“Erik was basically making fun of Miss Wesley,” Legend says.
Amy sits there, a bit stunned. “Erik?”
“Yeah.”
“Who is Erik?”
“Oh, he makes everybody laugh.”
Amy nods. Suddenly they’ve gotten somewhere even though Legend doesn’t seem to notice it.
“Was he trying to make people laugh in this class?”
“Who?”
Amy leans her head a bit, wondering if the boy is being serious. He really and truly can’t be this dim-witted, right? “Erik. The guy who makes people laugh. Was he trying to do that in the class when Ms. Wesley was talking about Jesus?”
Earth-to-Legend comes back to the table. He finishes a mouthful of food and nods. “Yeah. He was being stupid. Like ‘Duh, I’m a stoner dude, and there’s no Jesus ’cause didn’t they kill him, duh.’”
All she can do is grin. She almost uses the horrible adage of the pot calling the kettle black but stops herself since she knows Legend has surely never heard it and would probably think she’s literally talking about a pot and a kettle.
“So this Erik—does he not like Ms. Wesley?”
Legend shakes his head and laughs. “Oh no. He loves her. He thinks she’s hot.”
“So why was he debating her?”
Another laugh. Now Legend is working on his fried chicken. “He wasn’t debating anybody. Erik likes to make stupid comments. Ms. Wesley is usually always making so many good ones, but it’s a bit much to all take in. Erik says something and stops all the serious stuff by making people laugh.”
A server comes by and asks if she can take Legend’s plates. His multiple plates. With a mouthful of food, he simply nods and watches as they are taken away.
“I think you were hungry,” Amy says.
“Free food sure does wonders.”
“Truth does even more.”
Legend gives her a slight smile that shows he doesn’t know what she’s referring to. There’s some type of apple crisp on the plate he’s working on now.
“How’s the apple thing there?” she asks.
“Great.”
“Good. Now, Legend, listen to me.”
He stops chewing for a moment.
“But swallow,” she says. “Please, swallow. I don’t know the Heimlich.”
“The what?”
She has to force a smile. Clearly it wasn’t this kid trying to debate the existence of God in the middle of history class.
For Legend, heaven happens to be an endless supply of greasy, fatty food. And for Erik, history class happens to be an avenue for making the other students laugh a lot.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Legend asks.
“Oh, I think you’re eating enough for the two of us,” Amy says.
“You’re missing out.”
The strange thing about Legend’s comment is that Amy finds herself replaying the words a few hours later. The young guy who seems to have a fine career ahead of him sampling fried foods actually made an impression. She’s thinking not so much about what happened in class but more about what he actually said.
“You’re missing out.”
The boy might never live up to his name, but he has a point.
Amy knows she’s missing out a lot these days. Deep down, if she’s being honest, she blames the cancer. It scared her and made her seek help, and the only person who could help—the only person she believed could help—was God. She just wonders now if he was really there in the first place. Did she become weak and suddenly run to the first thing she could cling to?
The posts she used to write making fun of Christians had several underlying beliefs. One thing she used to firmly believe is that faith is for the weak. Those who don’t have confidence in themselves often turn to some kind of mythical higher power to give them a faux sense of security.
But you know that’s wrong.
A dozen names and faces come to mind. People who are the furthest thing from being weak. Look at the Robertsons. Look at the guys in the band Newsboys, whose concert last year had been such a turning point in her life. The pastor in California named Francis Chan, whom she met only after ripping him online. A businesswoman she recently met, a politician, parents of quadruplets.
Amy never considered herself weak either. Until realizing she had cancer and discovering she was really, truly alone in this world.
She sees other people’s lives being lived out on her phone through the smiles on Instagram and the kid videos on Facebook and the witty thoughts on Twitter and she knows she’s missing out just like Legend said. She’s missing out on living a life. At least in her former cynical world, she had others around her. Even if they were a self-centered boyfriend or a pretentious set of girlfriends, they were still people she called friends.
Give her another chance.
This time Amy actually decides to listen to the voice that has been saying this for months. She finds the number and calls again. The voice mail she knows she’ll get comes on.
“Hi, Mom. I know we didn’t end things too well last time we spoke. I just—I’m sorry. Can I see you sometime? Not to argue or to preach at you or anything. It would just be nice. Let me know. Thanks.”
There might be a thousand things Amy is missing out on. Her mother—regardless of the painful story surrounding her—shouldn’t be one of them.
14
I’M WONDERING HOW in the world they fit this massive conference table in this room when I realize it’s physically impossible. They must have constructed it inside the room. It’s astounding that they went to all that effort since they’ve done absolutely nothing else to make the room look even halfway inviting. The drab white walls look like pale skin you wince at in passing at the beach. The fluorescent lights above us are similar to the ones I’ve seen when visiting prisons. The artwork is in the style of . . . oh wait, there’s not a piece of art or color or life anywhere. Except for the people at this massive table that’s fit for the cast of The Lord of the Rings.
“Ever been in here?” I ask Grace.
“No. Have you?”
One arm of her chair seems wobbly, and I’ve been watching with amusement as she’s tried to adjust it so it will stay still. “Yeah, I’ve pictured this in my nightmares. Are they planning a parade in the middle of the table?”
We don’t even have to whisper our conversation since the other dozen people getting ready for the meeting are on the far side of the table. Which means they’re on the other side of the room. This isn’t a Ping-Pong table. It’s a tennis court. I’m just waiting for the first serve to be hit.
Principal Kinney sits upright with her leather binder in front of her. Superintendent Winokur is next to her, his wavy hair matching his gray suit. I wonder how many days of his life this man has worn a suit. Way too many, probably. It makes me a bit sad. I’m not really sure why. Perhaps a psychologist would expand upon this, but for now I just keep it as some random thought in this cell of a conference room.
The school’s attorney is on the other side of Principal Kinney. I’ve run into Bob Fessler before. He’s the kind of guy who is absolutely satisfied doing what he’s doing, trying to satisfy those who need to be satisfied. His smile is about as phony as the tough-guy look he’s got going on now. He’s in a suit as well, and just seeing this picture makes me glad I’m not wearing one.
There’s a difference between professional and classy and being one of those guys.
I hear song lyrics in my head.
“You’re the pretender. What if I say that I’ll never surrender?”
Grace leans over to me. “So what are you thinking?”
I smile. “Actually I was just thinking of a Foo Fighters song.”
She gives me a blank look.
“You know—Foo Fighters. They’re the ones who—”
“I know who they are,” Grace says. “I teach high school.”
“So you’re saying that’s a prerequisite for teaching high school? Does the administrat
ion give you a pop culture manual or something?”
“No, the students do.”
“Well, excuse me,” I say, smiling. “Somehow I just don’t picture you jamming out in your car to Foo Fighters.”
“I don’t picture you as a Foo Fighters fan either.”
“No?”
Grace squints and pretends to be deep in thought. “No, I picture you as the hipster, trendy guy. Someone going to see Aquilo playing at some small venue on a Thursday night.”
I know she’s having fun with me. “Aquilo, huh? That a real band?”
“Wait, you haven’t heard of them?” She shakes her pretty head. “Oh, that’s right. You’re old.”
I laugh and receive several glances from the other side of the room that seem to object at any kind of frivolity in this setting.
The others surrounding the principal, attorney, and superintendent are ones I haven’t met personally. Grace knows some of them—five are teachers in the union, a few are staff members at Martin Luther King Jr. High, a couple are probably seat fillers just to make sure the entire side of the table facing us is full.
A disheveled woman who looks a bit like Ressie did when I first saw her tossed out that car window rushes into the room making it clear that she knows she’s late. The folders she carries spill onto the table as she puts them down.
“That’s Liz Morris. She’s a VP with the teachers’ union,” Grace says.
“Does VP in teachers’ unions stand for something I don’t know?”
Grace ignores my sarcasm. “Shouldn’t she be sitting on our side?”
I give her a Really, now let’s grow up a bit look. “Not today.”
I almost expect Winokur to stand up and have someone crush a gavel on this table while saying, “Hear ye, hear ye . . .”
Instead, the superintendent clears his throat and then calls everybody to order with a low, Charlton Heston voice. “I assume Ms. Wesley knows this board has the power to recommend any of a number of disciplinary actions, up to and including her termination?”
Well, there’s nothing like getting to the point, is there?
I can see Grace about to talk, but I get there before she can.
“She does. And the board should be aware that in the event of such termination—which we would view as both wrongful and without cause—she reserves all rights of redress.”
Winokur leans forward and glares at me. Suddenly I’m sixteen again and facing my father after wrecking the car I wasn’t supposed to drive.
“We have discussed the matter of district policy with Ms. Wesley, which she has agreed she broke in her fourth-period history class—”
“I’m sure Ms. Wesley didn’t agree she broke any sort of district policy, simply because there was none she could have broken,” I interrupt.
This prompts the lawyer to speak up. “There are state and federal guidelines that are clearly set in place for classroom situations just like this one, Mr. Endler.”
“And of course that is why we are all here in this tiny little room, correct? Guidelines for dealing with the reputation of a highly respected teacher who has been out of work for three weeks and has had to deal with financial and emotional repercussions.”
The financial and emotional things have never come up once with Grace, but of course they’re huge and demand an answer on our side of the table.
Bob Fessler instantly backs down and puts on that evil Jeremy Irons smile of his that reminds me of Scar from The Lion King. “There might be a way around all of this unpleasantness that would satisfy all parties.”
There’s that word again: satisfy. The box I put the school’s attorney in is called Appease. He wants to make sure the school is happy and the principal is happy and his family is happy and he is happy and everything just goes away in a nice and tidy manner.
Everyone faces Fessler as he continues. “We can simply all leave here with a disciplinary notice in Ms. Wesley’s file stating the board’s objections to her behavior. That and a response from Ms. Wesley acknowledging the inappropriateness of and apologizing for her actions, along with a pledge not to engage in similar discussions in the future.”
I didn’t expect Fessler to go there so soon. I didn’t think it would be this easy.
Now Grace can go back to a classroom and a paycheck, Kinney can go back to law and order, Fessler can buy himself another suit, and I can go back to more paperwork over educationalese.
And God doesn’t have to be bothered anymore.
I nod. “I’m confident we can move forward on that basis—”
“No.” Grace looks at me as she says this. Then she turns to the firing squad across the table. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Well, that was short-lived. . . .
“I’d like to request a brief recess to have a word with my client,” I say in the most optimistic tone I can muster.
My client who just lost her mind.
I stand up and wait for Grace, looking at her and seeing no trace of regret for her words. We get into the narrow hallway outside the conference room and I just shake my head and laugh. “You do understand what’s happening in there, right?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down.
“Yes.”
“Okay. So I’ll just sum it up in the best way possible. This is the part where you say you’re sorry, thank me—your lawyer—and then go back to your classroom, pick up your life, and move on. No headlines, no fuss, no big deal.”
“I can’t do that.”
I suddenly imagine Grace as one of those precocious kids who looks sweet and adorable but who throws a tantrum when she doesn’t get her way.
“Why can’t you do that?” I ask.
“Because I gave an honest answer to a legitimate question in a setting where I’m responsible for speaking the facts.”
I nod in order not to curse. The world is full of people who couldn’t care less about the facts. I just so happen to be representing one who actually does care.
“Grace, you don’t want to do this. It’s the wrong decision.”
She’s not backing down. “Is it? I’d rather stand with God and be judged by the world than stand with the world and be judged by God. I’m not going to be afraid to say the word Jesus.”
I stand there for a moment, really uncertain of what to say. This isn’t some political debate. I’m not Tom Brokaw here. I’m her attorney.
She really believes all that too.
I let out a breath. “Okay, then.”
When we’re sitting back down looking over at the severity staring at us, I get this feeling they already know what Grace has decided. Fessler seems to have a smug look wrapped around his head like a hot towel. I really hate having to do what I’m about to do.
“While Ms. Wesley apologizes for any inconvenience her actions may have caused, she stands by her statements and does not retract or recant them either in full or in part.”
Superintendent Winokur’s “So noted” comes out sounding a bit more like a judge saying, “Hang ’em.”
He pauses to see if I have anything more to say, but I don’t. I can’t really think of anything to say. I had thought I’d have to convince them to give Grace a chance, not the other way around.
“Having little choice then,” Winokur continues, “this board recommends continued suspension—without pay—pending further review by a court of competent jurisdiction, which will determine whether or not Ms. Wesley violated local, state, or federal guidelines. This proceeding is adjourned.”
Grace leans toward me. “That’s it?”
“Yeah, pretty much so. For now.”
There’s muffled conversation on the other side of the room. I stand and wait for Grace to walk out before me. As we near the doorway, Fessler calls me over. I tell Grace I’ll be a minute.
“This isn’t the time for a plea bargain yet,” I say, trying to make a joke to relieve any tension.
“Does she know what she’s doing?”
“She thinks she does.”
&n
bsp; “Did you give her the reality of the situation?”
“Yes, I did, but thank you for your thoughtful consideration,” I tell him.
“You know that the ACLU has already been in touch?” he says. “And they’re not at all interested in naming the school district as a codefendant. She’s going to be completely on her own here.”
The only thing surprising about this is that Fessler is telling me about it. I nod and appear to be thinking for a moment. “Can I just—well—it’s embarrassing. But can I ask you one thing?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“What’s the ACLU again?”
“It’s the American Civil . . .” It took him just about two seconds to get that I was mocking him a bit. “Does your client know how trivial you’re making this out to be?”
“There’s absolutely nothing trivial about the treatment Ms. Wesley is being subjected to or about her commitment to her students and Martin Luther King Jr. High School. I always treat the person I’m talking to with the respect they’re bringing to the conversation.”
He ignores my statement as he glances at the figures all passing us by.
“The ACLU has been dreaming of joining a case like this,” he says so that only I can hear it.
“I bet you haven’t.”
“This won’t be my case. They’ll send in the big boys for this.”
With that he leaves me alone in the room. I stare back over the immense conference table, wondering what it would take to move it.
Where would one even begin to try?
15
THEY SIT ON THE PARK BENCH facing a nearby playground like neighborhood mothers watching their children. Amy and Mina don’t have any children. Neither of them even has a boyfriend. They are, however, strangely bound together by two such relationships. Mina is Marc’s sister. She is also the ex-girlfriend of Dr. Jeffrey Radisson, the now-deceased philosophy professor at the center of last year’s Hadleigh University debacle.
“I needed someone to talk to,” Amy says to the stunning woman she still can’t quite call a close friend. “Thanks for meeting me.”
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