by Lea Geller
Two boys rushed past me, almost knocking me over.
“I bet she’s hot,” said the first, a chunky boy with frizzy hair and what looked like a slick of hair gel perched atop his head. “You know, California hot!” he added, cupping his chest with his hands, each about a foot away from his body.
“Ugh. Gross,” said the second, a shorter, skinny boy with glasses and a large swath of feathered bangs. The boys did not look the same age. Both ran past me, leaving a burning smell in their wake, unaware that I was right in front of them. I briefly wondered if I was still “California hot”—with my frizzy bun and smudged eyeliner—and then remembered I would be spending my days in the company of middle schoolers. My physical appearance was the least of my problems. How was I going to teach these boys English? Or better yet, how was I meant to breathe through the fog of whatever it was these boys just left in their wake?
The odor pushed its way up into my nostrils, burned my eyes, and, at the same time, dripped down into the back of my throat, forcing me to gag. What was that smell, that taste? It was tangy, musky, and vinegary, and it was getting stronger the closer I got to my classroom. I tugged at my eyes and tried to cough the taste out of my throat.
“Oh, that’s just the Wall of Axe,” said a voice from behind me. “You’ll get used to it.”
I turned around and looked down. Stacey Figg. “You’ll get used to it,” she repeated, “but it takes a while.” She was wearing a lime-green wrap dress. Once again, she seemed to be ready to burst forth from her clothes. Her thick hair was blown straight and sat patiently on her shoulders. She planted her arms on her waist, her eyes glittering. She leaned in, as if letting me in on a secret. “It doesn’t wear off, so you’ll be taking the smell home with you.” She blinked, and I noticed several shades of eye shadow.
“What’s Axe?” I asked. “And why is there a wall of it?”
“It’s a deodorant brand,” she said. “Some product people decided that they could market deodorant to kids who don’t really smell yet. You know, make them feel older and cooler than they are.” She rolled her eyes.
“That smell is deodorant?” It didn’t smell like any deodorant I’d ever smelled, even on a guy. It certainly didn’t smell like Jack. I quickly blinked the thought of him out of my mind.
“Well,” she said, “you haven’t smelled Axe before. Each kid uses a different smell, and each uses about half a can in the morning. If you can believe it, the stuff has names like Anarchy and Vice. Last week I confiscated a can of something called Provocation!” She snorted, unsmiling, while bobbing and weaving as boys ran through the hall to their classes. She looked like a squat lime-green bull in the ring. Finally, she stopped and took another step closer to me so that our noses were almost touching. “When a whole class of boys is coated in the stuff,” she whispered, “it creates the Wall of Axe.”
I smiled. Despite the stinging in my eyes and throat, there was something endearing about the idea of a boy thinking half a can of deodorant called Anarchy was going to make middle school easier. Stacey Figg was having none of my smiling. She wheeled herself around, and before I knew it, she was clomping down the hall.
I crossed the hall and froze at the threshold of room 408. I looked down at my feet, willing them to move forward. After a few seconds, they got the message and dragged me into the classroom, a large white room with several large windows and bare walls. If someone had asked me to describe the room afterward, I would not have been able to. I was so terrified and overwhelmed that I was unable to absorb any information that day. I entered, breathing in another eye-watering dose of body spray, and saw about a dozen boys sitting at or on their desks. Some were looking at laptop screens or down at their phones, and some were looking right at me. I smiled weakly and walked to the desk in the front of the room. I pulled out the chair and, leaning on the desk, scanned the room.
“Hi,” I said, as though I were picking up clothes at the dry cleaner and not communicating with my students for the very first time.
“Hey,” said a kid from the back of the class. I couldn’t tell who. My first impression was that I was standing in the front of a sea of thick dark hair. I hadn’t seen so little blond in one room before. Without thinking, I put my hand on the bun at the back of my head. Perhaps it’d be safe to let my highlights grow out here. It’s not like anyone would notice.
“Are you the teacher?” said a voice from behind a screen.
“What’s your name?” asked another.
Crap, I thought. Where were these coming from? Where were these kids’ faces?
“Agnes,” I replied. “You can call me Agnes.”
“Mrs. Agnes? That’s your last name?” I pegged the voice to a boy with a bright-red buzz cut in the middle row, whose face was only partially obscured by a laptop screen.
“No, it’s my first name.”
“Uh, yeah,” said red buzz cut. “We can’t call you that. Too dis-re-spect-ful,” he said, sounding out each syllable.
Before I could reply, Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” came blaring out of a laptop at the very back of the room. Behind it sat a kid with green eyes, a shock of black hair, and a nose full of freckles. He said nothing. He just raised his right eyebrow.
“Agnes,” I persisted. “You can call me Agnes. If you’re uncomfortable with that, call me Ms. Parsons.”
“Parsons sounds like Watsons,” said the red buzz cut.
“Huh?”
“You know, The Watsons Go to Birmingham. They made us read it last year. It sucked.”
Two kids in the front row made retching sounds, another stuck his finger down his throat, and a fourth fell out of his chair, lay on the floor, and convulsed. At some point he got up, and they all high-fived each other.
“Oh, OK,” I plowed on. “I think you have some great books on the reading list this year.”
“Like what?” asked one of the kids who’d been retching.
“Oh.”
“You don’t know?” asked his neighbor.
“I do so,” I said, sounding like a five-year-old. I dug my hands deep into my pockets and thought quickly to the email I got from Gavin with an outline of the syllabus. “Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry,” I blurted out.
“La-ame,” said the red buzz cut.
Before I could say another word, the freckly kid hit a key on his laptop and we were all listening to the booming sounds of a virtual thunderstorm. It was loud and it was all I could hear.
I plopped down into the chair. Surely I could get on the right side of this. I was about to make an effort when the thunder stopped. In its place I heard Darth Vader’s march. I looked up and turned to the door. Gavin walked in. The music stopped.
He strode to the front of the class, surveyed my outfit, and then rounded my desk and sat on it. “Boys, I see you’ve met Ms. Parsons,” he drawled. He perched on the edge of my desk, his legs stretched out in front of him. He was wearing a short-sleeved button-down shirt, and he stretched his thick arms out behind him. The class was silent, and the room felt different. The confidence and cockiness I’d felt from the kids evaporated, and in their place was compliance, silence, and possibly even fear.
“I said,” he repeated, “I see you’ve met Ms. Parsons.”
“Yes, sir,” said the kid in the back with the freckles. “We’ve met her. She’s met us.”
“And Ms. Parsons,” he said, presumably to me, even though he was facing the class, “I see you’ve met my boys . . . my special boys.” I could tell from the way he said it that he didn’t think there was anything special about these kids. The red buzz cut slunk down lower in his seat. I could have sworn I heard a fart sound come from him. The freckles behind the laptop also sank lower so that only the top of his dark head was visible over the screen.
“You see,” he started in again, “I love a good challenge, and that’s what these boys are—each and every one of them. A good challenge.” He paused and scanned the room. Nobody moved an inch. With his back still to me, I could
not see Gavin’s face. All I could see was the spreading back of his Dockers and his bare arms. “Each of these boys, Ms. Parsons, will be applying to high school in exactly one year.” I saw his ears twitch, which I assumed meant he was smirking. I studied the boys, whose faces remained frozen in the positions they were in when Gavin entered. “High school is a real competitive process here in the city, and these boys are going to need a lot of help to get in.” He turned around and looked at me. “You’re not on the beach anymore,” he said, grinning, something halfway between a smirk and a smile.
What I wouldn’t give to be on the beach right now. Although it sickened me, I smiled back at him.
“We’ve got to make sure these boys are not only ready for high school, but that each of them can actually get in somewhere, including this high school,” he said, pointing down, almost implying that St. Norbert’s high school happened right here on my desk. “You see,” he went on, “most students who have been with us since elementary school have automatic admission to the high school.” Another pause. “Most students,” he said. “But some students are on academic or behavioral probation, and they have to go through the regular application process to stay at St. Norbert’s for high school.” He stood up and faced the class. “Every day and every grade counts, boys. Every one.” His ears twitched again, signaling a fresh smirk. “I’m sure you will all do just fine. I’m sure of it.” Nothing about his tone sounded sure.
I was nervous for the boys. I could see their faces falling, one by one, into panic. I looked at my wrist and saw some of Grace’s rice cereal caked on my sleeve. I immediately brought it to my mouth and tasted it. With my other hand, I gripped my chair, willing Gavin to leave us alone. Perhaps some cosmic message was relayed to him, because he abruptly clasped his thick hands behind his back, swiveled, and turned to me, winked, and walked to the door. I could have sworn he clicked his heels like some smarmy Bavarian prince. Now it was my turn to slink down into my seat. I was at eye level with the boys. The laptop in the corner was silent, even though I had fully expected it to play out a song of joy in relief.
I leaned forward and put my elbows on the desk, resting my chin on my hands. “I am sure you’re all going to get into high school.” I smiled. “Each and every one of you,” I said, winking and doing my best imitation of Gavin’s nasal drawl. If I had sensed fear with Gavin in the room, once he left, I sensed shame. These boys were trying to show me who was boss, wanted to play with me a bit on my first day here, and Gavin had walked in and sucked all the wind out of their sails. I saw a few smiles in the back of the class, so I kept going. “I don’t buy it. I think you guys are probably the cream of the crop,” I said, using one of Jack’s favorite expressions. I was about to go on, but I was quickly interrupted by Stevie Wonder. “Isn’t She Lovely” poured out of the laptop in the back corner.
I didn’t know this kid’s name, this freckled boy with thick dark hair and a taste for retro music, hiding behind the laptop screen. I didn’t know any of their names. I hadn’t asked, and I wasn’t sure if I’d remember them anyway. But these kids had just given me my first vote of confidence in two months. I gladly took it.
Later that day, I spotted a small cluster of parents outside Blackwell waiting to pick up their children from day care. Maybe if I were planning on sticking around, this would be my new baby group, but for now, I held back. When they were inside the building, I went in and made a beeline for Dot. Grace’s first day of day care had been a quiet, uneventful success. I hushed the baby-group voices in my head and congratulated the both of us on getting through it. I walked Grace home, fed her, bathed her, and put her down to sleep. Then I fell into bed and called Jack.
“I think I can do this. I just wish I didn’t have to.” I hung up and slept with the phone under my pillow.
-8-
Day two was a setback.
At Sunny Day, Marge warned us about day two. The young kids often separate easily on day one, because they have no idea what’s happening. It’s day two that bites you in the ass. True to form, Grace howled when I dropped her off at day care. She clung to my shirt as I tried to pass her to Dot. I never remembered her doing that before. At home, she had gone to Alma and Sondra willingly, almost too willingly, and it eased the rhythm of my life. Gym class—handoff. Manicure—handoff. Massage—handoff. Now I actually had somewhere to be, somewhere that was not a pedicure or a facial. I had to be at a job, and Grace chose this as the time to broadcast her recent attachment.
Eventually Dot pried her off me, calmed her, and walked her inside. I leaned on the outside wall, taking deep breaths to steady myself. Another mom with a short brown bob stumbled out of the building, closed the door behind her, and stood next to me. “It’s a bitch,” she said. “Which is why I like the gum trick,” she added, offering me a stick of gum. “By the time the gum loses its flavor, your kid will have forgotten all about drop-off.” I took the gum and thanked her as she walked off.
Sure enough, Dot texted me moments later that Grace was happy and had all but forgotten about the separation. I, on the other hand, was still a hot, jittery mess. I closed my eyes, saw the word Grace, and took myself briefly back to Santa Monica. I thought about a chilled glass of wine on the porch. I thought about our lounge chairs. I thought about the beach. I thought about Jack. He was never involved in the day-to-day of Grace. Hell, I barely was. But today I needed to tell him how hard it was to leave her, how unsettling it was to pry her off me and hear her crying. But I had gone too far. The thoughts that were meant to comfort me were about to swallow me whole. I quickly opened my eyes and took a sharp breath. I had five minutes to get to MacReady. That porch, the wine—they were far away, and if I was going to make this happen, they’d have to stay there.
My classes didn’t go much better than drop-off. None of the boys I taught would be winning any awards for academic achievement, but my first-period crew was an unpleasant combination of difficult and unpredictable. Still, I knew the teaching drill—win over the difficult kids and the rest would follow.
Yesterday the boys had been confident, almost buoyed, by my newness. Today they were lethargic and unresponsive. I sensed this immediately when I walked into class, to the sound of no music and no raised heads.
“Hello, boys,” I began, sitting on the edge of my desk, my legs crossed out in front of me.
I’d decided to abandon the après-yoga gear and was wearing a dress that Jack had bought me for Valentine’s Day. It was gauzy and bohemian, but it had sleeves and came to my knees. I thought it would be more professional, but I hadn’t realized how sheer it was until I looked down at my thighs and saw the outline of my enormous white underwear. I quickly ran behind the desk and plopped down into my chair, shoving my legs under the desk. I breathed in the Wall of Axe but remembered to keep my mouth open, letting some of the fumes pass through my head.
“Hey,” sounded a voice from the back of the class.
I turned around and looked behind me. Rose, one of the school administrative assistants, had tried to explain the smart board to me in a series of rambling emails. From what I could gather, it was some sort of computer screen, and the kids could sync up their iPads and laptops to it. The very sight of it terrified me. I assumed I’d ignore the board and do things the old-fashioned way, even though for me, old-fashioned meant a chalkboard. I looked around but didn’t see any chalk, only a whiteboard and some markers. I wondered if chalk was suddenly unhealthy. I wondered if it had gone the way of plastic wrap and cheap sunscreen. For a second I wondered what Jack would make of it, or if he even knew about it.
I shuddered, shaking off Jack, and grabbed a thick green marker. Immediately, I took a whiff of a strong smell. This smell was no match for the Wall of Axe, but it was powerful and artificial, and it made my eyes water. Still seated, I turned and wrote on the whiteboard, If You Had a Superpower, What Would It Be?, feeling pretty pleased with myself. Last night, I’d read through the syllabus Gavin had sent me and picked out some writing prompts I thoug
ht would best speak to the boys. I wanted to spend the first couple of weeks getting to know them, so I’d decided to hold off on assigning any reading. Smiling, I swiveled around and faced the class. Some boys looked at me. Some looked out a window. Some looked down in their laps, presumably at their outlawed-in-class phones.
“OK!” I chirped. “Why don’t you all take ten minutes and write a handful of sentences. When you’re done, we can share.”
Nothing. Not a single move. Apparently, this prompt had prompted nothing.
“OK!” I sang, trying again. “Let’s go! Come on!” A couple of the boys started to snicker. They were looking behind me, not at me. I whirled around, and there on the smart board was a picture of what could best be described as the slutty stripper version of Supergirl. The horns of the Superman soundtrack belted from the back of the class. I tried to make eye contact with the boy behind the computer, but he looked down. As the laughter grew more raucous, I turned back to the board and saw the same Supergirl stripper from behind, bending down, a red S on the back of her incredibly small underwear—underwear that looked like the kind I had abandoned on my road trip. I ran to the board and started pushing keys and buttons, hoping to take the image down, but a paper airplane hit me in the side of the face. As it fell to the floor, the airplane opened and I saw the words Go Back to California written on the inside.
I willed myself not to cry. Surely this could be worse.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Fine. Don’t write. Just tell me. One of you just tell me—which superpower would you like to have?”
“I wouldn’t mind flying out of this place,” said the red buzz cut.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Why?” replied the red buzz cut.
“Because I don’t know it. I don’t know any of your names.”
“Caleb,” he answered. I heard more snickering.
“I’m Caleb,” said the freckles in the back, the music mastermind, the boy who wouldn’t meet my eyes. “He’s Art.”