“It really starts in elementary school,” insisted Maybelline, who stood behind Daren Grant holding a huge stack of packets. “I’m responsible for teaching so many skills that the kids should have learned in the lower grades.”
Lena’s planning period was rapidly becoming a write-off.
“I’d say it starts with giving teachers some authority,” said Mrs. Reynolds-Washington. “When I was in school, they could whoop us. Now we can’t even have fridges in our classrooms.”
“Actually, it starts with high teacher expectations.” Daren Grant placed the first of his confidential papers on the glass. Apparently, they were not too confidential to copy on the one machine teachers needed to use during their planning periods. “We have abundant data on that.”
“I have a fridge in my classroom,” said Lena. She refused to let Daren Grant dominate both the copier and the conversation.
A few of the teachers laughed. Many of them kept fridges in discreet corners of their rooms.
“All the real problems, though? They start in the home,” said Mrs. Friedman-Katz. “If parents paid more attention, we wouldn’t have all these kids killing each other out there, all these babies having babies…” She trailed off in a way that indicated that she could easily go on. It would never be said, if a student committed some unspeakable act, that Mrs. Friedman-Katz had not seen it coming.
“Babies having babies,” echoed Mrs. Reynolds-Washington, shaking her head.
Lena sighed at the thought. Of all the stupid decisions teenagers made, having a baby seemed the most shortsighted, the most long term, the most easily preventable. Every time she saw a pregnant girl walking the halls of the school, she felt the urge to scream, Why are you not getting an abortion right now?! Sometimes she wondered if she was the only person in Texas who felt this way.
Breyonna, who’d just arrived, chimed in. “What kids are really missing these days is a foundation in the church. I grew up in the church, and we all learned some respect.”
“I know that’s right,” said Mrs. Reynolds-Washington.
“I’m going to need to see some data on that,” said Lena. “Abundant data, if possible.”
Hernan probably would have thought this was funny, but nobody in the copier line seemed to notice the sarcasm except Maybelline, who glared as if data were a member of her family whom Lena had just insulted.
“Well,” said Mrs. Friedman-Katz, “a background in any religion, really.”
Lena began gathering her things. The bell was so close to ringing that even if the machine started working perfectly she would never be able to finish her copies.
“For black folks, though, it starts in the church,” said Mrs. Reynolds-Washington. “That’s one of the things we all have in common—well, church and football.”
If Lena had been in a more confident mood, she would have pointed out that there were plenty of black people who observed other religions or even no religion at all. But in her current state of mind, she doubted all of her own perceptions. The words church and football had thrust the morning’s conversation back into her consciousness.
You think I got bad credit? Again, she wondered why oh why-oh-whyohwhy she’d said the word credit.
She knew only one thing in the world, which was that this conversation could not conclude with the words church and football.
“It starts,” she said, “with birth control.”
A small weight lifted from her as everyone laughed.
Well, everyone except Maybelline. But she never laughed at anything.
KEEPING SCORE
“BYE, MOM. HAVE fun not watching the Super Bowl,” called Allyson as she and her grandmother left for Rosemary’s party.
The door slammed behind them, and Maybelline peered out the window to the scraggly lawn of the apartment complex. Among the beat-up cars of her neighbors’ party guests, Rosemary’s SUV gleamed like a trophy. The back of the truck faced Maybelline’s window, parked at just the right angle to show off a new sticker adorning its bumper: My Child Is an Honor Student at Grumbly Elementary School!
Allyson had received no such sticker.
Spanish yells bounced in from the hallway. Loud, unintelligible conversation pressed through the wall from the Pakistanis. From the sound of things, they’d invited at least twenty guests to watch the game on their illicit satellite dish. It seemed as if everyone in the city, no matter where they came from or what language they spoke, had united to watch this silly American game.
Even Allyson loved football now. In fact, her love for the game seemed to correlate inversely with her mother’s distaste for it. She’d even begun talking about becoming a cheerleader, though Maybelline had told her this was out of the question.
But there was no time to think about that, or Rosemary’s party, or even the Super Bowl itself, where, according to the usual sources of gossip, Coach Ray would be sitting in the stadium, right on the fifty-yard line. None of this was Maybelline’s concern. She had work to do.
Right at this very moment, for example, she was finalizing a spreadsheet of all the failing students whose parents she had contacted, with additional notes in cases where the contact information hadn’t worked. There were ways, she knew, of getting the test scores of certain students removed from a teacher’s evaluation. She only needed documentation that they had not done their work, or had not come to class, in spite of her best efforts. The key was to prove that she had done her part. The rules changed every year, and few teachers kept up with the paperwork involved. But Maybelline always did. This year, she’d started finalizing her spreadsheets as soon as she’d seen Daren Grant at the copy machine with his Confidential folder. She was sure there was something in there about her—perhaps a complaint that she didn’t do math-related cheers with her students.
And then Lena Wright had said that thing about birth control.
And everyone had laughed.
Even now, Maybelline seethed as she remembered it. Even Daren Grant had laughed. Had he even heard all the other things Lena said? That she didn’t pay attention to data? That she had a fridge in her room, which was clearly against school policy? But the consultant had barely seemed to notice. Lena’s disregard for rules would, just like Rosemary’s, go forever unpunished.
Another roar vibrated the plaster of the living room wall. A wooden cross, one of the few mementos Maybelline’s mother had carried on her journey from the Philippines, inched over with each cheer until it hung from its nail at a crooked angle. It felt as if the whole city was intruding on the apartment, images forcing their way onto Maybelline’s mental computer screen: Coach Ray cheering from the front row of the gleaming stadium. Her mother and daughter celebrating on Rosemary’s clean leather couch. Lena Wright at some party full of glamorous, childless people, all of them laughing at jokes about birth control.
Then again, with all the work she had to do, Maybelline didn’t have time to think about this. She turned her attention to the district website, searching for this year’s documentation requirements.
But the new rules were not there.
Even though it was already February, whoever was in charge had not bothered to post the updated version. Without the new rules, she could do nothing with the neat rows of the Excel spreadsheet in front of her. There was no way to protect her test score data from students who had not done their part.
The thought made the entire universe feel like an unbalanced equation.
There had to be someone who could make this right, someone who understood that there were rules, and there were rewards for following these rules and consequences for breaking them. Before she knew what she was doing, she opened her school e-mail account, attached her spreadsheets to a new message, and sent it to Roger Scamphers.
More cheering came through the wall, louder this time—the type of cheering one might hear for a team that had pulled ahead. It made her feel ridiculous for sending the e-mail. Why hadn’t she waited? Why hadn’t it occurred to her that Mr. Scamphers would be w
atching the game, just like everyone else in the city, in the state, in the country? Watching the Super Bowl, Maybelline realized, was the exact inverse of being lonely.
She did not pursue this thought. There were other things that needed to be done, important things that were best done today. She clicked through files on her computer screen, looking for the next item that needed her attention.
A pinging sound interrupted her. Mr. Scamphers had written back!
This is great work, Ms. Galang. You can count on me to handle this. And I hope, in the future, I’ll be able to count on you, too. Especially since it looks like I may be up for a promotion to principal after all. All I can say for now is that someone very important knows I’m in charge of the Believer Scores at our school and is counting on me to make sure they line up with test scores. I could use help from someone with your attention to detail.
Something lit up inside Maybelline as she printed and filed the e-mail. She worded her answer carefully. He had not asked her to mention specific colleagues—at least not yet. But she wanted him to know she was more than willing to help.
Well, there are definitely some teachers who don’t believe our school’s data means anything. If you’re looking for a place to start, you might look at people who ignore other school rules, like the one about not having refrigerators in the classroom.
The noise next door sounded distant now. Another message appeared.
Thank you, Ms. Galang, I believe I know exactly who you’re talking about. Keep up the good work. I have a feeling that both your test scores and your Believer Score will be fantastic this year.
By the light of the computer screen, Maybelline smiled. Mr. Scamphers already had his eye on Lena Wright. Had he heard what Lena had been whispering about Maybelline’s binder during the PHCDMADC meeting? Whatever it was, it had made Hernan Hernandez run out of the room laughing. Lena thought she was so funny. Well, she’d see what was funny when the Believer Scores came out. A serenity settled upon Maybelline—the sense of having righted a great imbalance.
But it didn’t last long. The apartments on both sides erupted in cheers again, and this time the noise spread all the way down the hall, out of the apartment complex, and down to the street outside her window, where cars honked and music blasted and shrieks filled the air as the whole city exploded in the uproarious, disorderly joy of fans whose team had won the Super Bowl.
Maybelline tried to ignore the noise. There was other work she’d planned to do today, and it now seemed more urgent than ever. She worked without turning her face from the screen, blocking out any sense of time until she heard keys rattling in the door and the voice of her mother, who was excitedly rehashing the game with a neighbor from El Salvador.
Then Allyson ran into the apartment, breathless, as if she’d run up the stairs. “I saw my dad on TV!”
“Oh. Is that right?” Maybelline turned from the computer slowly, trying so hard to communicate her disinterest that it took her a moment to register Allyson’s outfit. Not even an outfit: a glittery cheerleading uniform. Not even a uniform: really, it was no more than a white swimsuit and a strip of sequins barely pretending to be a skirt.
Now Maybelline turned fully toward her daughter. “What are you wearing?”
“Gabriella gave it to me. It’s just like the ones they wear at the game!”
Maybelline looked up and saw Rosemary, who could have easily stayed in the car but had silently followed Allyson into the house.
“You gave this to her?”
Rosemary shrugged. “Gabriella had two.”
“I don’t want her wearing that.”
“Well, then, maybe you should have picked her and Mom up yourself.”
This was how Rosemary operated. One could never be sure when she was plotting a punishment for some unnamed offense. Even when it came, there was only a hint—though there was always a hint—that her vengeance was anything but an innocent blunder.
Maybelline turned away, deliberately ignoring her sister’s words. “Allyson, you cannot wear that. Go take it off.”
“Why?” whined Allyson.
“It’s not appropriate for a girl your age.” She did not add that it was also not appropriate for Allyson’s body type. Allyson’s prepubescent nipples pressed against the shiny fabric, her belly button clearly visible in the center of a wobbly stomach. The skirt cut off just below her underwear, revealing stocky, eleven-year-old legs.
“The girls just wanted to show some team spirit,” said Rosemary.
“This is between Allyson and me.” Maybelline did not even turn her head as she said it.
But Allyson had already sensed the crack in her mother’s defense. “Yeah, we just wanted to show some team spirit.”
“I said take it off.”
“Why is this the only place in the world where fun is just, like, not allowed?” Allyson stormed off in a shiny, pudgy fit, looking less like a professional cheerleader than anything Maybelline could imagine.
Maybelline turned back to her sister. “Please do not get into arguments between my daughter and me.” The please was not meant to be polite. It was meant to show that even at a time like this, Maybelline had not lost control of her manners.
“Well, since it looks like I’m helping to raise your daughter…”
Their mother hovered nearby, pretending not to listen. She always did this when tensions between the twins heated up, turning every argument into every other argument they’d ever had, all of which Maybelline should have won over the years. She had done everything she was supposed to, and yet some invisible force always pulled Rosemary ahead. Now it was Rosemary who had an honor-roll sticker on the back of her truck, and Rosemary spending her husband’s money and hosting parties in her spacious home.
“Yes, Rosemary, so I’ve heard.” Maybelline snuck a look at her mother, who was now straightening the cross on the wall with exaggerated concentration. “Sorry some of us have to work for a living.”
“Oh, I see what this is about. Well, excuse me for waiting until I was married to have a kid.”
This was something Rosemary had never said—should not have said. Not when Maybelline, for all these years, had kept her sister’s biggest secret.
It begins with birth control.
Maybelline felt something familiar rise up within her. An equation had become imbalanced, and she needed to correct it. “I know you did. I was the one who drove you home from the clinic in high school, remember?”
She’d meant it as a hint, in coded language that she thought only Rosemary would understand, but immediately she could see she’d been wrong. Their mother turned, staring at Rosemary with hurt eyes. Rosemary’s mouth hung open. The noise of the street had dimmed to only the occasional defiant car horn. Somewhere, a door slammed.
Inside Maybelline’s chest stirred a troubled sense that she’d done something irreversible, that instead of righting an imbalance, she’d pushed much too far in the opposite direction. But the feeling that made Maybelline’s heart pound wasn’t fear. It wasn’t regret.
It was the uproarious joy of someone whose team had won.
DEFENSIVE STRATEGY
“IF BIRDS CAN’T talk, how do they even know which bugs are poisonous?”
It wasn’t a bad question, but Hernan still snuck a look at the clock as he answered. He was eager to leave school. He needed to examine the bluebonnets in his father’s greenhouse before they all caught the fungus. It was a fungus—he’d been able to confirm that much, and now he just hoped there would be some way to keep it from spreading. Every day, however, there was something that kept Hernan at school too late to do any experimentation. The science fair, with all its accompanying headaches, had barely finished when his department head had volun-told him to do TCUP tutoring. Meanwhile, in gardens all over the state, tiny brown spots were appearing on the leaves of bluebonnets, growing larger until they consumed the plants.
The sight of Mr. Scamphers at the door snapped Hernan back into the moment. The door had
been locked. He was sure of it. Yet the assistant principal had entered without so much as a warning jingle from his keys.
“I see you’re busy.” Mr. Scamphers’s voice was unusually pleasant. “I just need you to sign this.”
Hernan signed distractedly.
“Oh, and I’ll be e-mailing you to schedule a support dialogue,” Mr. Scamphers said, and left briskly.
“Uh-oh,” said a student. Even teenagers sensed that a support dialogue was not as positive as the phrase might suggest.
In truth, it was an on-the-record reprimand that helped administrators show they had tried their best to support a teacher through dialogue.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Hernan. He tried to follow his own advice but instead found he suddenly had a strong interest in reading the paper he had just signed.
Lack of professionalism, the paper said, inbox full, causing e-mails to bounce back. This had been during the science fair and the holiday season.
Classroom-management issues documented by outside observer: student eating chips in class and spitting in plants near window.
Hernan remembered Angel joining the class for the first time, Daren Grant sitting behind him. Then, later, the fluorescent glob of (BAKED!) Reetos in the flowerpot.
The third and final offense had been handwritten that very day. Violation of school regulations: fridge in classroom. Hernan almost laughed. Didn’t every teacher ignore that rule?
So much for leaving right after the bell.
The assistant principal did not seem surprised to see Hernan at his office door at the end of the day. “Yes, Mr. Hernandez, how can I help you?”
“I was wondering if we could discuss the paperwork from today.”
Adequate Yearly Progress Page 20