The Art of Persuasion

by Midalia, Susan;

  ‘I was just being defensive. I almost failed English at school.’

  ‘Well, I did fail chem, so you’re one up on me.’ Hazel laughed. ‘I was in love with the chem teacher, like every other girl in the school. A few boys as well.’

  ‘Well, we do have a certain animal magnetism,’ said Lucas. ‘It’s one of the job requirements.’

  So he could laugh at himself as well.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘you might be pleasantly surprised to know I’m a bit of a reader. I’m a huge fan of sci-fi but only the challenging stuff. Asimov and Philip K. Dick, dudes like that.’

  More writers Hazel hadn’t read. And when was the last time she’d picked up a novel?

  But Lucas was giving her an education now. Did she know that Asimov had written over five hundred books? And over ninety thousand letters and postcards? Hazel shook her head. And did she know that Asimov was a claustrophile?

  ‘It’s a love of small, closed-in spaces,’ said Lucas. ‘When Azimov was a child he really wanted to own a magazine stand in the subway. In New York City. He wanted to shut himself in and listen to the rumble of the passing trains.’

  ‘Well, that’s unusual.’

  And she did like that gap in Lucas’s front teeth.

  ‘I reckon a subway station would be comforting,’ he said. ‘You know, you’d feel sheltered, kind of cosy, but you could always come up for air and walk around the city and then go back again.’

  ‘A claustrophile,’ she said. ‘I like that idea.’

  And she liked Lucas for telling her.

  He moved a little closer. ‘You look amazing with that hair,’ he said. ‘I mean, you looked great before, but now you look ravishing.’

  She blushed. Of course. When was the last time a guy had called her ravishing? Called her anything vaguely erotic?

  ‘Can I message you then?’ he said. ‘We could do dinner.’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  Because this sounded perfunctory, even a touch ungracious, she added that she’d really like that. Would look forward to it.

  Martha flopped down between them and sighed.

  ‘A mother wants me to give her kid some homework,’ she said. ‘She clearly doesn’t know it has zero educational value, it’s just designed to placate anxious parents like her.’

  ‘Be grateful you have one who takes an interest,’ said Lucas.

  ‘I’m grateful if they have one,’ said Martha. ‘Parent, that is.’

  Hazel felt a stab of envy. They seemed so easy together, and in two days time she’d be gone.

  ‘The kids spend six hours a day in the classroom,’ said Lucas. ‘They deserve a break.’

  They actually liked their students. Maybe teaching could be different, not feeling strapped on a rack until you wanted to scream. Like the man in the famous painting by Edvard Munch. She used to think that scream wasn’t existential at all but the anguish of a teacher heading off to work. Maybe she could work part-time, or even keep doing relief. She liked the spontaneity of her classes, which she knew was unorthodox, as well as educationally unsound, for children craving order, even if they didn’t know that’s what they were craving. But for the next couple of days they were having some fun and discussing the meaning of life. Maybe she could bring in a copy of The Scream, and say, there: what do you make of that? Let’s discuss it. It might be the first time they’d seen a famous painting, even as a print. She could ask them why they thought it was so famous. Tell them it was stolen from a museum. Would they do that? Or if they had money, how much would they pay for it, and why? How would they rather spend the money? She could ask them to give all this some thought and then write it down. The meaning of life, in a very short essay. Then she’d take the essays home and read their reflections and give them back on Friday, after which she’d never see them again.

  She’d miss some of them, Rita most of all. The girl who thought Tonight could take you anywhere. She’d stayed back after class to talk about going to uni but no one in her family had ever been to uni and they thought she was up herself. Hazel had asked her what she wanted to study and the girl, all thick black eyeliner and pouty mouth, had looked at her, stunned, and said that everything’s interesting. Hazel could have made a joke about an arts degree but she’d taken Rita seriously. Rita had the right to be taken seriously. They’d ended up talking for an hour—more meaning of life stuff—about intellectual pleasure, the value of the humanities, the purpose of critical thinking: all the things she’d cared about when she was Rita’s age, until she’d ended up doing a job she hated. That she didn’t hate now. Which, if anyone had asked her, she would say had gone pretty smoothly, except for a few speed humps along the way. Rita was thinking of teaching, she’d said, but not with a pack of morons like Jaxon and Bobby and why were boys such morons and did Hazel think that boys were really immature? And Hazel had nodded and said that sometimes boys just grew taller and wore long pants. Which Rita had thought was hilarious.

  Hazel would miss Jamal as well. The boy who didn’t want to tell his story when she’d asked because he was worried for his grandma, still living in a village in Afghanistan. Unsafe. He was a soft, gentle boy with light, floating hands. But she wouldn’t miss Bobby, who liked to goad her and accuse her because she must have stood for everything he despised. Like the spitting girl, Kayla Watts, because she too had a name. She would miss Magenta, who’d turned her image of a black cat into a spiky kind of poem and asked Hazel for her opinion, stood taller with the praise.

  Magenta told Hazel that her haircut looked sensual. Which wasn’t the same as sensuous, she’d said. She’d checked it out in the dictionary.

  Revelations

  ‘What a bunch of wankers.’

  Martha’s voice.

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Those cretins at the next table.’

  Hazel turned to look. It was the guy who’d felt her up on the day she’d arrived, flicking over a newspaper now, talking to a colleague. Frothing at the mouth, really, about that woman from the Greens…always poking her nose in those detention centres…making trouble…coaching kids to self-harm.

  ‘And she’s built like a brick shithouse,’ said his colleague. He looked like a guy in an ad for luxury cars: suave, darkly handsome.

  Lecherous Paws grinned. ‘She should spend less time in those places and get on a treadmill instead,’ he said. ‘Get rid of that big fat arse.’

  Hazel wanted to scream. It was fat chicks shit me all over again, but these men were teachers. They had tertiary qualifications and children in their care. Lucas nudged her: he must have seen the look on her face.

  ‘Just because people have a degree hanging on their wall,’ he said.

  ‘Well, thank goodness the kids are different,’ said Hazel. ‘They’re prepared to think about things. And they’ll accept anyone, as long as they’re nice kids, or play sport well. I’ve seen Percy and Jamal on the oval and the kids think they’re great.’

  ‘You’re idealising,’ said Lucas. ‘And you’ve only been here for eleven days.’

  So he’d been counting. Keeping her in his thoughts. But Hazel was still put out.

  ‘I can tell you some pretty bad stories,’ said Martha. ‘Some of the kids in my classes, the way they talk about Indigenous kids. They love the players when they’re kicking goals and taking speccy marks but not when they stand up for their culture.’

  ‘It’s not their fault,’ said Hazel. ‘It’s the media. And their parents.’

  ‘Or their stepmother,’ said Lucas. ‘Or stepfather. Or their mother’s third boyfriend in six months who uses all her money to buy drugs. So many dysfunctional families, I can’t tell you.’

  Hazel leaned towards him. ‘That’s such a class stereotype,’ she said. ‘I have a friend from a middle-class family whose father walked out on them when she was six years old. Five kids in the family. And my parents’ friends, so many with broken marriages. Who says the nuclear family is the best way to bring up kids, anyway? What matters is having a
parent who loves them, cares for them.’

  Because there was always that, wasn’t there? You could never take that away from him.

  She could see them looking at her strangely: earthy Martha and thoughtful Lucas. Had she raised her voice? She looked around the staffroom: teachers eating, laughing, whining, making coffee.

  ‘I have an idea,’ she said. ‘Education sessions for the staff. And then maybe the parents.’

  ‘Education sessions?’ Martha and Lucas spoke as one, raised their skeptical eyebrows.

  ‘You know. Information. Challenging racial stereotypes and myths about asylum seekers. Facts on climate change. We could discuss domestic violence, too. Oh, I know that could be tricky, but—’

  ‘It’s not that the teachers don’t care,’ said Martha. ‘Some of us sure do. It’s just that we’re too fucking exhausted.’

  ‘We know you mean well, Hazel,’ said Lucas.

  They fell into silence and she fidgeted about, opened her lunchbox, closed it again.

  ‘What about lunchtime talks?’ she said. ‘You know, a captive audience.’

  Lucas reminded her that she was leaving tomorrow. Martha nodded to confirm the bleeding obvious. And so when lunch was over, there was nothing to do but stand up, leave, sit in her empty classroom, wait for half an hour until the elevens came sprawling in.

  She could see her future dangling before her again. That damned noose was feeling tighter.

  At least she had her new haircut to console her. She’d sent Todd a photo and he’d shot back an effusive text. Dora had joined in as well: !!!!!!!!!!!! Hazel had asked if he was happier, waited some time for an answer, then he’d sent her a smiley face.

  Getting easier and thanks for listening. You’re the best. How was that party and did the kid like his book?

  Hazel had paused, wanting to pretend. But this was Todd, who was doing his best.

  I had a fight with the boy’s father

  Crap so what about?

  It’s not important and I can’t really remember anyhow

  So she’d ended up pretending to help her forget. Blue eyes and the touch of his hands and telling her what he’d never told anyone before. Those unexpected tears.

  Teaching had been up and down. The good, the bad and the ugly, the light-bulb moments and the predictable blackouts. She’d learned not take things too hard, to be a little kinder to herself. In a matter of twelve days, she had understood what she hadn’t grasped in two long years: to take the longer view. To be patient. Except now she was leaving. And wasn’t this the essence of tragedy: to acquire wisdom only when it was too late? Not that her situation was tragic, but it wasn’t comic either. It was, in truth, a little sad.

  On Friday she geared herself up to leave. The students didn’t shower her with cards or gifts, heap words of adulation upon her inspirational head. Although her year twelves did give her a box of Cadbury’s Favourites (unwrapped), and much to her surprise, a card from Bobby: Thanks for teaching me about life and women and stuff. She couldn’t have asked for a better reference. Martha and Lucas were taking her for a drink as well. Which was good of them, she thought; generous; and it would give her some alcoholic closure.

  She trundled back to the department, thousands of useless calories in her hands, and found a note waiting on her desk, in large black print. See Ms Hipkins in her office. Had she done something wrong? Should she have followed the curriculum more assiduously? Placed more emphasis on literacy? (She’d never done that PowerPoint.) Had there been too much discussion and not enough writing? Too much laughter? No one in her office knew what was up, so Hazel made her nervous way to where she’d never been before. Tried to calm down by imagining the worst that could happen. She could hardly get the sack, could she? Still, you wouldn’t want a lousy reference.

  The principal had been welcoming, and now she was—what—summoning her?

  Hazel was met by a smiling assistant, offered a seat. She looked around, avoided checking her phone for distraction. And now, here she was: Ms Hipkins, in a bright pink lacy shirt and a tiny black leather skirt, chorus-girl high heels. And that hair! Like she’d been to an all-night party and was just waking up.

  But she was the principal. She had the power.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Hazel.’ The principal offered her a chair, then leaned forward, eyes wide. ‘I love your hair,’ she said. ‘You must have paid a fortune for a cut like that.’

  Hazel laughed. ‘A friend did it. For free. I don’t have a fortune, actually. I’m more or less broke.’

  Fuck, Hazel. Pull yourself together.

  The principal folded her hands in her lap.

  ‘We’d like you to stay for the rest of the year,’ she said.

  Hazel tried not to fall off her chair.

  ‘The teacher you’re replacing…’ The principal went on to discreetly explain about the poor man needing a break. ‘You’ll be doing the school a great favour, Hazel.’

  ‘But…but I’m only the relief teacher.’

  ‘I’ve had a number of phone calls from parents, saying you’ve made their children want to come to school.’

  ‘But Ms Hipkins—’

  ‘Julia, please.’

  ‘Julia. Making them feel happy doesn’t get them very far. Does it? I mean…’ She petered out. Why was she objecting?

  The principal smiled. She looked like a woman comfortable in her skin, although that tight leather skirt could make it difficult.

  ‘Feeling happy is a good start, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I’ve seen some of your students coming out of your classes. They look ready.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Keen.’ The principal waved a hand. ‘I was never the best at English but I’m good at reading faces. And I’d be really pleased to have you on board, you’d really be helping us out. It’s only part-time but you’ll have to come in every day. And having a year twelve class is extra responsibility. Just getting some of them to graduate, step onto that stage, can be a major achievement. Do you understand?’

  Hazel nodded.

  ‘And you’ll have to do all the routine things like bus duty and lunch duty, although it’s a chance to chat with the students while you’re reminding them to put their rubbish in the bin. I’m aiming for a litter-free school by the end of the year, even earlier if possible. Less clutter in the quad, less clutter in their heads.’

  Hazel listened. She considered.

  ‘Are you worried about their results, Hazel?’

  ‘Well, they need a lot of help.’

  The principal nodded. ‘I measure our success not by prizes or exhibitions but by the number of students who achieve their goals. And if that means scraping a pass in English, that’s wonderful.’

  ‘Or maybe we can help them find a goal?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Ms Hipkins—Julia—cleared her throat. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Hazel, are you worried about money?’

  ‘No, not at all. I mean, I’ve been living on Newstart for a while and, well, I can live very simply.’

  Because you could, you most definitely could, if other things mattered more than money.

  The principal sat up in her chair, stretched her arms, and the middle button of her bright pink shirt went pop, bounced onto the floor.

  ‘Now it goes without saying,’ said Ms Hipkins. Which meant that it had to be said. ‘You have a curriculum to follow. Proper lessons. Programs. Appraisal.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Which doesn’t mean your lessons can’t be fun.’

  ‘Of course. I mean, of course not.’

  The principal smiled, her job done. She was practised. Approachable. Committed. And, Hazel thought, a decent kind of person doing a valuable job.

  ‘Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’ she said.

  ‘I just want to thank you. It means a lot. Your faith in me.’

  The principal’s face brightened. ‘So. Welcome to Cranfield,’ she said, then looked down at her feet. ‘I’ve lost a button from my shirt. Did y
ou happen to see where it landed?’

  Walking back from the office, Hazel had a call from her mother.

  ‘I’ve compromised,’ she said. ‘I told your father he can have sex whenever he loses a kilo.’

  Hazel tried not to laugh at her down-to-earth mother, who by the usual rule of families ought to have embarrassed her.

  ‘We came to an agreement,’ said her mother. ‘After we had sex.’

  This time Hazel did laugh. Because her parents were happy and she was happy and the rest of the term would be a challenge, and the one after that until the end of the year. Growing. Creating a spark.

  ‘How are you, Hazel?’ said her mother. ‘We haven’t heard from you for a while.’

  What could she say? I met a man who broke my heart? Except that he hadn’t, not really. He was a good man, a good father, but he hadn’t been attracted. What did it really matter, in the end? At least she’d had his respect. Because she had tried hard to change some minds and it hadn’t been just to impress him. She was smart and informed and prepared to work hard, because Hazel always tried to do her best.

  ‘I have a new haircut,’ she said. ‘It’s very very short.’

  ‘Honestly? Why? I mean…your beautiful hair.’

  Further confirmation that mother-love was blind.

  ‘I was kind of press-ganged into it, Mum. But I like it. And, well, I have a job, too, a real one. For the rest of the year.’

  ‘Sweetheart, that’s terrific. What is it?’

  ‘Teaching.’

  Silence.

  ‘It was only relief to start with but they’ve asked me to stay on. It’s a pretty rough but wonderful school.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s kind of funny. I thought I’d left teaching forever but it seems it never left me.’

  Her mother invited her to celebrate, said she’d even let Jim have one glass of wine if he chose to stick to the bargain. Because it was important to give people a choice, she said, to let them decide for themselves.

  Hazel made a date for a glass of champagne, said goodbye, looked up and across at the oval. She saw boys and girls running and leaping, in training for football or netball, games that gave them the pleasure of using muscles and limbs, their arms flashing, legs pumping. Fifteen-, sixteen-, seventeen-year-old kids: she would have such creatures in her care. It didn’t really daunt her now, even though she’d have to dig deep, listen carefully, patiently, to what they were saying, instead of only thinking of herself. Just like she’d tried to do with Jessie when she’d seen him whole and true. Because that’s what she’d done without knowing it, and it was good to know it now. Even if she never saw him again, would never know what happened to a trusting little boy. He was destined to be one of those people who leapt into your life and then suddenly disappeared but who left something pure in their wake. Which made her feel happy, and a little empty, before the emptiness went away.