Wallabee edged toward the nearest camera before answering. He wore a layer of chalky makeup that was disconcerting up close. “I’ll be paying close attention to your school, Dr. Barrios. I assure you of that.”
“That’s great to hear.” This was an even bigger lie. “And don’t forget to come on down and watch the Killer Armadillos play some football.” Dr. Barrios followed this with the type of smile that football-lovin’ Texan men gave one another when talking about football-lovin’ Texan subjects.
“Well, I do love a good football game as much as the next person, Dr. Barrios.” Then, having reassured Texas of his love for football, Wallabee turned fully toward the cameras. “But I’m expecting school leaders to stand up for student achievement, not just sit in the stands defending the status quo.”
Defending the status quo. The line dropped onto Dr. Barrios with an almost physical force. Accusing someone of defending the status quo in education was like accusing them of defending Goliath in the story of David and Goliath. It was a charge that had to be answered. But this was the new boss, and Dr. Barrios had come here for a reason… The fishbowl of heat closed in on him, beading sweat along his hairline.
Wallabee, with his thick coating of makeup, should have been sweating, too. Yet the superintendent seemed impervious to the weather. His skin was unreflective, his hair unmoving. “We’ve got too many students who can win on the football field but not in college and the workforce.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. I just thought you’d enjoy our tradition of…” Dr. Barrios’s voice trailed off as a microphone nudged closer. Buzzwords failed him.
Nick Wallabee gazed deep into the lens of a camera. “Our children deserve teachers and school leaders who will make sure they win in life.” Then he turned and pointed a forefinger at Dr. Barrios’s chest. “So I ask you, Dr. Barrios: Are you a leader who will do whatever it takes to win for children?”
The correct answer was clearly an enthusiastic yes, but Wallabee did not wait for an answer. A woman with a headset whisked him away to pose for another picture.
Another picture. A damp realization settled upon Dr. Barrios: Nick Wallabee’s speech hadn’t ended at the lectern inside the building. And he didn’t need a picture of himself shaking hands with a principal. He needed a picture of himself putting a principal on notice. He needed someone to represent the status quo. He needed a Goliath.
Suddenly, Dr. Barrios felt very much like Goliath—heavy, out of breath, and dizzy from an unexpected impact. He imagined the teachers at his school, putting the finishing touches on their classrooms and first-day lesson plans. Tomorrow, they’d see his picture in the paper and learn he’d cemented their spot in the Believers Make Achievers Zone, with all that this designation entailed.
How he longed to be in his truck, with its air-conditioning and privacy and large, soft seats. But the parking lot in front of him seemed endless. It radiated heat, blurring the air, sticking him to the ground where he stood. He wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, feeling wet spots under his arms where sweat had soaked through the fabric.
It wasn’t until he dropped his arm that he saw it: one lingering camera, still pointed in his direction, filming his response.
MATH
MAYBELLINE GALANG HAD spent her final days of back-to-school preparation listening to the murmur of a Pakistani news channel from Apartment 206. This had mingled with a Spanish-language soccer broadcast thumping through the wall from 204, which suggested there were now eight satellite dishes on the street side of Building 2. Satellite dishes were fixtures not removable without damage to the premises, she wrote in an e-mail to building management, which made the dishes a clear violation of Article 16 of the Brae Estates lease.
She’d sent many such e-mails, printing and filing each for her records. Still, the dishes remained, spreading like gray mushrooms along the side of the building.
Today, however, a sense of promise rumbled within her. It had begun the moment she’d seen Dr. Barrios’s picture in the paper with his sweaty armpit exposed. Brae Hill Valley was in the “Believers Make Achievers Zone,” the article had said. The new superintendent would be watching. Judgment day was upon them, and soon the world would know: Maybelline Galang was in compliance.
Not like her colleagues. Not like her neighbors.
Definitely not like her sister, Rosemary.
Thirty-four years earlier, their mother had arrived from the Philippines alone and pregnant with twins. She’d raised the girls on a home-care nurse’s thin paycheck and thinner patience, and she’d had two main rules:
Don’t depend on a man.
Don’t ever, ever become a nurse.
Maybelline had followed these rules and all the others, too. She’d kept her side of the bedroom spotless, while Rosemary’s stayed a mess. She’d brought home As, while Rosemary offered Cs and excuses. It should have been no surprise, then, that as soon as the girls graduated high school, Rosemary decided nursing was exactly what she wanted to do. Or that after taking four years to complete what should have been a two-year degree, she started her first nursing job and immediately hated it. Rosemary was like that.
Maybelline, meanwhile, had majored in math. She’d even found a program that would offset some of her student loans if she worked in a low-income school. These were accomplishments as undeniable as a report card full of As on a refrigerator. But as with so many of Maybelline’s accomplishments, the noisy clamor of Rosemary’s existence drowned them out. The week Maybelline signed her contract with Brae Hill Valley was the same week Rosemary announced she was breaking their mother’s other main rule: she was quitting her job to marry an ear, nose, and throat doctor she’d met at the hospital.
At the time, this had seemed like just another of Rosemary’s attention-stealing moves. Eleven years later, however, Rosemary and the ear, nose, and throat doctor were still married. They lived with their daughter, Gabriella, in an orderly, satellite dish–free suburb zoned to Grumbly Elementary, a school with such a good reputation it didn’t even need a nice-sounding name.
Maybelline, who shared the apartment and its attendant expenses with her mother, did not depend on a man. She had not become a nurse. And for her daughter, Allyson, she had rules of her own:
Don’t depend on a man.
Don’t ever, ever become a teacher.
Also, added at this very moment:
“There is no way you are wearing those pants to school.”
“Why not?” Allyson was wearing a pair of too-tight stretch pants, the phrase You Wish! scrawled across the butt in sparkly letters. She accessorized these with the fiercest look her childish features could manifest.
“Because you are ten years old.”
“Ten and a half. ”
“Exactly.”
“Gabriella wore these before she gave them to me, and she was only ten then.”
Technically, Gabriella had been ten and a half, but that wasn’t the point. Maybelline and Rosemary had different standards for how girls should dress. There was also the issue that Gabriella, the product of two slim parents, was smaller than her younger cousin. Allyson took after her father. Only the largest of Gabriella’s hand-me-downs fit her, and these pants were not among them.
“Allyson, we don’t have time for this. Go put on the clothes we picked last night.”
“You mean the clothes you picked.”
“Go put them on. We can’t be late to your aunt’s house.”
Years earlier, when Maybelline had first considered using Rosemary’s address to register Allyson for school, Coach Ray had reassured her it was no big deal. Football coaches helped players do this all the time, he said.
Also, to be fair, the rules did not explicitly say the child had to live at the address. They only said one of the utilities had to be under the name of the child’s primary guardian. The bills in the apartment were registered to her mother, and it had been easy enough for Maybelline to put her name on Rosemary’s energy bill. She’d done it for a few other bil
ls as well. In fact, on paper, Rosemary’s house might as well have been Maybelline’s. Moreover, it was simply out of the question to send Allyson to the local elementary school, Sunshine Gardens, where there would be no more respect for rules than there was at the apartment complex.
By the time Maybelline and her sulking daughter pulled up to Rosemary’s house, the garage was already open. Rosemary stood next to her new SUV wearing bulging designer sunglasses she’d probably seen on one of her reality shows. Even on the first day of school, she was wearing workout clothes. No wonder she had no standards for whether her daughter dressed appropriately.
“What?” said Rosemary from behind the sunglasses.
“Nothing.” Maybelline looked away. There was no use starting an argument unless she wanted Rosemary to get into her whole thing about how just because she didn’t work outside the home didn’t mean she had nothing better to do than take care of someone else’s kid. “Have a good first day, everyone.”
“Whatever,” said Allyson. “I look stupid.”
“What’s wrong?” Rosemary asked her.
“I’m wearing this baby outfit on my first day of school.”
“You look fine,” said Rosemary. “Just hurry up. I have a class at Fantastic Fitness after I drop y’all off. If I’m late, I’ll lose my spot.”
Maybelline took a deep breath and looked at her dashboard clock. “I’ll pick you up around five, okay, Allyson?”
“Yeah. Right. Sure you will.”
“Maybe a little after, but try to get your homework done here. Okay?”
“It’s the first day. I’m not going to get homework.” With that, Allyson grabbed her purple shoulder bag, slid off her seat, and stomped into the garage.
Gabriella emerged from the house. She was carrying a backpack, and Allyson gave Maybelline a look that said they’d be having yet another argument about why Allyson had to wear a shoulder bag when eeeeeveryone else had a backpack. But Maybelline couldn’t discuss that today. Not any time this week, either. There was just too much work at the beginning of the school year.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Allyson said to Rosemary. “Really bad.”
“Hurry!”
Maybelline pulled away from the curb, waving to her sister and niece and to Allyson’s back. Then she glanced at the clock: there was still time. Even with first-day-of-school traffic, she’d be able to drive to the far edge of Rosemary’s gated community before doubling back toward the expressway. This was a ritual Maybelline had developed, though she never spoke of it. She would never admit how calming it was, passing all these houses painted the same six colors, lawns that never dared to grow past regulation height, row after symmetrical row, until a series of crisp ninety-degree turns left her at the far end of the street she’d started on.
Finally, she headed toward the exit gate, so lost in the order of it all that she was almost on Rosemary’s block before she noticed the SUV, still idling at the curb.
The sight of it made Maybelline pause midbreath. She pulled behind a parked car and lowered her head, watching the SUV through the windows of the car in front of her. Rosemary waited in the driver’s seat, tapping her garage-door clicker on the steering wheel as she looked toward the house. A few seconds later, Allyson emerged, walking fast and looking so happy that Maybelline wondered if her daughter always became pleasant once she was out of sight.
But no. Something else was different. Maybelline couldn’t place what it was until Allyson climbed into the SUV’s rear seat, revealing the sparkly letters scrawled across the back of her pants.
Maybelline’s heart thumped. She wanted to lean on her horn, then drive up beside the SUV and demand that Allyson change back into her school clothes. Right. Now. But that would make them all late. Plus, how could she explain why she was still there? Her only hope was that Rosemary would notice the pants, and she stared hard at the SUV, willing this to happen.
But Rosemary’s eyes were fixed on the garage door as it rolled closed, protecting the orderly life that lay inside. Until the girls arrived at school, the message on the back of Allyson’s pants was for Maybelline’s eyes alone:
You Wish!
SOCIAL STUDIES
THE MYSTERY HISTORY TEACHER
www.teachcorps.blogs.com/mystery-history-teacher
Making Educational Inequity “History”
Happy new school year, everyone! For any new readers, here’s what you need to know about me: This is my second year teaching high school American history—which explains the title of the blog. ;-) I’m also a proud member of the TeachCorps program, which addresses the civil rights issue of our day: educational inequity for low-income, minority students, often caused by the low expectations of their teachers. That’s why I’m starting the year by letting my students know I’ve set gigantic goals for them. I am determined to prove to them that no matter what their past experiences have been, they can and will succeed in my class.
I’ve set some gigantic goals for myself also. Rereading my notes from TeachCorps boot camp made me realize I need to do a better job of reaching across the communication divide to build on my students’ unique cultural paradigms. Also, I want to lose the ten pounds I put on last year.
Today is the first day of school. I’ve got a yogurt and an apple packed for lunch and a PowerPoint presentation ready so I can start investing my students in high achievement on day one. Wish me luck!
COMMENTS
Susan M Good luck, honey! I’m so glad you started up the blog again. We can’t wait to read your stories about making a difference this year!—Aunt Susan
Click here to write an additional comment on this post
“Good morning.” Kaytee reached out to shake hands with her first student. “I’m Ms. Mahoney. Please find a seat and begin the bell-ringer activity.”
She gestured to the directions on the board:
Take out a blank piece of paper and complete the following sentence: “Democracy is…” Keep this paper at your desk. It will be your exit ticket.
The student took out a notebook and began working. So far, so good.
Kaytee continued her introductions as students arrived, trying to block out the voice of Ms. Grady, who was loudly addressing her own students next door: “Son, fix that shirt collar. And you, young man—I hope you do not think you’re coming into this classroom with your pant leg rolled up.”
In the hallway, two boys stopped in front of Ms. Grady’s door and pulled out their schedules for a final look.
“Damn,” one of them muttered, hitching up his beltless pants and holding them in place through his shirt. “We got Scarface.”
Ms. Grady’s nickname reminded Kaytee of a line she’d read during the blur of her high school Advanced Placement classes: If a woman is beautiful enough, a small scar only enhances her beauty. But Ms. Grady was not that beautiful, and her scar was not that small. It curved down one cheek like a zipper, turning an already intimidating presence into a teacher look that was impossible to talk back to. Sometimes Kaytee even wondered if Ms. Grady was proud of the scar.
The jagged-edged voice cut into Kaytee’s thoughts again. “What do you mean you don’t have paper? Where did you think you were going this morning, the circus?”
In her pity for Ms. Grady’s class, Kaytee worked even harder to shake hands with each of her own incoming students. She greeted a boy named Brian Bingle, followed by a girl named Milagros, which Kaytee knew was Spanish for miracles. Such hopeful historic and religious names were common among Latino students, Kaytee remembered from the previous year. African American students, on the other hand, often had names with punctuation in them or that combined their parents’ first names.
This was just in some cases, though, of course. She wasn’t saying all of them had names like that. And anyway, there was nothing abnormal, nothing other, as they’d discussed in TeachCorps diversity training, about a name like Moses, or Ulyses, or Kar’Natium.
The voice of the assistant principal, Mrs. Rawlin
s, crackled through the PA system, reminding students to hurry. They were coming in bigger groups now. Some students still stopped to shake Kaytee’s hand or return her greeting. Others walked past without any sign that they saw her, searching for desks next to their friends and beginning loud conversations.
“Please begin the bell ringer,” Kaytee said. “On the board. Quietly, please!”
Finally, the PA clicked off, the crowd in the hallway dwindled to a few confused freshmen, and Kaytee shut her door. “Good morning, everybody! Let’s just start with a show of hands—who’s done with their bell-ringer activity?”
The students who had arrived early raised their hands. A few others were still working. But several students hadn’t written anything at all. Some didn’t even have paper on their desks.
“Okay. Um, please take five minutes to finish your bell-ringer activity. The directions are on the board.”
A few more students began writing.
For the remaining motionless kids, Kaytee paraphrased the directions. “What do you think of when you hear the word democracy? Answer that question on your paper.” She paused, then added, “This will be your exit ticket.”
A short boy in the back turned to the girl next to him. “Hey, you got paper?”
“Please raise your hand if you have any questions,” said Kaytee.
The boy’s hand shot up. “What’s an exit ticket?”
“Raise your hand, please, and wait for me to call on you.”
The hand remained in the air.
“Yes,” said Kaytee. “Please tell me your name so I can start to learn people’s names. Then ask your question.”
“What’s an exit ticket?”
“Okay, and your name is…?”
“Jonathan.”
Adequate Yearly Progress Page 3
