He nodded, chewing vigorously. His portion of noodles was as paltry as mine. Perhaps you had to develop some seniority before you were fed decent-sized rations.
“How’s your first day going so far?”
Considering that he had biceps the size of my thighs, he’d probably already whipped his kids into shape. Mr. Gerald chewed some more, swallowed and took a dainty sip of water before answering. “I can’t hold a conversation while I’m eating,” he said, his soft, breathy voice out of sync with his burly appearance. “I have acid reflux. Talking aggravates it.”
“Sorry.”
I silently picked at my pasty, under-seasoned noodles with my plastic spork and eavesdropped on conversations at nearby tables.
“I had fifty students in my homeroom and twenty desks. It was the Middle Passage all over again.”
“One of the windows in my room won’t close; every bug in Kingdom Come is flying around in there.”
“Who’s in charge of bells this year? First period was eighty minutes long, and second period was twenty minutes.”
The commotion churned and eddied around me, and even though I was in the eye of it, I didn’t feel a part of it. I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever fit into this strange new world. One year, one year, I kept telling myself. It felt like a prison sentence.
Seven
I sat on the side verandah at Tranquility Hall, eating grilled shrimp salad from the Publix deli with Aunt Cornelia. The air sweetly smelled of Confederate jasmine. No body odors or gas emissions. No roaches or mice, only cute, disease-free wildlife like hummingbirds buzzing the feeder and yellow butterflies flitting among the lantana plants. Best of all, it was blissfully quiet; no shouts, no backtalk, no lockers slamming. Just the soft creaking of the magnolia tree branches whenever a breeze blew in. How could I have taken all of this loveliness for granted?
My aunt jabbed at her salad with a fork. “I forgot how dull Rose Hill can be. They roll up the sidewalks at seven p.m.”
For the last few minutes I’d been gathering up the courage to discuss a ticklish topic with my aunt. Now was as good a time as any to bring it up.
“Not all of Rose Hill is dull,” I said, keeping my voice casual. “I know of one area where it’s plenty lively. In fact, they have gunshots all night long.”
Cornelia dabbed her lips with her napkin, leaving a hot-pink imprint. “Last Monday night I swore it was the Rapture and I’d been left behind. That’s how quiet Main Street was.”
I laughed at her joke and scooted my chair a few inches closer to her. Was it possible she hadn’t heard what I’d just said?
“It’s not just gunshots,” I said, this time in a louder voice. “There are also the screams of women as they run from rapists, and the squeal of tires from drive-by shootings.”
The sun slipped out from behind a bank of clouds, and Cornelia donned her initialed Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses. My aunt loved clothing and accessories that trumpeted how pricey they were.
“What in the world are you jabbering about?” she said.
“Did you know Harriet Hall High School is located in a very dangerous neighborhood?”
“No,” she said, sounding a little bored.
“It’s in a ghetto.”
“I’m sure that must be challenging, but gratifying as well. You should be proud of yourself.”
Praise was not what I was after.
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear. I’m talking terrible neighborhood. Drugs. Gangs. Prostitutes. Extremely misogynistic rap music.”
“Have you experienced any of these things directly? Beyond the rap music, I mean?”
“Not yet. But it’s probably only a matter of time. And the kids are definitely a product of their environment. Completely out of control.”
She waved dismissively. “It takes a while to learn how to discipline young people. Give it time. Charleston wasn’t built in a day, you know.”
“It’s not just my students. It’s the whole school. There are fights every day. Girl-on-girl fights with fake nails and hair extensions flying, and a few days ago I witnessed two parents, both mothers, sparring in the library. They broke a bust of Socrates.”
Her eyes widened; finally a reaction beyond the blasé.
“Are you expected to break up these fights?”
I wasn’t. A security guard named Mule busted up the battles, but certainly if a teacher was in the wrong place at the wrong time, he or she could get swept up in the action. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to tell a little fib.
“Yes. If I’m in the vicinity.”
“That’s difficult for me to believe.” She took a sip from her Arnold Palmer and swallowed. “Do you know how easy it would be for me to check that out? All I have to do is pick up the phone.”
I glanced down at the last shrimp floating in a leftover pool of mayonnaise on my plate. “Well, maybe I don’t actually have to break up fights but I could still get hurt working there.” I flexed my weak wrist to illustrate my point. A blatant move, but I was desperate.
Her mouth puckered. “Well then…Maybe you should think about giving it up.”
“Maybe,” I said, trying not to appear too overeager. “Then I could go out and find a safer job.”
“You could do that.”
Was it really going to be that simple? If so, I should have talked to her days ago. Would have saved myself hours of misery.
She sighed. “Except it would be such a shame for you to lose your inheritance.”
The last bit of salad I’d swallowed stuck in my throat.
“I’m sorry, but it sounds to me like this job is just what you need. After all, it’s adversity that changes people the most.”
“But I had no idea—”
“This was a job you chose, Toni Lee. Don’t forget that. You need to take responsibility for your decision.”
She was right, of course. I’d willingly waltzed into the belly of the beast, unarmed and with such annoying hubris. Now it looked as if there was no going back. I was stuck at Harriet Hall.
“One more thing. Do not come to me with any more tall tales about your job. It’s only a year. You can make it. And once you’re finished, you’ll be handsomely rewarded.”
I nodded quickly, but I wasn’t certain anymore. I’d been such a fool; teaching was not what I’d expected.
Eight
“THAT’S ENOUGH! Stop talking right now. Do you hear me? You’re stepping on my last nerve. What’s wrong with you, you wicked, wicked children?”
That was me. The person who said she’d never be a yeller. The hip teacher who wanted a laid-back classroom. Instead I sounded like Ms. Capers, my third grade teacher, who wore an ill-fitting wig and was so disliked by her students they used to leave dead Palmetto bugs on her chair.
I even stole some of her most famous lines: “stepping on my last nerve,” and “wicked children.” Any day now I’d wear polyester pantsuits and come to school smelling like cat pee.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried to be patient with my charges; after all, they were disadvantaged, and special education students to boot. What kind of heartless person would I be if I got cross with them? But, as time wore on, I found it almost impossible not to lose my temper in class.
Who could blame me? Whenever I tried to teach, they’d talk over me as if I wasn’t in the room. If it was early morning, many of their heads would drop down on their desks with a loud thunk, followed by snores. When they weren’t asleep they were squabbling with each other or giving me backtalk. The only student who seemed to tolerate me was Janey; she tailed me around the campus, chatting incessantly. Carl called her my shadow.
As for my bi-weekly Teacher Corps classes, they were useless. I kept hoping I’d be given tips on classroom control, but instead the instructor, a slight elderly ma
n with creepy long fingernails and a monotone voice, spent hours talking about educational theory. How was Bloom’s Taxonomy going to help me when my students were running amok?
I turned in several discipline forms daily but I might as well have been stuffing them into Coke bottles and tossing them into the ocean. Periodically the assistant principal called kids to the office but I never heard my students’ names.
On Friday Ms. Sprague stopped me in the hall in between classes.
“I have a question about your lesson plans,” she said, clearly peeved. Her tailored suit did nothing to disguise her figure. The woman could wear an iron lung and still look sexy.
“What’s wrong?” I was practically shouting over the bam, bam of slamming lockers and yelling teenagers. The halls were a war zone; a person needed body armor and a canister of tear gas to walk through them.
“For homework you have students researching various careers.”
“That’s right.”
“And how exactly do you think they’ll conduct that research?”
Why she was asking me such a basic question? I flattened myself against the wall. A long line of girls were surging in my direction, their voices husky and querulous. I feared being trampled.
“How about Google?” I said.
“With what computer? Very few of our students have computers in their homes.”
“Are you sure? You’re always hearing about the expensive tennis shoes and phones welfare recipients own. Surely they have computers.”
“Pull up those pants!” snapped Ms. Sprague.
Alarmed, I glanced down at my outfit; I was wearing a dress.
“Not you,” Ms. Sprague said. “Him.” She pointed at a young man whose jeans were practically puddling around his knees, revealing bright red underwear. “You heard me, Mr. Owens.”
The student reluctantly adjusted his trousers, and Ms. Sprague turned to address me again. “I’ve been to these children’s homes and seen their circumstances up close. Fact is, some of our students are lucky to have electricity or hot water, much less an assortment of electronics. Nor are there any libraries within walking distance of where they live.”
“What about the library here? It stays open a couple of hours after school. Will it kill them to hang around for a while?”
“And who’ll pick them up when they’re done?” Ms. Sprague said, arms folded over her chest. “Mom in her Lexus SUV?”
I felt my cheeks getting warm. “I’m sorry, I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“You don’t have a clue, do you?”
I didn’t argue because I knew she was telling the truth. It was as if I’d traveled to a foreign land where none of the usual rules and customs applied. If I was ever going to survive the year, I needed to get the hang of things.
Friday afternoon arrived, and I was so jubilant I felt like pounding my chest and breaking dinner plates. For the first time I understood all the hoopla about TGIF and “working for the weekend.”
I was in the office, itching to make my escape, when Carl sauntered in my direction, whistling an upbeat tune. He always seemed happy, even on Monday mornings. What was his secret?
“I see you’ve got a smile on your face,” he said.
“Ready to relax,” I said.
Relax was code for downing a drink as big as a goldfish bowl. During the week I tried to avoid alcohol. Teaching at Harriet Hall was harrowing enough, but teaching at Harriet Hall with a hangover was like chewing glass.
“Doc Brewster, the shop teacher, and I are going to The Steer for happy hour,” Carl said. “Join us?”
“I don’t want to intrude.” I was still disappointed that the only attractive guy at school was married.
“No intrusion at all. We’d love to have you.”
I agreed and as soon as I was done signing out, I headed over to The Steer. When I arrived, the dimly lit restaurant contained only a smattering of customers, mostly lone diners. I made my way to the bar area, peanut shells crunching underneath my shoes. “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places” played on the sound system, and the aroma of fried onions embroidered the air. Doc Brewster sat at a booth beneath the massive head of a glassy-eyed bull.
I greeted him, saying Carl had invited me, and he motioned for me to sit.
“Carl called. Said he was stopping by the bank first.” He pushed a plastic basket lined with wax paper in my direction. “Steak nugget?”
I met the bull’s accusatory gaze. “No, thanks.”
“Gotta quit eating these. The wife will give me grief if I don’t come home hungry for supper.”
He was one of the few teachers who occasionally spoke to me in the halls. Doc was short and pudgy with a constellation of dark moles covering his cheeks. He was also notorious for his terrible taste in clothes. Today he wore red suspenders and a pair of very loud madras golf pants.
The bartender, a prim blonde with precisely cut bangs, stopped by the table asking for my order. A button pinned to her brown polyester uniform said, “Try a Texas Tumbleweed Today.”
“What’s good to drink here?”
“Debbie makes a mean gin and tonic,” Doc said.
“I’ll have two to start.”
“House or premium gin?” Debbie said.
I was about to say “Bombay Sapphire” but then remembered my days of top shelf spirits were gone with the wind. Hello, rot gut.
The bartender was quick with mixing the drinks, and the first one loosened my tongue. Even though I barely knew Doc, I spilled to him what my life at Harriet Hall had been like so far.
When I was done, Doc said, “Looking for advice?”
“Definitely.”
He swigged his beer and wiped the foam from his upper lip. “First, give up on the idea of a perfect classroom. Keeping order at all times is like putting socks on the arms of an octopus. Second, the most important rule of survival at Harriet Hall is CYA.”
“English, please. I’m not up on all the educational acronyms yet.” It seemed as if every time an educator opened his or her mouth, letters of the alphabet spilled out. My students, for instance, weren’t simply slow, they were LD for learning disabled. A couple were also BD, which stood for behavior-disordered.
“You’ve never heard of CYA?”
“No.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “You are a newbie. CYA isn’t educational jargon; it’s a way of life. It means cover your ass. Read the Teacher Handbook front to back, and do whatever it says. Turn in lesson plans on time. If you can keep your nose clean for two years, you’ll get tenure and you’re golden. Practically the only way they can get rid of you is to take you out with a sniper’s rifle.”
“So it doesn’t matter what kind of teacher I am, as long as I cover my ass.”
He banged his mug against my highball glass. “Now you’re getting it.”
“Isn’t that kind of screwed up?”
“That’s teaching. Legislators like to talk a good game but here’s the reality: You’ve got some of the poorest and toughest students in the city in your classes, and it’s your job to turn them into model citizens? Who are you, Gandhi? I’d love to see some of these policy makers darken the door of a real inner-city classroom. They’d probably pass a law that requires all teachers to carry Tasers.” He devoured another steak nugget. “By the way, did you hear about Gerald?”
“The big guy?”
“Walked out on his class yesterday, blubbering like a baby. Couldn’t handle these kids. You ought to pat yourself on the back for hanging in as long as you have. Most new teachers cut out after a week. The faculty doesn’t bother cozying up to newcomers until they’ve been around for at least a year.”
Aha. That explained why most of the teachers ignored me.
I also told him about my problems with Ms. Ware,
and he explained that there were gatekeepers at every school—usually secretaries, lunchroom workers, or data clerks. As the least educated employees in the building, they often felt insecure, and as a result, sometimes got a little power-mad. He said I had to be courteous to Ms. Ware without turning into a doormat. According to him, doormats got no respect from gatekeepers.
“Gatekeepers also appreciate small bribes,” he said over the roar of the blender behind the bar. “And Ms. Ware will practically roll over and beg for chocolate.”
“Do you give her chocolate?”
“Don’t have to.” He patted his substantial belly. “It seems our Ms. Ware has an eye for a fine male physique.”
“Lucky you.”
He brayed, spraying droplets of beer on the table. “Just kidding. I bring the Countess of Cruel Dove bars at least once a week. The only teacher who doesn’t have to bribe her is Carl.”
I smiled over my drink. That I could understand. Carl could charm anyone, even a crab like Ms. Ware. Too bad he was already spoken for.
“Speaking of Carl, it wouldn’t hurt to sit in on one of his classes. The man knows what he’s doing.”
“I might just do that.”
“One more thing. Watch out for Beulah Jefferson. If she comes into your classroom, everything needs to be shipshape. She’d love to catch a white teacher screwing up.”
“Carl mentioned her too. Does she drop in on all the teachers?” If Ms. Jefferson decided to pay me a surprise visit, I was doomed. My classroom was more chaotic than a runaway ant farm.
“Lucky for you, the old gal can’t walk so well with that cane of hers. She’ll probably never make it out to the portables.”
Carl joined us, apologizing for being late, blaming a long line at the bank. He slid in the booth next to me. He’d been working all day but still smelled fresh, like fabric softener drifting from a dryer vent. I kept taking furtive whiffs of him.
Doc got a text from his wife, asking him to come home and attend to a leaking washing machine. When he left, I expected Carl to move to the other side of the booth, but he stayed put.
Girl Meets Class Page 7
