by Jo Noelle
Oh, my gosh, I hope no one saw. I could say it’s just having trouble with the transmission—no, the AC. People here probably don’t even know which car is mine.
Beth comes to the door. “Your car was just towed away. Did you know?”
“Sure. I have a problem with the door locks.” Door locks? I said door locks?
Beth looks confused, but doesn’t say more.
Liam walks my students in from recess. “Bucky’s Towing just pulled your car away. Is everything all right?”
“I’m just having a little problem with the door locks. They’ll fix it and have it back soon. The keyless didn’t work.”
“They hauled it away for door locks? Maybe it was just the battery in your keyless. Why didn’t they just pop the door open with a slim jim? Even a wire hanger would have worked.”
Stupid. Stupid excuse. Of course door locks don’t make sense. “Well, I guess they do it differently. “Okay class, come to the rug.” I turn back to Liam. “I’ve got to run, see you later.” So. who didn’t see it get hauled away?
When I call Bucky’s at lunch, the person I need to talk to is also at lunch, and they ask me to call back. I don’t know when. I guess after school—no, I’m meeting with Archer’s mom. Tomorrow morning then.
After school, Archer’s mom comes in, and I begin by showing her some of his assignments. “Archer is very behind, but we’ll do everything we can to help him catch up. Was there anything his last teacher found to be effective for him?”
Archer’s mother shakes her head. “He’s never had a teacher. I’ve never sent him to school before.”
“Oh, were you home-schooling?”
“No. For the last three years, we’ve moved a lot. Archer’s dad was very abusive—to both of us. I’ve been hiding Archer.
As she continues to share some details, my heart feels heavy, and my chin quivers as I hold back tears for their challenges. She’s had to make some difficult decisions. My own father was a huge part of my life and security. Archer doesn’t have that right now. What can I do to make this better for this family?
“I thought if I sent him to school, his dad would find us, and I needed to keep us safe. But he’s gone now, active duty to Afghanistan. We’ll be okay for at least a year.”
She’s everything for Archer, now. I didn’t really understand the concept of in Loco Parentis in my Ethic of Education class. They were just words. I learned the definition—to stand in the place of the parent—and probably got it correct on a test, but right now, I really understand what it is and why it’s so important. When she enrolled Archer in my class, she asked me to act on her behalf—to teach her son, to give him a secure environment and improve their lives. Not to take her place, but to do for him what she would do if she could. It’s a sacred trust. She is giving me her most precious possession and the trust to serve him and her. I’m overwhelmed with the new insight I have of the work I am being asked to do. She, and every other parent in my class, is asking me to stand for them.
I push a tear from my cheek, and I explain to her what we’re doing in class and about the special tutoring Archer will receive from a volunteer, as well as mini-lessons from me each day. As we wrap up our conversation, I walk her to the door and give her a hug. She taught me today. Liam is leaning on the wall across from my door and follows me back into my room. “Hey.” His fingers clasp mine. “Could I give you a ride home?”
“I’d like that.” Us-time. This is exactly what I need. He’s not serious enough for this to be a relationship, and I shouldn’t be, but I really like being with him. I think I could like serious—with him, anyway. I ignore the pile of papers on my table and grab my purse and jacket.
Not even a date, and he opens my door for me. As we pull into my driveway, he asks, “There’s a football game on Saturday. Would you like to go with me?
Anywhere. “Sounds fun. What time?” For as long as you want.
“We can do dinner first. Can I pick you up at five thirty? That will give us plenty of time to drive to Denver.”
“Five thirty’s great. I reach over and hold his hand as he drives me home—still feeling a little tender from my meeting with Archer’s mom.
I walk to work again on Friday, but leave my door locked and shut the door behind me when I enter my classroom. I dial the towing company, but they refer me to my bank. When I dial the bank, I’m given my loan officer’s direct number. He answers, “Hello. May I help you?”
“Yes. I have a question about my car loan. My account number is 70329-011, and my name is Sophia Kanakaredes.”
After a pause, he returns to the line. “What can I do for you? He sounds cheerful and helpful. I’m sure he’ll be able to get this sorted out.
“I’d like to get my car back.”
“I can help you with that. Give me just a minute to add it up.” I wait. How long could it take to add up one missing payment? “The charges will be $1056.68 for the two payments, $150 for late fees, $125 for towing, $50 car storage if you pick it up today, and $350 for legal fees. $1741.56 is the total.”
“But I was only two days late!” What are you trying to pull? “One payment, two days.”
“I’m sorry, but our records show that the last payment we received from you was in August. Because the loan is new and you had only made two payments before you missed two payments, your loan is high risk. If you think this is an error, please bring your cancelled checks or receipts into our branch within ten days and we’ll make a correction on the account.”
“And remove the fees? And return my car?”
“We will make all the needed adjustments. Have a good day.”
That evening, I print out my bank statement. When I have proof, I’ll call back, and he will eat his words. And apologize. And give me my car back.
I look over my check register, and my bank statement, and my register again, and my statement again. How did I miss the payment, twice?
No car payment.
No car.
October 20, 2007
Newbie Blog:
You Think Grades are Real,
Don’t You?
Grades are an alphabetical assignment of our worth as students. They are supposed to tell if we’re smart or not, succeeding or failing. But I know plenty of “A students” who are kind of stupid in life. I can also name just as many students with poor report cards who shed the baggage of grades to succeed in life. You probably know them too.
So what are grades, and why does anyone think they matter?
I don’t have an answer for this, but I have a lot of questions. Why are we required to compare one child against another? Who benefits? Perhaps grades are just used to teach baby citizens social class distinction early.
Are teachers qualified to judge students? We all think so. I thought my teachers were, until last week when I realized I had to assign grades. It bothers me to think how much power is carried by the grades I might assign.
You see, the teacher chooses the assignments included in a grade. The teacher chooses how many points each piece of knowledge is worth, the range for assigning the labels of average, failing, or super brainy, and under what circumstances to ignore the points and over-ride the grade “earned.” Grades are not analytical, or unbiased, or objective. Assigning grades is like looking behind Oz’s curtain to find an ordinary person.
P.S. I’m giving myself one more week to decide, since I’m evenly torn between whether to quit or stay. But that’s a shift toward “stay” from last Saturday. I don’t know if it is a “stay,” but it’s not a “quit” yet.
Liam’s standing in my doorway, wearing a red hockey jersey with “Colorado Rapids” written in a crest on his left chest. He looks straight at my shirt, but not like he’s checking me out, then asks, “Is it okay if you change?”
I’m a little offended. He doesn’t have a Broncos jersey and he’s not even wearing blue and orange, and he’s asking me to change?
“We’re playing ReAL Salt Lake, and you’re in their c
olors. Maybe a red, light blue, or black shirt is better.”
I didn’t know Salt Lake has a football team.
As we drive past Bronco Stadium, there are no cars in the lots. “Um, where are we going?”
“The stadium is in Commerce City.”
“But that’s the stadium,” I say, pointing out the back window.
Liam laughs. “We’re going to a football game, but it’s the kind played with feet. We’re going to a soccer game, the Colorado Rapids.”
So not football-football, as originally indicated, nor is it hockey, like I thought his shirt implied.
The game kicks off under a darkening sky and stadium lights. I think we have good seats at about the fifty-yard line, or half court or whatever they call it. We stand each time the Rapids are playing close to the goal. Occasionally, Liam’s hands gesture wildly toward the field and he yells, “offsides” along with the rest of the crowd, which he explains to me twice. When it happens a third time, I just nod—I really don’t see it. I’m not a good learner, since I can’t keep my eyes off him. He’s friendly with the people sitting around him. They all seem to know each other. Does he see me as just a friend too—a buddy to take to a soccer match?
His team lost, but it was fun. I think I could like soccer. I had no idea it was as aggressive as it is. They crash into each other, then have to get up and keep playing, no pads or wimping out to recover on the sidelines. We walk back to his truck as he replays his favorite parts of the game or rails about the reffng blunders. A crisp breeze blows lightly in little gusts with the feel of autumn in it.
As we approach his truck, I’m not thinking about soccer. “So, are we friends, or are we trying to see if we like each other? Well, I don’t mean ‘like,’ but I was wondering if you’re wondering if this could be something more. I might need to know fairly soon, in case I’m taking this the wrong way. I’m kind of heading down that road toward really liking you. Oh, it wouldn’t be your fault. I’m like that—well, not so much, but definitely this time…now…about you. Or maybe I should stop talking ’cause this sounds like I’m passing a fifth-grade note. You know—I like you. Do you like me? Circle yes or no. It’s okay, because friends are okay. Can’t have enough friends, right?” Finally, I get hold of my mind and lips. Just stop. Jeeze.
What just happened? I had no intention of asking Liam to declare himself, and I really didn’t want to declare myself either. Oh, but I did! If I had planned it out, I could have waited until we were almost home, then we would have had less awkward silence in case he’s in the friend camp, and I’m really wrong about this.
Silence lumbers between us. My pulse was racing with expectation, but now, it’s racing with embarrassment. Could I not just leave it alone and enjoy his company? I pause at the passenger side and close my eyes and breath deeply, as he reaches for the door. But he isn’t opening it. Instead he lifts my hair away from my neck, moving it to the other side. His left arm folds around my waist as his lips touch against my ear and then my jaw and then my neck. Tingling waves flutter under my skin down my neck and back.
He slowly turns me to face him. “Yes, we’re friends,” he softly says as he kisses my cheek. “No, you can’t have too many friends.” Then he kisses my forehead. “Yes, I like you. . .” His nose brushes mine. “. . .very much.” The last two words move lightly against my mouth, then he presses his lips to mine, gently and briefly, but warm and firm, leaving the sweet taste of Sprite behind. All the anxiety I felt moments ago explodes into fireworks through my limbs.
Leaning slightly back, he smiles and looks into my eyes, then at my mouth like he’s checking to see if I would invite another kiss.
In answer, I slide my arms around his neck, slipping my fingers into his hair. His left arm tightens around my back as his other hand cups the back of my head—his lips again meet mine earnestly, strong and sure, kissing my top lip and then the bottom. Oh, I like that so much. This is not someone I have to learn to kiss—everything is right, our lips parting as we breathe together. This ends with a tight hug and another kiss on my forehead. Quietly and a little stunned, I lean into him, resting my temple on his neck, feeling his heart beat beneath warm skin.
“Yes, I wonder if this could be something more. I think so too,” he whispers.
In the morning, I replay the kisses over and over. Something in my stomach sparkles. “Yes, we’re friends.” “Yes, it could be something more.” Well, it sure felt like it. Mmm, over and over.
Monday. This is the first Monday I haven’t dreaded since August.
After recess, I stand in the hallway as my students file back into the classroom. Nearly everyone has passed by me when I hear shouting inside. Two boys are rolling on the large rug, and they aren’t the only ones yelling. Two or three more look on the edge of tears, watching the scuffle.
“Everyone to your seats.” Wow. That was my mother’s voice. I pull Jared straight up, leaving Sol lying on the rug. He gets up, then I escort both boys back to the hall. Before stepping out the door, I turn to my class. “Get out books to read until I get back.”
When I face the boys again, they look stricken. I remember my own fear when my mom’s voice barked out a clear command. This isn’t the time to go easy though. “What was the scuffle all about?” Neither boy speaks up, but Chad comes walking down the hall from the office.
“Chad didn’t kick the ball over the fence! You did!” Jared accuses. “But he got in trouble.”
“I didn’t say he did it,” Sol defends.
“Chad, could you join us?” I ask. “Were you boys playing together at recess?”
The boys nod, and Chad explains. “We were playing football, and Sol kicked the ball over the fence. It was our last ball, so I started climbing the fence to go get it. When balls go over the fence, we never get them back.”
“Then a teacher pulled Chad off the fence and took him to the office,” Jared says.
“What happened in the office?” I ask.
“Mr. Chavez said I couldn’t climb the fence, even to get our last ball.”
“Jared, Chad wasn’t going to get in trouble for kicking the ball over the fence. I’ll go over and see about getting our ball back if you three will shake hands so you can be friends again. You need to apologize too.”
The boys reach out to shake hands but don’t know whose hand to take. They laugh and keep shaking hands until I ask them to return to our classroom. Friendship restored. How did my mother pop out of my mouth? I look around to see if anyone else witnessed it.
Beth and I work until the agreed-upon time after school, then I head down the sidewalk, determined. If the employees of the retirement center are so bothered by school children and playground balls, why did they build near a school anyway? Bothered or not, they will give this one back. I’m on a mission.
The view of the building from the school’s playground resembles a hotel, with a long building behind a main entrance. A circular drive sets the building back from the road and is landscaped with a short evergreen hedge and rose bushes.
I stop at the desk inside the front door, where a red-haired man in a suit looks up with a smile. His name badge tells me he is Paul, but I don’t think we’re on a first-name basis. “I teach at the school next door. Today at recess, some of my students kicked our last ball over the fence. I wondered if you’ve seen it.”
“Oh, yes. We’ve seen it. Ruby rarely misses seeing them come over.” He motions me to follow him and continues, “In fact, I retrieved it today. A little orange football, right?”
We walk past the staircase and elevator into the hallway behind the living area. He pauses in front of an open suite, second door on the left. From the doorway, I see a cargo net in the corner of the room suspended from the ceiling, full of school balls.
From the doorway, Paul says, “You have a visitor, Ruby. May we come in?” Ruby sits in a cushy recliner beside a large window, looking out onto our playground. She waves us in. “This is a teacher from the school…I didn’t get your
name.”
“Sophie.”
“Paul, will you send us some refreshments?” Ruby asks.
Paul slips out the door, and I approach Ruby. “My students kicked an orange ball . . .”
Turning to me, she says, “Please sit down. I usually go to the restaurant, but it’s nice to have a guest today. We’ll have a nice chat about the school and enjoy some lemonade.” Her happy expression completely lifts her face, shining with happiness.
She seems to want or need some company today. I slide onto the sofa, wondering how long this might take. I have a little time I can spare.
“Is your name Sophia or Sophie?” Ruby asks.
“Sophia, but my friends call me Sophie.”
“Well, Sophie, then.” Her eyes are kind, and years of smiling are evident in ripples around her mouth and eyes. “So you teach at the school? Which grade?”
“First grade. Today at recess. . .”
“Please come in, Carol. Put it right here.” Carol deposits a tray with a pitcher and little cakes onto the coffee table. Ruby motions toward me with a glass.
“No, thank you.” I don’t have time to settle in. Ruby’s expression clouds just a bit at my response, but she quickly puts on a gentle smile, again. Oh, why not? I’m already here. “Um…maybe just that little lemon cake, though.”
Ruby hands me the cake, then pours a glass of water for herself and selects a poppy-seed muffin crusted with a sugared almond topping.
“First grade is a big responsibility, but they’re so cute, so sweet at that age, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I love it.” I realize I really do. “They say and do the funniest things.” Ruby inclines her head just a bit to encourage me to go on. “About a week ago, Marcus and David were watching the older boys playing basketball and must have noticed that they slap each other on the back when something good happened. When they came back to class, they started slapping each other’s backs. Now whenever someone does something good, they slap them on the back and say ‘good job,’ ‘way to go,’ or ‘awesome.’ They have the whole class doing it now. When someone gives the right answer, someone else slaps their back and says ‘way to go’. It’s a little disruptive, but I really like it.”
