“Stevie, why do you hate her so much? Is it because of the blue ribbon?”
“She never calls on me,” said Stevie.
“Sometimes it feels like that,” said Step. “It’s because you’re so smart, and she has to give other kids a chance to answer sometimes.”
“She always calls on the other kids.”
“Yes, that’s how it feels.”
Stevie looked at him with hot anger burning in his eyes. “I said she always calls on the other kids! That’s not how it feels, that’s how it is!”
Step again realized that he had just spoken like a typical adult, taking a child’s clear, plain language and twisting it to fit the adult’s preconceived notion of reality. But what if Stevie meant it? What if it was literally true?
“You mean she really never calls on you? Ever?”
“Never once,” said Stevie.
“Are you sure she sees you raising your hand?”
“Yes,” said Stevie. “She always sees me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she says so.”
“She says that she sees you raising your hand, and yet she doesn’t call on you?”
“Yes,” said Stevie. And the tears in his eyes forced Step to believe that this must be true, or at least seem true to Stevie, because it was certain that Stevie believed it himself.
“Son, you have to understand, I’m not there so I can’t see it for myself. You have to help me. What does she say when she sees that you’ve raised your hand, but she doesn’t call on you?”
Stevie took a deep breath, and then, with his voice trembling, he said, “She says, ‘Of course Stephen Ball-lover Fletcher knows the answer. He knows everything.”’
Step heard the words with a sickness in the pit of his stomach. It couldn’t be true. No one could ever talk to his son in a tone like that. But if they did . . . if they did, he’d . . . he’d do something. Something. “Son, does she really say your name that way? Ball-lover?”
“Yes.”
“Haven’t you told her it’s Boh-lee-var? That you’re named for one of the greatest liberators in history?”
“How can I, Dad, when she never calls on me?”
“No, I guess you couldn’t,” said Step. “And she really does make fun of you like that when you raise your hand?”
“I don’t raise my hand anymore,” said Stevie.
“No, I imagine not.” Step tried to think, tried to make sense of it all. “When did she start doing this?”
“The first day.”
“Your very first day in school?”
Stevie thought for a minute. “The first day she said I was really stupid because she kept saying things and I didn’t understand her and so I raised my hand and I asked her what she said, and then she said it again and I still didn’t understand her.”
Step thought back to what the problem had been that first day. “Because of her accent?”
Stevie nodded. “I got most of what she said, but it was like the first couple of words or a couple of words right in the middle, I wouldn’t understand them. And she said I was really stupid. And all the kids made fun of me.”
“Gee, why doesn’t that surprise me, if the teacher called you stupid,” said Step. “But then the next day you stayed in Dr. Mariner’s office and took those tests, and then you came back to class the next day. What happened then?”
Stevie started to cry. “She made me stand up and she said, she said . . .” He couldn’t go on. He just lay there on his bed, sobbing.
Step reached over and gathered Stevie up in his arms and slid him off the top bunk, and then sat on the edge of Robbie’s bed and held Stevie on his lap, held his son tight against his chest while he cried. “There, there,” he said. “I know this is so hard for you. It must be so hard. Why didn’t you tell us any of this before?”
“I’m supposed to do my part,” said Stevie.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m supposed to do my job at school like you do your job at work,” said Stevie.
“Yes, Door Man, that’s true,” said Step. “But when things go bad at work, I don’t keep it a secret, I tell your mom about it. And when she has a hard day, she tells me.”
Stevie’s crying grew quieter, stopped. “I didn’t know that,” he said.
“Of course, how could you know?” said Step. “We talk that way to each other late at night, after you kids are asleep.”
“I didn’t know,” said Stevie.
“Can you tell me now what happened the day after you took those tests? You said that she made you stand up in front of the class, and then she did what? She said something?”
“She said that she was wrong to say what she said about me that time before. She said that I wasn’t stupid at all, I was very very very smart, I was the smartest boy in the whole world, and when I didn’t understand what people said it was because I was too smart to understand them because they were all really stupid compared to me, and so there was no point in anyone talking to me, ever, because I was way too smart to ever understand or care about a word they said.”
Unbelievable, and yet now Step believed it. There was too much detail in it—Stevie could not possibly have made it up. And it rang true. Maybe when Dr. Mariner called Mrs. Jones to talk to her about Stevie’s first day, Mrs. Jones assumed that Stevie had repeated to his parents what she said in class—though he hadn’t, not till now. And so she assumed that Dr. Mariner knew and was simply too nice to mention it openly. And so she assumed that Stevie had told on her, had gotten her in trouble with her boss, and so she decided to get even with him.
“Son, I think I believe you. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before, but you have to understand, this is such a terrible thing for a teacher to do that it’s hard to believe that any teacher would ever do it. I mean, I had some strict teachers in my life, but never one who was downright mean like this. You should have told us this before. We thought everything was going along all right.”
“It is,” said Stevie. “Except for that.”
“So you have friends at school?”
“No,” said Stevie.
“Then it’s not all right, is it?”
“How can I have friends when Mrs. Jones said for nobody to talk to me?”
How far did this go? “You mean that she actually told the other kids never to speak to you?”
“A couple of them tried to at recess but she yelled at them and said, ‘Let’s not bother Mr. Fletcher, please. He’s thinking higher thoughts and we wouldn’t want to disturb him.’ ”
Step held him closer. “Oh, Stevie, I didn’t know, I didn’t guess. How could I know this?”
“Jaleena talks to me sometimes,” said Stevie.
“Is she one of the girls?”
“She’s the black girl so Mrs. Jones doesn’t really care what she does. But she doesn’t talk to me much because it really is hard to understand her. She has to talk slow. And so she doesn’t talk to me much.”
So that was what Stevie’s two months in second grade in Steuben had been like. Isolation. Ridicule. Utter loneliness. And he hadn’t breathed a word of it at home. No sign of it except his reluctance to go to school.
“But you’re still doing your schoolwork,” said Step. “You are learning things.”
“We did most of it in my old school,” said Stevie.
“At least you had fun doing your project, didn’t you?”
Stevie nodded.
“Son, I’m going to have a talk with Mrs. Jones.”
He leapt from Step’s lap and stood on the floor in the middle of the room, his eyes wide with fear. “No!” he said. “Don’t talk to her! Please, Dad! You can’t! You can’t talk to her! Please!”
“Son, parents talk to teachers. That’s how the system is supposed to work.”
“You can’t, you just can’t do it. It’ll get worse if you do, she’ll be worse!”
“Stevie,” said Step. “I promise you this. I absolutely promise you. Things will get better
after I talk to her. And if they don’t, I will keep you home from school.”
“Yes!” he cried. “Keep me home!”
“Only if things get worse after I talk to her,” said Step.
“No, keep me home now!”
“Stevie, I can’t just keep you home now. There’s a law that says that you have to go to school, and in North Carolina they’re very strict about it. If I keep you out of school, it could mean going to court. Or moving again.”
“Let’s move back to Indiana!”
“Son, I can’t afford to. If we moved, we’d have to move to Utah, to live in Grandma and Grandpa Brown’s house. I’d lose my job. I’m just telling you that I’ll do all those things if I have to, if talking to Mrs. Jones makes things worse for you. But I think when I talk to her things will get better, do you understand? The last month of school won’t be so bad. I promise you.”
“A whole month,” said Stevie, his voice sounding dead.
“Think of it this way,” said Step. “Think of it as if you had been convicted of a crime you didn’t commit. You aren’t guilty, you didn’t do anything wrong, but the system worked wrong and you got convicted for it and now there’s nothing you can do except hang on and live through the last month of your sentence. And then you’ll get out and you’ll never have to see Mrs. Jones again. And next year you’ll be in the middle school and there’ll be a whole bunch of new kids from other schools—everybody will be new, not just you. Next year will be better. You just have to live through this year.”
“Don’t talk to Mrs. Jones,” said Stevie. “Please.”
“Trust me, Stevie,” said Step. “When I talk to Mrs. Jones, I will make things better.”
Clearly Stevie did not believe him. It frustrated Step, made him almost angry, that his son didn’t believe that he could do it. But Step had taken a good little while before he believed in Stevie, too. Turnabout is fair play.
When he left Stevie’s room a few minutes later, he found DeAnne leaning against the door of the room they shared, right across the hall. She looked grim as she opened the door and led him inside. She closed the door.
“You heard?” asked Step.
“I couldn’t stand not to listen,” she said. “I’ve been so worried.”
“Well, then, you know everything.” He laughed bitterly. “At least now we know why he was so desperate to believe Sister LeSueur’s flattery. If the kid’s been hammered at school, he’s got to be starved for praise.”
“Do you really believe his story?” asked DeAnne.
“I think so,” said Step. “Partly at least. I’ve got to.”
“But what about the librarian? Step, I know the librarian wasn’t lying. She’s the sweetest woman, she sounded like she really loved Stevie. She talked about how he comes in during recess every day and reads, and she talked about his project with such pride.” Then DeAnne stopped herself. “Listen to me. I’m standing here telling you that I would rather believe a woman I only met this morning than my own son.”
“We don’t believe something out of loyalty,” said Step. “We believe it because it sounds plausible to us. And Stevie’s story didn’t sound plausible until he told so much more of it that it began to fall into place. For instance, why should the librarian have been lying? Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe Stevie’s project did win first place, and maybe Mrs. Jones simply lied to her class about it.”
“Oh, Step, she couldn’t possibly imagine that she could get away with it, could she?”
“Who knows?” said Step. “There are a lot of crazy people in the world.”
“But not teaching school.”
“Why not? I mean, all those crazy people in mental institutions, they weren’t born there. The day before they were in the asylum, they were outside the asylum, and a lot of them probably had jobs, and some of them were probably teachers. You don’t think teachers could go crazy? Heck, they probably have a higher percentage than most, when you think of what they go through. So maybe she’s just three months away from getting committed because she has come to hate children so deeply. Like a disease inside her. And this year she found a scapegoat, somebody she could pour out all that bile and venom onto, and it was Stevie.”
DeAnne shook her head.
“It’s possible,” said Step. “I’ve at least got to find out.”
“You made a promise to Stevie that you can’t keep,” said DeAnne.
“Oh, I’ll keep it,” said Step. “One way or another.”
“How can you stop her from punishing him even more as soon as you’re through talking to her?”
“If necessary I’ll go to class every day.”
“She’d never permit that. The school would never permit it.”
“A parent, observing his child’s class?”
“You’d lose your job.”
“I’ll quit the job!” said Step, and to his own surprise he was talking loudly, angrily. He brought his voice back down, spoke quietly, intensely. “I will quit the job. I hate the job. The job is keeping me from being a decent father to my children. The job is killing me and my family. Screw the job.”
DeAnne visibly recoiled from him. “Step, please,” she said.
It made him irrationally angry, to have her get upset at him for his language when he was talking about something that actually mattered. “Oh, don’t you like the way I said it? The word screw is too rough for you? It’s a euphemism, DeAnne. You can’t get mad at me for using a euphemism! I mean, I could have said—”
“I’m not mad at you for saying screw, you dunce! I’m not mad at you at all, and don’t be mad at me either, I can’t stand it!” She burst into tears. “You were about to say the f-word! You were about to say that to your own wife.”
“What is this about?” asked Step. “You were mad at me, I know you well enough to know what it looks like, you were mad at me for saying screw and—”
“So I was! For one stupid second! And then I realized it was stupid and I’m sorry, I can’t help getting some look on my face for one split second, I don’t deserve to have you swearing at me!”
“What are we doing?’ said Step. “Why are we fighting?”
“Because our son has been tormented in school and we didn’t do anything to help him—”
“How could we? He didn’t tell us—”
“And we’re both so angry we want to beat somebody up and the only person within easy reach is each other.” DeAnne stopped talking for a moment. Then, to Step’s surprise, she laughed. Laughed and lowered herself to the edge of the bed.
“OK, share the joke with the rest of us in this room,” said Step.
“I was just thinking—this is so stupid, it isn’t even funny . . .” She wiped tears away from her eyes.
“I know, I can see how funny it isn’t,” said Step.
“I just thought, when I said we’re so mad and the only person we can reach is each other, I thought, ‘Let’s go beat up Sister LeSueur.’”
She was right. It wasn’t really funny, and yet Step had to sit down beside her on the bed and laugh and laugh.
Step didn’t actually ask for permission to leave work in the middle of the day. He just leaned his head into Dicky’s office and said, “I’m taking lunch at two-thirty this afternoon because I have to go meet with my son’s teacher after school.”
“Your wife can’t do that?” asked Dicky.
“Dicky,” said Step, “it’s my lunch hour, and I’m taking it at two-thirty. I’m only telling you because I want you to know where I’m going to be during that time period. I wasn’t asking permission.”
Dicky made no argument, just shrugged and gave a sort of half smile that made Step say to himself, You’re too sensitive, too prickly, Step. Dicky didn’t mean anything by what he said, and you jumped all over him.
Then, at twenty after two, as Step was sliding his microcassette recorder into his right pants pocket just prior to leaving, Dicky buzzed him on the phone. “Come by my office, please,” he said.
“I’m on my way out,” said Step. “To lunch.”
“On your way, then, please stop by my office.”
Step felt a sick dread in the pit of his stomach. Is he firing me? Because I spoke rudely to him? Impossible. Or maybe Ray Keene found out that I snuck a copy of my employment agreement, and so he thinks I’m looking for another job and so I’m being sacked because of that.
Instead, Dicky was all smiles when Step came into his office. There was another man there, a tall, thin fellow with a dark complexion and a sepulchral face that would have been rather frightening if he hadn’t been smiling so broadly. In fact, his head was so narrow and his smile so wide that it looked for a moment as if he really were, literally, grinning from ear to ear. A mouth like a Muppet, thought Step.
“Meet Damien Weinreiter,” said Dicky. “We’re interviewing him for that programming position we have open.”
“Oh? I didn’t know we were looking for a programmer.” Step never knew when they were hiring or firing people—he wasn’t exactly part of the personnel process.
“Oh, yes, and I thought we couldn’t very well have him come through without you having a chance to interview him.”
Interview him! When Step had to get to Stevie’s school?
Of course, he realized. This was how Dicky was getting back at him for speaking so sharply to him earlier today. Trying to put him into a position where he had to stay and miss that appointment. And the worst thing was that it was going to work. There was no gracious way that Step could tell Dicky to sit on his thumb, Step was taking his lunch now.
“Dicky, why me? I write manuals.”
“Oh, Step, don’t be so modest. You’re not just our manual writer.”
I knew it! thought Step. He knew about my secret assignment all along.
Dicky went on. “You’re also the programmer of Hacker Snack. So of course Damien wants to get a chance to meet you.”
“Great game,” said Damien. “You’re the best.”
Yeah, right, thought Step. And you want a job here and you have the delusion, you poor thing, that sucking up to me will help you get it. Dicky here has probably already decided that you’re not going to get an offer, and he’s just using you to screw up my family life.
Lost Boys: A Novel Page 18
