and deodorant and breath mints.

Yeah, uh, sure Sam. Just uh, thinking about what you said, he looked at some arriving students and nodded. What’s the problem this time?

It looks like there’s some kind of sex scandal brewing, Sam looked around quickly. We’ll probably hear more about it at today’s faculty meeting. He began to walk away.

Drake groaned inside. He’d forgotten about the meeting.

But he hadn’t heard about the sex scandal.

2   

Wait a minute, Sam. What, I mean, who’s involved in this sex scandal?

A steady flow of students was now entering the campus. Several turned and grinned at the word sex. One gave Drake a thumbs up.

Wilton shrugged, raised a finger to his lips, and angled toward his classroom, 201-W It adjoined Drake’s classroom, 202-W

Drake watched as Wilton’s brown, paisley print shirt was absorbed by the increasing number of arriving students. He then entered Harrder Hall and walked to the faculty mailboxes. A florescent green notice was tacked prominently at eye level and reminded everybody about the faculty meeting at 2:45.

Principal Ellen Closet stood outside her office. Predictably, she wore a tight brown skirt. Its matching vest displayed her sizable chest. Phil Haggard, the English Department chairman and owner of the expensive-looking van in the parking lot, stood by her side.

Good morning, Drake. I hope you don’t forget our little meeting this afternoon.

No, Ellen, I—

I didn’t see you last time if I remember correctly, she straightened her shoulders.

Haggard nodded briefly and looked at a Shakespeare text in his hand.

Drake stopped. He missed last month’s meeting because it had been a beautiful springtime afternoon, and he’d wanted to get in a longer ride after work. He’d claimed he had diarrhea.

Don’t worry, Mrs. Closet, I’m feeling fine today. I’ll be there.

Good, good, she nodded her head. There are some crucial matters to discuss.

Drake smiled and nodded at her, but Closet had already turned away and was talking to Phil Haggard. Drake wanted to ask her about next year’s teaching contracts. He knew that most of them already had been signed, but Drake still was waiting to be approached.

Drake waited while Closet continued talking. She always seemed to be busy with something else when Drake tried to get her attention. The same thing usually happened when he tried to get Phil’s attention. Meanwhile, first period approached. He’d try later.

Gathering the papers in his mailbox, he looked at the clock and realized he had to hustle. With his books tucked under his arm, he sifted through them: Pedro Beach High’s daily bulletin, two late assignments from students, a reminder about the upcoming sweater drive, a notice from the library about overdue books, an invitation from a neighboring golf course—despite protests from environmentalists, this course also had been built on wetland—to play at half-price on weekdays, a reminder about a mandatory computer training course, and an unsigned note that told Drake he sucked.

He dropped the entire batch into the recycling bin and walked to his classroom in 202-W

Jesse, one of the students in his first period class, waited by the door.

Hey, Mr. Simo. Dude, umm, how you doin’?

Jesse was a surfer with a perpetual tan and a wild mane of long, tangled, dirty-blond hair. Drake had known him for four years. First, as a freshman; now, as a near-graduate. He wasn’t the best student academically, but that was simply because he was more interested in chasing the latest west swell than in chasing good grades. He also could become a bit disruptive during class. Like the time he started a water fight during—

Yo, Mr. Simo, Miss Cha was umm, looking for you.

Really? Drake paused. Gina Cha was a fellow English teacher at PBH.

Yeah, she said she’d catch you later, Jesse hesitated and shuffled his feet. Hey, Mr. Simo. Dude, they’re, starting to build that lame golf course and uh, hotel at Davey’s Beach.

Really, Drake unlocked the door and entered the room. He flipped on the lights and surveyed his domain—a tile floor, painted cinder block walls, windows set high in those walls, thirty-five chair/desks, a teacher’s desk, a shelf crammed with books, a well-used TV and VCR, an Apple computer with a plastic dustcover on it, blackboards with the week’s assignments—

Yo, Mr. Simo. You know, umm, they’re bulldozing and stuff and we’re trying to uh, ya know, slow it down a little, Jesse followed Drake inside and grinned. It’s totally bogus.

Drake looked at him.

I’m serious. Golf courses umm, really suck, dude. They’re always, umm dumping all these pesticides on the greens and then, uh, you know, they kinda wash, umm, into the ocean and stuff, Jesse dropped his book on a desk.

So, what are you going to do, Jesse? or do I want to know?

Jesse looked around the empty class and flipped his hair out of his face.

Ah, you know, sometimes those surveyor stakes get a little, uh, mixed up or something, he picked up a copy of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and spun it on his finger like a basketball.

Be very careful, Jesse, Drake shook his head. It sounds like you might be trespassing.

Jesse shrugged and kept twirling the book.

Maybe you should organize some surfers and attend a board of supervisors meeting instead.

Ah, Mr. Simo, you know, umm, we’ve tried that kinda stuff, the book dropped. Uh, you know, nobody really listens to surfers. They think we’re not serious or something. Besides, politics is totally bogus.

I can understand your ambivalence, Jesse, but I don’t want you to get into trouble ‘mixing up’ those stakes.

Yeah, uh, that’s cool, but don’t tell anybody, o.k? It’s umm, you know, Jesse looked at the first group of arriving students. I mean, somebody uh, has to do something or this place’ll look like Disneyland or something. It’s umm, getting way wasted. Everyplace is.

Drake didn’t say anything. Jesse had a good point. In some ways, Pedro Beach resembled a giant theme park without—

Oh yeah. Hey, Mr. Simo, Jesse stepped closer and lowered his voice. Drake noticed sand on his sneakers. There was this totally crazy party over the uh, weekend, Jesse looked over his shoulder. He looked back at Drake and grinned, I can’t really say too much, but—

The bell for first period rang.

Anyway, it’s a way rad story, Jesse winked, picked up his book, and headed for his seat.

The classroom filled with students for Drake’s first period World Literature course.

3   

First period trudged along. Few students were inspired by the current reading, Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. There were numerous complaints and suggestions.

It like, moves too slow, Mr. Simo.

And it’s like, totally hard to read.

It’s way boring.

So boring.

This book’s a loser.

This book is soo nowhere.

Totally nowhere.

This book’s like, a way big loser.

Yeah. Let’s read like, something else.

Totally, let’s like, watch a video.

Porno.

Yeah. Or else, let’s like, go to the computer lab.

Totally. Go online.

Drake maneuvered between the comments and tried to ignite some discussions about the symbolism and imagery within the novel.

Hey, Mr. Simo, a girl with short, black and blonde hair and a pierced nose septum volunteered. Like, you know, my brother goes to Pedro State and all, and like, he said he thinks this book is totally racist. Like, he said his professor, like, finds this book totally biased against minorities, she giggled. And like, I think Conrad’s like, on drugs or something.

Yeah, he’s a real stoner, someone else volunteered.

"Yo, let’s like, watch Apocalypse Now."

That’s a cool flick.

Totally.

Drake cleared his throat. Thanks for the insight, Melanie. I’m not sure Conrad was a stoner, but he certainly moves slowly, Drake paused and looked around the room. Keep reading. We have a test next week.

If there was either a sex scandal brewing, as Sam Wilton suggested, or some repercussions from a crazy weekend party, as Jesse hinted, they weren’t immediately apparent amid the flow of the first three morning periods.

That changed in fourth period.

This class, another World Literature section, had a healthy percentage of Asian and Latino students, and reflected California’s changing demographics. The class also moved somewhat slower than the first period, hadn’t yet started Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, and was still examining Shakespeare’s sonnets.

During a discussion of Shakespeare’s Sonnet CXIX, which dealt with unrequited love, a female student, Tara Chancey, rose quickly and left the room in tears.

Tara, Drake called after her. Tara, what’s the problem?

She halted outside the door and wiped her eyes. Like, I’ll be right back Mr. Simo, she disappeared from sight.

Drake watched her go and then looked around the class. Does anybody know what’s going on?

There were some shrugs, yawns, and blank stares. Somebody sneezed. It smelled like somebody else had farted.

I think she’s like, tweaked-out about something, Mr. Simo, Zeb volunteered. Zeb was a senior with pink and blue hair and a pierced eyebrow. He had been accepted to Princeton.

Tweaked about what, Zeb?

I don’t know, Zeb shrugged. Just like, you know, some stuff.

Uh, maybe like, she doesn’t like this uh, Shakespeare sonnet, somebody else offered.

That brought some chuckles.

Yeah, like, maybe she just thinks Shakespeare is way lame or something.

Totally. Like, who can even like, understand the dude? Ya know, like, he doesn’t even uh, talk completely in English or anything.

"Hey, like, wasn’t there a group on MTV named Shakespeare’s Sonnets?"

No way, dude. That’s a totally weak name.

Yo, that’s a sucky name.

Yeah, like, think about it. Who wants to like, be called Shakespeare?

MTV’s soo junior high.

That’s soo totally true.

Anyway, the sonnets are like, way weak.

Totally weak.

You know, I heard that like, Shakespeare never existed. Is that true, Mr. Simo?

Well, there’s a bit of—

The bell for lunch rang, the questions ceased abruptly, and there was a scramble for the door.

Everybody remember the assignment on the board, Drake pointed with both arms. "We start Heart of Darkness next week."

Yeah, right. Later, Mr. Simo.

Drake noticed that Tara’s books and backpack were still on her desk. He read the current issue of Bicycling magazine, and waited to see if she would return. She was back in a few minutes with dry eyes. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair was freshly combed.

Is everything all right, Tara?

Sure, like, no problem, Mr. Simo. You know, just some uh, personal stuff.

Are you sure?

Uh, yeah, Tara hesitated a moment. Yeah, really. It’s o.k., Mr. Simo, like really, she threw her backpack over her shoulder. I just like, wish that somebody would like, quit being an asshole.

Drake nodded.

She stopped in the doorway. The morning fog had burned off. Sunlight reflected briefly off the silver stud in her nose.

And like, some other people just like, spend way too much time on their fuckin’ computers, she adjusted her backpack. Excuse my language. Like, I gotta go. See ya. She was off with a wave.

Drake looked at the empty doorway. He wondered who should quit being an asshole, and how computers were connected with Shakespeare’s sonnets.

He glanced at the clock, then at the stack of uncorrected papers that formed a mini-mountain on his desk, and sighed. Pedro Beach High only allotted thirty minutes for lunch; it prevented students from driving too far away, but it was barely enough time to go to the bathroom and wash off the morning’s grit and grime and stress. Eating was a crammed affair.

He organized his notes for the afternoon classes, gathered his attendance sheets, and walked toward the faculty lounge.

Groups of students congregated around the clusters of one-story buildings that constituted Pedro Beach High. Patches of grass were surrounded by the quadrangles of classrooms. It was an attractive architectural design until it rained. Then the patches of grass became seas of mud due to inadequate drainage. During the past winter, which had been an exceptionally rainy, record-setting El Nino winter, mini-lakes had formed in front of some of the classrooms. At one point in February, Jesse and some of his friends had paddled their surfboards around the campus.

There was also a large, open quadrangle outside the school cafeteria with rows of benches and a stage at one end. This area was known as The Pit by students because, well, because it usually resembled a trash-strewn pit. It drifted in and out of vogue with students as the place to see or be seen at lunchtime. Currently, the grassy quads between classrooms seemed to be more fashionable.

Drake quickly scanned these areas as he traced a circuitous path to the teachers’ lounge. Tara was nowhere to be found. He stopped to listen to the music being pumped through The Pit by the lunchtime disc jockeys. It sounded like Kid Rock. No, like—

Hey Drake, what’re you daydreaming about?

Drake looked up and saw John Leonard approaching.

I called you twice.

Oh. Sorry, John. I was looking for a student.

To heck with the student. Did you hear the latest Clinton joke?

No, John, I haven’t heard the latest Clinton joke, Drake grinned. He studied John’s receding hairline and prominent bald spot.

John was an aging surfer who had taught at Pedro Beach High for over twenty-five years. He also was another member of the English department. His classroom was decorated with centerfold pictures from surfing magazines. Month after month, year after year, decade after decade, both he and his students added layers to every square inch of the walls and ceiling. Someday, when John retired, the colorful photos would be peeled off like papered sediment and—like an archaeological excavation—the room’s original paint would see the light of day.

Speaking of light, John regularly wore gaudy Hawaiian shirts. Weather permitting, he complemented them with khaki shorts and flip-flop sandals.

And I don’t know if I want to hear it, Drake shielded his eyes with his hand. I really don’t care about the president’s personal life, John.

Yeah, yeah. C’mon Drake, this is a good one.

No, forget it, Drake dropped his hand and started to turn. He stopped. Wait a minute. What’s this sex scandal thing that Sam mentioned?

You haven’t heard? John grinned. The sun reflected off his bald spot.

No.

Well, I’m not clear on all the details, but I think it has something to do with the computer lab or something.

They moved away from The Pit as the music changed from Kid Rock to the Beatles’ Day In the Life.

Hey, I recognize that, John stopped and listened a moment.

Anyway, I don’t know shit about computers and digital technology. I only learn what the school tells me. Hell, I hate the goddamn things.

So did Drake. Computers. Computers. Something pinged at his memory.

They arrived at the faculty lounge.

Drake’s bicycle still was tucked safely in the corner by the soda machine.

The room also contained two couches, several cushioned chairs, a dozen folding chairs, a coffee table, a microwave, a coffee machine, and a large, rectangular table that served as the main dining area. Folding chairs surrounded the table and were currently occupied by a number of Pedro Beach High teachers.

There were some nods of acknowledgement as Drake and Leonard entered. Drake scanned the room. The lounge wasn’t utilized by all PBH’s staff; however, there were the regulars who seemed to be there as consistently as they were at their first period classes.

Jack Dudley—the English Department’s well-dressed senior faculty member with thirty-eight years of experience—sat at the table’s head. He claimed the same seat each day throughout the year, and his wardrobe appeared to be both vast and well-planned. Today it was a sleeveless sweater with a bowtie.

Hey, Drake, Jack waved. How you doing?

Pretty good.

Come on over and sit down, Jack motioned to the side.

Drake pushed an unoccupied chair to the table.

Jack swiveled toward him, So tell me, how’s this first year of teaching been?

Not bad, not bad. You know, lot’s of paperwork. A lot of long days, Drake shrugged. Jack had asked him the exact same question repeatedly throughout the year. once, Jack even had forgotten that Drake was in the English Department, and asked how Drake’s math classes were going.

I don’t know how you’ve stuck it out so long, Jack.

Well, I don’t really know, Jack turned his head at an angle because he was losing hearing in one ear. You know, it goes by so darn fast. But shoot, I can’t complain.

Jack was always willing to help with advice or lesson plans. He was the consummate teacher in many ways and stayed abreast of the constantly shifting tides of educational doctrine. Unlike Leonard, Jack Dudley was a firm believer in computer education and computer literacy.

Just don’t get behind with your grading, Drake. Say, you know, if you want another pc for your classroom, let me know. I have an extra in my storage closet. It’ll really help you when the school gets all the classrooms digitized next year.

I’ll think about it and let you know. Thanks for the offer, Dudley had also made this offer a half-dozen times since Easter. Drake constantly reminded him both that he didn’t have a contract offer yet for next year, and that he never touched the computer already in 202-W

Well, you really should get another pc in that room, Drake. You have to stay up-to-date with all these changes. Network, Jack nodded and turned back to the table.

Drake leaned back. Up to date. Although Jack was very attuned to the computer age, he was surprisingly oblivious to the world around him. Drake had once asked him about the spate of development that was currently engulfing Pedro Beach and its surroundings.

Jack had merely shrugged. Growth? I haven’t noticed too much change. It isn’t very different than it’s always been. I just drive here on the freeway and go home the same way.

In reality, Pedro Beach had been swamped by both residential and commercial developments. In the last few years, decades-old ranches and orchards had been cleared; untouched beachfronts had been gobbled up by huge real estate conglomerates; roads that were once controlled by STOP signs were now dominated by traffic signals. In fact, the nearby freeway overpass had recently undergone a twelve million dollar renovation to accommodate the increased traffic.

Drake focussed again on the immediate surroundings.

The general topic had shifted to golf. Most of the faculty were devoted players. They initially had applauded the course, Mountain View, that had been constructed across the street from PBH in a former