Over the summer, Agnes had corresponded with Julius Crittendon, the former superintendent of the school district. Dr. Crittendon had taken a keen interest in Mary’s progress, and, even though he’d moved on to a new position in California, he had expressed a desire to remain engaged in her advancement.
From her stack of papers, Agnes withdrew the reading list that Dr. Crittendon had compiled. His suggestion to Agnes had been to put Mary on a course of independent study, utilizing the works on the list. It was quite an impressive collection of books. Some of them even Agnes had not read, and she was looking forward to the challenge.
She scanned the list again. Among them, Joyce, Dostoyevsky, Austen, Wilde, Tolstoy, Wharton, Brontë. The last name made Agnes chuckle. Not because it didn’t belong on the list. Of course it did. But Dr. Crittendon, who should have known better, had listed Emily Brontë as the author of Jane Eyre. That classic novel, however, had been written by Emily’s sister, Charlotte Brontë.
Activity at the door caught her attention, and she looked up as her students began to make their way into the classroom. She spotted Mary and called out to her. Mary said something briefly to Sam Parker, then turned and walked over to Agnes’ desk.
“Good morning, Miss Tremaine.”
“Good morning, Mary. Did you have a nice summer?”
“I did, thank you,”
Agnes was once again struck by just how poised and mature Mary acted. She actually seemed older than the other girls, though Agnes knew she was one of the youngest in the class.
“Mary, I’ve given some thought to your course of study this semester, and I’d like to show you a reading list I’ve compiled.”
She plucked the sheet from the top of the stack on her desk and held it out. With a curious smile, Mary accepted the sheet and began reading it. Over Mary’s shoulder, Agnes saw a face she did not recognize in the doorway. She was about to call out, when Mary said, “Excellent.”
“I’m sorry?” Agnes said, refocusing her attention.
“This is a great list of books,” Mary said, handing it back. “The only thing I would change is the entry for Jane Eyre. That was written by Charlotte Brontë, not Emily.”
Agnes began to say something, then stopped. She looked at Mary, who returned her gaze with a frank openness. “Mary, you’ve read all of these, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yes, and I think they’re wonderful. I’ve got a couple of other suggestions, if you’re interested.”
Again, Agnes opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind. She looked back at the list, then at Mary. Finally, she said, “Yes, let’s talk about that later.”
“Ok,” said Mary, cheerfully. “I’ll just grab a seat?”
Agnes nodded, and the girl turned and made her way down one of the aisles.
Shaking her head slowly, Agnes reached for another set of papers on her desk. This was the master reading list for each of the six grades that comprised the student body at Jackson. They were bound by a clip, and Agnes slipped the supplemental reading list she had shown to Mary behind the others.
Looking up, she made eye contact with the new boy whom she’d seen a moment earlier. He was standing just inside the doorway, looking uncertain. She beckoned for him to join her.
“You must be Jonathan.”
“Yes, ma’am. Jon. Jon Meyer.”
“Welcome to Jackson High, Jon. I’m Miss Tremaine, and I look forward to having you in my class. You’re with the eleventh graders, so you’ll want to take a seat on that side of the classroom,” and she indicated the side nearest the door.
Jon took a step in that direction, and Miss Tremaine said, “Jon, wait just a moment.” She held out the master reading lists. “The literature we’ll be studying this year builds on themes we’ve explored in prior years. Because you’re new to the school district, I don’t want you to be disadvantaged. Do you mind taking a moment to look at the lists here, and let me know what you have and haven’t read?”
“Of course,” Jon said, accepting the proffered pages.
Agnes was about to point out to Jon that he need only look at the first four pages, representing the reading lists for grades seven through ten, but she was distracted by a sudden loud noise. She looked up as the room went still and saw that everyone had turned in the direction of the far aisle, where Vernon King stood over a desk already occupied by another student. She could barely make out the curly hair of Charlie Morris behind a large canvas bag sitting on the top of the desk. Agnes guessed the noise she’d heard had been the bag being dropped on the desk with some force.
“I think this is going to be my desk this year,” Vernon said casually, looking at Charlie.
“Now hold on just a moment,” Agnes began, but, before she could say another word, Charlie had scrambled to his feet and backed quickly away from Vernon.
“Vernon,” she called, “you can have any unoccupied desk on this side of the room.” She indicated the half of the classroom that was closest to the window. “But Charlie has already selected that desk.”
“I don’t mind.” Charlie’s voice was an octave higher than normal. “He can have it.”
“No,” Agnes said, but Vernon interrupted.
“That’s ok, Charlie. Miss Tremaine is absolutely right. You’ve already selected this desk. And I’ve changed my mind anyways. I think I like that desk better,” and he pointed to an empty desk in the next row over.
He picked up the bag and took a step in Charlie’s direction. Charlie retreated further, as Vernon slid easily between the desk recently vacated by Charlie and the one behind it.
Agnes grimaced inwardly. Vernon King had never been a model student, but he’d become progressively more difficult to handle over the years. She could tell he was going to try her patience this year. Oh well, after this year, she would be done with him.
She turned her attention back to Jon, who was holding out the reading lists.
“I’ve read them.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “That’ll make things easier.”
He nodded in agreement. “One thing, though.”
“Yes?”
“Jane Eyre was written by Charlotte Brontë, not Emily.”
Agnes opened her mouth to speak, stopped, then let out a slight chuckle. “You’re right. Of course. Thank you for pointing that out.”
She watched as the young man located an empty desk and took a seat. Oh, boy, she thought to herself. This year was going to be interesting.
#
On the second day of school, things for Jon went very bad very quickly.
The third class each day was health and physical education. It was the one class for which the boys and girls were separated. The boys’ class was taught by Mr. Spitzman, the basketball coach. On the first day of school, Mr. Spitzman had handed out textbooks, assigned reading to the class, and then proceeded to take aside what amounted to almost half the boys for a raucous chat session. Mr. Spitzman was anything but subtle. For him, there were two types of students: Those that played on the basketball team and those that didn’t.
After class on the first day, Jon had sought out the ruddy faced boy who had been behind him in line that morning. His name was Doug Larson.
“Has it always been like this?” Jon had asked.
“Yep,” Doug had replied, “ever since Spitz got here. And that’s been about four years, now.”
“How does he get away with that?”
Doug had laughed. “Are you gonna tell him he can’t? I wouldn’t try if I was you. Look,” Doug had added, with a serious expression, “Spitz is like a god around here. And so are the players on the basketball team. You don’t want to cross them. You won’t get any sympathy from anyone, and he’ll make your life miserable.”
On the second day, the boys did not convene in the classroom. Instead, with a growing sense of concern, then alarm, Jon followed his fellow classmates to the gymnasium. Each of the other students had
retrieved gym bags or rolled towels from their lockers. Jon had nothing other than his textbook. No one had told him he needed gym clothes, and it had simply not occurred to him that he would.
#
“Where the hell are your gym clothes?”
They were in the boys’ locker room, a narrow, rectangular space, with open lockers lining the walls, in front of which sat a series of small wooden benches. The other boys had changed into shorts and t-shirts, several of them giving Jon surreptitious glances as he sat nervously waiting for Mr. Spitzman. When the latter arrived, Jon had immediately stood and approached him, intending to explain himself.
“Sir, I don’t have any. I wasn’t aware I needed them for this class…”
“You didn’t think you needed gym clothes for gym class?”
“Sir, I…”
“Not another word.” Mr. Spitzman looked around the room. “Does anyone here think it’s ok that Meyer doesn’t have gym clothes for gym class?”
No one spoke, though there were a few sniggers. Jon could see that several of the boys were avoiding eye contact, but a few seemed to be enjoying the confrontation.
“Fletcher, what do you think we should do about Meyer?” Mr. Spitzman asked.
Jon looked at the subject of Mr. Spitzman’s inquiry. Jeff Fletcher was a twelfth grader, a year older than Jon, though he seemed even older than that. Fletcher feigned deep concentration for a moment. Then he said brightly, “Medicine ball.”
“Medicine ball,” repeated Mr. Spitzman. “Outstanding.”
“Larson,” Mr. Spitzman said, looking at the freckled faced boy, “go get one of the medicine balls out of the equipment room.”
The boy nodded quickly, jumped up and left the room.
Mr. Spitzman returned his attention to Jon. “You. Follow me.”
He led Jon out onto the main floor of the gymnasium and indicated a spot against the wall. “Stand there.”
Doug Larson appeared, carrying what looked like an oversized basketball. Mr. Spitzman took the object and held it up in front of Jon.
“Hands over your head.”
Jon complied. Mr. Spitzman cradled the ball in one hand, raised it up over Jon’s head and placed it between Jon’s hands.
“Grab it.”
Jon did as he was told, gripping the ball on either side. It remained there, with both Jon and Mr. Spitzman supporting it. Then, Mr. Spitzman let go, and the ball slipped and almost fell. Jon had to squeeze hard, then regrip in order to avoid dropping it. This was no basketball, he realized. A basketball, Jon knew, weighed about a pound and a half. This thing weighed several times that.
“Now,” Mr. Spitzman said, leaning in and putting his face inches from Jon’s. “You will hold this ball above your head for the duration of the class. You will not drop it. In fact, you will not allow it to go below where it is now. Do you understand?”
Jon nodded.
“I didn’t hear that,” Mr. Spitzman said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Mr. Spitzman turned his back on Jon and faced the other boys. “Since Meyer has decided he doesn’t need to follow the rules, we’ll have to stay indoors today.”
A few of the boys booed or hooted in contempt.
“All right,” Mr. Spitzman called out over the noise, “let’s split up into two teams for dodgeball. King and Fletcher, you select.”
After a few minutes, Jon’s arms and shoulders began to ache. In an effort to find relief, he experimented with the position of the ball. He discovered that, by sliding his palms beneath it, he could take some of the pressure off his upper arms. But his shoulders still throbbed, and, soon, the throbbing morphed into a burn. After a time, all he could focus on was the excruciating pain radiating down from his wrists, through his arms and shoulders and across his back. His world having shrunk to a small, agonizing place, he closed his eyes and squeezed them tightly, trying to force out all thought. Starbursts of light exploded on the backs of his eyelids in synch with the sharp stabs of pain that came now with increasing frequency.
The ball in his hands seemed to weigh at least a hundred pounds. His head drooped, and his chin touched his chest. He could feel sweat running down his face, soaking the front of his shirt and dripping off the tip of his nose. A shaking began in his arms and shoulders. He tried to still it, but he could not control himself. Slowly, inevitably, his hands began to sag.
Suddenly, he was struck in the midsection by something hard. His eyes flew open in time to see a soccer ball ricochet off his body, land on the floor and bounce away.
“You better not drop that ball, Meyer,” Mr. Spitzman yelled.
The teacher was standing a few yards away, Vernon at his side. Through the pain fogging his mind, Jon wondered who had thrown the ball that struck him. Something cold and raw stirred within him. He raised his chin. His arms stopped shaking. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the medicine ball upwards until his elbows locked. He stared back defiantly.
“All right, that’s it,” Mr. Spitzman said, turning away after a moment. “Time to shower up.” The rest of the boys filed toward the locker room.
The door at the far end of the gym swung open, and the girls began to enter. Several of them pointed at Jon, and he could hear laughter. Holding his chin high, he looked straight ahead and kept his expression stoic. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mary Dahlgren come through the door. Though she looked in his direction, she neither pointed nor laughed. He took irrational solace from that. Gritting his teeth, he swore to himself he would not drop the ball.
Eventually, a quiet descended on the gymnasium. Several minutes passed before he heard a door open and footsteps approached. Doug Larson came into his field of vision.
“Spitz says you can put it down now.”
Jon looked at him, uncertainly.
“I’m serious,” Doug said, reaching out with both hands. “Here, let me help.”
With a jerky motion, Jon began lowering the medicine ball. He’d gotten it down no more than a foot or so when it slipped from his hands, and Doug caught it. He continued lowering his hands until they were down at his sides. He felt lightheaded, and he was struck with a wave of nausea. He staggered. Doug moved as though to catch him, but Jon was able to retain his balance. He put his hands on his knees and took several deep breaths.
“The department store in Ridley is where most everyone gets their gym clothes,” Doug said, quietly. “But, if you can’t get there after school today, you should be able to find some at Molly’s Thrift Shop on Main Street, next to the hardware store.”
Hands still on his knees, Jon looked up and nodded. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” said Doug. He stood awkwardly, holding the medicine ball against his hip with one hand. Then he tilted his head in the direction of the locker room. “I gotta put this back.”
Again, Jon nodded, and he watched as the other boy walked away. With difficulty, he straightened and slowly followed.
#
When Mary came downstairs for breakfast, her father was at the kitchen table, reading the paper. She served herself a bowl of cereal and sat down across from him.
“Dad?” she asked as she poured milk into the bowl.
“Hmm?” he muttered without looking up.
“Dad,” she repeated.
Head still buried in the paper, he reached for his coffee cup and raised it to his lips. In mid-sip, there was an inchoate sound that might or might not have been a response.
“Dad!”
Her father lowered the paper and looked at her. “Yes?”
“Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he replied. He sat back and gave her an inquiring look. After a moment, he asked, “Is everything ok at school?”
“Everything’s great.” Sifting a spoonful of sugar into the cereal, she asked casually, “Is everything ok at the store?”
Her father cocked his head. “Fine. Why do you ask?”
She looked up and smiled. “Oh, just curious. You never talk about the store
these days.”
He returned the smile. “Well, honey, everything is just fine.”
She took a bite of cereal and chewed it slowly. After a moment, he lifted the paper and resumed reading.
“So who’s working there these days? I mean, besides Walt.”
Her father lowered the paper and gave her a quizzical look. “Well, you know Bobby left at the end of June. So I hired a new boy to replace him.”
“Oh, really?” she said, studying her spoon with sudden interest.
“Yes.” He arched an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, you probably know him from school.”
“Oh? Who would that be?”
Smiling slightly, he replied, “That would be Jonathon Meyer.”
“Oh, yeah? The new guy. How about that.”
“How about that.”
She took another bite of cereal. Rather than resuming his reading, however, her father left the paper on the table and looked at her expectantly.
“So,” she said, finally, “he still works there now that school’s started?”
Still smiling, he replied, “He does. Same hours as Bobby. After school and Saturdays. Why the sudden interest in Jonathon Meyer?”
“Jon,” she said quickly. “I’m pretty sure he likes to be called Jon.”
“I didn’t know that.” He nodded thoughtfully. “He probably prefers ‘Jon’ to ‘the new guy’ too, huh?”
He was having fun with her now. She decided it was time to change the subject. “That was quite a storm we had last night, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, quite a storm.”
She ate in silence, and he sipped his coffee, also in companionable silence. After a few minutes, she got up from the table, washed her bowl and utensils and turned to leave.
Defiant Heart Page 7
