Adequate Yearly Progress

by Roxanna Elden

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” said Allyson, who was sliding down the front hallway in her socks.

  “Congratulations… graduate.” Coach Ray handed Allyson the present, and they shared an awkward hug.

  Then Allyson ripped off the wrapping so ungracefully it made Maybelline wince. Inside were a T-shirt and hat that Maybelline recognized immediately. Everyone in the city had been wearing them since the Super Bowl.

  “Thanks!” Allyson put the T-shirt on over her clothes. It was just big enough for her to grow into.

  “There’s something else in there.”

  Allyson reached into the ripped paper and retrieved three cardboard booklets.

  “That’s three sets of season tickets,” explained Coach Ray. “If you’re gonna be a football fan, you better start learning about the game.”

  “Who’s at the door?” Gabriella came sliding into the hallway, also in her socks.

  “My dad. He gave me football tickets!”

  “Oh my God! Can I come?”

  “Maybe.” Allyson looked at her father. “Who are the third tickets for?”

  “You can decide who to invite to each game.” He gave Maybelline an uncertain look. “I mean… you’ll need to get your mom’s permission.”

  Allyson turned back to her mom, ready to use one of the many methods of persuasion available to someone who was nearly eleven and a half years old.

  But there was no need. Maybelline Galang had already decided, for the first time since she’d begun teaching, to accept makeup work.

  LANGUAGE ARTS

  AT EVERY WEDDING, no matter how objectively lovely, there is a certain percentage of people who are miserable. At Breyonna’s wedding, it looked like Lena would be one of them. She was late, for one thing. After all Breyonna’s joking about how black folks’ weddings always started late, Lena hadn’t wanted to show up too early. But now it was clear she’d overshot on the lateness thing.

  By the time she entered the chapel, the bridal party was lined up at the front of the room, the preacher was giving his sermon, and the back pews, which Lena had hoped to slide quietly into, were full. Now, in addition to the discomfort of being in a church and the awkwardness of showing up alone, Lena found herself trying to walk discreetly down the aisle during someone else’s wedding. White rose petals smashed under her feet as she tiptoed toward a half-empty pew near the front of the room.

  There was a reason the seat was empty, she soon realized. It was along the most highly visible section of the aisle. As such, it attracted churchgoers who wanted to call attention to their worship. The woman behind Lena punctuated each of the preacher’s proclamations with yells of “Yes, Lord Jesus!” and “Mmm-hmm, that’s right, dear God.” Lena felt eyes turn in her direction. Whether this was because of the woman’s religious ecstasy or her own lateness didn’t seem to matter. Her humiliation deepened, which she probably deserved. Lately, her conscience felt so streaked and muddy that if she could have made herself believe in God, she would have taken this moment in church to ask for His forgiveness.

  There was the matter of Rico Jones, for one thing. She’d apologized, and he’d said everything was cool, but it was clear he’d changed. It was nothing that would have shown up in the district’s data-tracking system. Rico’s attendance had always been spotty and remained so. He maintained his usual D average, and his reading scores had long ago marked him as a student unlikely to graduate. But he never raised his hand again. He never offered another offbeat observation or sarcastic remark. He spent the last month of the year staring out the window, and the few times his eyes met Lena’s, he did not smile. There seemed to be no way to fix things, nothing to do but watch Rico roll out of reach, like a ball gone over a fence.

  Then there was the thing with Hernan. He had turned her away when she was crying, and he’d been rude about it. Yet she had a nagging sense that maybe she didn’t have the right to be mad at him. She hadn’t allowed this thought to fully develop.

  The organ played. The choir sang. The preacher directed everyone to stretch out their arms to Jesus.

  “Yes, dear Lord! Thank you, Lord!” called the voice behind Lena’s head.

  She fought the urge to turn around and look. Instead, she focused on a point under Jesus’s ribs and extended her arms in front of her, feeling awkward and exposed. She did not belong here. Mrs. Reynolds-Washington had been right: the black community in Texas, which she’d so hoped to be part of, went to church and knew what do to when they got there. They believed Jesus was up there, listening to their joyful noise. Lena could clap along in church just like she could cheer at football games, but it would always be just a performance. Maybe she could move again, to some new place where she had never embarrassed herself. She could find another profession, one where she couldn’t do so much damage, get things right next time. Or maybe her destiny was always to be alone, alien and alienating. Her arms, still outstretched toward Jesus, grew weary. Her wish not to be standing next to the aisle was so strong it might have been a prayer.

  The fog of despair surrounded her so thoroughly that she barely heard the sound of another body shuffling into the pew next to her. Then, she felt a warm sleeve next to her arm and realized someone had arrived even later and more conspicuously than she had. When she turned, she found herself looking into the eyes of Hernan D. Hernandez.

  He stretched his arms out in front of him, mirroring the body language of the people around them. “Did I miss anything?” he whispered.

  “God is so good !” came the voice from behind them.

  “A lot of that,” Lena whispered, with a slight tilt of her head. As much as she wanted to stay angry at Hernan, his presence was so comforting she couldn’t bring herself to put distance between them.

  Finally, they were all able to drop their arms and sit, and the preacher began the business of uniting Breyonna and Roland in holy matrimony. “We put the ring on the fourth finger of the hand,” he declared, his voice vibrating with conviction, “because it is the veins from this finger… that lead… to the heart.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Preach!” said the woman behind them.

  “The veins in every finger lead to the heart,” whispered Hernan.

  Lena snuck a look at Hernan’s face. There was a humor in his eyes that made her feel as though, after months of static, someone’s walkie-talkie was tuned to the same frequency as hers. And he smelled great. He slid closer to her on the wooden bench, and Lena wondered if she should do the same.

  But before she could move, a woman appeared at Hernan’s other side. She was a beautiful Latina with long, wavy hair, making the universal sorry I’m late face as she slid into the end of the pew. Lena slid toward the stranger on her other side so Hernan could make room for the woman. Then she fixed her gaze back on Jesus’s skinny rib cage.

  * * *

  As further proof that God, if he or she existed, was not on Lena’s side, she was seated at the same table as Hernan and his beautiful date for the reception in the church’s meeting hall. And not just them, but also Mrs. Reynolds-Washington and Mrs. Friedman-Katz, collectors of all business of other people, plus Candace and Regina, who knew a whole lot about Lena’s business.

  The teachers’ table.

  There was always a teachers’ table. Everyone, from every rung of the American socioeconomic ladder, had a cousin who was a teacher, or a friend whose wife taught, or, in Breyonna’s case, a host of teacher friends and colleagues happy to spend the evening discussing topics only teachers could tolerate. One might as well put the cousin and the colleagues and the friend’s wife at the same table.

  Kaytee Mahoney was there, too, a welcome buffer against the rest of the group. Lena left her purse on an empty chair next to Kaytee, then escaped to the bar in the corner of the room. She’d drained her first glass of wine by the time she sat down and was considering whether it was too soon to head back for another when the emcee began introducing the bridal party. The bridesmaids and groomsmen entered the room, ea
ch dancing to different music. Then everyone cheered as the emcee introduced Mr. Roland McGee and Mrs. Breyonna Watson-McGee.

  As the newlyweds strutted into the room, hundreds of white butterflies burst into the air. They fluttered in all directions, then flapped toward and coalesced against the stained-glass windows. Lena wondered if they would ever escape or if they would just flutter around, watching church events from the windowsills, until they died.

  “What happens to the butterflies?” asked Hernan’s date, as if reading Lena’s mind. “Do they just stay in here until they die?”

  “Probably,” said Hernan, then gestured toward the stained glass. “Although some of them might lay eggs. There could be some caterpillars up there in a few weeks.”

  Breyonna’s brother gave a toast as a waiter came around with plates of dry-looking chicken. Lena vaguely remembered Breyonna saying something about how chicken at weddings was tacky, and also something about never having a wedding reception in a church meeting hall, but maybe Lena was misremembering. And anyway, what did she care? She stared longingly at the bar, trying hard to seem as if she were listening to the toast. As long as she could avoid talking, she was fine. She concentrated on cutting her chicken into tiny pieces.

  Then the music started, and Mrs. Reynolds-Washington started along with it. “Have you heard Maybelline Galang will be working at OBEI next year?”

  Lena hadn’t heard this. The thought of Maybelline Galang coming around to check data binders made a career change even more tempting.

  “There really are just so many teachers who won’t be here next year,” said Mrs. Friedman-Katz. She and Mrs. Reynolds-Washington both looked at Hernan, who motioned to his date and quickly headed out to the dance floor. The voices around Lena faded into the background as she watched them dance, their twists and spins reminding her of a routine she’d learned in high school, when she’d played Anita in West Side Story. But Hernan’s date wasn’t dancing like a performer. She didn’t seem like she was trying to show off for the crowd. Instead, she moved as if she and Hernan had always known each other and all she wanted was to let him guide her around the floor. Effortless. That was the word. Wasn’t that how it felt to be around Hernan? Effortless? The thought filled Lena with an envy-tinged sadness. Lately, it seemed like every interaction in her life took more energy than she had to spare.

  “Speaking of people losing their jobs”—Mrs. Reynolds-Washington’s voice cut into her thoughts—“I heard our lovely bride’s new husband was downsized. He’s working at Fantastic Fitness now, selling gym memberships.”

  “I knew it!” said Candace, turning to Regina. “I saw someone who looked like him working at my gym. When I asked Bree about it, she straight-up changed the subject.”

  Lena, now fully tuned into the conversation, felt a jolt of defensiveness on Breyonna’s behalf.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Friedman-Katz, “I guess that explains this wedding.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking,” said Mrs. Reynolds-Washington. “For someone with Breyonna’s taste, all this does seem a little—”

  “I thought the sermon was really nice,” Lena interrupted. Something told her that if this news was true, Breyonna would not want it discussed at her wedding. And something told her, even more strongly, that it was true.

  Regina, who had perked up at the chance to discuss Breyonna’s business, ignored Lena. “It’s interesting, after all that talk about the fiancé in marketing and whatnot—”

  “She’s probably gonna have to trade that Land Rover back in, too.” Candace really was a bitch.

  “Hey, not everyone has their dream job,” said Lena. Breyonna had defended her on that humiliating night at the club. The least she could do was derail this conversation.

  “Right.” Candace broke into an evil smile. “Not everyone gets to be a famous poet.”

  The message was clear: if Breyonna’s situation wasn’t interesting enough, Lena’s business was next on the menu. Lena knew she was on weak ground. Mrs. Reynolds-Washington and Mrs. Friedman-Katz sensed incoming gossip and were straining forward in their seats. If Candace talked about what had happened in the club now, everyone at Brae Hill Valley would hear the story by the time school resumed in August. Lena braced herself for what was coming.

  But then the Electric Slide came on, and the whole room sprang into action.

  “Oooooh,” said Mrs. Friedman-Katz and Mrs. Reynolds-Washington at the same time. They jumped up to join the dance.

  Regina, too, left the table, and Candace followed. But first she gave Lena a look that said she wasn’t finished. She was only waiting for their audience to return.

  One glass of wine was not enough to deal with this. Lena was about to head back to the bar when she heard laughter. Hernan and his date had returned to the table.

  “I guess we’re discussing your business next,” said Hernan.

  “Yeah,” Lena sighed.

  “Well, it will be a nice change for me. They’ve been fascinated with me ever since I got ‘nonencouraged to continue employment.’ ”

  “What?” The news shocked Lena out of her misery. “You got fired?”

  Hernan nodded. “You didn’t know?”

  “No,” said Lena. “Sorry! When did this happen?”

  “Five minutes before you came to my classroom that day.”

  Lena’s blurry understanding of their last conversation began to come into focus.

  “He’s gonna be okay, though,” interrupted the woman at Hernan’s side. The way she said it suggested she knew Hernan better than Lena ever would.

  Lena tried not to hate her.

  “Yeah, I’m helping my dad out with his business.”

  “Well… that’s good, right?”

  “Helping him out?” said Hernan’s date. “I think you mean setting him up for retirement.”

  Lena popped a final piece of chicken into her mouth and chewed it slowly.

  “So,” said Hernan, “how’s the poet?”

  She swallowed the chicken. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” She hoped her tone communicated just a bit of indignation at how Hernan had underestimated her.

  “Damn, Hernan,” said his date, “why can’t you believe that sometimes when women say they’re done with a guy, they’re done?” She turned to Lena. “Guys are such assholes, right?”

  Lena looked at them, surprised. Hernan’s date was allowed to say this, and she wasn’t?

  “Oh,” said Hernan, “I don’t think I introduced you. Lena, this is my sister Lety.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Lena. A sense of possibility opened before her, but before she could process it, the Electric Slide ended, and the four women headed back to the table. Candace’s smile revealed every bit of her plan for the upcoming conversation. Lena looked toward Hernan for reassurance, but his seat was empty again. He must have gotten up while she was looking at the dance floor. She was alone.

  Now, she thought. Now was the time to go get another glass of wine. Find someone to dance with. Catch the eye of someone at a faraway table, start talking, and sit with them for the rest of the party. She’d always been good at finding new places to be.

  Looking around the room to assess her options, she started to rise from her chair. But then she stopped. She took a breath and settled back into her seat. Gossip or no gossip, the teachers’ table was where she belonged.

  The four women pulled out their chairs, and Candace opened her mouth, a gleeful gleam in her eye.

  Lena waited, unblinking, gathering a small fistful of tablecloth in her lap.

  Then she felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see Hernan standing behind her.

  “Wanna dance?” he asked.

  She reached up to accept his outstretched hand.

  TCUP SAMPLE QUESTION

  WHAT WOULD AN ADDITIONAL SCENE AT THE END OF THIS STORY MOST LIKELY BE ABOUT?

  Hernan D. Hernandez and Maybelline Galang pack the remaining items from
their classrooms into one small box each before walking down the hallway for the last time. The seniors of Brae Hill Valley throw their graduation hats into the air, where they seem to hover, as if in a freeze-frame. Later, after dark, Dr. Barrios sits alone in his office. The light of a single lamp illuminates his hands as he opens the test-results envelope and looks at the scores.

  The school’s TCUP scores come under scrutiny when Maybelline Galang, a new employee of the OBEI department, investigates vice principal Roger Scamphers for illegally sharing questions before the test. In a public statement, Scamphers suggests that the tampering started at a much higher level and promises he is not going down alone. The same week, in what is believed to be an unrelated incident, Nick Wallabee resigns as superintendent. He later announces plans to open a nationwide virtual charter-school network with start-up capital from Global Schoolhouse School Choice Solutions.

  The film company behind How the Status Quo Stole Christmas shifts their focus to inspirational movies, preferably starring “plucky, likeable twentysomething teachers with can-do attitudes.” They are currently searching for the anonymous blogger behind the Mystery History Teacher.

  Millions of plant enthusiasts and landscapers rejoice at the discovery of a new compound that makes Texas bluebonnets resistant to fungus. The exact formula is proprietary information, patent registered to Hernandez and Son Landscaping and Plant Nursery. It is rumored, however, to involve a chemical reaction that occurs when (BAKED!) Reetos mix with a protein found in human saliva.

  All of the above.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THERE ARE SO many people who made this book possible. It is an honor to be able to mention them here.

  Many thanks to Alia Hanna Habib, the literary agent who saw the statue hidden inside the block of marble and had the vision and patience to help me carve away the rest. Thanks for your early and persistent belief in this project.

  Thanks to Kaitlin Olson, who edited with a sharp eye for detail and a long view toward the possibilities on the horizon. It has been a delight to work with you and the Atria team on this book.