I’ll Become the Sea

by Rebecca Rogers Maher

  “Why did you get frustrated?” Jane asked. “Daniel?”

  “It was hard. We didn’t hear you.”

  “You didn’t hear me? I said each sentence three times. Did you get distracted? Were you thinking about something else?”

  Several students called out, “Yes.”

  “What were you thinking about? Getting your pictures taken?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does this happen a lot when I give directions, that you’re thinking about something else?”

  A few children nodded.

  “What do you think we can do about that?”

  “You can keep saying it over and over!” Tanya called.

  Jane agreed that she could say the directions more than once. “What can you do about it, to help you hear the important information that you need to know?”

  “We can listen.”

  “You can listen? How would you do that? What could you do to help you listen more effectively?”

  A hand shot up. “We can open our ears.”

  Another hand. “We can listen.”

  “Okay. You can listen. But what does that mean?”

  “We can listen,” Lisa nodded vigorously.

  Jane took a deep breath. “Let me show you one way to listen.”

  She sat down at a desk with a notebook and pen. At her request, a nearby student accepted the passage and began reading.

  Jane looked at the ceiling and wiggled her pen on the desk. The pen cap flew off and sailed across the floor. She stretched out to retrieve it and fell out of the chair.

  The students laughed.

  Climbing back into her seat, Jane hung off the edge with her legs extended. She mock-slapped the boy next to her. “Get away from my desk!”

  She opened her notebook and started drawing. She raised her hand and asked to go the bathroom and sang an off-tune song under her breath and clicked her pen against the desktop.

  When she was done, Jane asked them why it might have been hard for her to listen while moving all about like that.

  “Because you’re not listening.”

  “Explain to me what you mean. What was I doing instead of listening?”

  “You were hanging off your desk.”

  “You were playing with your pen.”

  Jane wrote down what they told her on chart paper, making a web of all the examples of non-listening.

  “Now watch this.”

  She modeled attentive listening, sitting up straight in her chair, hands on her cleared desk. She asked the student beside her to begin reading again and as he read, she looked at his face. She remained perfectly still.

  “What did I do differently this time?”

  She filled another chart with their responses and titled it Active Listening, posting it on the wall in the front of the classroom.

  She read the paragraph again, suggesting that students listen attentively to each whole sentence before they tried to write it down. This time, her students fared better. They worked in pairs, comparing their paragraphs to their drawings and evaluating how well they had managed the details. After twenty minutes, they returned to the whole group and shared their findings.

  They discussed why it was important to listen actively. She congratulated students who were exhibiting attentive behavior and praised those who were making an effort. She told them they would keep working on listening skills, that they were getting better and better and that by the end of the year they would be unstoppable.

  Still, most of the students remained restless. They were sweaty and uncomfortable in their stiff clothes. Their carefully gelled hair was wilting in the overheated classroom. Each time a voice came over the loudspeaker they went still, waiting to hear their class called to the auditorium for photos.

  By two o’clock, they were still waiting. Recess had further deteriorated their outfits and they knew it. Jane heard them fretting about what their mothers would do to them when they saw the dirt stains from the playground. They wiped and brushed at themselves under their desks.

  At 2:15, Tanya took out her hairbrush and started brushing her hair. Other girls followed. She took out her headband and buckled and unbuckled her shoes. She made a fan out of paper on her desk. She argued with Vanessa across the room. She sharpened her pencil and then threw it on the floor. She asked to go to the bathroom to check herself in the mirror. Fifteen students followed her example.

  At 2:30 they called Jane’s class. Jane brought them downstairs to the gym with their book bags. They waited on the floor for thirty minutes until the photographers ran out of time. Picture day was postponed until next week.

  The girls trotted out of the gym in their pastel gowns while the boys lurched forward with their suits and ties. It took Jane ten minutes to calm them down enough to form a straight line in the hallway. They made a flurry of pink fabric and sleek hair as they raced out to the street.

  Outside the school building, one of her students punched a school aide in the stomach. He was dragged to the office, where he accused the aide of child abuse. “She grabbed me! She grabbed me! I was getting on the school bus! She didn’t need to put her nasty-ass hands on me!”

  Jane went to help. “He’s my student. Daniel…”

  “Get out of the office.” The assistant principal had the child by the elbow. Daniel was pulling away, punching at the man’s arm. He glanced at Jane, his face contorted with fury. He looked like he was about to cry, and that only made him angrier. He started kicking the A.P. in the knees.

  “Get outa my face!” He punched toward the man’s gut.

  The assistant principal’s face turned a noxious red.

  Daniel aimed for the bookcase. He grabbed at whatever he could reach, hurling books and boxes to the floor. “I didn’t do nothing!”

  The A.P. went to restrain him. He called for the security guard. “Get out of the office, Ms. Elliott.”

  Jane got out of the office.

  * * *

  She didn’t stay late that day. She was covered in chalk and dust and could barely form a coherent sentence. Her lesson plans for the following day were already finished. She went home.

  It was a long ride down the boardwalk along Ocean Avenue. The salty wind knocked her bike around and whipped through her hair. She was tired when she reached her door, but cleaner somehow, less wrung out.

  Making herself a snack, she picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Ben.” She crunched into a slice of apple.

  “Oh hey, Jane, what’s up?” The sound of traffic filtered through the line.

  “Where are you? Sounds noisy.”

  “Just getting some shopping done. Listen. Can I call you back?”

  “Um, sure. I just wanted to say hello.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No, nothing’s wrong. I guess I had a bad day at school.”

  “What is it now?”

  Jane stopped chewing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, forget it.”

  “No. What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Jane. It’s always drama at that place.”

  “I just had a bad day.”

  “Every day there is a bad day.”

  “Ben.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry. I really have to go. I have to buy this stuff and get back to the studio. Call me later, all right? And don’t worry about your day. Those kids are lucky to have you during school hours. They don’t need to take up your whole night too.”

  “Or your night.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. Talk to you later. Say hi to Ana for me.”

  “Come on.”

  “It’s fine, Ben.”

  “I didn’t mean to be a jerk.” The muffled sound of his hand cupping the phone drowned out the blare of traffic. “I love you.”

  Jane closed her eyes. “I love you too.”

  * * *

  In the bathroom she ran hot water into the tub. A generous stream of bubble bath filled the room with a fine euca
lyptus mist. The foggy mirror didn’t hide her tangled hair, her chapped lips, her grubby, dull skin. The fragrant steam of the bath drifted over her and she closed her eyes.

  She’d gone to a small school, populated by middle class kids and a few poor families from the outskirts of her rural town. She’d been a quiet child, lank-haired, drab. A dedicated student who was noticed, if at all, for her good grades and her dogged niceness.

  One morning as she settled herself into her desk, her teacher laid a hand on her shoulder. “Jane. May I have a word with you?”

  Jane looked up, surprised. “Sure.”

  Nestling her bookmark into her book, she rose and followed her teacher to the hallway. She bit her lip, wondering if she had done something wrong, racing back through her mind to find anything that warranted a talking-to.

  She held her hands in front of her, kneading at her fingers. They were dry and sore, eczema making the skin crack on her knuckles. It had been cold that morning at the bus stop. A trickle of blood seeped out from one knuckle and she covered it with her other hand, hiding it.

  “I have some good news.” Mrs. Tate’s face glowed with pleasure. “The play you wrote was selected by The Children’s Theater. They’re going to come to the school to perform it. Not just our school, but other schools too. Yours was the only play in the county chosen. Congratulations!”

  Jane’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

  Mrs. Tate rested her hand on the top of Jane’s head. “Yes, wow. We have our very own published author right here in Room 342.” She smoothed back Jane’s hair, patting her softly on the back. “Well done, honey. I am so proud of you.”

  Jane went back to her seat. She sat down and read the next two chapters of her book. Listening through the morning’s lessons, she went to music class and packed her coat and sandwich at lunchtime along with the other kids.

  At lunch, she slipped into the cafeteria bathroom and cried, leaning against the wall of the toilet stall. Mrs. Tate was proud of her.

  * * *

  Jane watched her face disappear in the steam on her bathroom mirror. She took a breath and stepped into the bath, easing down into the hot soapy water.

  She hadn’t even told her mother. Not until the week they came to perform the play. Linda said she’d try to make it, but at the end of that school day Jane came home and found her in bed. The kitchen sink was overflowing with dishes.

  Mrs. Tate was proud of her. Jane had that, and nothing could take it away from her.

  She sank down into the bubbles. It was why she became a teacher. It was why she put herself through what she did. To take what Mrs. Tate had done for her that year and pass it on.

  Chapter Nine

  The club was small and dimly lit. Stepping in from the rainy night, Jane welcomed the warmth of the bar. She’d taken a taxi, alone, hoping to arrive late and attract as little attention as possible. It was heartening to see that the band had already begun setting up on the modest stage in back. She would be saved from nervous small talk, at least. No one there knew her and she was glad.

  Ordering a beer, she chose a seat to the side of the stage. The room was scattered with hipsters in pairs and groups, mostly standing, waiting for the band to begin playing. Some of them must have been friends of David’s. She felt self-conscious insinuating herself among them, as if they would see her and wonder what she was doing there.

  David stood on the stage leaning over an amp. He adjusted some wires and tuned his guitar, his back to the audience. The drummer sat beside him, a stocky guy in his thirties with a shaved head and a sleeveless white shirt already damp with sweat. His arms were gorgeously tattooed. Next to the drummer a bassist stood drinking a bottle of water and speaking in the ear of a young woman with bleached-blond hair. She was sitting on a stool in a short skirt with one cowboy boot propped on the lower rung.

  Jane looked back to David, reluctant to linger too long and be caught staring. He was wearing a gray T-shirt and faded jeans, an old pair of black boots. A blue handkerchief was stuffed in his front pocket. A lock of brown hair fell over his eyes as he kneeled down over the guitar. His back was still to her. The muscles in his arms moved as he worked.

  She had no business swooning over this man. It was unfair and unproductive in every possible way. The only way to avoid embarrassing herself was to get her heart under control. She missed Ben, she was confused about where their relationship was headed and she was lonely. The connection she felt to David simply added some missing excitement to her life. It felt real, though, and she had to look away from him.

  She got up to go to the bathroom and splash some water on her face. The scent of perfume in the crowd made her look up and take more notice of the people around her. The audience was mostly women, she saw now—young, beautiful women in small tight skirts and various shades of lipstick.

  She was wearing green pants and a black tank top. She was short and plain, a quiet schoolteacher here to see a platonic friend play guitar in his band. Surely she could not compete with all these women even if she were free to do so.

  The realization was almost a relief. If she could not curb her own wayward feelings, at least David would not return them. She walked into the bathroom past two young women preening themselves in front of the mirror.

  “Did you see that guitar player? Holy hot.”

  “Oh, my God, yes. I’m hoping he’ll spend the whole show bent over that amp. Yum.”

  Jane smiled behind the bathroom stall.

  “Do you think he’s dating the singer? Guitarists always date the singer. She’s pretty cute.”

  “I hope not. Or else I hope they’ve had their fling and moved on. Maybe she’s seeing the bassist now and Mr. Lead Guitar needs a new lover to get over it. That’s where I come in! Let Mama ease the pain!”

  The two girls laughed as they left the room. The door swung out behind them, briefly letting in the heat and noise of the club. Jane plunged her hands into the sink’s cold water.

  She hadn’t even thought about the singer. Maybe David was seeing her. All the better. Bringing her cooled hands to her face, she looked at herself in the mirror. She liked the way she looked, ordinary as she was. Her eyes were bright in the strong light of the bathroom. She may not have worn a lot of makeup, but she had put on her favorite earrings and a shirt that showed a little cleavage. If nothing else, this evening would give her something to laugh at herself about.

  The band started playing and she walked back to her seat. David was standing at the front of stage right, near her table, guitar slung low over his hips. She sipped her beer and watched him, hidden enough now by the low lights to do so outright.

  He was electric, his fingers pulsing over the strings of his guitar. The music was thick and fluid, driven by David’s lead and supported by booming bass and drums and the rich, melodic alto of the singer. She had a beautiful voice and paced like a panther across the stage, pulling the audience as she went. Their attention was on her while David drove the song to a shrill pitch, lifting her vocals up and out across the room.

  Jane turned from the singer to find David looking at her, his hands on the guitar. She caught his eyes while he played. His gaze went straight through her, into her middle where the vibration from the amps jarred her stomach. He stood with his legs slightly apart and moved his body slowly with the fast music.

  The second song was quiet, lonely and slow. Jane watched David play it with his eyes down, listening to the words the singer was breathing out at center stage. They were simple and lovely and somehow she thought they were his. He wasn’t looking at her. His shoulders were bent over the guitar. He concentrated on the movement of his fingers and on the floor.

  She thought about Raymond leaving her class to go to David’s center in the afternoon. She was possessive of her students, believing in an unhealthy way that she was the only one who could teach them well. Once in a while she met another teacher who looked at children with the right combination of sternness, dedication and love. She looked to those teache
rs for guidance and she tried to steer her students toward them.

  David was like that; she could see it when she visited him at the center. Watching him play, she saw that he would touch something in Raymond that she couldn’t reach. Raymond had the same look when he was drawing or writing a story that David had now: a kind of transformation. He might be teased for his problems with reading, he might not have a mother at home with him, but he had this, a consolation for his loneliness and a true gift.

  She wondered if David had been like Raymond when he was a kid. She imagined him shy and kind of nerdy. He was a little shy and nerdy now, actually, though with the confidence of a man who had grown to appreciate those qualities in himself.

  At the end of the set, Jane watched the band pack up, disconnecting wires and zipping instruments into their cases, preparing the stage for the next act. She was sipping the last of her beer and picking up her jacket when David hopped down from the stage and made his way toward her. He waved, motioning for her to wait as he stopped to greet some friends and shake their hands. Jane sat back down, watching his progress as he moved closer.

  “Hi!” he said when he reached her.

  She stood up to say hello and he pulled her into a hug. He smelled like wood burning.

  Oh, Lord, she thought. Help me.

  “You were amazing. I loved it.”

  “Oh, thanks. I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

  “A little rain won’t stop this gal.” She sounded like an idiot. “It was wonderful, really. Thank you so much for inviting me. You guys are really good.”

  He was still holding on to her arm. He looked at his own hand and flushed, pulling it away. “You’re not leaving, are you? Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Um, I was going to. But yeah, okay. I can stay a little while.”

  “Great.” He gave her a broad smile. “Be right back.”

  He returned with two beers from the bar and sat down beside her at the small table. They were both still, looking at each other across the table, then looking away.