Never had she imagined the city held such a place.
The poor neighborhoods in Philly were cramped blocks of row houses that pulsed with life. Young men swaggered on corners, and in summer, families drank together on front steps while bedtimeless children swirled around their feet. The area where she worked and lived also bore the marks of a bad neighborhood, with its check-cashing stores, curbside car repairs, and stray dogs.
But the streets rolling past Lena’s window now were so desolate they might have been backcountry roads. Empty, litter-strewn lots stretched into the distance, dotted with only a few sagging houses and boarded-up remnants of stores. On one dark sidewalk, a woman wearing a shower cap pushed a stroller, turning occasionally to yell at a toddler who trailed behind her. On another, a pair of teenage boys walked slowly, as if there were no destination they could ever imagine being in a hurry to reach. Lena averted her gaze as they looked in the direction of the car. Nothing stirred but the sounds from cars headed the other way, the rumble of their music merging briefly with the beats inside Nex’s car as if by the hand of some cosmic deejay.
“Don’t worry.” Nex’s voice pushed its way between her thoughts. “We’re not getting out here.”
“Me? I’m not worried.” Lena realized her hand was resting near the door’s Lock button. She moved the hand, now unsure where to put it, settling it finally on her knee. “I was just thinking this poetry spot must not be too crowded.”
Nex released a deep laugh that dissolved her hesitations.
She wanted to make him laugh again.
They turned onto what seemed like the main street in the area, finally arriving at a strip mall whose parking lot, considering the emptiness that surrounded it, was remarkably packed. Most of the stores were closed at this hour, but a hive of activity surrounded an open door in the corner. The line to get in stretched past the darkened windows of the other businesses. Cars idled in the lot, waiting for spots to open.
“Okay,” joked Lena, “I take back what I said about it not being too crowded.”
Nex laughed again. His eyes shined.
Lena wondered what he might have looked like as a child.
There was only one remaining spot at the end of the lot, blocked off by two orange traffic cones. Nex jumped out to move the cones, then pulled into the spot.
“You sure you can park here?”
“Reserved parking.” He winked at her as he turned off the motor. “My friends own this poetry spot. I told them I can’t be waiting around trying to park a car—not when there’s this girl I’m trying to impress.”
Lena knew game when she heard it. Hell, she had game herself. Yet in spite of this, she pictured Nex telling his friends who owned the club, There’s this girl. She let herself out of the car and followed him to the open door. A fat bouncer leaned on a stool in front of it. He locked hands with Nex, their grips drawing each other closer until their chests crashed and receded.
It was only then that the bouncer looked at Lena, standing a few feet behind Nex. “Ten thirty. Ten dollars for everyone.” Gold glinted from his bottom teeth.
“Nah, this our new poet right here. She a teacher.”
The bouncer’s eyes assessed her with approval, then turned friendly. “A teacher, huh? Wish they had teachers like you when I was in school.”
“Heh.” She was never quite sure how to answer that remark.
“Where you teach at?”
Lena waited for Nex to jump in and say the Hill. Finally, she answered, “Brae Hill Valley High School.”
“Oh, shit. That’s where I went.”
The statement warmed her like an embrace. “Yeah?”
“I heard y’all won your first game last week against Booker T.”
“Yeah… We won!” Lena vaguely remembered students talking about the victory but hoped she wouldn’t have to offer any details in front of Nex Level. She was relieved to feel him moving toward the door.
“So, whatchu teach?”
But Lena pretended not to hear. Answering the question felt less important than making an entrance at Nex’s side.
“Oh, it’s like that, huh?” The bouncer’s voice followed her as she stepped into the dark club.
It was true. This wasn’t like Club Seven.
It wasn’t a club at all, really, but rather an empty storefront space lit by strings of seasonless Christmas lights. The inside was larger than Lena would have guessed, and she found herself following Nex as he slipped through the mass of packed bodies. Everyone was black, she noted—there were no token white poets here. And most were women, many of whom seemed eager to greet Nex Level as he made his way toward the “bar”—really just a folding table in a back corner where someone was mixing drinks from a cooler. Lena reached for Nex as she tried to keep up. He gave her hand a quick squeeze and then let it fall.
When they reached the folding table, she pressed in next to him, standing on her toes to whisper her drink order in his ear. None of the women in the crowd looked at her directly, but she felt the beams of their envy pointing her way, and she gripped her cup in one hand as they pushed their way toward the stage, reaching for his fingers with the other.
Again, he squeezed her hand and then released it.
“You’re not a big hand-holder, huh?” she asked, when they’d finally found a spot with a good view. She hoped she sounded casual.
“Nah. Not into that public affection stuff. Sorry.”
“No, it’s cool. I’m really not, either.”
“See? Now, that’s what I like about you—I can take you anywhere.” He put a hand on her lower back and let it rest there.
The poets onstage became a blur. She was conscious of nothing but his warmth and her own cautious pressure as she leaned into him without turning in his direction.
He could take her anywhere.
* * *
It wasn’t until they were back in Nex’s car that Lena, exhilarated by the night and high from her success onstage, worked up the nerve to ask the question. “Hey, I was hoping you could come to my class one of these days—do some poetry for the kids.”
“Come on, now. I bet they get plenty of inspiration from you.”
“Definitely. I just think they would really like some of your police-violence stuff. Like the one you did… at… the…” And then she stopped, because she knew then that he would lean in and kiss her. It was inevitable at this point. She had smoothed scented oil onto her wrists and neck and collarbone, and she was giving him a look that had never failed her. It was a look that suggested some shared secret. It had worked on every man she had ever drawn in to her.
Now, sitting in Nex Level’s car, several drinks in each of their systems, his smooth, dark face leaning toward hers, it felt as if all her years of writing poetry, all the time spent perfecting this very look, had come to this moment.
She knew better than to think this would lead to love. She wasn’t even sure she believed in love. But he’d said he could take her anywhere. And Nex’s version of anywhere was exactly where she wanted to go.
The kiss was long, soft, and surprisingly gentle. As they parted, she noticed for the first time the tattoo on Nex Level’s neck. It peeked out above the top of his shirt like a shared secret.
Knowledge, it said.
Suddenly, there was nothing she would not have done to get him to come to her classroom—and nothing she would not have done to hide how badly she wanted him to come.
“So…?” She hoped she wouldn’t have to elaborate.
He looked into her eyes and smiled. “So… what do I get out of the deal? You gonna cook me dinner or something?”
THE RESEARCH-BASED BEST PRACTICES THAT WORK™ ACHIEVEMENT INITIATIVE
DAREN GRANT, OF TransformationalChangeAdvocacyConsultingPartners, was still talking. “But then I realized that to really scale up and make that macro impact for low-income students, I’d have to step out of the classroom and apply the leadership skills I’d learned as a teacher.”
Dr.
Barrios nodded, his gaze drifting to the hiker’s backpack that sat next to the consultant’s chair. A metal water bottle dangled from the side, as if Daren planned to hike somewhere in his suit directly after this meeting. It was strange to see an African American kid—or young man, as the case might be—carrying hiking gear. Dr. Barrios had always associated hiking with white people. This was probably wrong of him.
To be fair, he was trying to like Daren Grant. This had taken less effort earlier in the meeting, when the younger man described how his high school teachers, due to their stereotypes and low expectations, had encouraged him to apply only to state colleges.
He’d seemed so earnest that Dr. Barrios almost chimed in with his own related stories. Counselors had often tracked him into automotive arts classes despite his high grades. He’d even spent a year in a class for non–English speakers during elementary school, though it was his Spanish that was barely passable. Both of his parents had been born in Brownsville, Texas.
But it had quickly become clear that Daren Grant’s story was not an invitation to share. Rather, it was the personal-hardship segment of a tightly engineered narrative that continued with Daren Grant’s acceptance into (and graduation with accolades from) Cornell, which, sure, it was not Harvard, but it was solid Ivy League, right up there with Princeton or Yale—even better than those schools by some measurements, according to Daren Grant.
They were now in the Daren-Grant’s-résumé segment of the narrative, which included two years of “leading from the classroom” before moving to TransformationalChangeAdvocacyConsultingPartners. TransformationalChangers, as Dr. Barrios thought of them, always seemed to have taught for exactly two years. Then they moved on to work at places whose names were capitalized words stuck together. They seemed both impossibly young and impossibly self-assured, their Adam’s apples bouncing excitedly above their shirt collars as they talked.
“We have abundant data on best practices that work in the start-up sector”—bounce—“and in transformational schools like the Destiny charter network”—bounce—“which we’re using to innovate and catalyze disruptive change.”
“Absolutely.” Disruptive change, wrote Dr. Barrios on a notepad. Abundant data. He had spent enough time around consultants to know it helped to respond with the same terminology they used. It reassured them that, in the jungle of jargon-filled edu-calls, he was a member of a symbiotic species.
“We like to start with the question, What could be true if…? ”—bounce—“Then we use that thought experiment to craft a vision for the school.”
What could be true if…? wrote Dr. Barrios.
“For example, one of the concepts we’re working on is, what could be true if younger teacher-leaders could have the respect and authority that comes with seniority, but without having to work at a school for a long time?”
Dr. Barrios checked the time on his computer screen. It wasn’t as late as it felt, but it wasn’t early. Morning e-mails were already stacking up in his inbox.
“Our research has shown that the best teacher-leaders are followers of the best practices we’ve isolated in our program.”
Best leaders are followers, wrote Dr. Barrios. Something seemed off about the statement, but he didn’t want to say anything that might prompt an explanation, especially not now: Daren Grant was reaching into his backpack to retrieve a glossy folder. If handled correctly, the handing over of promotional materials signaled the end of a consultant meeting.
Grant slid the folder across the desk: Research-Based Best Practices That Work™. Underneath the words, a diverse group of young leader-followers stood in various inspiring poses.
Dr. Barrios leafed through the papers inside. Then he reviewed his notes, trying to string together the arrangement of words most likely to make Daren Grant go away.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Grant.” He smiled. “It’s great to hear you’re taking such a research-based, macro approach toward transformational, disruptive change. And, naturally, we love innovations based on abundant data.”
Daren Grant made no move to get up.
“I look forward to sharing these best practices with our teacher-leaders.”
Still no motion.
“I’ll certainly get in touch as needed.” Dr. Barrios offered a conciliatory gesture as he reached for the receiver of his desk phone. “Thanks for stopping by.”
A subtle amusement crept into the younger man’s expression, as if it were this moment, rather than the promotional folder, that the meeting had been building toward. “Maybe I didn’t make this clear, Dr. Barrios. Superintendent Wallabee has already brought us on board to partner with the Believers Zone.”
“Ah.” Dr. Barrios recalibrated. “Well, welcome aboard!”
“He directed us to start with your school.”
“Oh.” The cabin pressure had changed. Dr. Barrios, waiting for a cue, dropped his eyes to the folder. Now it seemed as if the young leader-followers were staring at him, all with the same smug expression as Daren Grant. It was an expression that said of course Nick Wallabee would start with the school whose principal had gotten himself into the newspaper.
“I’ll be visiting classes starting tomorrow, so if you can just make sure all teachers have the Research-Based Best Practice That Works of the day written on their boards, that would be awesome.”
Dr. Barrios missed the education consulting companies of the past. They sold textbooks and gave benign presentations, but they had little interest in walking around an enormous high school building and visiting actual classrooms. Not so with the TransformationalChangers: they’d show up the next day, iPads and refillable water bottles in hand. Dr. Barrios looked again at the backpack, which now seemed to symbolize the inexhaustible energy and freedom of youth. Daren Grant would never have to publicly say he wanted to spend more time with his family. Daren Grant didn’t have a family. He probably didn’t even have a girlfriend.
“Good morning, Killer Armadillos.” Mrs. Rawlins’s voice came on the PA. “Teachers, please be reminded to write the Curriculum Standard of the Day on your board in its entirety.”
Dr. Barrios gestured toward the speaker. “Should the teachers still write the Curriculum Standard of the Day, or…?”
“Absolutely.” Grant unscrewed the metal water bottle, leaving its top dangling from the backpack, and leaned back for a long, Adam’s-apple-activating sip. Apparently, AdvocatingForTransformationalChange required one to stay hydrated. “Our program is in addition to any existing initiatives the superintendent has implemented. But this is the priority, so let’s make sure they write this one on top.”
“I just mention it because some of the classrooms have limited board space.”
“Well, an innovative problem-solving approach to that might be to have them write in smaller letters!”
Dr. Barrios replayed the words in his head, searching for a hint of sarcasm, but Daren Grant seemed almost robotically earnest.
“Remember, we’re your partners in this.” Grant twisted the bottle back into its cap. He spoke in the tone of someone who had won and could now afford to be gracious. “Just think of me as the angel on your shoulder—but with Research-Based Best Practices That Work!”
ALL STUDENTS ON TASK, ALL THE TIME™
“IF YOU WERE trying to create a sustainable environment in a lunar colony, what would you need?”
Kids called out answers. Hernan repeated them as he filled up the board.
“Water.”
“Water.”
“Shelter.”
“Shelter.”
“Food.”
“Food.”
“McDonald’s.”
“That’s food.”
And so it went: Heat. Electricity. PlayStation. iPhone. Come on, let’s be serious. Soap. Shampoo. Oxygen.
“Definitely oxygen,” confirmed Hernan. “And, just a hint—plants provide oxygen, so if you calculate how much oxygen you need and get enough plants in there to produce it, you won’t have to worry abou
t pumping in air.”
“Is that why you have so many plants in here—so we don’t run out of oxygen?”
Laughter.
The kid did have a point, though: Hernan had filled every available space in the lab with plants from the various terrestrial biomes of Texas. The hobby reconciled him to the long days spent indoors. The plants, which didn’t realize they should have been in prairies, or marshes, or sand plains, did what they could to survive. Some hoarded sunlight, flattening their giant leaves against the windows and blocking the security grates from view. Others learned to survive on tiny scraps of sun, thriving despite the odds against them. Some died. Hernan planted new seeds in the soil they left behind.
He finished giving the directions for the lunar-colony activity, and the class began working. They were just settling into a state of homeostasis when an unknown student entered. It was never a promising sign when a new student entered on a Wednesday in mid-October. Less promising still, he did not address Hernan but instead headed toward a seat at the far end of the room.
Hernan positioned himself in the student’s path. “Good morning.”
The newcomer repeated the greeting with weary irritation, as if he were the teacher and Hernan had walked into his classroom unannounced.
“You’re a new student?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And your name?”
“Angel.”
“Great. Sit in that chair next to my desk, and I’ll be right with you.”
Hernan stopped to check on a few other students before returning to his desk to review the transfer papers, which confirmed his original hypothesis: Angel had been sent by Destiny.
Destiny was short for Demographics Don’t Determine Destiny, a nearby charter school and the source of much grumbling among Brae Hill Valley faculty. The most common gripe was that Destiny dumped its worst students into Brae Hill Valley to improve its own test scores, though this wasn’t a complaint exclusive to Destiny. After all, district schools like Brae Hill Valley also unloaded such students when they could. This was possible because students sometimes lied about their addresses when enrolling for school, a practice that was not allowed but could be overlooked in the cases of high achievers or top athletes. It was when students started fights or failed classes that schools started investigating. Happy was the administrator who discovered that a troublemaker’s “home address” actually belonged to a cousin, or a family friend, or the Irazu Dollar Discount & Pet Store. This allowed the school to gleefully disenroll problematic kids, shoveling them off to their actual neighborhood schools in time for testing season. Brae Hill Valley received its share of these midyear transfers. It also used this same game of hot potato to hand off students to even more troubled district schools. All of which was to say the animosity toward Destiny wasn’t really about the transfer students.
Adequate Yearly Progress Page 8
