Chapter 38
Andrew
The meeting is being held in a small conference room behind the receptionist’s desk. “They’re waiting for you,” she says.
“Thank you very much.”
I am smartly dressed in a pair of dark gray slacks and a white, long-sleeved button-down with a tie. And I am right on time. Nevertheless, when I open the door I apologize for keeping them waiting.
“I’m Andrew McNelis,” I say, extending my hand. Mr. Newman looks at it like I might have peed on it first. Like father like son. I withdraw my hand and greet Stephen (who also looks at me like I’m urine-soaked) and Mr. Redmon as I take a seat. This is going to be fun.
I lay my records out on the table in front of me. Mr. Redmon starts the meeting with some small talk. “Mr. Newman was just telling me that Stephen has been tapped for varsity next year.”
“That’s great,” I say, looking directly at Stephen. They must need a freakishly short ball boy. He glares back at me. Neither he nor his dad responds.
Mr. Redmon clears his throat and suggests we get started. He asks me to talk about what I see going on in class and about Stephen’s grades.
Fortunately, I have come prepared. I address his grades first since that’s the most objective issue and the least likely to call my professionalism into question. I’ve printed out three copies of his grades and slide one over to Mr. Redmon and one to Mr. Newman.
“Stephen is not turning in his homework. I’ve received only three partially completed assignments since we returned from the holiday. Not only is that pulling his grade down, but I believe the lack of practice is really hurting his performance on quizzes and tests. The last test he took”—I remove that from the folder and pass it across the table—“he made a forty-nine on. As you can see, he didn’t even attempt about a quarter of the problems. I gave him as much partial credit as I could on the other problems he missed. I also gave him the opportunity to make test corrections after a review with me. That could have brought his grade up to a seventy, but he declined.”
I rest my case.
Mr. Newman barely glances at the papers in front of him. When I’m done, he pushes them back across the table. I take them, stack them neatly, and return them to Stephen’s file.
“My son doesn’t like you,” he says, which are the first words he’s spoken since I arrived.
“I understand that, but I’m not here to be popular with kids, Mr. Newman. I’m here to teach algebra.”
Mr. Redmon clears his throat again. “Mr. McNelis, Stephen believes that you have singled him out, that you are treating him differently than other students.” He consults the paper in front of him. “He’s says you’ve humiliated him in class, that you’ve threatened to kick him, that you’ve told him to shut up and get out, and that you’ve stood him up for tutoring. He also says you called him a prick yesterday.”
That little prick.
“Mr. Redmon, I think I’m a pretty good classroom manager. Some of what Stephen has described is merely part of my management system. The kids understand it for what it is. When I tell a student I’m going to kick them, and then I’m going to kick their dog, absolutely no one takes that literally. The same goes for telling them to shut up and get out. I’m sure I say something like that a couple times a day, and have for over a year. It is not meant in any way to shame students. They know that. And I believe Stephen knows that too.
“As to why he’s coming to you with this now,” I continue, “I can only assume he’s expressing his anger at being held accountable. He’s been increasingly disruptive in class.”
“That’s a lie,” Stephen cuts in.
I continue without pause. “I have had no choice but to deal with his disruptions, including referring him to the office yesterday. I have a class to teach, and I cannot teach if a student insists on hijacking the entire class.”
“Everybody’s talking in class,” Stephen sputters. “And everybody’s goofing off because we’re bored. He doesn’t teach us anything. And he just doesn’t like me.”
Mr. Redmon addresses me, ignoring Stephen’s outburst. “Have you spoken with Mr. Newman about Stephen’s behavior?”
“Actually, no. I think it’s more effective if I work directly with my students. Unfortunately, in Stephen’s case, I believe we were headed for parent intervention.”
I can tell from Mr. Redmon’s demeanor that he appreciates the fact that I have dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s and that our discussion so far has remained professional. It makes his job a lot easier.
“Did you call Stephen a prick during tutoring yesterday?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Liar,” Stephen says again.
You know what, you little shit? Two can play this game. And I’ve had a hell of a lot more practice than you’ve had.
“I don’t really understand why Stephen is so angry with me and why he is choosing to act out in class.” I say this looking directly at Stephen. I love the expression act out. It makes him sound like a two-year-old. “But I assure you I don’t treat him any differently than any other student. If anything, I’ve given him more latitude with tardies and such just to avoid getting into a battle with him over petty issues. And I certainly haven’t called him names.
“I am happy to do anything I can to get him back on track. In fact, I’ve already rearranged my own personal schedule to accommodate his football practice. I don’t know what more I can do.”
Take that, twerp.
Mr. Redmon thanks me and releases me back to my classroom. He is clearly planning to remain behind to continue speaking with Stephen and his father. I offer my hand to Mr. Newman again just to emphasize what a pompous ass he is, and just as I expect, he refuses to shake.
Afraid of the gay?
I retrieve my hand, give him my biggest smile, and leave the room.
I can only imagine what’s being said in there. If Mr. Redmon is half the principal I believe him to be, he’s supporting me 100 percent, just as he said he would. If he believed everything kids told their parents about teachers, there’d be none of us left.
Last year Ms. Young—one of our more senior teachers with thirty-five years in the classroom and six months from retirement—was accused of inappropriate contact with a student because she, allegedly, tried to kiss one of the boys in her class. Yeah, she did. When kids misbehaved, she threatened to kiss them. That was her classroom management plan. First, she warned them. With the second warning she pulled out her fire-engine red lipstick and slathered it on her thin lips. There was no third warning. The next time a kid misbehaved, she gave him a big ol’ smooch on the cheek. She rarely had to correct a student three times.
I get back with plenty of time to spare before first bell, and I have to admit, I’m feeling pretty good. Numbers don’t lie, but kids do, all the time.
“How’d it go?” Jen says from my doorway.
“Good. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”
Robert
It’s dark and it’s pouring rain; we take advantage of both to make out in a far corner of the H-E-B parking lot. Andrew is soaking wet and his skin is cold and goose bumpy. I’m doing my damned best to warm him up. Nobody’s undressing today, though. We’re taking a risk as it is, but we’re not that stupid. That doesn’t mean that we’re hanging out in the backseat like altar boys, though.
“Can you get away for a night this weekend?” he asks. “I’ll get a hotel room downtown—a late Valentine’s Day present, or maybe an early birthday present.”
“Really? All night? Like with a bed and everything? And a lock on the door? And no pictures of your ex-wife anywhere?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t know. Are you sure your heart can take it?”
“You know, you keep that up and I’m going to . . .”
“You’re going to what?”
“I’m going to dock you ten points on your next test.”
“Gasp. Abuse of power. Sorry, Teach.”
“Don’t say that, okay?”