The schedule took some getting used to; Jones had a little trouble ending her lessons before the bell, but the students here were accommodating and on the whole, much nicer than her previous ones. She glanced through the door and around the moving bodies to catch a glimpse of Nathan, deep in discussion with two slightly sullen looking students.
He finished with them, sending the pair out into the hall, then looked both ways before crossing the traffic to stand at her doorway. "Getting the hang of it, I see."
"I will, eventually," Jones sighed. "Even though the bells—"
At that precise moment, the one over her doorway rang with bone-jarring shrillness and Jones recoiled, nearly jumping in surprise. Nathan was biting back a laugh; he didn't say anything, but the mirth in his eyes was apparent.
"—Still make you flinch, yeah," he finished with a straight face. "I see."
"Stop being a wise-ass," Jones muttered under her breath. "They're loud enough to chip enamel, in case you hadn't noticed."
"On a scale of decibels they're pretty potent, yeah, but it's a necessary evil when most of the students are going deaf from over-Ipod use," Nathan pointed out. "Have you gotten your dance assignment yet?"
Jones looked blank; Nathan shrugged and expounded. "Homecoming. Chaperone duty is mandatory, but we take shifts. I was just curious what you'd gotten."
"A dance?" Jones drew back a moment, feeling a sense of panic. "You're kidding."
"No, it's pretty straightforward. Wear a nice outfit; cruise around to stop our kids from swapping too many bodily fluids or ingesting any illegal substances. Think of it as your chance to be the Spoilsport Police," Nathan murmured. He was watching her carefully, and Jones tried not to blush.
"What if they won't listen to me?"
"You have the advantage of taking names and calling for backup, Jones. Part of what makes us the grown-ups, remember?"
"Sorry, sorry," Jones muttered, rubbing her eyes for a moment. "Still getting used to that concept. Is there a posting somewhere?"
"Email, but I think there's a copy over the mailboxes," Nathan gestured. "We can go check."
She felt self-conscious walking beside him in the nearly empty hallway down towards the main office. A few tardy students were bustling around, but when they stepped into the office, only Melanie was there, typing at a furious rate.
"Principal Sedgwick would like to see you in his office, Miss Jones," Melanie announced without looking up, "and your latest issue of History Quarterly is in, Mr. Gardener."
"Terrific," she hear Nathan murmur as she turned towards Sedgwick's door.
He was inside at his desk, scowling over something on his blotter and barely looked up to acknowledge her. "Miss Jones. Just checking in and seeing how you're getting along. Classes all right?"
She made no move to sit down, and quickly assessed the man's mood: frustrated and slightly tense—he was feeling nosy again.
"My classes are fine, thank you. I'm enjoying my semester," she countered, wondering where the conversation was going.
It didn't take long; Sedgwick wasn't the sort for subtlety. "I'm still waiting for your background check files from your previous employer, Miss Jones. I'm afraid HR is getting antsy, and they're putting the pressure on me."
"Ah," Jones murmured. "Did they call the number I provided?"
"They're waiting for physical files," Sedgwick sidestepped with bureaucratic smoothness. "I'm afraid they can't take your information over the phone, you know."
"I see," said Jones, who didn't. She gave a little shrug and tried to relax. "Well, I can call myself and light a fire under them; get things expedited. That should help."
"Yep," Sedgwick nodded, but Jones noted his eyes were on her chest. "Please do that. In the meantime, are we going to continue with this little subterfuge about your first name, or lack of one?"
"There are precedents in the district, Mr. Sedgwick, and the placeholder 'Just' serves perfectly well as we both know," Jones pointed out patiently. "Is that all? I really need to get back and work on some student quizzes---"
"The dance," Sedgwick grumbled. "You are expected to chaperone of course, and I trust you to wear something . . . appropriate and conservative for the occasion?"
Jones gave a curt nod; her current wardrobe consisted of jeans—often paint-spattered—and an eclectic assortment of shirts ranging from pullovers to peasant blouses, depending on the weather. It was expected that an Art teacher would be quirky, and Jones didn't mind the casual wear at all, since it was a nice change from her dark suit and ID pass days.
"Yes sir, I do own a dress," she told Sedgwick, and waited for his eyes to shift upwards to meet hers. They did, finally.
"Good. Remember, the key word is conservative," he intoned. "Maturity is our watchword."
"I'll remember that," Jones promised, and left, feeling glad to escape his scrutiny. She slipped out past Melanie and made her way to the mailboxes, where Nathan leaned against the wall, engrossed in his magazine.
"Maturity is our watchword," she told him with a straight face.
Nathan looked up over the rim of his glasses. "It is? Why don't I ever get these memos?"
"You're out of the loop," Jones murmured. "You need to sit in Curtis Sedgwick's office and have him check out your jahoobies while listening to tripe about your personnel file first."
"Jesus," Nathan muttered, tucking the magazine under his arm. "So a big dose of passive aggressive sexual harassment along with an ass-chewing is the requirement? I think I'll pass. And for the record, I never abused power that way when the big comfy chair was mine."
Jones nodded, fishing into her mailbox for the few letters there. "You wouldn't," she agreed, "you're . . . classier. So where's this schedule thing?"
"There," Nathan pointed with his chin, a little pink from her compliment. "We're with the ten PM team, along with Newt and Celia Barstow in Special Ed. By the time we're on, most of our predictable miscreants will be just beginning to attempt their mayhem. I'll bring my Maglite; they hate that thing."
"I could bring one too; we could play Mulder and Scully," Jones replied with a snicker.
"Let's let the aliens abduct Curtis," Nathan assured her. "I can't think of a more deserving candidate for an anal probe."
That made her laugh aloud, and when they stepped back into the hallway, Jones grinned. "Will there be many miscreants?"
"The usual suspects," Nathan sighed. "Count on a few minor drug incidents, some not-so-subtle boozing, and assorted hook-ups ranging from shifted bras all the way to homerun central. Pretty typical for Homecoming, really."
"Sounds sordid," Jones admitted. "I can't wait."
"Need a ride?" Nathan asked her.
*** *** ***
He couldn't quite figure out why he'd asked, except it probably had something to do with Sedgwick's idiocy, and the fact that Jones was forced to put up with the added hassle of working for the bastard.
Actually, that was a load of BS and he knew it.
Intuitively, Nathan understood that his offer to Jones stemmed more from the quick pangs of testosterone-fueled interest that flared through him whenever he looked at her than any nobility on his part. It annoyed him that now was neither the time nor place to deal with a mid-life attack of horniness, but she'd started it with her original lie.
Or potential truth.
Whichever it was. All Nathan knew now was that whenever he happened to glance out his classroom door and across the hall, he had a good chance of seeing Jones dancing around, lecturing on Mesopotamian art, or explaining the dynamics of color composition. If he was truly lucky—and it had happened a few times—she might either stretch up and reveal her trim stomach under a slightly too short shirt, or, even more salaciously, drop something and retrieve it.
God, the first time she'd bent over, presenting the view of her shapely ass neatly outlined in snug denim, a gorgeous package just begging to be pinched, Nathan had fallen right over out of his tipped chair, much to the concern and amusement of his second period World History class.
Their backs were to the open door, so none of them had seen what had thrilled him, but a few of the older students probably suspected, given their grins. He'd worked a bit harder to keep his attention on the Byzantine Empire and less on going caveman all over the unsuspecting blonde across the way.
Most of the time it seemed to be working, but there were slip-ups now and then—
Like offering her ride to the dance.
She didn't seem to be afraid of him though, and nodded. "Sure. Quarter to ten, then?"
"Um, sure," Nathan shot back, a quick thrill running through him. "Where do you live?"
As if he didn't know.
"It's out on Bochner Road, just past the cemetery. 1709, the big green house," Jones told him in an off-hand way. "I appreciate it; thanks."
"No problem, Nathan assured her. "You might want to work on your 'not amused' face between then and now. The kids expect it, and I'd hate to have you let them down."
Jones made the attempt, glaring at Nathan, who studied it carefully, and then shook his head. "Nope. Not stern enough. Try to look like you just caught someone putting a mustache on the Mona Lisa," he suggested.
"If they added eyebrows I'd approve," Jones sighed. "I'll keep practicing. And I'll try to get something appropriately conservative for tonight."
Nathan nodded, although he wanted to tell her not to bother; she certainly wore nothing conservative when he thought about her. Fantasized was closer to the truth, but at least he knew that was normal.
It had been a long time since normal, Nathan admitted to himself, and it felt good. It felt right to harbor lustful thoughts again even if they never panned out.
He made a show of checking his watch. "Okay, Quarter to ten, place by the cemetery, conservative. Am I forgetting anything?"
"What's the watchword?" Jones impishly demanded, breaking away from him to head out the door. Nathan watched her go, his mouth twisted in a bemused smirk.
"Jones," he murmured to himself.
*** *** ***
Jones knew what to wear. She chose the grey tube dress and the jacket, figuring both the colors and the cut would give her that sought-out air of respectability without hampering her style *too* much. In the bathroom she debated putting her hair up and decided against it—the effort wouldn't last anyway, and she wanted to be comfortable.
The thought of Nathan made her uncomfortable, but in a mixed sort of way. Jones checked the medicine cabinet to make sure she'd taken her medication, and then closed it again and looked in the mirror at herself, feeling a tiny prickle of anxiety along with a flush of anticipation.
God, she hadn't been out in the dark in ages, not since the early winter nights last year. Not that it was going to be difficult, really—she had a flashlight, and the dance was sure to be well-lit, and there would be lots of other people around, so it was going to be fine. Her stomach tried to argue the point, but Jones scowled, and made herself drink a big glass of water.
She wandered back out to the living room and looked it over, then paced a bit, trying not to let her nervousness show; after all this was an official school duty, not anything else. Not a date of course, even though this was after hours and she was dressed nicely. Jones shot a glance towards the front windows and the sweep of headlights blinded her for a second.
Deliberately, she waited, NOT racing for the front door, and an involuntary case of the giggles threatened to spill out, so she bit her lip to calm down. By the time the doorbell rang, Jones had herself composed, and went to open it.
"Hi, is this where Dana Scully lives?" Nathan asked, holding up a Mag Lite almost large enough to qualify as a baseball bat. Jones giggled, waving him inside. He looked nice, in a silver tie with dark shirt and suit.
"You should be waving that in front of a movie theater marquee," she observed. "Do you need a permit for it?"
"I'm outside the law," Nathan replied. "I believe in students experiencing the full interrogation experience tonight."
"They may need sunscreen," Jones agreed. "Let me get my purse."
She climbed into the passenger seat before Nathan could get the door for her, but Jones knew he'd intended to, and that little courtesy touched her. It was a clean car, and the scent of coffee lingered in it.
"Nice neighborhood," Nathan pulled out of the driveway carefully. "I'm guessing it's . . . quiet."
"Gated, too," Jones pointed out, and couldn't help giggling. She noted Nathan grinning at that.
"I'm sure you don't get many door-to-door people either. At least, I hope not."
"Not too many," Jones replied. "I think it's been a while since the house was rented, but I don't mind. The fireplace works, and I've got a patio with good light for painting."
"Oils, right?"
And they were off. Jones couldn't help herself; Nathan asked all the right questions and actually seemed interested in the subject. It was such a far cry from her last evening out with a man, and by the time they pulled into the parking lot of Western Summit, she felt slightly foolish for having dominated the conversation.
"Um, sorry about that," she apologized, feeling the heat in her face. The streetlights bathed the parking lot in a pinkish tone, but the interior of the car was dim. Next to her, Nathan shook his head.
"Are you kidding? It's a genuine thrill to have a real conversation about a topic that matters. And I'd love to see your work. Seriously."
"Right," she muttered, but smirked all the same. "Maybe someday."
Nathan looked as if he wanted to press the point, but Jones slid out of the car and looked towards the gym as she straightened her jacket. Music was blaring, and little groups of students were outside the main doors, chatting and laughing, looking slightly rumpled in their finery.
As she and Nathan approached the doors, a few called out greetings to them. Nathan nodded, slipping into that slightly more formal mode.
"Bivens, Miss Culliver, Wachowski," he murmured, already giving them the gimlet eye. Jones watched the three he named nod back quietly, their rowdiness momentarily abated. She followed behind Nathan, and gave a nod to the students, then turned her attention on the gym as she passed through the double doors.
The dance committee and the caterers had done a marvelous job in transforming Western Summit's gymnasium into a spangled Under the Sea wonderland of blue and green drapes, with fish and stars as a theme all throughout. The music was loud, but that was expected, and the rumbly crush of dancers at the far end made the wooden floor creak a bit.
"Homo Semi-Sapiens," Nathan muttered into her ear. "Welcome to the Jungle."
That was precisely the song playing, and Jones snickered. Nathan pointed to one corner where a few teachers were standing and they went over, exchanging greetings with the others.
"Wow, in an actual tie—I hope we get this moment for posterity," Nathan murmured to Newt, who looked uncomfortable as he tugged on it.
"Pointless crap. I understand the purpose of a shirt and pants and shoes, but this damned thing--" Newt complained. "Nothing more than an over-priced noose."
"They give women something to grab and pull you in closer," Celia volunteered, grinning. "Don't you watch the movies?"
"That only happens in chick flicks," Newt argued. "In guy movies, the first thing the hero does is ditch the tie."
Both Jones and Celia looked at Nathan, who nodded wryly. "The man speaks the truth, ladies. Your basic action flick has no room for neckties."
"I saw this movie once, with a man and a woman," Jones murmured. "And they used the necktie for something very different. Of course, that was the only clothing they had---"
She managed this with a straight and overly-innocent expression, but Celia broke into crow-like guffaws, her grey dreadlocks shaking as she did so. Even Newt was grinning, and Jones didn't dare look at Nathan for a moment.
"O-kay, maybe there is a use for a necktie," Newt conceded with a grin. "And maybe you'd better give me the title of that film—Just for reference, you know."
"It had subtitles," Jones smiled.
Still chuckling, Celia drew herself up and shot a look around the dance floor. "Time to make a circuit, folks. Nate, you and I should take the bathrooms; Newt, you and Jones see what's going on in the parking lot, okay?"
Reluctantly, Jones followed Newt out to the parking lot again, shivering a bit at the shadows. Newt shot her a sidelong glance. "Still getting grief from Sedgwick about your name?"
"Y-yeah. I think he's getting resigned to it though. Not really broad-minded, is he?"
"The man still thinks Communism is a threat," Newt growled. "That and fluorination in drinking water. Oh my, I think I see a Toyota that's a-rocking---"
Striding over, Newt moved to pound on the roof of the car, leaving Jones to watch with distracted amusement from under the safety of the street light.