Lisa Smith - Unschooled

About the Author

Lisa spent twelve years as aNYC private school teacher. Her Live You With Lisa brand isdesigned to help people share their truths.

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Dedication

I dedicate this book to mysister, my world.

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Lisa Smith

Unschooled

Copyright Lisa Smith(2018)

All rights reserved. No partof this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmittedin any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, orother electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior writtenpermission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotationsembodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial usespermitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to thepublisher

Any person who commits anyunauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable tocriminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

OrderingInformation:

Quantity sales: specialdiscounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations,associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at theaddress below.

PublishersCataloguing-in-Publication data

Smith, Lisa

Unschooled

ISBN 9781641823081(Paperback)

ISBN 9781641823098(Hardback)

ISBN 9781641823104(E-Book)

The main category of thebook Biography & True Stories

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published(2018)

Austin Macauley PublishersLLC.

40 Wall Street, 28thFloor

New York, NY10005

USA

mail-usa@austinmacauley.com

+1 (646) 5125767

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Acknowledgments

I would like to thank thefollowing for making this book possible: God, my mother and father,my sister and brother-in- law, my brother-in-laws mother andfather, my nieces and nephew, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles,my cousins and my loyal friends. You lighten my life. Thank you tomy editors, John Hanc, Anna Marrian, Christina Bryza, CatherineMartin and Alexandra Berkley, for shaping this project.

To all my teachers and toevery one of my studentsI learned everything through you. To everyperson whom Ive ever crossed paths with, youve left an imprint onmy soul.

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Table of Contents

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PrefaceModel Teacher

I spread out my stash ontothe smudgy mirror on top of my kitchen counter. Trying to stand upstraight in spiky heels, my legs shook with excitement as I crushedup the rock. Bending down, I pushed aside the homework assignmentsI planned to grade along with my long, brown hair and snorted threehuge lines with a decrepit straw that was tucked in my back pocketfrom the weekend before. Homework would get done on the subwaybefore school. As soon as the cocaine hit my stomach, I darted tothe bathroom and vomited twice. I flushed the toilet, wiped thespit from my chin and brushed my teeth, eyes already bugging jawclenching, and heart racing. I only meant to have one line butthree seemed better.

As I stood in front of mysixth-grade class earlier that day, physically I was there, but mymind had already left the building. Flipping through mylessonpersuasive writingI mapped out my evening, a familiarroutine.

At 4 p.m., Id call mydrug dealer, who would deliver to my downtown apartment. Id gethigh by myself, catch up with my girlfriends and hit the clubs. Imight find a sexy girl to make out with on the dance floor, andlater pick up a hot guyanother strangerand wind up at his housefucking and partying till sunrise.

As I looked at my studentsthat afternoon I paused to really look at themget out of myspinning head. Bright-eyed and smiling, they were so innocent andcurious, unaware of what lurked behind the lady in the plaidknee-length skirt and pink sweater. Despite my insatiablecompulsion to rage, being in the presence of these sweetadolescents created a calming and comforting atmosphere, a safesanctuary for me.

I felt reassured knowingthat their futures stretched unsullied in front of them, full ofpossibility. Id flushed that option long ago when I first gotdrunk. I was exactly their age. Twelve.

I already knew that thefollowing day Id feel like I had been run over. The students wouldbe loud and rambunctious, the overhead lights in the classroomalarmingly bright, the nausea in my stomach rising. On days likethese, lessons felt like they dragged and dragged. I just had tohang on till 3:15 dismissal. I knew it because this morning hadbegun the same way.

At the end of that night Iwent home alone. I flung off my strappy black heels and tossed mypurse on the couch. I slipped off my black jeans, push-up bra andlacy black tankblack, a color that made me feel both powerful andinvisible. Then I ran to the bathroom and threw up all over mynewly renovated white tiled floor. I got down on my knees, liftedthe toilet bowl seat, and continued to vomit.

Chest exploding withangst, I drank the last sip of beer, inhaled the final pinch ofmarijuana and snorted the remnants of cocaine until the supply wasdry. I vomited againthe coke was potent. My body convulsed as bileheaved out of my mouth. I hadnt eaten since lunch, there were onlydrugs fueling my system.

After tossing and turningall night with barely a wink of sleep, the alarm clock signaledthat it was time for me to face the school dayat one of the mostprestigious Upper West Side schools in

New York City, noless.

I started sweating justthinking about managing the day ahead. And I was overcome by angstthinking of the night, and nights, I was racking upchaos andconflict, seemingly irreconcilable.

Dizzy and disoriented, Igot up and scrambled around looking for weed to roll into mycigarette, but it had run out. I stepped into my bathtub, openedthe tiny window, and lit a Parliament Light before I had to washthe high away. Worried that my nosy neighbor across the hall wouldsmell the smoke, I hung halfway out of the window.

After I stepped out of theshower, I looked in the mirror. Five- foot seven, skinny and frail,wiped clean of energy, my face was reflected, but there was nothingbehind it. On my body, there were bruises all over from falling,most of which I never remembered.

I dried myself off andwalked to my closet. I noticed the slinky outfit Id worn the othernight balled up in the corner, like a piece of trash. Id worn iton the evening of the regrettable threesome.

Even though I was oftenblacked out, I still remembered most of it.

Two men had passed me backand forth on top of a stained mattress like a toy in between bumpsand cigarettes. They stuck themselves deep inside me,double-teaming my body parts like I was a whore, a powerfulposition I loved, yet hated myself for it. They pinned me down andthrew me in whatever position suited their animalistic desires. Ilay like a ragdoll, letting them work me over. I felt like aprostitute but couldnt resist the rush of being desired. Still, inthe light of day I hated myself for it. I left the strangersapartment covered in greasy sweat, semen and spit and went home toget ready for school.

I put on make up todisguise my blotchy face and the dark circles under my eyes. Icurled my hair into soft waves and suited up in my favorite pinksweater, worn each time it was picture day. Great, another year ofbeing hungover in my faculty ID picture. I took a deep breath. If Icouldve helped it, Id never exhale.

I was the modelteacher.

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Chapter 1Day One

Fall 2001

It was a brilliantSeptember day, still warm but clear and crisp. It felt like thefirst day of my young adult life. I walked towards the buildingthat would become my home for the next twelve years filled withnerves and excitement. The building that rose before me was like agothic palace with turrets and enormous pillars, as spectacular asmy accomplishment.

Finally, here I was, ateacher on the steps of one of the top institutions. Home tochildren of renowned actors, reporters, lawyersscions of thepowerful elite. And I was to be their guide.