by Anna Myers
"Nothing," she said. "Mom's driving me to school. It's so good to get to talk to you and everything. What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I said, and then I laughed. "Well, nothing except being the principal of Thomas Jefferson Middle School in Prairie Dog Town, Oklahoma."
Katie screamed, "What?"
I told her the whole story. She got excited, talking loud and laughing. "Shush," I said. "I don't want your mother to hear and know what is going on. She might call someone."
"Oh, Bird," Katie said, "that's such a wickedly funny story. I really want to see the movie about the new girl getting to be the principal." I knew then that Katie's mother had been listening. "I can't wait to tell Ivory."
"Turn your phone on after second hour. I'll call you then, if I'm not too busy with business. There's a lot of work to be done around here." I hung up. For a few minutes, I sat in my chair taking deep breaths. This was like a roller-coaster ride, lots of fun, but scary too. Really scary!
Chapter 4
I didn't have long to sit and breathe because the phone rang and the first button flashed a white light. That meant the secretary wanted me. Her name had gone completely out of my head, and I grabbed up the list, Nancy, Nancy Simpson. I cleared my throat and picked up the phone. "Yes?"
"I don't like to bother you," she said, "but I was wondering about an announcement. Shouldn't you make an announcement, telling everyone that you are here?"
"An announcement?"
"Yes, on the PA system."
"The PA system?" This was not going well.
"Yes, of course, the public address system."
"Oh, yes, the public address system, the thing you use to call kids to the office." I looked around. What did a public address system look like? My eyes fell on a box sitting on a stand in the corner behind my desk.
"Should I come in and show you how to use it?"
"That would be nice."
She came right away and did go to the box. "See these switches and the room numbers below them?"
I nodded.
"You flip the switch to the room you want. You can speak or just listen. There's a schedule in your top desk drawer to tell you what teacher is in each room during a certain period. Teachers can call us by flipping a switch in their rooms too, but those calls go first to me. I've got one of these boxes behind my desk too. I flip a switch to pass the call on to you if there is an emergency, like some kid has passed out or something. See this green button? Push it if you want to do an 'all call.'"
I felt like it might be the new principal who passed out. "What's an call call'?" I asked.
"When you want everyone to hear you, like the announcement you're about to make." I guess I looked kind of clueless because she went on. "You know the one introducing yourself to the students and faculty."
"Oh, yes," I said. "Yes, of course." I considered asking Mrs. Simpson for advice about what I should say, but I remembered Superintendent Morris's warning about not letting her take over my job. You're the principal here, Bird, I told myself. "Thank you, Mrs. Simpson," I said. "You may go now. I'll make my announcement soon."
Mrs. Simpson looked at me, one eyebrow raised like she was sort of measuring me in her mind. I felt she did not approve of me, but she did leave the office.
I took a piece of paper from a drawer so I could write out what I would say, but Mrs. Simpson called me on the phone. "You might want to say something about expecting the kids to behave. In some classes they've acted up."
"I might want to say that," I said, "but I'll decide in a few minutes. Thank you for your suggestion, Mrs. Simpson," I said. I was glad she was on the phone because I wouldn't have wanted to say that to her face.
"Of course," she said, and her voice wasn't as friendly as before.
Pretty soon, I had my announcement all written. I read it over several times, practicing sounding like a principal. Then I pushed the green all-call button. "Students and faculty," I said. "It is my pleasure to tell you that I am your new principal. My name is Ms. Miller. By the way, Ms. is spelled m-s, and it means that I might or might not be married, no one knows." I thought about that for a second and realized it didn't sound right. "Well, of course, I know if I am married or not, but it doesn't really matter here at school, does it? Anyway, I am the principal for the rest of this semester. I am sure you all know that the word principal is spelled with a p-a-l at the end when it means the principal of a school and with a p-l-e when it means a standard or something. I am glad my kind of principal is spelled with a pal because I want to be your pal. I think students deserve a real pal in the principal's office, and that is what you have here at Thomas Jefferson Middle School for as long as I am here, which won't be real long." I realized I hadn't written a closing, but now it seemed like I needed one. "Over and out," I said, and I flipped off the all-call button.
For a minute, I just sat at my desk and waited for my heart to stop beating so fast. This acting job was the hardest I'd ever had. The phone rang. It was Mrs. Simpson, and somehow I didn't imagine she was calling to say she loved the announcement.
"I hate to bother you." She was speaking softly, little more than a whisper. "Well, maybe I'd better just come in and talk to you."
"Yes," I said, "do that."
In just a second, the door opened. Mrs. Simpson stepped inside and mostly closed the door after her, but kept looking through the crack. "Like I said, I hate to put this on you so soon, but something has to be done about Serenity Blair."
My heart started to race again. This kid, this Serenity, was obviously sitting in the outer office. According to Mrs. Simpson, something had to be done about the kid, and I was expected to do it. I swallowed hard and straightened myself in the principal's chair. "Give me a little background," I said. "What is Serenity's problem?"
Mrs. Simpson let go a very long sigh. "How do I explain this? First, she was sent down here by her math teacher, Mrs. Street. Serenity is a problem in all of her classes, but she wouldn't stand up and slap another girl except in Mrs. Street's class. The woman has no control, and of course the kids have been taking advantage of the fact that we've had no principal." She stopped and smiled at me. "Serenity did her slapping just before your announcement, so she didn't know you were here. No doubt she'll be sorry now."
I studied her expression. Was she putting me on? Did she think I'd fall on my face, and was she just waiting to see it happen? I was starting not to like this woman. "Well," I said slowly. "I'd like to think I'll be able to help some troubled young people. I don't so much want to punish as to be a guiding hand, firm, but kind."
This time Mrs. Simpson laughed out loud. "That's good. I can tell you Serenity Blair can certainly use a guiding hand. The kids torment her, and I am afraid she brings most of it on herself."
I was proud of myself for not groaning out loud. A Marcy Willis type was about to come into my office. Then suddenly, I changed my mind. Good! Wouldn't I have loved to have a go at Marcy? I certainly knew what her problem was. I'd never get to straighten out Marcy, but here was this Serenity kid just waiting for my guidance.
Mrs. Simpson interrupted my thoughts. "Should I send her in now?"
I leaned back in my principal's chair. "Yes," I said, "I'm ready for Marcy."
"Serenity," Mrs. Simpson corrected. "The child's name is Serenity, but she certainly is not serene."
"Oh, yes," I said. "Send in Serenity."
You won't believe this, but it's true. This girl actually looked like Marcy Willis! Oh, maybe her face didn't look so much like Marcy's. The actual truth is I guess I never really looked real close at Marcy's face, but there was a similarity between the two girls, and it jumped right out at me, the same mousy brown hair with no style whatsoever, the same slouchy walk, and sort of nothing clothes, some kind of worn-looking beige pants.
"The files are over there, Ms. Miller," said Mrs. Simpson, who had followed the girl into the office. "Should I get Serenity's for you?"
"Oh, the file," I said. I should have thought of th
e file myself. Principals and counselors really love files. They were always whipping out mine. "Certainly, I will want the file."
Mrs. Simpson opened a filing cabinet, took out a thick folder, put it on my desk, and went out, closing the door after her. I was thinking fast, trying to remember what counselors and principals had said to me. Questions! They usually started with a question. "Well, Serenity," I said. "Would you like to tell me why you slapped a girl in math class?"
"Aren't you going to tell me to sit down first?"
"Yes," I said. "Certainly, take a chair if you would be more comfortable." I waved in the direction of the chair across from my desk.
Serenity settled herself in the chair, hunched over. I waited for her to look up, but she didn't. Nothing but silence. Just be quiet, I told myself. I'd had that silent treatment used on me, and I remembered that it had worked, made me start to talk.
"They pick on me," she finally muttered. "They pick on me all the time." Her voice got louder on the second sentence. I remained quiet. "You can read all about it. I bet there's plenty about it in that stack of junk about me."
I looked down at the papers in her file, shifted to the form on the bottom, and read. The note had been written by Serenity's first grade teacher. "Serenity is a happy, bright child. She has a wonderful imagination." Well, something sure happened to her since.
I put the papers back into a stack. "I could spend lots of time reading about you," I said to the girl, "but I'd rather hear what you have to say. Why do other kids not like you?"
Serenity shrugged, but she didn't look up. "They're jealous I guess."
I laughed out loud, and that made Serenity finally look up at me. "Why would they be jealous of you?"
She shrugged again. "I don't know. Maybe they're not jealous. They pick on me. That's all." She bit at her fingernails.
I wanted to slap her. "Stop biting your nails!" I yelled. "Don't you know you can't let them see you biting your nails or even let them know that your nails have been bitten. You can't let them know that they get to you."
She stared at me, confused. "Huh?"
"The people who pick on you! Don't let them know you bite your nails."
The girl looked up at me and shrugged. "Whatever," was her only answer. I didn't even think about what she said. It was the look on her face that got me. Her eyes were big and brown, and I guess they could have been pretty except they weren't. Those eyes made me think about a dog that someone kicked every day.
I wished Serenity would look down again. I didn't want to see those eyes anymore. The really wild thing was how I kept seeing Marcy Willis, like she was the one sitting in that chair. Suddenly I could totally remember how Marcy looked, especially the way her eyes were. I did not want to see Marcy Willis in Prairie Dog Town, Oklahoma. I got up and walked over to the window. I'd finish the discussion without looking at Serenity, but I had to say something. I wanted the girl out of my office. "Who picks on you? The whole eighth grade? Do they all hate you?"
"I don't like to talk about this stuff," she said.
A strange feeling came over me. I whirled around and stomped my foot. "Well, you're going to talk about it," I yelled, "and I am going to put a stop to this nonsense." That last part just sort of came out. What nonsense did I mean? I wasn't sure. I didn't even know whose side I was on, Serenity's or the girls who picked on her.
Serenity looked up, surprised, but she wasn't nearly as surprised as I was. Could I really think I wanted to help this girl? I went back to the desk and sat down behind it. "Now first you tell me who picks on you." I tore off the page of notes about the phone and shoved the empty pad across the desk. Then I held out the pen. "Here, I want a list."
"Are you going to punish them?" Serenity looked up at me, and her sad brown eyes got even bigger. I couldn't tell if she was hoping or afraid I would punish her tormenters. "Because if you give them detention or something, they will just take it out on me."
"Write," I demanded. "I want the name of every person who has ever picked on you. I'll get you more paper if you need it."
She started to write. After a while she stopped, looked over her list, and drew a line across it to separate some names. Then she pushed the paper across the desk to me. "That's most of them, I guess," she said. "The main ones anyway, the ones who make my life miserable." She sat back in her chair, folded her arms, and watched me.
I studied the list. There were four names, then a line followed by three more names. "What's the line for?" I asked.
"The first names," she began to count them off on her fingers, "Nicole, Caitlyn, Katelin, pronounced the same, but with different spellings. They call themselves C and K. Anyway those three girls and Ashley, they are the most popular girls in our class. They treat me the worst. The others ..." She paused, shrugged, and then went on, "I guess they want to be popular too. I guess they want to be in that group, and they think picking on me might get them in."
I didn't know what to say next, so I said, "Hmm," and leaned back in my chair. Then I remembered something. "Now tell me what you do to make them pick on you."
"Nothing," she said, and her tone was miserable. "Three of them have always been best friends, even in kindergarten, but back then mostly everyone used to get along. Back when we were little, I mean, sometimes, kids would be mean, but the next day we'd play together. Now Ashley is best friends with them too, and they . . . well, they think they're hot or something. That's all."
"And there aren't even six of them, are there?"
"No," she said, and she leaned toward me. "Why would you think that?" She didn't wait for me to answer, just went on. "They call themselves the Purples because they all four have purple jackets. They wear them even when it isn't cold, like today. You know how warm the weather is, but they came to school in those purple jackets. Makes me sick."
I was interested. "Even in kindergarten? They had little purple jackets even back then?"
"Nah, not back then." She sort of threw up her hands. "Why do you need to know exactly when they got the stupid jackets? What difference does it make?"
"Well," I said, "I just think they could get a better name than the Purples. They could even call themselves the Four Pack." I realized that didn't sound very principal-like, so I shuffled around the things in Serenity's file while I thought. Then I remembered. "But you do something to make them pick on you. Mrs. Simpson said so."
Serenity fell back in her chair and put her hands up to her face like I had slapped her. "She said that? Mrs. Simpson said I do something to make them tease me?"
"She did. Now tell me what you do?"
"I thought Mrs. Simpson was my friend," Serenity said. "I thought she liked me. She's always nice to me when I come into the office."
I was disgusted. Her whining voice made me think of Marcy Willis, and I did not want to think about that person. "I am not concerned here with what Mrs. Simpson thinks of you. As a matter of fact, she probably does like you, but she obviously knows why the Purples don't." I pounded my fists down on the desk hard. "I think you have some idea too. You look like a smart girl to me. Are you going to make me ask Mrs. Simpson to come in here and testify? That wouldn't be very pleasant for you, would it?"
Serenity shook her head and stared down at her sneakers. "I don't have nice clothes," she said. "The Purples all have nice clothes?"
"Really?" This subject really did interest me. "Where do they buy them? I didn't see many places to shop around here." Serenity rolled her eyes like she thought a principal wouldn't ask that. Focus here, Bird, I told myself. I sort of cleared my throat. "Well," I said. "Maybe it doesn't matter where they buy them. Let's get on with the matter at hand." I was proud of coming up with that phrase, "the matter at hand." Things I had heard in the principal's office were coming in handy for me now. "Does every girl who doesn't wear the latest fashions get picked on, then?"
Serenity gave me a surly look and shrugged her shoulders. "Serenity," I said, and I leaned toward her. "Do not shrug when I ask you a question.
I expect words in your answer. Do you understand me?" I was surprised to hear how principalish I sounded. Well, the girl was getting on my last nerve. Shrugging seemed to be her number one talent. "Now, I want to know if every girl who does not dress in a certain way is tormented!"
"No," she said, "just me."
"Very well, then, I think we can eliminate your clothing as the reason. I suggest you look a bit more deeply." I looked at her and waited, taping my fingers against my desktop and humming the song "Oklahoma."
"Maybe it's partly the things I say." She was staring at the floor again.
"Give me an example." I tried to make my voice warm, yet firm.
"Sometimes I exaggerate things." I could barely hear her, but as soon as the words sunk into my brain, I knew we were getting to the root of the problem.
"Serenity," I said. "I know this is hard for you, but I can only help you if you are honest with me. What things do you exaggerate? Give me an example,"
Tears started to roll down her cheeks. "The other day in history class the kids got Coach Pickle to talking about movies. If we can get him off the subject of history, sometimes we don't have to do anything all period." She stopped talking then, like she was finished with the story.
"Come on, Serenity. What did you say?"
"Well, Coach Pickle started talking about this Marilyn Monroe woman and how he loved her old movies." She stopped again.
"Yes," I said, "I know about Marilyn Monroe." I started using my hand like I was urging her to move. "Come on. What did you say?"
"Well, I put up my hand and I was going to say that I had watched some of Marilyn Monroe's movies, but I didn't." She stopped talking and made little sobbing sounds instead.
"I'm waiting," I said, using my hands again.
"I sort of said that I was adopted and that Marilyn Monroe was my birth mother."
I laughed out loud, and Serenity stopped crying to say, "You're not supposed to laugh at me and stuff. You're supposed to make me feel better."