Leave No Child Behind

  I know, I should have suspected something, but what can I say? I didn’t. Christie and I exchanged a quick glance, mine telling her, “See, I told you!”

  “So who are you today?” I asked, a bit playfully.

  “Pardon?” Jesus responded, perplexed. “What teacher are you subbing for?” I said. “Oh, I understand. Who am I today? Christie Ferguson, your friend has sense of humor.”

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling, before Christie could say anything. “Well, who are you?”

  “Ah, today, I am,” he glanced at a paper in a folder he carried, “Janet Striker, Family and Consumer Science. I’m not sure I know what it is I am teaching.”

  “We used to call it Home Economics,” I said.

  “Miss Sterber, I have a favor to ask, if I could,” said Jesus. “This is beautiful school. We have nothing like this in my country. I wondered if you could give me a tour of the building, that is, if you have time after we are done with our classes.”

  Christie started to answer and I elbowed her hard and she stopped mid-sentence. “Jesus, I could....”

  “Jesus, I’d be glad to show you around,” I got in before Christie caught her breath.

  I was enjoying this too much, so of course the bell had to ring, cutting off any further conversation. When the obnoxious tone concluded, Christie spoke first, “We’d like to chat more, but if we don’t get going, we’re going to be late for our next class.”

  “Glad you were able to start here at Thurber. I’ll meet you at 3:00 outside the office,” I said as Christie dragged me by the arm through the door into the swirling throng of high school students moving to their next period’s classes.

  “I didn’t want to leave yet,” I hollered, barely audible above the student din as we were swept away from the teachers’ lunchroom.

  “I could tell,” she said back, “but I knew that unless we got out, you were about to make a fool of yourself. I thought I was going to have to wipe the drool off your lips.”

  Wrenching my arm away, I hustled ahead and slid across into a side hallway where students weren’t allowed during lunch and the noise subsided some. When Christie pulled up beside me, I was ready. “Jealous?”

  “Of course not. I’ve got Kurt almost to the altar,” she replied as we kept on walking to our classrooms. “Okay, maybe a little bit.”

  I stopped. “Didn’t I tell you he was drop-dead gorgeous?”

  Christie stopped alongside of me. “Okay, I admit, you were right.” She stole a glance around the emptying hallway. “I wouldn’t have minded colliding with that body one bit. And you were right about one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nice butt,” she said.

  “How could you tell?”

  “I looked before the door closed.”

  I laughed. “Christie, I have just two words for you.”

  “What?” she said, wary.

  “Kurt Sanders.”

  “Oh, yeah! But I still want to know how do you do it?”

  “Do what?” I asked.

  “You have all the luck. First Jerod drops into your lap and then you literally run into that hunk. How long do I have to wait before you can tell me juicy stories of their naked bodies?”

  “Christie, you are incorrigible.”

  “Yeah, don’t you just love that about me?”

  We traveled to the end of the side hallway, our feet making slapping sounds on the new vinyl floor like hands clapping, and turned into the central corridor. Although the groups of kids talked animatedly, the noise was nothing like the Babel that had filled the cafeteria and we were still able to hear each other. “I need to split,” she said and pointed toward the floor and then down the hall, our secret sign for restroom break.

  I was laughing as I turned to enter my classroom and stepped into a tightly bunched clique of ninth grade girls. As I made it through the throng with my eyes taking note of one girl’s ten piercings-- I counted them quickly-- I retrieved my key from my Disney bag. Without looking I raised it toward my locked door and found myself pushing the point into Rashid’s stomach.

  “Sorry, Rashid, I didn’t see you there,” I said, wondering how he had suddenly materialized in my path.

  “I wanted to know if I could speak with you, Ms. Sterber,” he said, his hard brown pupils staring straight at me, remindng me of the wary eyes of the owl I passed during the last night’s jog.

  “I’ve got a couple of things I need to do before class, but I can give you a few minutes,” I said.

  He lowered his gaze and spoke with his eyes focused on the gray and red pattern on the vinyl. “I have heard that you are planning to accompany some students to interview Asad Akadi at HBE Prison. Is that the truth?” His eyes rose to meet mine.

  I said, “It’s possible that one or two Journalism students and I may be granted an interview with some death row inmates for an article in The Anvil. We have not received word from HBE, and I’m not sure I will agree even if they do.”

  “Why?” he blurted out.

  His hasty response surprised me. “Because I haven’t decided if it may be too dangerous for my students. I’m not sure about Pakistan, but teenagers in this country think they’re immortal and I have no death wish.”

  Rashid asked, “You fear for your life?”

  “No, just being cautious.” When he didn’t respond, I went on. “Rashid, why are you asking? Do you distrust Americans interviewing another Arab? Are you afraid the famous American bigotry you talk about will raise its ugly head?”

  Rashid looked taken aback for a bit and then he responded, his words tumbling out. “Oh, oh, no, Ms. Sterber. I would not worry about that with you. I did not say you show bigotry. In fact, you seem very fair in class.”

  “Okay, Rashid, I give up. What is it? Why did you ask me about the interview then?”

  “I would like to help.” His reply was, uncharacteristically for him, solicitous, even humble. “I thought I could help as a translator,” he said and immediately went on. “I know something about Asad Akadi. He is from Peshawa, the same region of Pakistan where I grew up.” When I didn’t respond immediately, he went on, “And he speaks Western Farsi, the same dialect as me.”

  At this point my face must have registered my confusion. “I understand that Akadi speaks English quite well and there wasn’t going to be any need for a translator.”

  “Yes, Ms. Sterber, he can speak English if he chooses to,” Rashid responded. “I just thought that if he chooses to be uncooperative and only mutters in Western Farsi, I would be able to translate what he says.”

  I paused. This was the first initiative I had seen from Rashid and didn’t want to blow him off. “I am very grateful for your offer, but I’d need to think about it. You are not in the Journalism class and a number of students asked to go to the prison for the interview and I already have to tell most of them no.”

  “I do not want to make trouble for you as our teacher. That is why I did not want to speak of this in front of other students,” he said. “I just believe I could help with this.”

  “Rashid, like I said, this interview could be dangerous,” I placed my hand on his arm. “Let me think about your offer and I’ll let you know.”

  At this he brightened and smiled. “Thank you, Ms. Sterber. And I am sorry for taking up your time.”

  “That’s all right, Rashid, but I have to get going.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Sterber,” he repeated.

  Chapter 22

  “Our questions rock, guys!” declared Jake, after the Journalism class had finally decided on the questions for the interviews at the prison.

  To my surprise and disbelief, HBE officials had agreed to our request for two students from The Anvil to conduct prisoner interviews, and Principal Thompson had even granted his reluctant approval for the trip. Three death row inmates, including Asad Akadi, had agreed to be interviewed and the prison warden concurred. The class had worked for over a week to come up with the questions for the inma
tes awaiting execution. After a great deal of argument and lobbying, the class had narrowed them down to the “Final Four,” as Keith dubbed them. In the end, I had let them decide. Now, it seemed they were pleased with their work.

  “And thanks, Mr. Thomas, for helping get us into the prison.” As the youngest student in the class, Jake knew he’d never be selected but was grateful for his chance to contribute to the whole process. “Man, I can’t wait to see how they answer the question about advice to their sister,” he said excitedly.

  “If your sister came to you and confided that she was planning on committing a crime similar to the one you’re going to be executed for, what would you tell her?” Keith read the handwriting off the white board as he stood and flexed his muscles. “I bet we’ll get some interesting stuff, all right.”

  “I’ll bet Asad’ll say he will urge her on,” commented Goat, his brown eyes glancing up from the science test notes he was studying. “He’ll probably tell her it’s her duty to carry on the Jihad, to annihilate the Great Satan of America,” he added, scratching the short black whiskers lining his chin.

  “I’m not so sure,” added Tess. “Traditional Muslims have a very different view of women, believe they should be guarded, cared for, and placed on a pedestal. If he’s truthful, I can’t see him wanting to send her to exposure and certain death.”

  “The only thing Akadi cares about is destroying America,” Keith countered, shaking his blonde hair out of his eyes again and casting a glance at Tess. “His mission is not about being Muslim, it’s about hating America.”

  “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see,” I broke in and slid off the top of my desk where I had perched and moved into the center aisle.

  “Ms. S, isn’t it about time you told us who you selected to conduct the prison interview?” asked Tyrone in his deep voice. “Of course, I should mention that since two of the three prisoners have dark skin, you would want to have a brother with you,” he continued, his grin showing a set of bright white teeth.

  “Thank you for that helpful hint, Mr. Tyrone Bates,” I peered across the room at the only black face in the room. “The truth is, I had a very difficult time trying to decide who should participate in this interview. You know, I’ve had some concerns about any of you going into the lion’s den over at HBE. I was afraid it was going to be dangerous, but Mr. Thomas assures me it will be okay.” I cast a glance at Jerod, slouching in a student desk off to the left.

  “Way to go, Mr. Thomas!” cheered Jake, shaking his uncombed mop of red hair.

  Jerod raised both hands over his head, clenched in a victory clasp. “Glad to be of some help.”

  I wrestled their attention away from Jerod. “The truth is that many of you have made good contributions to what we are going to finally use for the interview. So in a way, you will all be part of the interviewing team.”

  “Blah-blah-blah,” said Goat. “I know we’re all wonderful and you love us all, Ms. S and don’t want to leave any of your children behind. Just dish all the nicey crap and cut to the chase.”

  I should say, Goat was not a bad kid, but like too many adolescents today, he had a smart tongue and wasn’t afraid to use it. I guess if I had to admit it, my dad might’ve said that at sixteen I was a smart mouth too at times. The difference is I would never ‘ve used “that tone,” as my father called it, with a teacher. Today, a number of students think nothing of smarting off to a teacher, or more accurately, many of today’s teens have no one like my dad to rein them in when they get out of line. I knew that was the case with Goat.

  I had met his mom, who was only 36, but bore the creased face and graystreaked hair of a 50-year-old. From our one parent-teacher conference it was obvious she was overmatched with her son. Goat was one of Jerod’s mentees and was the ostensible reason for the prison guard’s presence often in my Journalism class. Even I had to admit, Jerod had a decent chance to get through to Goat--it was a macho, male thing.

  “Goat?” I arched my brows and returned his stare. I caught a hard glance from Jerod in the corner of the room.

  “As Goat so aptly put it, though he should have been more careful with his language, you all are great and if I had a choice, I’d take all of you.” I paused, letting my gaze roam around the room until my eyes found every student and then settled back on Goat. “But before I tell you my decision, I have a question for Goat.”

  Goat looked up, more wary and his fingers twirled the steel post embedded in his right earlobe.

  “Do you trust me to make the right decision, Goat?” When he didn’t answer, I added, “What about it, Mr. Edward Manor?” using his given name.

  His brown eyes studied me carefully, trying to appraise his options. Finally he said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  I wasn’t going to let him off so easy. “You guess what, Goat?”

  His eyes read my challenge and rose to it. “Yeah, I trust ya to make the right decision, Miss S.”

  “What about the rest of you?” My eyes met every glance in the classroom.

  “Sure, Miss S!” chimed in Jake, his freckled face beaming.

  “Yes, Miss S,” said an earnest Tess, the round frames of her glasses reflecting in duplicate the image on the computer screen.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” added Keith, his large body still slouched against the white board in the front of the room, his posture radiating the indolence he wore like a badge of honor.

  “Sure.” “Of course.” “Okay, yeah. Just tell us already!” came the replies from the rest of the students. The eyes of all fourteen students were trained on me. Even Jerod leaned forward in his chair.

  “Okay, then here goes,” I began. “As you heard, HBE will let us bring a two-student interviewing team.”

  “We already know that, Ms. S,” Goat’s voice rose with exaggerated impatience.

  I shot him another quick “teacher” look and continued. “My first choice was obvious. I’ve selected Tess, our student editor.”

  “Duh, that was a ‘no-brainer,’ Ms. S,” declared Tyrone. “We all knew that. What about the second student?”

  “Well, that was a bit harder,” I admitted. “I know, some of you are going to be surprised by my choice, but I have given it a lot of thought.” I studied all the expectant faces and continued.

  “I know that we are all looking for some major results from our interview with Akadi, right? Something even the other news people haven’t gotten from him?” All fourteen heads nodded in unison. “Knowing that Asad is a clever, devious terrorist, I think we’ll need all the help we can get, including help with his language.” I stopped again, studying them. They all waited, no one uttering a word. I went on, “After giving it much thought, I have decided to have Rashid Hermani be the second member of the student team.”

  I held my breath and waited. I didn’t have to wait long.

  “What! That raghead!” exploded Keith, finally pulling himself off the white board and slamming his large frame into his seat.

  “When I said a dark face, I didn’t mean his, Ms. S!” said Tyrone.

  Tess looked up from her computer and stared at me, her brilliant hazel eyes enlarged inside the horn-rimmed frames. “I think what my prejudiced classmates mean,” casting a quick glance, “is that we don’t understand why you would select a new student, even if he is from the Mideast, when you have good students right here who have put in the time and earned the right to go.”

  “You are quite right, Tess. I do have a number of students who have worked hard in this class and, all things being equal, deserve a chance to participate in the interview.”

  Needing some think time to be sure my answer was phrased correctly, I retreated to the front of the room and sat on the edge of my desk again, turning to face them again. “Before I give my explanation, I have a question for all of you.”

  The teens were perfectly silent, waiting to hear what I had to say. I didn’t flinch.

  “Kind of a quiz,” I said, working to keep my voice light.

  �
��Jeez, Ms. S! Now? Don’t you ever quit?” blurted out Goat.

  “Not if I can help it. Now, what did we learn about how an editor decides which reporters he--or she--sends on an assignment?”

  At first, no one answered, even though I knew most knew the answer.

  Then Jake raised his hand, of course.

  My student editor did not respond, but I called on her anyway. “Tess?”

  “The reporters best qualified to get the story,” she said, her voice heavy with reluctance. Then she asked, “Okay, what makes Rashid more qualified than any other student in here.”

  “He’s not. You’re the most qualified,” I said simply.

  “Besides me, then?” Her voice was almost peevish now, unusual for Tess.

  “Because he has something no one else has, including me.”

  “You mean because he’s an A-rab?” Keith bellowed.

  “Cool it, Keith,” Tess shot back.

  “Of course, the fact that he’s from the Mideast is a help, but the big difference is that he’s fluent in the same dialect of Farsi as Akadi.”

  “But I watched him on TV. He spoke English fine,” declared a now-confused Jake.

  “That’s true, Jake,” I said, “he understands English quite well. He probably couldn’t have carried out his terrorist acts if he didn’t. But what if he decides to be an uncooperative interviewee? Don’t you think it might be helpful to have someone along who can draw him out, in his own language?”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes some sense,” Tyrone admitted.

  “And maybe it’ll help to have the perspective of another Arab to help interpret the answers. You know, the connotations behind the words,” said Tess.

  “An Arab who is not intent on blowing up the U. S. of A.” I added. “Plus, I’ve asked Rashid to do an opinion piece on how the terrorists pervert the teachings of Islam for their own ends.”