Crutcher admitted he was wrong? Not likely. But Zach has no doubt his parents believe it.
“All in all, I think we were able to come to an agreement on your paper,” Dad says. “While he’s unwilling to change your grade at this point, given that you already have the paper back, he is willing to give you an additional assignment. Extra credit, basically. That way, your grade can be raised from a B-plus to an A-minus without causing a rift with the other students.”
In other words, Crutcher said no. Not surprising to Zach, given how much his English teacher hates him. It’s so weird, because teachers always like him. He’s never had a problem until Crutcher.
He’s also never had a B—plus or otherwise.
“We think this is the best possible outcome,” Mom says. “Your GPA will remain intact, all with nothing out of place happening.”
Zach nods, trying not to smile at how she phrases it. They would’ve loved nothing more than to convince Crutcher to change the grade. They couldn’t—and won’t admit it.
Like Dad says: Failure can be an illusion.
That’s just one of his many sayings, which he calls Ward-isms. Zach’s been hearing them all his life. Most are stupid.
Both his parents are looking at him, and Zach realizes they’re waiting for him to speak.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” Mom says. “You know we’re always willing to help.”
Of course they are. Anything to keep him on track to the Ivy League. This time, however, he didn’t want their help. He didn’t want them talking to Crutcher, didn’t want them asking to change his grade. The B-plus wasn’t that big of a deal—not on a single paper. It wasn’t his semester grade or anything.
No, they’d said. We can fix this.
But their idea of fixing had resulted in more work for him, not them. And Crutcher probably hates him more than he did before.
Perfect.
“Did Mr. Crutcher say what the extra assignment is?” Zach asks.
“He did not,” Dad says. “He’s going to mull it over, and I assume he’ll let you know directly.”
“If he doesn’t, let us know,” Mom says.
Zach nods. Sure he will.
“And let’s review that assignment together before you turn it in,” Dad says.
Another nod. That’ll never happen.
Dad’s phone buzzes. He takes it out of his pocket and nods to Mom, then walks out of the living room.
“Have you eaten?” Mom says.
It’s eight o’clock at night—of course Zach has eaten. Alone, as he does most nights. “Yes,” he says.
“Good.” She smiles, patting Zach on the knee. “I guess that’s it for now. Keep us updated about Mr. Crutcher.”
“I will.”
Zach walks out of the living room, passing by his father in the hall. Dad is yelling at somebody about something Zach doesn’t care about. He doesn’t bother eavesdropping anymore. Dad’s conversations got boring a while ago.
Back upstairs, he checks online for Lucas. Gone. He looks for a couple of other people but can’t find anyone, so he returns to the history paper he was writing. It’s hard to concentrate, though. His mind keeps wandering to that extra assignment and how much time Crutcher will give him to get it done.
Even though it’s early, fatigue sets in quickly. Between Crutcher and his parents, Zach feels like he’s been batted around like a pinball in their game.
He picks up his phone and texts his friend Courtney.
My parents suck.
The reply comes a minute later: Not exactly breaking news.
I wish they’d stayed out of it, Zach says.
Your teenage angst does not make you a unique snowflake.
Courtney is watching old episodes of Dawson’s Creek again. She likes to do that when she’s high.
Zach doesn’t bother answering her. If he continued the conversation, Courtney might refer to his parents as “parental units” and Zach might throw his phone out the window.
He lies down on his bed and stares up at the modern, asymmetrical light fixture Mom chose for his room. He hates it. He also hates the furniture, the carpet, and the walls, which are all in varying shades of grey. Every time he walks into his room, it’s like stepping into a gloomy cloud.
Less than two years. Twenty-two months to be exact, and then he’ll be out of Belmont, out of this house, and away at college. Doesn’t even matter where at this point.
Shut up and smile.
Not one of his dad’s sayings. It’s a Belmont saying, one all the kids know. It’s how they survive.
4
UP UNTIL YESTERDAY, Teddy had thought of Zach as just a little prick who’d grumbled—loudly—about giving up his phone during class. He always sat in the center of the room with a smirk on his face, waiting for an opportunity to crack a joke, make a snide comment, or do anything else that would get attention.
Now that Teddy has met his parents, Zach seems even worse. Daddy will protect him, or so he thinks.
“We’re going to do something different,” Teddy says to the class. That gets their attention. “I’ve decided to let you choose our next book.”
With a great flourish, he raises the pull-down screen that covers the chalkboard. Unlike most teachers, Teddy won’t give up either one. He doesn’t use smartboards.
Two book titles are written on the board. Teddy gives them a moment to read. Some write the titles down; others just stare. Confused, perhaps, at being given a choice.
“Any immediate thoughts?” Teddy says.
Three students raise their hands. The same three students who always raise their hands. Teddy points to the least offensive one.
“Connor,” he says. “Which one do you prefer?”
“Moby Dick.”
That makes a few of them smile. Even without their phones, they know Moby Dick has to be shorter and easier to read than the second book.
They’re right.
Two students still have their hands up, but Teddy doesn’t look at them. He surveys the room, landing on the back row of the class. The Invisibles. That’s what he calls the students who try to disappear.
“Katherine,” he says.
Her head snaps up. She had been staring at her desk.
“Care to offer an opinion?”
She looks at the board, perhaps for the first time. Katherine is a petite girl with blond hair and skin so pale she almost disappears.
“Um,” she says.
“Um?”
“Sorry. I mean, no. I don’t have an opinion.”
She never does. Teddy stares at her until she looks away.
Finally, he zeroes in on Zach, who is looking at a girl sitting diagonally from him. He’s staring at her legs.
“Zach,” Teddy says. “Any thoughts on the books?”
Zach glances up, not looking a bit surprised. He smiles as he speaks. “I’m sure they’re both great books.”
Somewhere, a girl giggles.
“But if I have to pick one,” Zach says, “I think Moby Dick is the best choice. I think it’s the most relevant, given how the environment is so important. Especially the oceans.”
A few people in the class applaud. Others roll their eyes.
Most students don’t want to read Bleak House by Charles Dickens, and for good reason. It’s one hundred and fifty thousand words longer than Moby Dick.
“Thank you, Zach. Anyone else?”
No one raises a hand.
Perfect. Just as Teddy had planned.
* * *
THE TEACHERS’ LOUNGE is up on the second floor, away from most of the classrooms, and it’s more comfortable than most. Plush seating, real dishes and cups, occasional free snacks, and lots of coffee. Teddy goes up there during the breaks, though it’s not for company. The
lounge is the only place to get his favorite coffee blend: Prime Bold.
During the afternoon break, the room is busy. A small line forms in front of the single-cup coffee makers. The fact that they need more than two is an ongoing conversation topic.
Teddy nods and smiles at Frank, an ex–college football player who now teaches math. He’s very young and very enthusiastic about his work, his coffee, and his religion. He’s already been warned once not to discuss his faith at school.
“I’ve tried them all,” Frank says, pointing to the shelf of coffee pods. “And I keep coming back to the Ethiopian Roast. It’s not too strong but not weak, you know?”
“I do,” Teddy says.
“And it’s good to support the Ethiopians. We always have to help those less fortunate.”
A loud voice cuts through all the chatter.
“Are we seriously out of Gold Roast?”
The voice belongs to a science teacher, a middle-aged woman named Mindy. She’s high-strung—with or without coffee.
“We can’t be out,” she says, opening all the cabinets. Another teacher joins in to help her look.
Teddy moves to one of the machines and starts making his Prime Bold.
“I was up here earlier, and I swear there was half a box,” Mindy says as she slams through all the cabinets.
“Perhaps they’ve all been used,” someone else says.
“No way. Not possible.”
Teddy’s coffee is finished just as Mindy claims that the Gold Roast must have been stolen. “Everyone has access to this room,” she says. “It’s not unheard-of.”
She’s right. There have been a number of thefts over the years, some solved and some not. But no one has ever bothered to steal coffee pods.
Except Teddy. Although the word steal might be a little strong. He has, on occasion, slipped a few pods into his pocket to use at a later time. In the teacher’s lounge, of course. Mostly.
But that’s not what Mindy is saying. She thinks people are stealing coffee in bulk. She goes through each cabinet at least twice before huffing her way out of the room.
Teddy smiles as he sips his coffee. Nothing like a little excitement to perk up the day.
“Wonder what happened in her class today,” Frank says, making his Ethiopian Roast. “Some kid must’ve been acting up.”
Before Teddy can answer, Sonia Benjamin walks in. She grabs a pod of Slim Roast and smiles at everyone.
“How are you two doing today?” she says to Teddy and Frank.
“I’m well,” Frank says.
“Very well,” Teddy says.
“Good, good. It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it?” she says. Her smile looks as fake as the artificial sweetener she puts in her coffee. As she stirs it, her spoon makes a clinking sound against the cup. Repeatedly.
“Sure,” Frank says. “It’s nice out today.”
Sonia flashes them another smile. “It certainly is.”
She walks out of the room. Today, her dress is a sickening shade of yellow, but Teddy doesn’t think about that for long. He thinks about how self-satisfied she looks. Sonia always has the same expression on her face.
“Well,” Frank says, shaking his head. “Someone put something in her coffee today.”
“Perhaps,” Teddy says.
Frank is wrong. No one put anything in her coffee. Not today, anyway.
But Teddy has done it before.
5
TEDDY SPENDS A long time thinking about how the voting will work. His first idea is to have the students raise their hands. It’s an appealing option. He likes the thought of the students being able to see who chooses which book.
The downside is that it could skew the results. Most kids are followers, so depending on who they admire or who they don’t, they might change their vote at the last second. The chance of it happening is small, given the choices, but it’s possible.
A secret vote, then. It has to be.
He spends the evening designing the ballot while drinking tea. Tonight isn’t a milk night. Dairy is only for special times. Too much, and he’ll be doubled over in the bathroom for hours.
Not tonight, though. He sits in the office of his huge, empty house, and he tries his best not to think about his wife.
No, no. No.
He isn’t going to think about her. Even reading his email is better than thinking about Allison. Forcing himself to stop picking his cuticles, he pulls up his inbox. Email messages are boring, predictable, and easy to answer. The opposite of his wife.
Every once in a while, he receives one that’s interesting. Tonight, he hits the email lottery.
It comes from a former student, a horrible girl who didn’t deserve to be at Belmont. She didn’t listen, didn’t participate in class, and when she did talk, she was an arrogant snob. Fallon Knight was Zach Ward multiplied by a hundred. But damned if she didn’t turn in the best papers Teddy had ever read. She aced everything, all the way through high school. Teddy had no choice but to give her an A on every assignment—though it was always an A-minus.
Still, the universe always finds a way to right the wrongs. For Fallon, it was when she asked Teddy for a reference letter.
Writing it was a pleasure.
Teddy spared no detail, describing at length Fallon’s attitude, her behavior during class, and her inherent elitist beliefs about herself.
And he mentioned—perhaps even expanded on—his belief that Fallon cheated. This was a girl who got everything she applied for. Student representative to the board? Fallon Knight. Student representative to the Parents’ Collaborative? Fallon Knight. Nominee for the summer seminar? Again, Fallon Knight.
She had to be doing something. Maybe using her parents to influence who was picked, which to Teddy was the same thing as cheating. So that’s what he put in his letter.
Many teachers give reference letters directly to students. Not Teddy. He sends them to the recipient, and Fallon’s letter went to every college and university she applied for.
Not a single school admitted her.
As he’d expected. The unwritten rule about cheating is to err on the side of guilt. No matter how wealthy a student is, they aren’t worth having the school’s reputation sullied.
A year passed before Fallon figured out why, and by then it was too late. Not even her parents’ money could help. She goes to a state school now, and not a good one.
Fallon still blames Teddy for all her problems.
It’s me again, reminding you what a piece of shit you are. You remember that paper I wrote on The Grapes of Wrath? You gave me an A-minus on that. I turned in the same paper for my college lit class and got an A. Good to know there are still a few honest teachers out here.
Teddy reads the email twice. Fallon always makes him smile.
* * *
STUDENTS ARE ANTSY on Fridays. They want their phones—so anxious to make plans with their friends—and they’d rather be anywhere but in class.
Too bad. For one hour, they still belong to Teddy.
Today, he looks particularly smart. He’s wearing his nicest jacket and a new button-down shirt, and his slacks are creased hard enough to cut glass. He didn’t shave, though. Stubble is part of his look.
“I hope everyone has given some thought to which book you’d like to read,” he says, pointing to the board. “Does anyone have any final comments before we vote?”
He looks around the class. Not a single student raises their hand.
“Then let’s get to it,” he says. “There’s a ballot on your desk. Please circle the book you want to read. When you’re done, fold it up, and I’ll come around to collect them.”
Teddy had brought a bowl just for the ballots. The handcrafted pottery is a deep shade of blue with a gold rim, a wedding gift from thirteen years ago. One of Allison’s favorites. Teddy picks it up like
it’s a piece of Tupperware.
He walks around the room, holding the bowl out for each student. Some have folded their ballots in half. Others have folded them three, four, even five times. Everyone votes, even the Invisibles.
When he’s done collecting, Teddy returns to his desk. He mixes up all the votes and sets the bowl down.
“Let’s count them together,” he says, smiling at the students.
They look surprised, like they were sure he would count them in private. Sometimes being unpredictable is a good thing.
“The first vote,” he says, unfolding a ballot, “is for Moby Dick.”
One by one, he goes through each vote, tallying the results on the board for everyone to see. The closer the vote, the closer the students pay attention. He can see it in their eyes, which are neither glazed nor half-asleep. They are alert and interested, and as the votes continue, the tension in the room rises.
Counting the votes together may be one of the best ideas Teddy has ever had.
“Three more left,” he says. There’s a sparkle in his eye as he pulls out the next vote. “Bleak House.”
A few students groan.
Teddy makes a tally mark next to the title and takes out the next ballot.
“And the penultimate vote is for . . . Bleak House.”
If anyone wasn’t paying attention a minute ago, they are now.
“Down to the last vote,” he says, unfolding it as slowly as he can. The students are surprised the vote is this close, and they should be.
Because it’s a lie.
The truth is, the class had overwhelmingly voted for Moby Dick. The expected result, but not fun at all. Nothing like a little drama to keep the class engaged. Teddy has no problem fudging the results to make things interesting.
Unlike the students sitting in front of him, he didn’t get the best education. In fact, it was hardly an education at all. No one told him that right and wrong aren’t always what they appear to be. He had to learn that for himself. He also had to learn that lying isn’t an option; it’s a necessity.
For Your Own Good Page 2