by Alan Lee
She finished reading and re-clasped her hands, and frowned.
“Pretty good, right?” I said.
“I do not think it’s funny.” She tapped her finger on the newspaper. “A few days after this story was written, you got into a gunfight on school grounds and shot a man. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Killed him,” she said.
“Mmhm.”
“Three dead bodies, at least one of which you murdered.”
“At the very minimum.”
“You’re acting like a child.”
“And you’re using shame to manipulate. Won’t work. I’m an oak,” I said.
“I do not want a gunfighter on this campus.”
“What about a mild-mannered gun fighter?”
“Stop,” she snapped and pointed her finger at me.
“Sorry.”
“I should warn you, I’m taping this conversation,” she said.
“Yikes. Maybe I should sit up straighter.”
“This is a violent place, Mr. August. An underfunded and understaffed violent place. It’s hard to persuade good teachers to work here, and those who do leave after two years. Half our students go home to nothing and come back the next day wondering if they’ll get tangled up in a fight. Or worse. We’re trying to educate them, they’re trying to survive, the state is breathing down our necks to raise scores, and the Sheriff wants to conduct an operation in our halls by installing one of her thugs into a classroom.”
I said nothing.
“Some of our students have done time, and quite a few others should have. I realize you’re a big man. A really big man. But that will only make them want to challenge you. You’re a threat to young men looking to prove themselves. And if word gets out about your motive for being here, you might as well walk around with a target on your back.”
“How would word get out?”
“I have no idea.” She met my look levelly.
“I taught in Mecklenburg County. At the time, it was the poorest county in Virginia,” I said.
“So.”
“So we both know scores are higher in affluent communities. The more money mom and dad have, the higher the scores. The less money, the lower the scores.”
“Generally speaking, yes.”
“And I was in the poorest county,” I said.
“Okay.”
“My students scored a ninety-four percent on their SOLs.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment but her eyebrow arched. Then, “Not bad.”
“You’d be thrilled with an eighty-five most years.”
“So you’re a thug who can teach.”
“Mild-mannered thug who can teach,” I reminded her helpfully.
“Are you being financially compensated?”
“Not by the Sheriff. Standard teaching salary.”
“Why? Tell me why. Why did you sign up for this?” she asked.
“A teacher affects eternity.”
“Spare me the quotes.”
“My son will be going to these schools. As you said, these are violent halls. I can help.”
“You can.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but it wasn’t a statement of faith either.
“I can.”
“Sheriff Stackhouse told me about the powerful gang leader who moved to town recently.”
“He’s why I’m here. He and I need to talk.”
“What will you do?” she asked.
“Cross that bridge when I come to it,” I said.
“If you ever act like a cop instead of a teacher, Mr. August, I’m firing you on the spot. Understand?”
“This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Chapter Six
I spent the week prepping. Planning. Girding my loins. Meeting fellow teachers. They thought I was amusing. And handsome, I’m sure, though no one mentioned it. I also tied up loose ends with various clients, informing them my time would soon be limited.
The night before school started, Timothy August and I sat on the porch playing a game of chess by citronella torchlight. We were straight from a movie about life in Georgia during the early 1910s — drinking lemonade on the front porch in our rocking chairs, listening to cicadas and complaining about the humidity. Our drinks were spiked with Patrón tequila and Dad had a Vegas Churchill clamped in his teeth. A baby monitor hissed softly on the windowsill.
I was winning. My opponent brought his queen out too early. Senile in his old age. He stewed.
My phone buzzed.
>> Mackenzie August
>> I procured your number from Brad Thompson
>> To inform you…
>> I will allow you to take me out to dinner
>> Should you so desire.
>> You didn’t come to my bar Friday night
>> So I assume either you’re cowardly or blind
>> Either way…
>> Consider this an act of charity.
>> I like Italian. And big sweaty men.
>> — Ronnie
“What are you grinning about?” Timothy August asked.
“I do not grin. And none of your business.”
“That better be a girl. You haven’t been out in…I cannot remember when.”
“One does not cast pearls before swine.”
“Is this girl swine?” he asked.
“No. A local attorney. Who also tends bar, and launched a thousand ships.”
“Oh yes? Helen of Troy? Take her out. You must. I’ll pay. One of my dreams is to come downstairs for breakfast and find a redhead wearing one of your shirts.”
“It’s your move, you weird gross old man.”
“I just want to see you happy.”
“Happiness is not necessarily something brought by a redhead,” I said.
“In my experience she does.”
“Are you happy?”
He shrugged. “Who’s to say what’s happiness.”
“You’ve had a couple girls over recently. Not working?”
“Same girl, twice. She was…uninspiring.”
“It’s your move, you weird gross old man.”
We finished the game. The good guys won. As we cleaned up, a car pulled into our driveway.
Dad glanced at his watch.
“Expecting company?”
“Everyone I know in Roanoke is on this porch or asleep in a crib.”
The headlights extinguished, and a man got out. Shoes crunched on gravel. I finished my lemonade, the ice clinking, and rose.
The deadliest man I’d ever met stepped onto the porch. Manuel Martinez. Went by Manny. A former friend on the police force in California. I hadn’t seen him in two years. Normally shockingly handsome, now his eyes were sunken and his face was clammy.
We embraced and he pounded me on the back.
“Buenas noches, mi amigo.”
“You too,” he said.
“You smell awful.”
“Mind if I crash here?” Manny asked.
“Spare bedroom’s upstairs.”
“Gracias. I drove here from LA. Straight through.”
“Seems excessive.”
“Because I’m loco, hombre. Thirty-five hours. Now, beauty sleep.”
“Dad, this is my friend from Los Angeles PD. Manny, this is Timothy August,” I said. They shook hands, and Manny went inside.
Dad watched him stagger upstairs.
“Do you trust that guy?”
“I do. And I have. With my life.”
“Just like that?” he asked. “No questions asked, take the guest bedroom?”
“You’d prefer he share yours?”
“Absolutely not. But where does this trust come from? Some sort of brothers-in-arms code?”
“Called friendship, Timothy.”
“But Kix is up there, and that hombre looks unstable. Tattoos everywhere.”
“He had a very different upbringing than you. But relax. He was there the night Kix was born. And at my partner Richard’s fun
eral. I trust him.”
He said nothing.
“Besides,” I said. “I’ve been thinking you’d look good with a few tattoos.”
“Goodnight, son.”
Chapter Seven
Manny did not sleep in the guest bedroom. I found him on my floor, with a pillow and no blanket. A big .357 peeked from under the pillow.
I knew the feeling.
The next morning he came down to breakfast and lowered himself gingerly into a chair. Manny was a good-looking dude. His waist was thin and his shoulders set far apart. Great cheekbones, so I heard. He needed a shave and shower.
“Mack,” he croaked. “Can I crash here a couple days?”
“Long as you want.”
He locked eyes with Kix. Kix regarded him, icily. “Holy shit,” Manny said. “Your boy looks like Melynda.”
“But with muscles? And the promise of future facial hair?”
“Sorry about sleeping on your floor.”
“I care not where you sleep. What brings you?”
He shrugged.
“Took a job here.”
“Surely you jest. What job?”
“I’m a US Deputy Marshal now,” he said and got coffee. “Training ended last week. Five months.”
“Wow.”
“Sí.”
“They’ll let anybody in, these days,” I said.
“Needed a break from homicide. Was becoming a desperado.”
“Sergeant Bingham gave you a good recommendation?” I asked. “That guy hated you.”
“Kinda. Un poco. He was going to transfer me, so instead I requested he recommend me to the Marshals.”
“Por qué?” I asked. “Why transfer?”
“Usual stuff.”
“You kept releasing the hot suspects?”
“People have such issues with sex. No comprendo. What are you doing now?”
“First day of teaching,” I said.
“No joke? Certainly you’re the baddest assed teacher in America.”
“And we’re about to be late.” I cleaned Kix up and hoisted him. “Do me a favor. Go easy on my old man.”
“Qué?”
“You’re not white, and he scares easily,” I said.
“My grandma was white.”
“Oh thank goodness. We’re saved.”
* * *
Roxanne opened the storm door as we walked up her steps. She was in slippers and sweats and glasses and no makeup.
“Hi Kix!” She held out her hands. Kix was unimpressed. “Today we’re going to play with Play-Doh and puzzles and books!” Satisfied, Kix deigned it time to transfer out of my arms.
“You’re good,” I said.
“First day of school?” she asked. “Nervous?”
“Nah. I’m going to tear the arms off one kid per class and hit them with their own appendages. Establish dominance.”
“Wow. I taught a couple years and just gave the students time-outs.”
“Wuss.”
“Have a good day!”
“Back around four. Bye Kix,” I said, but he ignored me. Already playing with Roxanne’s daughter.
“Hey,” she called as I walked down her steps. “I want you to meet someone.”
“No.”
“No what?” she asked.
“No I don’t want to be set up with your friend.”
“She’s great! You’ll love her.”
“Does she tend bar?”
“No.”
“I’ll be mean to her just to spite you.”
She laughed on account of how funny I am.
* * *
A kid is not scary.
The opinion of a student is not important. The collective opinion of twenty-five kids, however, is almost a physical force. New teachers think they will stand and deliver, and students will take notes and thank the teacher afterwards.
Hah.
Fifty percent of teachers quit within three years. Most can barely stand after the first day. Students don’t realize how close they are to anarchy. The teacher’s control is an illusion. It’s not physical. Teachers give orders and hope the twenty-five teenagers don’t rampage. Because there is little to stop them.
There is an old saying about teaching: don’t smile until you’re three months in. You smile, they pounce. Don’t smile, always exercise control. You’re the captain, the chief, the pack leader. Ten percent instruction, ninety percent psychology. Fifty percent brains, fifty percent nerves of steel. Raise your voice and you’ve already lost. Never let them see you sweat. Confidence and attitude. Stuff like that.
Here we go.
The school was polished bright and the air was sharp with optimism and fear. Veteran teachers joked from their doorways. Rookies focused on re-straightening their desks. A custodian pushed a wide mop down the hall and a harried administrator rushed past. I stopped by the office, signed in, and checked my mailbox. Copiers already ran full speed, hangdog students already sat in chairs waiting, and receptionists already droned into phones.
The teacher across from me, a happy guy as tall as he was round, passed back and forth in front of his door and preached encouragement to anyone who’d listen. His name was Reginald Willis, but we went by Reggie. This was his twenty-eighth year teaching.
“Repent, my brethren! For the heathen cherubs rattle our doors!” he called and earned a few laughs. “To arms! To arms! Our weapons be wisdom and wit, and our charges many. The state sends us savages but we’ll make citizens of them yet. Mr. August, look’atcha. Big white man in the prime of life. There stands Mackenzie like the bull in a china shop. Are you scared?”
“I fear no man. Not even thou.”
“Let me give you some free advice, young man.” He waddled over. His bifocals perched on his nose, secured by a small chain which wrapped round his neck. “For me, my personal self? I treat ’em with respect.”
“All they got is pride, Mr. Willis.”
“All they got…well, now, go on, Mr. August. That’s right. You’re smarter than you look. All they got is pride, some of them, and we can’t take that away. You and I, we take away their pride, you know what we got?”
“A cornered wild animal.”
“A cornered wild animal. I like you, Mr. August. Don’t look as though you belong, but you got more wits than most. Treat ’em with respect.” He nodded to himself and waddled back.
I shared a homeroom class with another teacher for the first day. She was in my room and writing on the board.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. Her name was Ms. Bennett and this was her first year. Brown hair back in a ponytail, denim skirt, pink top. Her face reminded me of a puppy’s. Her voice quavered as she spoke. She didn’t know if she could control her students so she compensated by controlling what she could. Like names and dates on the board. She’d be terrified well into the semester. “Your face looks better. The bruises are gone. I still can’t believe someone hit you.”
“My face is elite.”
“Did you kill the guy?”
I smiled. “No. Against the rules.”
I stood by the door, arms crossed. A trophy case glinted across the hall. Fluorescent bulbs reflected off floor tiles. Posters with slogans like “You Can Learn” were attached to Ms. Bennett’s door, adjacent to mine.
“I bet you’re not scared,” she said. “You’re huge.”
“I get nervous.”
“Okay,” she said, scurrying about. “Okay okay.”
“Hey,” I said and held out my fist. She bumped it. Tentatively. “You’re going to be great. You’re the best. Remember that. Captain of your classroom.”
She nodded.
“Got it. Captain of my class. Be great. God I’m so scared.”
Not a lot I could do for her. Sink or swim. The bell rang like an alarm going off in a bunker. Buses emptied. Doors flew open. Students barged.
The basketball players were taller than me, and I was tall. The football players were as big as me and I was big. Some seni
ors had scars. The girls were loud and full of disdain.
How did they see where they’re going? Everyone stared at phones. Reginald Willis harangued them on the evils of cell phone usage, and the students loved it.
Tenth-grade students filtered into my room. Bennett and I made sure they knew where they were and where to go, pledged allegiance to the flag, participated in a moment of silence, listened to the principal’s welcome speech, and sent them on their way. Time for first period. Bennett walked unsteadily to her door.
Always stay in the hall between classes, near the door. This was my hall and my classroom, not yours. Cut down on violence. Students coming down the hall gave me a wide berth, taking long looks at their schedule to make sure the scary guy was their teacher. They had to squeeze past me to enter. It’s the little things in life that make me smile.
The bell rang. Class began. I closed the door with a bang.
“First things first,” I said. “You’re in Mr. August’s tenth-grade English class. And you hit the jackpot. I’m the best. The best English teacher you’re ever going to have. There was talk of giving me Teacher-of-the-Year award before school started. Understand?”
No immediate response. Wide eyes. Good.
“Yo, man, Mr. August. What kinda name is that? You know August Alsina, the rapper? August is a black name.”
“What Jeriah has done wrong,” I said, and floored him because I remembered his name from looking at pictures, “is he did not raise his hand and wait until called on. That will not fly in this class. What Jeriah did right is realize that I’m the best and I do not mind questions like that.”
He grinned. A student’s name is his or her favorite word in the English language. Use often. Jeriah Morgan sat near the back of the class. Hair cornrowed, pencil tucked behind his ear, name-brand clothing. Big, striking in appearance, an alpha male.
“Megan,” I said. “Please hand out the class syllabus.”
Megan, a cute little girl in tortoiseshell glasses, complied. She flitted about the room, dispensing paper like fairy dust.
