Chapter 27
Andrew
Why did I take up that stupid note?
They say, don’t ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer. Same thing goes for notes in a classroom. You never know what a note is going to say. Kids reveal all kinds of personal stuff to other kids. They tell tales on each other. And sometimes they take jabs at adults. But the problem is, once you take up a note, you own that information. You can choose to address it or not, but you own it, and they know you own it.
I choose not to address the cartoon. What am I going to do anyway, take it to Mr. Redmon? I don’t think so. The only thing I can do is forget about it and reassert my authority in the classroom, which might have been easy enough if they weren’t all picturing me with a giant penis in my mouth.
Suffice it to say that my first-period class is out of control this morning. I can’t turn my back on them without a flurry of giggles and sucking noises. So finally I resort to using my document camera and working problems on a sheet of paper. That way I can face them while I instruct.
It helps. Some.
The test on this chapter is next Tuesday. It’s the most difficult chapter in the book, and I want to give them two full days of review.
“All right,” I say, writing a problem on the sheet of paper:
13x2 +22
“When it comes to solving quadratic equations, we know we have some choices here. Can someone list them for me?”
Stephen Newman raises his hand. I know better than to call on him, but no other hands go up. Thanks a lot, guys.
“I think you should just go straight to factor by grouping. You know, like with like. Grouped.” He punctuates his suggestion with a big self-satisfied smile. In fact, smiles erupt all around.
Do not react. Do not react. Do not react.
I jot down factor in the margin. “That’s one way. Can anyone list the other three?” I scan my audience and watch the smiles dissolve on their faces. Not a soul raises their hand.
“Okay. I’ll just write them down for you. You can use the quadratic formula, you can complete the square, you can take the square root, or you can factor using one of several methods, including grouping as Stephen has already mentioned. Stephen, stop talking or I’m going to kick you, then I’m going to kick your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog,” he spouts off.
“Then I guess I’m just going to kick you.”
“Right.” He slouches back in his seat. It’s a dare.
I turn back to the problem and manage to get through it and a few more before the bell rings. “Complete the chapter review over the weekend,” I say as they shuffle out. “Mr. Newman.”
He stops and sneers at me defiantly.
“I’ve had enough. I’m calling your father.”
“Go ahead. My dad doesn’t like fags.” He gives me a smug smile and strides out of my classroom, tossing a wadded-up piece of paper in the general direction of the trashcan.
I feel like I’m drowning.
I want to talk it out with Jennifer, but that’s completely out of the question. She’s not talking to me. In fact, this morning in the teachers’ lounge, she poured a cup of coffee while I waited and tried to engage her in small talk, and then she emptied the carafe into the sink and told me, in no uncertain terms, to go fuck myself.
Yesterday when I sat down at her table at lunch, she got up and moved. I’m not sure what the half-life is on a woman scorned, but I’m pretty sure she plans to school me on that.
I pick up the paper Stephen tossed and then check my e-mail as my second-period class starts to file in and take their seats. An e-mail from Mr. Redmon catches my attention.
Mr. McNelis—
The committee has denied your application for the admin training program. Please feel free to reapply next year.
Mr. Redmon
I am pissed. No, I’m more than pissed. I am furious. Outside Mr. Redmon’s office, Mrs. Stovall tries to intercept me. “Is he expecting you?”
He damn well ought to be.
“I only need to see him for a moment.”
I stride past her desk before she can react and stick my head in his doorway. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
“I was just about to e-mail you. Have a seat.” He picks up a pencil and taps it on his desk as I settle across from him. “I got a call from Stephen Newman’s dad a few minutes ago. He wants Stephen moved out of your class.”
Well, that would be a godsend, but I already know that kind of thing rarely happens. If it did, kids would be shuffling classes all year long.
I assume a concerned look. “Did he say why?” Like I don’t know.
He takes a deep breath and blows it out loudly. “Well, he feels like you’re picking on Stephen.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t treat Stephen any differently than I treat any other student. If anything, I’ve given him more latitude than most. He’s immature and he’s disruptive, but I feel like I’m handling it. Are you going to move him?”
“No. But let me just caution you, if you are singling out Stephen, this is not going to go away. We dealt with this when his older sister was a student here. She was a good kid, but we walked a fine line. Mr. Newman is very involved in his kids’ lives and in their education. Just remember that. You might need to cut Stephen some more slack. His grades in your class are pretty low. I expect you to find a way to remedy that. Maybe some tutoring after school. Or maybe you need to adjust your teaching methods. Quite a few of your kids have low grades.”
I’m aghast. And I’m livid all over again. But I hold my tongue.
“I assume you stopped by to ask about the admin training program?”
It takes me a moment to redirect my thoughts. “Yes. I don’t understand. Why was I denied?”
“I don’t know. I assume it’s because the committee feels like you’re not quite ready.”
Bullshit. They take on second-year teachers all the time.
“Apply again next year,” Mr. Redmon says, turning back to his computer. “I’m sure you’ll get in.”
I know a dismissal when I hear one.
I’m still seething when sixth period rolls around. I’m worried about battling with Robert again (I don’t want that), but he walks in and quietly lays three days’ worth of homework on my desk, then takes his seat. When I work at the board, he watches, listens as I explain and work through problems. He doesn’t raise his hand, but other than that, he’s like every other student in the classroom—focused, well behaved.
As I watch him get started on his homework the last ten minutes of class, it’s hard to believe that the hand that holds his pencil and the one that anchors his notebook are the same hands that just a week ago were eagerly exploring every inch of my body. That the lip that he’s biting is the same lip that pressed so firmly against mine. That I know exactly what’s under that I’m too saxy for my band T-shirt, and that I know that underneath those jeans he’s probably wearing boxer briefs, gray, and filling them out quite nicely.
He glances up and catches my eye. I look away, and then beat a slow track around the room, checking to see that my students understand what they’re doing, and at the same time, wondering what I’m doing.
What did I lie to you about, Robert? What?