They exited this building and walked outside again, crossing a path into what was an altogether newly constructed building. New tile glistened under their feet. White paint coated the walls evenly and cleanly. The smell of freshly milled and finished wood wafted toward them from the gymnasium.
The students—the grimy, worn-down students—took their places, looking about casually and carelessly at their new surroundings, surroundings which seemed less suited to them than the grimy, worn-down, unrenovated building they had just left.
After the student body had, for the most part, gathered and taken their places in the bleachers, the speaker for the assembly stepped forward. He was a thick-set, middle-aged man with a potbelly and a strong double chin and was clad in the uniform of a police officer. The senior class president, Hailey Rowell, stepped forward with the microphone and called the students to attention.
“Good morning,” she shouted, instinctively competing with the conversations even though her voice was amplified through the PA system. A whine of feedback reverberated through the rafters. The conversational murmur subsided, but did not die. “Good morning, everybody. Can we quiet down, please?” Hailey paced authoritatively around the gym floor. The students brought their murmur to a hush in response.
“All right, thank you,” she said. “Well, welcome to the annual drug and alcohol awareness assembly. We have with us Dr. Stuart Miller to talk with you all today. He has served our county as a medical examiner and has also worked for the coroner’s office. Now he is an investigator for the sheriff. He is also a proud parent of one of your fellow Wildcats, Brooke Miller. But before we start, let’s all observe a moment of silence for the tragedy that happened in Sacramento yesterday.”
As Hailey had taken the floor, the students had still been murmuring amongst themselves, but at her request, their conversations died out completely.
There had been a school shooting in Sacramento. From what Cathy had tried to intuit of her students that morning, it hadn’t seemed to affect them much; they had seemed the same. And right now, during the moment of silence, she could not tell whether the silence was truly respectful or merely apathetic. Mrs. Overlee was conscious of the gun in Dr. Miller’s holster and was not sure how she felt about it, or how she should have felt.
“Thank you,” Hailey said. “Now, let’s have a round of applause for our speaker, Dr. Miller.” She clapped her free hand against the hand that was holding the microphone, sending a loud series of pops through the amplification system in the gym. The gathered students followed suit and clapped as Dr. Miller took the microphone.
In a tone that was firm and business-like, he spoke articulately about his work and relayed his knowledge about drugs and alcohol in a way that was easily understandable but not condescending. He described the chemical properties of certain drugs and explained the effects they had, especially focusing on the toll each exacted on the human body when used long-term. As he continued to speak, he seemed to grow more comfortable; his tone became less formal and more direct.
“So, let’s face it,” he said, toward the end of his speech. “You use any of these drugs, even the ones that are ‘not that bad’—which, trust me, they are all ‘that bad’—you lose control of yourself, you wind up addicted, you end up losing your teeth, your lungs, your friends… and worst of all, your own life. If it’s not the drug that kills you, it might be your own vomit when you get too wasted to know up from down, a house fire when you got lazy and dropped your blunt on the floor. There’s any number of ways that a drug can kill you other than the actual drug itself. The drug wants you dead and it doesn’t care how it does it. The point is, you will die. You will die, you will die, you will die. And for what? What did you leave behind? You will have left behind a legacy—a legacy of loss. A legacy of bad decisions, a legacy of disappointments, a legacy of other people taking care of you because you won’t be able to take care of yourself, and finally, a legacy of life lost for no good reason at all.
“And you will lose the most important thing of all: yourself. You will lose your chance at truly finding yourself, and being yourself in the most fulfilling way. You will lose your chance at following your passions and achieving your dreams. The future is yours, if you make the right decisions. You’re in control. It’s up to you.”
The finality of his cadence prompted applause.
“Any questions?” Dr. Miller asked once the applause had died down.
The students murmured quietly, and before long, a hand went up.
“Yes,” Dr. Miller said, holding the microphone out to the distant bleacher although there was no hope of the microphone picking up the student’s voice.
“How long have you been a medical examiner?”
“Fifteen years, and I’ve performed more autopsies than I can even count at this point. It’s sad. It’s real sad.”
Another question.
“Yes.”
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen?”
There was some sniggering from the crowd, but Dr. Miller indulged the question.
“Worst thing I ever saw—well, other than families being torn apart, the havoc wrought on kids and relationships… Once I had to examine a man whose arm had rotted off because he had done so much heroin. It was still attached to him, but it had gotten so bad that the whole arm was dead—all black and rotten. It was still attached to him. We had to take it off. That’s probably the most memorable thing I’ve seen. So that’s an example to you of how bad things can actually get. His arm was dead.”
Another question.
“Yes.”
“What is the most dangerous drug? Or, I mean, what’s the worst drug in your opinion?”
“The worst drug? Marijuana.”
A murmuring wave of mild incredulity swept through the bleachers.
“Well, let’s face it,” Dr. Miller continued. “Like I said, sometimes the drug itself won’t kill you, and as far as that goes, it’s not as likely that marijuana itself will kill you as it is that some other drug would, like cocaine or heroin. But nobody wakes up after never having done any drug ever and says, ‘I think I’ll try heroin today.’ No. I say marijuana is the most dangerous because it affects your judgement, and when you lose your judgement, you start making other stupid decisions that will kill you—and also because it’s most people’s gateway drug, and it’s real easy to get hooked on needing to find a bigger, better fix after you start to get bored.”
Another hand.
“Yes.”
“My whole family smokes marijuana and they’re fine. They’re normal.”
More tense sniggers rippled through the crowd. Dr. Miller remained serious.
“Trust me, they’re not fine. They’re not normal. They may be normal to you. But trust me, they’re not normal. Normal is relative, like everything. It all depends on your context. You might look at them and think, ‘Hey, that’s normal.’ But I might look at them and think, ‘Whoa, there is something definitely wrong here!’ Maybe your family’s normal isn’t what you should be shooting for. It might be that what’s ‘normal’ for your family might actually be something that holds you back. Don’t give up on the chance to really achieve your dreams. Don’t give up on the opportunity to really be yourself—without drugs.”
By this time, the noise in the bleachers had increased considerably, students talking freely with one another at a conversational volume. Hailey took the microphone back. “Thank you, Dr. Miller. That’s all the time we have. It’s time to get to your third period class! Have a great day, Wildcats!”
As the students filed out, Cathy heard a conversation between two students who were walking behind her.
“Weed is not the most dangerous drug,” a boy said.
“Clearly not,” said a second. “But,” he added sarcastically, “you won’t achieve your dreams if you smoke weed? What? I know successful people smoke weed.”
“What if my dream is just to smoke a lot of weed? What if that’s my dream? What if my dream
is to die from smoking weed because all I want to do is smoke weed and die happy?”
They laughed. Cathy was disgusted. She turned around to face them and stopped them abruptly. She did not recognize them; at least, she had not had them in class before. They looked at her, stunned, caught.
“Boys,” she said curtly. “You know that your life is important—you are important. You have one life to live, so make sure you live it right—live the way you will want to have lived. Don’t waste it!”
The boys nodded and muttered some words that indicated assent. Somewhat satisfied, Mrs. Overlee directed them to go to class.
#
The school was located just outside the heart of a small northwest town, surrounded by woods. The close quarters of the school belied the expanse and the sparseness of the area that it served. Cathy worked out of a portable at one end of the main grounds of the school. The original building was immediately next to her portable. Beyond that were the new, completed gymnasium, auditorium, and office spaces. In front of all of these was the new construction, which was taking place in what used to be the parking lot. In the meantime, teachers parked on what used to be a field immediately in front of the school. This added to the already cramped feeling lent by the overloaded classrooms and tight hallways.
Third period was Cathy’s planning period. Before returning to her classroom, she went to the workroom that adjoined the main office in the finished new construction. From her mailbox, she retrieved some copies that had been made by her teacher assistant. They were half-sheet rubrics, meant to be cut in order to save paper. The rubrics were not really necessary since she had already given the students their assignment and requirements, and the project was due at the end of the school year and would not be returned to them. But she had had the copies made anyway.
The workroom’s paper cutter was a relic from the 70s, when the original school had been constructed. The blade was made of heavy metal, probably iron. It had recently been sharpened after decades of continuous use had worn the blade dull. Now it cut cleanly through thick stacks. There was some worry that the sharpness of the blade posed a hazard—one teacher had already cut her finger on it—but the administration did not take this seriously.
She placed the stack on the board, aligned it, and brought down the weighty blade with a resounding ka-chunk!
She collected the cut papers in her hand and left the office. All of the students were in class and the hallways were quiet. If she had not been able to peer into the windows to confirm that classes were in session, she might have thought that the school was empty. She returned to her classroom, opened the door, and, to her great surprise, found it already occupied by a student. Then she remembered that she had arranged a meeting. It had slipped her mind after the assembly.
The student’s name was Sara Unterman. She was a senior, short, but very beautiful. She had gotten pregnant near the beginning of the school year, presumably at a Halloween party, so went the rumors around the school. Now it was nearing the end of the school year, and there was no mistaking that she was due soon. (She couldn’t have timed it better, Cathy thought ironically.) Sara’s situation necessitated special accommodations, academic and otherwise. Most of the classrooms at the school had desks with chairs fixed to them, and since Sara could not fit in the desks anymore, she had to arrange for special seating. In Cathy’s classroom, she used a worktable at the back of the room as her desk and sat on a plastic orange chair that, more likely than not, was as old as the paper cutter.
It was Sara’s lunch hour, and she had come in to ask for help on an assignment. She was standing at the back of the classroom looking at a poster print of fractal designs, a hand-me-down from the teacher who had used the classroom before Cathy. It was the least interesting of the posters in the room, Cathy thought, or at least the least inspiring. She had adorned her room with many motivational posters. One of these read, “Dream, Believe, Achieve!” Another said, “What is your message to the world?” A third, probably her favorite: “Don’t change so people will like you. Be yourself and the right people will love the real you.” Some others said, “Live life to the fullest,” “Star in your own life,” “If you never try, you’ll never know,” “Mistakes are forgivable… so long as you learn from them!” and “Your decisions affect your future.” There were more in addition to these. The one poster in her room with the largest writing of all said, in bold caps, NO CELL PHONES ALLOWED—although, of course, this was meant to be motivational in a different sense from the others.
At Cathy’s entrance, Sara turned around and smiled from the side, her pregnant belly bulging in profile.
“Hi, Mrs. Overlee,” she said.
“Hello, Sara. I had forgotten that you were coming. I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
“No, I just got here.”
Cathy smiled as she took her seat at her desk. Sara walked from the back of the room through the rows of desks toward her.
“I was wondering if I could come in some time to get help on the final project. I’m still a little confused on it.”
Cathy flashed a smile at her again. “Well, we are getting pretty close to the end of the school year. What was it that you needed help on? Maybe I could answer your question right now.”
Sara leaned back against one of the desks, half-sitting, half-standing, and setting her book bag on the floor next to her, her belly bulging out in a way that struck Cathy as almost ostentatious.
“Well, it’s not so much a question, really. I just was wondering if I could get your help on it. I could come in after school, or maybe before school. My mom drives me.”
“Well, it’s getting pretty close to the end of the school year.”
“How late are you here after school? I can stay after school.”
“I wish you had come to me about this sooner.” Cathy smiled again.
“I did—I asked you if you could help me when you handed out the assignment, and you said to talk to you the next week. Today is Monday, so here I am.”
“Well, I admire your dedication,” Cathy said at last. “You are certainly setting yourself up with successful habits for the future.” She smiled encouragingly.
Sara shrugged and smiled shyly. “My life is going to be a little bit more complicated after I graduate. I’m just trying to be prepared.”
“Very wise. I want you to know, I think that what you’re doing is very brave, and I support you in whatever you decide.”
“Thanks. I just want to make sure to do whatever is best for my baby. I need to make sure that I graduate. I want to make sure I meet the requirements.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will. Focusing on your education will make you more successful, and will make you a better parent. It will help you give the baby a better foundation financially and emotionally.”
“Well, thanks for being willing to help. I really appreciate it.”
“Of course, of course. Now, what was it that you needed help with? I mean, what was your question?”
“I don’t really have a specific question. I just need help getting started, basically.” She rummaged around in her book bag. “I don’t really know what to write about.” She pulled out the paper for the assignment that Cathy had given to the class, a front-and-back copy of instructions, suggested procedures, grading policies, due dates, and a sampling of potential topics. She turned it over in her hands as though looking for something other than text—other than the paper itself. “I’m just not really sure what I’m supposed to do.”
“Well,” Mrs. Overlee said, trying not to let the strain show through her voice. “It’s a personal response prompt. The assignment is for you to find something in your personal life to talk about in connection the prompt. That’s something I can’t really help you with, since I don’t know as much about your personal life as you! Just be authentic. Show me who you really are. Express yourself!”
Somewhat to Cathy’s surprise, Sara’s face expressed disappointment and resignation—as though she had su
spected that Cathy would give exactly the answer that she had given, but had still hoped for something entirely different. Cathy could not imagine what sort of answer Sara was hoping to find.
“I just don’t think about much else except for the baby right now,” Sara said at last, with a tired smile.
“Then write about the baby!”
“But the baby isn’t myself. This assignment asks me to write about myself.”
“Then write about how you feel about the baby.”
Sara gave exactly the same expression she had given earlier, and then she appeared to give up.
“All right, I’ll try. Can I still come in after school sometime, maybe?” she asked, sliding the paper back into her backpack.
“Yes,” said Cathy hesitantly. “I should be here after school… pretty much any day of the week this week. Just check with me on the day of to make sure. But I think I’ll be around.”
“Would Wednesday work?”
“Okay,” Cathy relented. “Check in with me on Wednesday.”
“Great. Thank you, Mrs. Overlee,” said Sara, standing. She threw her book bag over her shoulder with an agility that Cathy marked as uncommon for a woman so pregnant and attributed it to her youth. Sara walked out of the room, her feet plodding on the floor—but she held her head high. Despite her plodding gait, the air about her was so light that Cathy would not have been surprised to see her skipping instead of walking.
As soon as she had left, Cathy leaned back in her desk chair and sighed. She had meant what she had said to Sara—that she admired her courage. No one would argue that it didn’t take guts to finish out senior year of high school pregnant, not only passing classes but excelling in them, putting forward the effort to really do well. But something about Sara rubbed Cathy the wrong way. As Sara rounded the corner out of the doorframe and started down the steps, she took a moment to try to pinpoint what it was.
The Imminent Scourge Page 5
