Girl Meets Class

by Karin Gillespie

  “The carpet in this living room is an interesting color. What would you call it?” Joelle said.

  “Mud?”

  “Well, at least it won’t show dirt. And you have to admit it’s convenient to step out of your door and be only yards away from a dozen different restaurants.”

  “Yes. I can see the Cracker Barrel sign from my bedroom window.”

  “I’m sorry. I know this must be hard on you, especially getting a job at Harriet Hall.”

  “The school’s not so bad.”

  “That’s because the students haven’t gotten there yet. I deal with Harriet Hall girls and their boyfriends every day at the hospital. I don’t think you have any idea what you’re in for.”

  “Aren’t you always telling me how attached you get to your patients?” Joelle worked in labor and delivery.

  “True, but if they give me any sass I can poke them with a needle. You don’t have that option. Ten minutes into your first class, you’ll probably want to run out the door screaming.”

  “Will not,” I said, feeling a little stung.

  From the beginning of our friendship, Joelle had always taken on a maternal role with me. She was two years older and naturally bossy. (Her brothers used to say she was so bossy she’d tell water which way to run.) She also considered herself to be far more worldly than me. To her, my years at the tennis academy and my participation in countless tournaments was sort of an airy-fairy Disney World existence that had little resemblance to real life. But once my teaching year was over Joelle would have to admit I was no longer a naive girl living in a gilded cage. Working at an inner-city school would give me a little street cred.

  Monday morning arrived like an uppercut to the jaw. Sunday night my next-door neighbors kept me up all hours. I don’t know what they were doing until three a.m., but it sounded like either bowling or demolition. Unfortunately I lingered too long over coffee and Cocoa Puffs and ended up pulling into the faculty parking lot five minutes late.

  I signed in, fudging the time (thankfully the mean secretary wasn’t skulking about) and sprinted across the field to my portable. When I opened the door, a blast of refrigerated air greeted me. I raised a victory fist over the working air conditioner, but my elation petered out when I ventured further into the room and found myself awash in a sea of desks. There were so many I could barely move without bumping into one. It was as if they’d been mating over the weekend.

  Carl strode in. He looked professional in a crisp white shirt, diamond-patterned tie, and dark linen suit. His earring was absent; I guess he took it off to teach. I was about to toss off some flirty remark when I noticed a gold ring on the appropriate finger glinting the Morse code message, “Married. Hussies keep away.”

  I could have sworn he hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring during our previous encounters. My disappointment must have shown on my face, because he said, “Problem?”

  “Look at all these desks. I only need about ten or twelve, and there must be forty in here.”

  “No big deal. Throw out the extras. I’ll get some help.”

  Three young men were hanging out near the entryway of the portable. Carl beckoned them over. They were all garbed in baggy denim jeans and tennis shoes big enough to stomp out a campfire. They also wore shifty expressions like they were plotting a Circle K robbery.

  “Tavaras, Steve, Drequann. I need you to go in and take out nine desks apiece,” Carl said to them.

  I almost expected them to whip out switchblades and say, “Make me,” but the boys didn’t hesitate. They obediently headed inside to complete the chore.

  I could see their toughness didn’t hold up at a distance. Up close they were gangly-limbed and had the kind of baby-faced cheeks grandmas loved to pinch. Made me feel sheepish for stereotyping them.

  “Wait,” I said. “What if it rains?”

  “Not your problem. And if you have too many desks that means someone else is short. They’ll probably be gone in an hour. By the way, I brought you a little first-day-of-school present.”

  He handed me a brick-sized piece of stained wood. Carved into the surface was my name: T. L Wells. Too bad I had no idea what it was.

  “Thank you so much for this lovely…uh…objet d’art.”

  He laughed. “You have no clue, do you?”

  I shook my head, embarrassed.

  “It’s a hall pass. I had Doc, the shop teacher, make it for you.”

  “Of course! Thank you. I shall cherish it always.”

  “Just a gift from one friend to another. Hope you have a good first day. I better get a move on.”

  It was freezing in the portable so I turned the thermostat up. The frigid air continued to blast from a large vent in the ceiling.

  Shivering, I made a final inspection of my classroom. I’d covered up some of the filthiest graffiti with construction paper, and plugged up the hole with old towels. I also visited a teacher supply store, but all the prepared bulletin boards seemed babyish. I decided to put up a black-and-white poster of a wild-haired Janis Joplin. I’d always been a huge Joplin fan, and although my students probably didn’t know who she was, maybe they’d be curious and we could have a lively discussion about her. Kind of a history lesson.

  Just then the bell rang. Actually it was more like a buzzer and it sounded like the whine of dozens of gnats.

  Show time!

  I went to the portable’s porch to greet students. The field teemed with loitering teenagers, shrieking with laughter, chasing each other in the dirt, and talking so loudly you’d think they were attending a school for the hard-of-hearing. The mood was festive, and no one seemed even mildly interested in going to class. Was that typical?

  A skinny girl with an oversized head skipped up the stairs to the portable. I smiled. Maybe this was my very first victim? Oops. I meant student.

  “Are you taking Miss Beecher’s place?” the girl said. She stood too close, elbows jostling me, hot breath in my face.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ms. Beecher was in this classroom last year.” The girl smiled, revealing two prominent front teeth covered with a scrim of yellow plaque. I made a mental note to plan a lesson on oral hygiene ASAP.

  “She had to leave because they took out one of her lungs. It was rotten.”

  “Are you sure?” I remembered Carl’s joke about the asbestos.

  The girl nodded. “I’m Janey. Who you?”

  “I’m Toni Lee.”

  “Ms. Toni Lee?”

  “Just plain Toni Lee. That’s my first name and that’s what you should call me.” Letting students call me by my first name was in line with the loose management style I had in mind for my classroom.

  “What kind of candy you brung?”

  “Brought,” I corrected, switching into teacher mode so smoothly it surprised me. “I didn’t bring candy.”

  “Oooh. Mrs. Toni Lee. You done messed up. You supposed to bring candy.”

  “It’s not Mrs. Toni Lee. It’s Toni Lee. As for the candy—”

  “Can I hold a dollar? I need it for lunch.”

  “Well, if it’s for lunch.” I rifled through the wallet in my purse and plucked out a bill. “I only have a five.”

  Janey seized the money. “I’ll be back.”

  “Wait a sec. It’s almost class time and—”

  I was talking to empty air; Janey had already banged down the steps. The second bell rang but there was no sign of my students. I couldn’t imagine what was going on. I knew my classes were supposed to be small but this was ridiculous.

  I returned to the portable and sat at my desk, rubbing my goose-pimpled arms, wondering how long I should wait before I went to the front office to investigate the Case of the Missing Students. I was glancing at my class roster when the door opened and six teenagers
tramped inside, two females and four males.

  Like members of a synchronized theater troupe, they each picked up a desk and placed it in the very back of the room against the bulletin board. One boy with a long face and hooded eyes slumped backwards in his desk. Surliness rose from the group like smoke from a cigar. On their heels came Janey, holding an oversized Butterfinger candy bar and a can of Mountain Dew, bought, no doubt, with my money.

  “Why are you tardy?” I said to the new arrivals.

  No response. Six sullen faces glared at me. Janey’s mouth was too stuffed with Butterfinger to answer.

  “Since it’s only the first day I’ll excuse you, but I do expect you to be on time from now on. Understood?”

  The students in the back of the room merely glowered and slouched in their desks.

  “They’re scared,” Janey said. She was licking chocolate off her fingers. “They don’t want anyone seeing them going into the special ed room. People make fun of them.”

  I smiled, pleased to have a chance to show them how caring and easygoing I could be. “You know, it’s not a shame to need extra help. All through high school and college, I was a jock, and I had tutors to get me through. Even though I was a little embarrassed at first, in the end, I was grateful for the assistance.”

  Their expressions didn’t change; my words were like bullets bouncing off a Kevlar vest.

  I cleared my throat, wondering why I wasn’t getting through to them. “In fact, some of your classmates may be jealous you’re getting so much help and attention. Bet you didn’t think of that.”

  One of the girls shot up and marched to the exit. She was pretty with long, dark bangs fringing her wide-spaced eyes.

  “Where’s the fire?” I said pleasantly.

  “Goan. Ursh,” the girl mumbled.

  “You’ve lost your purse?” I said.

  “Monica’s going to the nurse,” Janey shouted.

  “Are you sick?”

  “Of you,” the girl said haughtily. The class laughed, and Monica continued toward the door. Was she making a joke? If so, I didn’t find it particularly funny.

  “Slow down there, Speedy Gonzales.” I followed her with the pass Carl had given me. “You need a hall pass.”

  “Leave me alone, cracka,” she said. “I got a migraine.”

  She left the portable and slammed the door behind her. A chunk of ceiling tile fell to the ground. Snickers flew around the room.

  Perhaps Monica’s migraine was making her a little testy. In fact all the students seemed edgy. Maybe their defenses were up because they were accustomed to heartless, hard-driving teachers. It might take them a while to figure out I hailed from a more mellow tribe.

  “Monica called the teacher a cracka!” Janey ejected herself from her desk and frolicked over until she was inches away from my nose. “Want me to take the write-up to the office? Want me to, huh?”

  “We will not get all worked up over Monica. We have more important things to do. Like learning!”

  Now that most everyone was assembled, I decided to plunge into the lesson for the day. Thankfully I’d been issued a teacher’s edition of the textbook. It gave step-by-step instructions on how to present material. At least that part of my job would be a breeze.

  I stood in front of the class with the book open on the podium and began to read:

  “The purpose of this course is to learn about the world of work and how to live independently. You will become familiar with possible career options, and—”

  A boy with heavily tattooed arms jolted out of his desk. “Who let out the turd cloud?”

  “Whoever smelt it dealt it,” Janey said.

  “Holy crap,” said a boy whose teeth gleamed with silver. “That’s enough to knock you flat.”

  “Young man,” I said.

  “His name’s Vernon,” Janey said.

  “Vernon. Profanity is not allowed in this classroom. And I don’t know what you’re talking about because I don’t smell…Oh! You know, maybe I should open a window. It is a little stuffy in here.”

  The students abandoned their desks and scrambled for the door, shouting and screaming.

  “It’s not that bad.”

  Actually it was so strong it could peel the paint off the walls; the only person who seemed unconcerned was Janey, which led me to suspect she was the source of the stench.

  It took several minutes to herd the students back into the portable. After that was accomplished, I began to read from the textbook again.

  “We’re not supposed to be doing work,” Janey interrupted.

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Everyone knows the first day is a free day,” Janey said. “No teachers make you work. Ms. Beecher never made us work on the first day.”

  Murmurs of agreement came from the back of the room. Were they right? Had I violated some kind of sacred classroom tradition?

  “The first day is supposed to be fun.” Janey flitted about the room chanting, “Let’s get krunk. Let’s get krunk.” The other students joined in.

  No, let’s get drunk, I thought. I’d been at work for only a few minutes and already my classroom was in chaos.

  Over the din, I heard a knock on my door. “Quiet, please,” I said to the class but the shouting continued. I opened the door, and Carl came inside accompanied by a pouty Monica.

  At the sight of Carl, the students quieted down. A couple shouted out, “Hey, Mr. Rutherford” like he was an old buddy. Certainly they were friendlier to him than they were to me. Carl returned the greetings and said, “Ms. Wells. Does Ms. Steele here belong in your class?”

  “Yes.”

  He crooked his finger, indicating I should follow him to the porch. Away from prying ears he said, “It’s never a good idea to give Monica Steele a pass. She’s a notorious hall-walker.”

  “She said she had a migraine.”

  Carl laughed. “Monica lied. She doesn’t get migraines; she gives them.”

  “Thanks for the tip. Incidentally, is there a rule about not doing any work on the first day of school?”

  “Of course not. Students will tell all kinds of fibs, especially to new teachers. In fact, you should make a special effort to keep your kids occupied today. Beulah Jefferson is on campus.”

  “Beulah Jefferson? Who’s that?”

  “President of the Harriet Hall Alumni Association. Likes to pop in on teachers’ classes and give them grief. She can be a pain in the behind, but you have to take her seriously. She’s managed to get a few teachers fired in the past.”

  “What does this Beulah person look like?”

  “Very old. Always wears pillbox hats and lace-up shoes. Walks with a cane. Unfortunately for you, she doesn’t much care for white teachers. Doesn’t think they should be teaching black children. ”

  I sighed. “Is it lunchtime yet?”

  “Before you know it. Hope you eat fast.”

  “How long is lunch?”

  “A half-hour for the kids. Fifteen minutes for staff. The other fifteen minutes you’ll be on lunch duty. There’s a list of assignments in the teachers’ lounge.”

  Lunch did come, freakishly early at ten forty-five a.m. Turned out there were three lunch periods, and my class was assigned first lunch. I hadn’t packed food because I assumed I’d have a nice restful repast at some nearby café. But when I tried to leave, the security guard told me teachers were prohibited from leaving the campus during the school day. Therefore it was the cafeteria or nothing.

  Unfortunately the ambiance at Chez Harriet Hall was far from inviting. Noise level? Deafening. Lighting? Bright as an operating room. Décor? Cinderblock walls, and long, fold-up tables with plastic dots for seating. I’d have liked to skip lunch altogether but the morning’s dramas had made me ravenous. Bring on t
he pink slime.

  Ambiance aside, business was booming. A long line snaked around the room. How was I going to get through the line, scarf my food, and report to duty in fifteen minutes? I took my place at the end of the line.

  Carl entered the lunchroom, and I waved him over.

  “Line’s so long you’d think they were giving away the food,” I said over the racket.

  “They are giving it away. Over ninety-eight percent of students qualify for free lunch. What are you doing in that line? You’re a teacher. You can cut.”

  “Finally a VIP privilege.”

  “One of the few.”

  “Would you like to join me?”

  “Can’t. I have duty the first half of lunch.”

  “Where do teachers eat?”

  Carl pointed to a closed door just off the cafeteria. “There’s an anteroom with a few tables inside for faculty.”

  I proceeded to the head of the line. Two coaches were in front of me. A lunch lady in a hairnet and a green polyester uniform heaped generous portions of a pale noodle casserole on their trays as well as extra bread. When I slid my tray in front of her, she dished up a dainty dollop, not enough to satisfy the nutritional needs of a teacup poodle. I glanced up at her as if to say, “Has there been a mistake?” Her hard-eyed glare answered my question.

  Holding my tray aloft, I muscled through a sea of jostling and shouting students to the anteroom. I opened the door, expecting a peaceful refuge, maybe even some classical music tinkling in the background. But the teachers were almost as loud as the students. A few people, including Ms. Sprague, my so-called buddy teacher, glanced at me when I came in, but nobody called me over.

  I scanned the room, looking for an open seat or a friendly face. Mr. Gerald, one of the new teachers, was sitting alone at a table. I walked over to him. “May I join you?”