by Dan Brown
I believed that knowing one's planet of origin was prerequisite to most other fourth-grade tasks. We had to get back to basics. As a class, we made a large poster titled “Where Am I?” and mounted it on the door.
On Wednesday, I led my students to the third-floor computer lab for our second-to-last session. First-year Fellow and Menzel underling David de la O cracked the door open. “Ms. Menzel's out today. I'm real sorry.”
My students heard him and looked distressed. “That's fine,” I said. “I'll run the class.”
“I don't know, I don't think Ms. Menzel would like that. This is my lunch period, so I don't know if I can—”
“David, I'm an expert. I'll run the class. It's okay. We're going in.”
He nodded tentatively and I sent my kids in. To cheers, I proclaimed, “We're going on the Internet!” I directed them to a youth search engine, and from there, instructed them to look up some ideas from our Drugs & Alcohol unit.
The kids discovered a bunch of excellent educational sites, complete with full-color gross-out photos of cirrhosis-ravaged livers and emphysema-addled lungs. At the end of the period, Jennifer told me she used to think computers were boring, but now she was going to ask her mom to teach her how to use them.
My attempts to get help for Marvin Winslow met brick walls. The tutors who pulled out six of my students for a daily fifty-minute session would not take him because his skills were too low. Marge Foley sat and read with him for twenty minutes here and there when her erratic schedule allowed. Because of the unwritten rule explained by Dr. Kirkpatrick at the September meeting, I could not refer him for full-time special ed.
In the parking lot, Marvin's mother assured me that every night she told Marvin he was “the little train that could,” and whenever he feels he can't do something, he just needs to try harder. I responded that it was lack of fundamental skills, not lack of effort, that was keeping Marvin down, fueling his low self-esteem and violent outbursts. I told her to read with him at home. She grimaced.
“I'm trying, but it's hard, Mr. Brown. I got four other kids and no husband, no job, and we're all staying with my mother. You understand?”
Some things were turning around. Although Bernard had begun the year fistfighting every day or two, he showed significant progress. With some stern words from his parents and my positive phone calls home and wild fits of praise for his self-control, he had not fought since the mid-November conferences.
Kids began understanding division and loving it. We learned long division through the traditional “DIVIDE MULTIPLY SUB-TRACT BRING DOWN” method. I showed them the mnemonic DMSB = “Dear Mrs. Sally Barbour” that I learned from my magnificent third-grade teacher, Mrs. Barbour, back in Johnson Elementary. That nugget from my background lodged in their memory banks and prompted a renewed assault of personal questions for me to duck.
At dismissal on December 10, Hamisi told me, “Mr. Brown, the class changed. We were bad and now we're good!”
“Yes, I'm very proud of all of you. It's more fun this way, isn't it?” Everybody smiled, but I was skeptical of Hamisi's assessment. Just a day earlier, I had dealt him a lunch detention for sneaking Fritos and cursing and throwing the bag when I called him on it.
Four-two-seventeen was a giant ocean liner, with changes in course difficult to feel or measure. My energy high from retaining Sonandia, from keeping my head above water, had quickly dissipated in the daily grind. That ordeal had made me feel tempest-tossed, treading waves overboard, thrashing wildly for a life preserver. Now I was rescued from the violent drowning, but I still had a long way to go.
Elizabeth Camaraza was at the end of her rope with her third-graders. “They are so petty,” she said. “I need Christmas or pills and neither is coming fast enough.”
Trisha Pierson looked pale and shattered every time I saw her. First grade was no picnic. “Theo will be the death of me,” she said. “I will be a dead person. I won't be alive. I need to get back in a real grad school.”
Cat Samuels projectile-vomited into the second-floor faculty toilet after a full-day coverage job with Evan Krieg's fifth-graders. I went into Krieg's class during my prep to babysit the class crazies, but that wasn't close to enough to salvage her relentlessly chaotic seven hours.
Not counting computer man David de la O, Marnie Beck was the only first-year Fellow who resembled herself from pre–September 8. This was amazing, since she took her lumps as hard as anybody, working special ed down in the sequestered basement. She stoically told me, “Right now, it's all about maintaining. Just maintain till the holidays. Then it's a new year.”
Eddie Rollins won a districtwide art contest. Ava Kreps, a lower-grade art teacher, had pulled Eddie out of 217 almost daily throughout the fall to work on a gigantic holiday-themed collage, which now earned him a day trip to the borough president's office for a photo opportunity and cake. He came to school on the day of the celebration wearing a dirt-splotched dress shirt, with a striped rayon necktie in his hand. He and Mrs. Kreps didn't leave for the borough president's building until 10 a.m., so Eddie sat silently at his desk, embarrassed at his unhip clothes. Three years older than his classmates, he found his physical maturity already a scarlet letter to bear; having to wear this square outfit was more of a punishment than a reward.
When the kids shuffled out of the room for SFA, I stopped Eddie on his way to the door. The tie was now draped around his neck. “Let me help you with that,” I said, tying him a smart Windsor knot.
“Oh my God, that's adorable! I need to get a picture of that!” Marge Foley enthused, spotting us while passing in the hall.
The photo of Eddie and me was enlarged and mounted near the office, where every fourth-grade class walks on its way to lunch. The next week, I heard Dennis say in the line, “Eddie, you look good with Mr. Brown. He's tying your tie!”
“Mr. Brown's the man,” Eddie replied.
I positively hadn't been “the man” according to Eddie before that picture existed. After its display, his somnambulistic demeanor changed, and he became one of my most engaged, trusted “team-mates.”
December 11 looked like it could be the first Thursday to pass without any major incidents. My newly invented “Twenty-Five-Second Challenge” proved an immensely effective vehicle for expediently moving the kids from their seats to the line. I told them my secret tabulation of successful Twenty-Five-Second Challenges would determine whether we would have a holiday party. For the dismissal line, I ticked down the seconds aloud in slow motion. The girls’ line was perfect. Even Lakiya stood shoulders straight, looking dead ahead, amused by the swift uniformity. The boys looked good except for Marvin and Tayshaun, giggling about eight feet off the line.
“Five… four…three…”
“Get in line, yo!”
“Come on, get in line!”
Athena's voice towered over the other pleading hisses. “Tay-shaun!”
Tayshaun wheeled suddenly and flew at her. “Shut yo’ mouth, bitch!” he shouted, clearly imitating something he had seen, and landed a sharp slap to the face. Athena burst into tears instantly, crouching down and holding her cheeks.
“Tayshaun!” I drove him against the chalkboard, my head suddenly light with rage.
Happening past in the hall, Linda Devereaux, stormy keeper of the Alternative Education Strategies in-school suspension room, caught the gist immediately. Tayshaun was one of her regular customers. “YOU LITTLE PUNK! YOU THINK THIS SCHOOL WILL TOLERATE YOUR DISGUSTINGNESS? LOOK AT ME! YOU'LL BE WITH ME ALL DAY TOMORROW AND EVERY DAY UNTIL YOU STRAIGHTEN OUT YOUR ACT!”
Tayshaun looked past her and laughed. Ms. Devereaux laughed right back with pure fury. “YOU'RE GOING TO WISH YOU NEVER DID THAT. I'll get him at lineup tomorrow.”
Athena's face was not bruised. I told her mother, Ms. Page, the whole story in the parking lot five minutes later. She shook her head, more sad than angry. “I feel bad for that boy. He probably has no parents to teach him right from wrong. It's a shame these kids aren't saf
e in their own school.”
Tayshaun was not in the morning line the next day. Or the next week. He cut school six days in a row. On Monday, Eddie told me he had seen Tayshaun from a distance that morning. He said, “T-Dog called over to me to go with him, but I didn't. I need to be in school.” I dialed Tayshaun's mother, but the number was now disconnected. I told the office I had a truant student wandering the streets. School security said they would send someone to check it out.
Meanwhile, problems with Deloris hurtled out of control. She told me the woman who came to our parent-teacher conference was not her mother and that she was not allowed to see that woman ever again. Deloris and Lakiya locked horns over nothing substantial as far as I could tell, but neither would let the other alone. “She bothering me!” both yelled several times a day, instigating denials, arguments, and fights. At lunch, Deloris threatened Destiny that the older Barlow sisters would follow Destiny home and jump her. I got so sick of Deloris's terrorizing ways that the sound of her voice repelled me.
On Tuesday, December 16, while I was at the weekly fourth-grade meeting during my prep period, the class went ape on mild-mannered Ms. Samuels. She deducted all kinds of group points and scribbled numerous disturbers of the peace on the Detention List, but they would not settle. When I returned, Cat looked ready to walk out of the Great Expectations School and never look back.
Later, I brought out the coveted Tarheel-blue Economy Candy bag, full of treats from the famous Lower East Side junk food outlet. I had bought twelve two-dollar Spider-Man chocolate bars to reward my consistent Homework All-Stars, but now the bag felt light. Four bars were missing. The class immediately caught my consternation.
“It was Deloris! She was in your desk when Ms. Samuels was here!”
“I saw her! It was Deloris!”
“Deloris was beasting!”
Deloris exhibited shock at her accusers. “I didn't do nothing!”
Everyone started yelling that Deloris was guilty. I silenced them. Maimouna raised her hand. “Deloris was eating them at lunch. She asked me if I wanted a piece, but I said no.”
“You lie, bitch!”
I sent Maimouna, along with the first two accusers, Bernard and Joseph, to Mr. Randazzo's office. Randazzo was usually willing to play detective and judge for a kangaroo court, and students often left his office puzzled but satisfied over his attention to the matter. However, this time I had lowballed the kids’ passion for proving Deloris's guilt. Half of the class rushed out in the hall, anxious to contribute testimony against her. A small melee erupted outside Mr. Randazzo's door. He looked at me as if to say, “What the hell is this?” I ushered my students back into 217 and stared longingly at the clock. Deloris upended her desk, claiming innocence. Marvin Winslow was the only one who did not come out against her.
Deloris had crossed a new line by stealing from me. This violation of my belongings struck me like a personal affront. It nauseated me to picture her opening my desk drawer and riffling through my papers until finding the chocolate, then gleefully showing off her plunder and offering Maimouna a taste.
I left school disgusted and went shopping for my Secret Santa recipient, math coach Al Conway. Chocolates, a classic rock mix CD, and VHS copies of The Dirty Dozen and Rio Bravo would have to suffice.
A minute after midnight on Wednesday, December 17, the third and final Lord of the Rings movie was loosed upon the world. I was a bona fide Rings fanatic and Return of the King had always been my favorite book of the trilogy. Samwise Gamgee was my hero. Six friends were catching the first screening, and there was no way I was going to miss it.
I stumbled out of Middle Earth at a quarter to four and reached my apartment at 4:12 a.m., sixty-three minutes shy of my alarm beep. I couldn't even sleep, though, still charged up from the movie's perilous adventures. I knew I would crash at some terrible point in the coming school day, but I didn't worry about it.
Mr. Randazzo greeted me in the office with miraculous news. “I'm taking Deloris out of your class permanently, starting today. You're beginning to pick things up and she's brutal.” I silently exulted. Then came the rub. “I'm going to throw her in with 4-111.”
Karen's room.
No, I thought. No, no, no. Karen's class is going well. She has her three musketeers (Dequan, Dontrell, and Arthur) relatively contained and a healthy community dynamic. She plays games and holds “Class Council” meetings that could never happen in my room.
Should I stand by for the destruction of Karen's hard-earned positive classroom culture to lighten the burden on myself? I thought about telling Mr. Randazzo to forget about it, and, while he was in the class-switching mood, to send me back Fausto. I could see Pat Cartwright struggling every day. Someone had to teach the sacrificial crazy class. Mr. Spock said, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few,” and he was always right, or at least logical. Then I thought about Sonandia, Jennifer, Athena, Evley, and Destiny, and said nothing.
“Dan, you okay?”
I nodded and went to my room. Karen came by fifteen minutes later. She had already gotten the news. “Deloris's behavior is terrible,” I said. “Do anything you can to get Randazzo to put her in another room.”
“There's nowhere else for her. Fiore would bitch and moan till she got her way. Mulvehill just got two new kids yesterday, and Cartwright's class is already horrendous. It's all right.”
“No. I'll hang on to her,” I said.
“No. We'll try it out. I'll take her till winter break, and we'll see how it goes. It's okay, trust me.” She said the words, but I don't know if she believed them.
Karen saved my life. With Deloris out, the new 4-217 was a comparative dream. I was able to spread Lakiya, Marvin, Eric, and Bernard to the four corners of the room. Tayshaun was still out of school roaming the streets.
At lunch, Karen said Deloris was silent and polite all morning. “It could just be a honeymoon period, but at least I know she's capable of doing work and being quiet. I sat her far away from Dequan. They seem to be okay with each other.” We both knew Dequan and Deloris had started their third-grade year in Ms. Claxton's class, but got separated when Dequan brought a knife to school to, in his words, “stab her in the titty.”
In the afternoon, I was leading a review of division with remainders when a distinct fart ripped across 217. “What the hell was that?” Bernard shouted.
“Hey!” I countered. “Watch your language.” My voice tripped, and I laughed. In a moment, I recovered my straight face. Gigantic smiles instantly swept the room.
“That's nasty, Athena,” Lakiya mumbled, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I moved to defuse the issue. “Relax, Dr. Ray. It is a perfectly natural—”
WHAM! A second, exponentially more powerful encore thundered out of Athena Page's group two. She pressed her palms to her temples, elbows on the desk, with a tiny smile of guilty amusement on her face.
“You crazy, Athena!” Lakiya screeched.
I couldn't help it. I laughed. Then I couldn't stop. I had one of my dad's signature hysterical fits. Tears trickled down my face. The whole class burst into weird laughter.
“Mr. Brown taking the laughing gas!”
“Mr. Brown gone crazy!”
When the dust settled, it was dismissal time. I was working on no sleep and no over-the-counter meds, but the mix of no Deloris and some maniacal laughter felt better than just about anything else all year. I went home and fell into bed.
Marvin's mother had said in October that he was blind in one eye and that was the reason for his deficient reading skills, but that she could not get him glasses because she was unemployed. I told Ms. Guiterrez about the situation, and she immediately arranged a conference and submitted paperwork to get Marvin state-subsidized eyeglasses. My early encounters with Guiterrez were strange and disconcerting, but when it came to dealing with parents, she was an effective human tornado.
At lineup on Thursday, December 18, Marvin tugged on my sleeve. He looked terrifi
ed. “Mr. Brown, I got glasses,” he whispered, his right hand fingering the new soft case in his jacket pocket.
“That's great news! Let me see them!” He shook his head. “Okay, you'll show me when we get to class. I'm sure they look very sharp. I need to get glasses myself,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. He smiled.
At the beginning of the math lesson, Marvin silently slipped on his new glasses. For a moment, he did not look like a lost little boy.
“Marvin has four eyes,” Julissa said. “Julissa! Marvin looks extremely good right now and can see sharper than any of you! I'm jealous of how well he can see and I want to get glasses for myself. Group two loses three points for that rude, mean comment!”
It was too late. Marvin had already buried his face in his folded arms, sobbing. His new glasses were on the floor under his sneaker. I picked them up; they were destroyed.
Edith Boswell and Cheryl Berkowitz had invented the Performing Arts Class program as a fourth- and fifth-grade honors class with some music and drama added in. Both sections (thirty-plus students each) were housed in the same extra-large classroom, separated only by a bookcase. The main event on the PAC calendar was the Holiday Show, a seventy-five-minute singing and dancing extravaganza.
My kids looked forward to the latest annual “2B Production” with fervent anticipation. Aside from Mr. Randazzo's monthly announcements of the lineup rubric winners, they had no assemblies and certainly no music.
Four-two-seventeen sat in the back. I couldn't decipher much of the action since the actors worked without microphones, but Santa was in trouble and Harry Potter, Spongebob Squarepants, and Beyoncé Knowles were contestants on some kind of game show that could get him out of his scrape. Sonandia whispered to me that this seemed like the same show as last year. After a half hour, my kids started to writhe. Eric Ruiz got shushed nine times. The performance closed with a rousing singalong to “Crazy in Love.” Standing by the rear doors, Boswell and Berkowitz radiated embarrassment at their creation.
