by Mary Pagones
The student with the appointment before me is still in Ms. Sargent’s office when I arrive. I put off all the bureaucratic aspects of applying college until the deadline before Thanksgiving break. After checking all my social media (this is the slow part of the day for Pemberley on Facebook), I just stare into space down the hallway.
Space that’s suddenly occupied by Charlotte and her parents. Together, the whole family’s like three blonde palominos hitched together, some bit of Burberry plaid on each of them. The only contrast between Charlotte and the elder Hollands is that Mr. Holland is losing his blonde hair, while his daughter has a long, thick mane, and Dr. Holland’s skin is very taunt and sallow, unlike Charlotte’s strawberry-and-cream complexion.
Mr. Clarke’s following them. They’re trotting so fast on their collectively long legs that he’s slightly behind. But he’s not straining to keep up; he just takes his time. He’s wearing one of his ugliest tweed suit jackets, dressing the part of a British high school English teacher to the point of parody. But by Mr. Clarke’s standards, he looks almost presentable to the world outside of high school, because his usual haircut has grown out just enough that it’s at the right length, before it gets too long again.
You’d think that a short, somewhat overweight man would look silly or intimidated following the palominos, but Mr. Clarke still somehow radiates quiet professorial dignity. In contrast to the frosty anger of the Hollands, my English teacher seems calm and assured. Before he follows them into the office, he even takes a moment to clean his glasses. Something like bemusement flickers across his face before he composes himself.
I can’t hear what they’re saying at first, but then Dr. Holland raises her voice slightly. “Charlotte always has her work looked over not only by us but by her tutor as well. She worked so hard on this essay in particular.”
“Charlotte is diligent, but I was looking for more than the student to merely paraphrase what previous authors had written,” says Clarke.
“Did the plagiarism software flag this essay?” asks Mr. Holland.
“I’m not accusing your daughter of plagiarism. But this is more—forgive me for being blunt, Charlotte, we discussed this before—a book report on Hamlet than analysis.”
“My daughter has never been a C student,” says Mr. Holland.
I hear Principal Gardner, her voice bright and sunny as a cheerleader’s (not that our nerdy high school football team’s performance is anything to be optimistic about): “Why don’t we compromise? I know—let’s get another English teacher to look it over, see if she agrees with Mr. Clarke. Would you object?”
“That’s one alternative, I guess.” Mr. Holland’s voice reverberates from the principal’s office against the tiles of the hall.
“This is a critical semester. Charlotte is applying early to Princeton. She wants to make sure her application is flawless. She’s never gotten grades like she has in this English class.” Dr. Holland’s voice is relatively quiet and moderated. She sounds like she’s consoling a patient, and says the word English like she might intone “acne” or “eczema.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Holland, but I grade papers solely on what I see before me, not on where students are applying to college or their previous grades. Students are held to a university-level standard of performance in my Advanced Placement classes.”
“Charlotte’s tutor has a degree from Harvard University and she felt…” Mr. Holland drones.
There’s a flurry of more whispering. I hear Principal Gardner murmur more about another English teacher re-grading it. “Isn’t that the most painless thing? For everyone?”
Ms. Sargent, just when it’s getting interesting, hangs her head out the door. “I’m ready for you, Lisa.”
“Liss,” I say.
She smiles at me.
Frankly, I’m a little disappointed I’m going to miss more of the Clarke-versus-Holland duel. Sense versus Oversensitivity?
As expected, Ms. Sargent just takes my list, peruses it, notes with satisfaction Rutgers is my safety school, and wishes me luck. “Are you sure that you don’t want to apply to Davisson College?” she asks.
“It’s a bit…” I’m not sure how to say preppy Vineyard Vines hell in a nice way. “Not quite what I was looking for.”
“The representative from the school was here last week. Davisson is an up-and-coming school. She brought lots of pens.” She extends a bowl in my direction. Even the Davisson colors are obnoxiously preppy—bright pink and teal.
“Thanks, but I have plenty of pens.”
Mr. Holland’s laying into Mr. Clarke. I can hear him through the closed doors. Maybe because he’s a lawyer, he has powerful lungs. He’s spouting phrases like, “ruining a student’s future,” and “a silly English essay,” and, “Would you like me to take this to my friend who is a professor at Princeton? I can do that—he’d be happy to look it over.”
By the time Ms. Sargent’s finished tip-typing everything into her computer at a sloth’s pace, the Hollands have left. Mr. Clarke’s in Principal Gardner’s office alone. I exit my guidance counselor’s office just in time to hear my teacher’s distinctive voice intone, “Of course it would be easier for me just to give the girl an A. I don’t want to make things easier for Charlotte or for myself. I’ve observed a distinct decline in the quality of student writing in recent years. Even the very best students struggle with writing, which is what I find most worrisome. If pupils who are supposedly setting the standard for future literacy don’t care about literature, who will?”
“Tom, you have to realize that students here are so over-scheduled. They don’t have time to read on their own for pleasure. Plus, there’s all the texting and social media. All the preparation for multiple-choice standardized tests. Even—I hate to say it—the focus on STEM to the exclusion of all else, although I certainly do support the sciences.”
I’m frozen in place. Some of the dramatis personae may have exited the stage, but there’s still enough drama going down, I can’t leave the hallway until the scene ends.
“In one of my classes this year, a freshman wrote in bullet points when answering an essay question,” interjects Mr. Clarke. “As if he were writing a lab report. I shudder to think what I’ll be seeing next. Penciled-in emojis, perhaps?”
Principal Gardner continues, ignoring Mr. Clarke in a manner I find shocking. “In elementary school, students are being assigned more nonfiction, not fiction, to prepare them for the workplace. It’s a trend. Essays on standardized tests today are often graded by computers. Teaching to the test inevitably has an effect on the quality of student prose. The world is changing. The top students in your classes have tutors; most don’t have the chance to develop their own writing styles and voice. Fewer still have passionate opinions about literature. Or anything, really.” She laughs a little bit, but Mr. Clarke doesn’t join in. “I’m sure Charlotte thought she was fulfilling the requirements of the assignment, especially after her tutor said she did. You need to readjust your standards accordingly.”
“It’s inexcusable for a student taking an advanced-level course in literature to offer no independent analysis or ideas of her own, and feel entitled to an A. The educational culture may have become corrupted, but that doesn’t mean I concede defeat.”
“What are you at war with, Tom?”
“Mediocre writing. Careless writing. Which leads to sloppy thinking. I was frankly quite offended to hear the Hollands claim my grades are arbitrary or based upon personal sentiment. I explained my standards quite clearly.”
“Well, to a degree what they say is valid; grading an essay about literature isn’t like calculating the answer of a math problem.”
“Thank God for that. You saw what the girl wrote, Abigail. I’m sorry to say it, but it was like a poorly written encyclopedia entry, with a few SAT vocabulary words sprinkled in here and there.”
“Do you want to hurt this girl’s chances of getting into Princeton? Charlotte’s an excellent student. She’s treasurer
of the National Honor Society and performs a great deal of community service. I’m being candid, Tom. A C is considered a very poor mark for a competitive applicant to Princeton like Charlotte. A C is not a grade to be given lightly. It could affect her future.”
“My job is to teach. Not to enhance a student’s chances of being accepted to any particular institution of higher learning.”
“We can’t ignore the importance of getting into a good college for the majority of students here. You can’t refashion every student into an English major. That shouldn’t be our goal.”
“I can at least try to make my students lifelong readers. When I’m having a particularly idealistic moment, I like to believe that writing about fiction teaches students empathy, forces them to see the world through the eyes of someone they might otherwise despise or overlook. Couldn’t we use more of that kind of compassion in our society today?”
“I hear you, Tom, but many of our parents would say it’s so hard to get into college, much less get a decent-paying job, that kind of empathy is a luxury they can’t afford.”
I’m not supposed to be hearing this. I’m carefully positioning myself outside the door where I can’t be seen. I’m pretending to be fascinated by the corkboard in front of me, which is decorated for the holiday with pictures of turkeys and footballs. I hear more squeaking and scraping of the chairs in the principal’s office, then Mr. Clarke’s voice again.
“I’m disappointed, Abigail. Whenever a parent contested a grade in the past, you supported me.”
“Tom, do you want to die alone on your hill?”
Pause.
“Why not? The view is surprisingly attractive.”
“If we don’t have someone else look over Charlotte’s work, you know what will happen. You’ve met the father. He’s going to make things very, very difficult for us—particularly for you.” Principal Gardner sounds tired.
“Blame it all on me. I’ll handle the Hollands.”
“The situation has gone beyond mere handling.”
“It’s not fair to the students who intellectually and emotionally engage with the texts, who do care about literature. Students who find the time to work on their writing, maybe even read an unassigned novel or two. Such students do exist.”
“Let’s talk about this on Monday. I have to get to the grocery store while there are still a few boxes of cornbread mix left on the shelves.”
“I understand,” says Mr. Clarke. “Have a lovely holiday and best of health to your family.”
“After this afternoon, I may just stop at the liquor store and get an extra bottle of wine. I’m not sure I’m up to baking this evening. I think I need some extra Merlot to survive my mother-in-law tomorrow.”
“I may see you in line, then. I’ll have in hand a nice Bordeaux or Cabernet. Maybe both.”
Mr. Clarke comes slumping out of the office before I have a chance to hide, but he seems too defeated to process the fact I’ve been eavesdropping.
“Hello, Mr. Clarke. Just dropped off my list of colleges at guidance,” I say. “Whew.” Covering for myself…not well at all.
“Ms. Tennant,” he says, and nods. I feel unusual warmth radiating from him right now. “Any ambitious reading planned for the long weekend?”
I stroll beside him, slowing down my usual brisk walking pace. “I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading!” I exclaim in my best snooty Miss Bingley voice. “Okay, I don’t know if it counts, but my family always watches all six episodes of Pride and Prejudice on Thanksgiving Day. My father hates football, fortunately.”
“Fortunate indeed.” Mr. Clarke sounds less revolted than I anticipated, and more amused by my disgust. As if in answer, he notes, “It may surprise you, but when I was your age, I was rather good at sport in school. At what the rest of the world calls football.”
“What about you this weekend, Mr. Clarke? Do you do anything special to celebrate??”
“I don’t observe this holiday, Ms. Tennant.” Oh, now I feel dumb. I know he came from England years ago, but I assumed he’d do Thanksgiving. When I apologize, and mutter something to that effect, he says, “At this point, I don’t suppose I belong here or there. Of course, I did celebrate Thanksgiving when my wife was still alive. But her family lives in the Midwest. I’m not driving to Ohio just for a weekend. They certainly won’t miss me.” He smiles as if sharing a private joke with himself.
We’re at my teacher’s car now, the 2005 Honda Charlotte expressed such contempt for. I can see the two elder Hollands are still conferring in their BMW SUV. They’re illegally parked in the teacher’s lot. Mr. Holland drives away at record speed when he notices Mr. Clarke.
Mr. Clarke gets in his car. He turns the key. Silence. I’m about to cross over into the student parking area, but I stop when I hear the dead airspace after the click. I can hear Clarke swearing, softly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I tap on the glass. “No Anglo-Saxon?” I ask. I can’t help myself.
“There are some situations in which only the Germanic term will suffice,” Mr. Clarke says, recovering when he sees me. I’m little bit scared for a moment because…I mean, I know it’s just a dead car, but this weird expression passed over his face. Depressed. Lonely. “Using the right word in context is always so important.”
“Want me to give you a jump?” I ask. “I have a finicky old Honda too, so I’m an expert.”
“Car mechanic and Jane Austen expert—you wear many hats, Ms. Tennant.”
“Bonnets.”
“Which is what I would call the hood of the car, back home.”
“I’m not sure I qualify as an expert in Jane Austen if I only got a B+ on my Pride and Prejudice paper,” I say. I go back to get my car.
For some reason, Mr. Clarke looks embarrassed. Which I did not expect.
Happily, his car springs to life with the help of my cables. “I’m sorry, Ms. Tennant,” he says. “I’m very sorry to have troubled you.”
I hesitate. “Um, Mr. Clarke, I don’t mean to sound weird, but…my father has always said that on Thanksgiving, Christmas, in fact, on any holiday, our door is open.”
“How lovely.” He looks confused.
“I swear, I’m not trying to get a better grade and I already have my teacher recommendations for college. But you said you didn’t have anywhere to eat on Thanksgiving. I know you’d be welcome. In fact, I already have an outside guest. My boyfriend’s coming. There’s a little dog from the shelter where I work who is doing a weekend stay. If that still sounds too peculiar, consider the invitation from my father, not me. He always says that no one should be alone on any holiday.”
Mr. Clarke looks incredibly uncomfortable. I’m not sure if he’s angry at me for putting him into such an awkward position when he says, “No, no, I couldn’t impose. As a rule, I don’t socialize with current students outside of the classroom.”
I feel ashamed for making him feel embarrassed. I meant well. “There’s no imposition. We’re very informal. We don’t even have turkey. We make a big pot of turkey meatballs and spaghetti. There’s always plenty of leftovers.” It occurs to me, maybe he’s ashamed he doesn’t have anywhere to go.
“Thank you, Ms. Tennant. But I think I’ll just have a glass of wine or two and grade some papers. Maybe follow your example with some Austen. Persuasion is my favorite Austen novel, though.”
“Oh, that’s my least favorite. I mean, I love it, because it’s by Jane. But it’s not terribly funny. The heroine is a bit frustrating.”
“Well, it’s about old people. Older. So your reservations are understandable.”
“Old? Anne Elliot? Even I don’t think twenty-seven is that old, Mr. Clarke. It’s just depressing how many years Anne and Captain Wentworth lost, when they could have been happy together, if Anne had ignored what everyone else was saying.” I would never be so weak, whatever my faults.
“Surely it’s better to have some time together as a couple than none at all? Again, thank you for the invitation as
well as resurrecting my car,” says Mr. Clarke. “Enjoy your version of Pride and Prejudice, Ms. Tennant.”
Chapter 16
Such An Opportunity Of Exhibiting Was Delightful
“Livy, don’t give Wentworth marshmallows,” I say. It’s early Thanksgiving morning, but we’re so used to getting up at dawn for our respective schools that my sister and I are already well into the second hour of the Pride and Prejudice marathon. We have progressed to the Netherfield Ball scene and the Darcy-Elizabeth hate dance. I’m eating a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel I’ve slathered with honey and butter and am slurping on a mug of very strong Earl Grey tea. Livy’s picking at dry Lucky Charms and drinking a separate glass of chocolate milk. She always consumes the marshmallows first, then the cereal. My father’s making the sauce for the spaghetti, and I can already smell some turkey meatballs starting to fry in a skillet. I’m sure he’ll sneak an early, half-raw meatball for his own breakfast in a little bit, careful not to let Livy see so he can avoid her customary lecture about salmonella.
Wentworth is suddenly Livy’s best friend. I don’t want to say too much, because I’m hoping she’ll join the Adopt Wentworth campaign. She seems to like him, but not fully trust him. Still, I draw the line at allowing him sugary marshmallows. His nose is pressed down against the sofa cushion, since he’s too short-legged and arthritic to climb or jump up. Every now and then a little pink tongue flicks out, desperate for food.
Livy hasn’t bothered to put in her contact lenses yet. The plastic frames of her glasses are huge and dwarf her small nose. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. I’m wearing my newly dyed black hair in a long braid and I’m also in pajama pants, but with my Keep Calm and Read Jane Austen t-shirt, to show solidarity with Elizabeth on screen.