“Whose fault would it be? Incidentally, where’s your bulletin board? I remember specifically telling you every teacher’s required to have one.”
Janis Joplin was still hanging on my mostly blank board but now she sported devil horns, a mustache and a little bubble coming out of her mouth saying, “Kill da white people.”
“Someone’s used my closet for a bathroom and you’re worried about bulletin boards?”
“Dr. Lipton has several expectations for teachers. Putting up a bulletin board is one, dressing professionally as an example to the students is another.” She took a glance at my thigh-high waders. I’d started wearing them every day to muck through all the mud in the field near my portable.
“Outside appearances,” I said with a nod. “Like Ms. Ware who’s sugary sweet to visitors but treats the staff like they’re dog meat.”
“If you give Ms. Ware the proper respect she’ll return the favor.”
“Not true. I’m always nice to her and she—”
“Several people overheard you threatening her if she didn’t get a custodian to your room. That doesn’t seem very nice to me. In fact, you owe her an apology.”
“Fine. I just want to make sure I understand you correctly. You’re telling me I can’t expect any help from the administration.”
“Of course I’m not saying that. If you’re really having trouble with a young person, I’m certain the assistant principal will be glad to have a chat with him or her. But I’d wait a while before you ask. Right now you’ve cried wolf so many times you have zero credibility.”
“Ms. Wells,” said a tinny, disembodied voice. It came from the squawk box hanging from the ceiling.
“Yes?”
“This is Dr. Lipton. Please report to my office.”
Ms. Sprague wagged a finger in front of my face. “Somebody’s in trouble.”
She was out of her tree. There was no earthly reason for Dr. Lipton to be mad at me. After all, I was the injured party in the situation. In fact, it was my guess Lipton had heard about my appalling incident and wanted to reassure me. At least that’s what I would do if one of my employees was the victim of a poo-and-run.
Eleven
When I entered the main office, Ms. Ware was at her desk, using a pair of tweezers to pluck a hair from her chin. When she saw me, her eyes slanted into slits. “What do you want, crazy woman?”
“I’m not crazy. I was understandably upset. And I’m very sorry that I—”
“Ms. Wells,” Dr. Lipton said from his inner office. “Come in, please.”
“You better watch yourself,” Ms. Ware said with a haughty toss of her heavily lacquered hair.
Dr. Lipton’s office had a baronial feel with two matching burgundy leather wing chairs, drawn brocade draperies, and an oil portrait of an iron-haired Harriet Hall gazing sternly from an ornate frame. I doubted anyone had ever dared to poop in Harriet Hall’s supply closet, but since she used to teach in a horse stable that would have been redundant.
“Take a load off,” Dr. Lipton said. He hunkered behind a dark wood desk big as a barge; on each side were two wire baskets heaped high with paper.
I sunk into a wing chair; the legs were shorter than average, making me feel like I was sitting in a hole. He pushed a pen and a document across the shiny expanse of his desk. “Could I get your John Hancock?”
I leaned forward to pick up the paper. When I read it, my breath seized in my lungs. “I don’t understand…This is a letter of resignation.”
“The girl can read.”
“Who says I want to resign? Yes, I was upset about what I found in my closet but that doesn’t mean—”
“Do you know who was in the office while you were screaming threats at Ms. Ware? A member of the school board.”
“I didn’t know that, but I still think I had a right to be upset. Maybe you didn’t hear the details of what happened.”
Dr. Lipton let out an impatient sigh. “A student made a mess in your supply closet. I was informed.”
“Not just any mess.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “It was poop. A huge pile. Looked like it came from a cow or some other very large mammal.”
I clasped my hands on my lap, anticipating an appropriate show of outrage. Instead Dr. Lipton shrugged.
“That’s teaching for you, Ms. Wells. Sometimes you have to put up with shit, but you can never lose yours. Besides, it was your fault; you failed to lock your classroom while you were gone. Where do you think you are? Mayberry?”
What’s there to steal, I thought. Icicles? Rat droppings?
“May I have the key to your portable, please?”
I shoved the letter across the desk as if it were on fire. “Don’t make me leave. I’ll do anything. Apologize to the school board member. Pull extra lunch duty. Scrape gum from underneath the desks.”
“Ms. Wells—”
“Anything.”
Dr. Lipton’s lips twitched; he toyed with his gold signet ring. After a lengthy silence he said, “I’m the top candidate for superintendent, and that means I’m like a bacterial culture under a high-powered microscope. And you’re hanging out our dirty drawers for everyone to see.”
“It’ll never happen again. I swear. I’m very sorry.”
He curled his fingers to inspect nails that shone with clear polish. “I’ve worked my backside off trying to get people to change their opinions about Harriet Hall. Do bad things sometimes happen here? Yes. But a whole lot of good goes on too. That’s what we need to focus on.
He paused for a moment. The copier in the outer office whirred as it warmed up, and Ms. Ware’s heels clacked across the concrete flooring. The silence between us was maddening.
“I’ll probably regret this, but I’ve decided to give you one more chance.”
I leaped up so quickly you would have thought a spring was attached to my backside. “Thank you so much. I promise I’ll—”
“Down, girl,” he said, with a hand motion.
I dutifully sat, but found it challenging not to fidget.
“There are conditions. Decorate your bulletin board, for God’s sake. I’m told yours is almost bare.”
“Done!”
“And you have to do something about your class attendance.”
“Okay,” I said with less enthusiasm. “By how much?”
“Ninety-five percent should do it.”
“Ninety-five percent?”
That was impossible. How was I supposed to force students to come to school? Play Reveille on the bugle outside their windows? Drag them out of their beds by their feet?
“Also progress reports will be out in another week. I want to see As and Bs only.”
“Are you joking?”
He was asking for a slice of the moon, as I’m sure he well knew. Most of my students were failing because they refused to do work. Bad grades did not seem to spook them in the least.
“Didn’t you just say you’d do anything to keep your job?”
I’d meant anything within the realm of possibility. What would he ask for next? Milk from an electric eel? The still beating heart of a vampire?
“If you can shape up those three things, you can keep your job,” he said. “I’ll review your records in the next couple of weeks to gauge your progress. You’re very lucky to be getting a second chance. Don’t disappoint me.”
I left his office and plodded down the nearly empty hallway with my head down, thinking I might as well have signed my letter of resignation, because what Dr. Lipton was asking me to accomplish was impossible. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and nearly ran into Doc. His ensemble of a Hawaiian shirt and striped tie made my eyes ache.
“What’s wrong, little lady? Students giving you crap?”
“Y
ou heard,” I said in a barely audible voice.
“Heard what?”
I’d assumed everyone in the school knew. Briefly I told Doc about the “gift” I’d found in my supply closet and the unfortunate hissy fit I’d thrown in the front office.
“Aw. Don’t feel bad. I’d have made a big stink too.”
“Not funny. Lipton was really mad.” I told Doc how he wanted me to improve my grades and attendance.
“No way can you do that. Lipton damn well knows that.”
“So why did he ask then?”
Doc glanced in both directions and lowered his voice. “It’s my guess he wants you to fudge your records.”
“Seriously?”
“He’s reluctant to tell you that outright; he’s hoping you’ll figure it out.”
“But that’s unethical!”
“Welcome to the real world, baby girl.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Hey, don’t look so upset. Lipton’s just pushing you to see how much he can get away with. God knows you don’t have to change your records. It’s not like he’s going to give you the boot if you don’t.”
Wrong, I thought. Lipton had made it very clear he’d fire me if my grades and attendance didn’t improve, which meant, even though I knew it was unethical, I was definitely going to falsify my records in order to keep my job. But I wasn’t going to tell Doc that. Didn’t want him to know I was going to sell out.
Twelve
The poo incident taught me something very important about Harriet Hall: I was completely on my own and couldn’t expect any help from the administration. Therefore, I promptly abandoned all my delusions about being some kind of cool, super teacher, and decided my goal was to merely make it through the year with my sanity intact.
With that in mind, I devised a plan I called Operation Survive Harriet Hall. As with all tricky maneuvers, there was a small glitch: My strategy required cash, and after receiving my first paycheck, I discovered I was making only a bit more than the average paper boy. I did, however, have one credit card in my name with a ten thousand dollar limit, one I’d been approved for in college because my father co-signed for it. Cornelia didn’t even know I had it.
I took that card and made a trip to Best Buy, where I bought all types of electronics: iPods, iPads, three laptops loaded with video games, PlayStation, Wii and Xbox. I also charged some heavy-duty locks for my closet door. It killed me to max out my card – now I wouldn’t be able to charge a stick of gum. Too bad. If I wanted to make it through the school year, it had to be done. After all, as Aunt Cornelia was fond of saying, sometimes you had to spend money to make money.
The next morning I spread the booty out on a card table in front of my class. A reverent hush fell over the room. I’d never seen so many big eyes; they could have doubled as manhole covers.
“Attention, please.” I stood in front of the table to guard it from overeager students with their itchy fingers. “I’m about to tell you exactly how you can get your hands on this amazing merchandise.”
Suddenly my audience was so transfixed you’d think I was a stripper gyrating in front of them in a gold lamé bikini. (Or a Chippendale dancer for the girls.) Slowly and deliberately, I detailed my plan: For the first thirty minutes of each class period they would be required to do their work and behave like civilized human beings, i.e., no backtalk, grumbles, or gas-passing contests. Then, for the rest of the period, they’d be allowed free time to play with the assortment of gadgets I’d bought.
After I’d finished laying down the rules, my gaze swept the classroom. “Do we have a deal?”
The room rang with whoops and whistles. The students thronged me, their new hero. If there’d been Gatorade handy I’m sure they would have gleefully dumped it on my head. It was thrilling to be popular for a change.
Here was the weird thing about the plan. Technically no one could give me grief for letting my students goof off for half the day. I was supposed to be teaching them Life Skills, and leisure activities were a component of the Life Skills curriculum. Still…it was definitely not a kosher thing to do, and I knew if classroom visitors continually saw my kids rocking out to hip-hop or plugged into a PlayStation, I might get into trouble. So, in order to give me advance warning of visitors, I tied a string of bells to the flimsy steps leading to my portable. It allowed just enough time for students to cut off the games, return to their desks, and direct their attention to the front of the room where I’d pretend to be in the middle of an informative lesson.
Over the next week, we staged several practice drills until we had it down. And yes, I knew I was encouraging my students to cheat the system, but I justified my actions by telling myself that my students were hardly dewy-eyed innocents. They’d earned their doctorate in street smarts long before I ever came along. Even Janey, the sweetest student in my class, was an ace at scamming money from people. (Me especially.) Sadly there wasn’t an uncorrupted kid in the bunch.
No surprise the new program was a wild success. After a week, my discipline issues didn’t completely disappear, but they were far less frequent. While my students were happily occupied with their gadgets, I caught up on my celebrity news and munched candy corn—my latest addiction to replace the sugars I used to get from alcohol.
On the odd day when I came to school feeling less than perky, I skipped the lesson portion of the class period and allowed my students to immediately dive into their diversions. Ironically both attendance and grades improved as a result of the new “curriculum,” but I also helped the numbers along, reporting a ninety-five percent attendance rate and awarding only As and Bs.
My guilt over short-changing my students continued to nag me, but I periodically reminded myself that when bedlam reigned, my kids hadn’t been learning anything either. Now, at least, a tiny stream of knowledge was trickling into their brains. Wasn’t that worth something?
It was the best I could do. Before Poo-gate, I’d taken Doc’s advice and observed Carl teaching a psychology class. I felt like a four-year-old Suzuki violin student listening to Itzhak Perlman play a Mendelssohn Concerto. His command of the classroom was a wondrous thing to witness. It also made me realize that teaching was an art, and I didn’t have a prayer of mastering it. Unfortunately the only thing I’d ever been halfway proficient at was playing tennis.
After conquering most of my classroom discipline problems, I decided to tackle my issues with Ms. Ware. One afternoon I ran out of attendance forms and stopped by the office to pick up a stack. The secretary sat at her desk, examining her pores with a magnifying mirror. When I asked for the forms, I got the expected dark look and put-upon sigh. “Come back another time,” she said. “I’m busy.”
This time I came prepared. On the counter I plunked down a gold foil box tied with a silk bow. Ever so casually Ms. Ware glanced in my direction. “What’s that?”
“Chocolate.”
Ms. Ware swiveled in her chair to face me. “I’ve never seen that kind before.”
“I ordered them from a place called Chocolate Fetish. Best in the world. One pound box, each chocolate lovingly handmade. Alicia Keys’ treat of choice. She eats them in bed on her Egyptian cotton sheets. Doesn’t care about stains because she buys a new set of sheets every day.”
I’d embellished the last bit, having once overheard Ms. Ware say that Alicia Keys was her favorite recording artist.
The secretary licked her lips, rose from her desk and approached me, her gaze transfixed on the golden box. Slowly I tugged away the satin ribbon and opened the lid, revealing several rows of truffles tucked into fluted paper. Milk chocolates—some spangled with nuts—intermingled with darker, velvety varieties.
“Twelve little pieces of heaven,” I crooned. “Yours for the taking.”
Her pupils dilated as she reached for a dark brown beauty.
Swiftly, I jerked the box away. “Attend
ance forms first, please. Then chocolate. Two for each piece. And throw in some whiteboard markers while you’re at it.”
I’d never seen her move so quickly. Ms. Ware handed me a huge stack of forms that would last me through ten school years and three packages of board markers. Then she grabbed the box and plucked out a milk chocolate truffle, squiggled on top with caramel, and popped it into her mouth.
She closed her eyes and let out a rapturous sigh.
The transformation was astounding. From vicious tigress to purring kitten in under five seconds. Mission accomplished.
Thirteen
It was a sultry September evening. Carl and I stopped at a convenience store to pick up refreshments. Afterward we planned to head to his place for an hour or two of mattress gymnastics. Carl wore aviator sunglasses and a tight T-shirt with a skull appliqué that showed off his muscular torso. He stood in front of the cooler, looking like a sexy gangsta, so different than the way he dressed when he was teaching.
“What kind of beer do you want?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter to me.” My warm breath steamed up the glass case.
He withdrew a six-pack of Natural Light from the shelf.
I frowned.
“What?” he said.
“Light beer? Don’t you find it somewhat unfulfilling? Wouldn’t you like something more substantial?”
I was talking in code, too afraid to say what was really on my mind. Over the last couple of days I’d been thinking I wanted more from Carl than just amazing orgasms. Since my injury, it was the first time I’d ever felt that way about a guy. Unfortunately he’d already made it very clear he wasn’t ready for a serious relationship.
Carl gave me an odd look, put back the Natural Light, and grabbed a six-pack of Colt 45. I reached for a Nutty Buddy on an upper shelf, and he took the opportunity to playfully pinch me on my butt.
Girl Meets Class Page 9
