Down and Out in Bugtussle

by Stephanie McAfee

  I sit for a moment and fantasize about spending my days painting murals and glazing walls instead of explaining to ill-mannered high school students that I have no idea where their regular teacher is and do not know why he or she had to take the day off. “Of course,” I tell her. “I could do it after school.” Remember, the grass is not always greener, I think.

  “You might rustle up enough business to do it full-time.”

  “I’ve given up dreaming the impossible dream,” I tell her.

  “This has nothing to do with dreaming impossible dreams,” she says. “It has to do with your purpose in life.” She holds up the menus. “Clearly, God has given you a gift.”

  “I do not doubt that at all and I very much appreciate it, but having a gift doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to try to squeeze a dollar out of it. I tried that, remember?”

  “Your gift is an arrow that points you in a certain direction.”

  “Jalena, I don’t think—”

  “Let me ask you a question,” she says. “Do you think Ethan Allen and I were meant to be together?”

  “Of course,” I say. “A blind person can see that.”

  “Now think about how many losers I dated before I met him.”

  I consider that for a second. “Point taken,” I tell her.

  *

  Thursday, I decide to go ahead and pick up everything I need for Dax’s going away party, and since Lilly loves going to Walmart, I invite her to come along. She perks up a little on the ride over, but not much.

  We chat about this and that while I load the shopping cart up with chips, dips, and sweet stuff. She tells me Dax is really fond of spinach dip, so I pick up the ingredients for that along with a loaf of Hawaiian bread. We’re standing by the hot dogs, discussing how many packs to buy, when a deep voice says, “Hello, ladies.” We turn to see Sheriff J. J. Jackson, in uniform. I point at Lilly.

  “Sheriff, this lady is trying to steal some wieners, but I was adamantly advising against such behavior.” J.J. looks at me without even a hint of a smile. Lilly is equally stone-faced. “C’mon.” I play punch her in the arm. “If you confess, he might go easy on you.” Lilly is not in a joking mood. The sheriff pats Lilly on the shoulder and looks at me like I’ve lost all of my marbles.

  “We’re gonna miss Dorsett, Lilly. But don’t worry, he’ll be back before you know it.”

  Lilly just stares at the sheriff and nods. Then I remember Chloe’s predicament.

  “So,” I say, smiling up at the handsome sheriff, “how long have you and Chloe been dating now?”

  “Yeah,” Lilly says. “Has it been a year already?”

  The sheriff looks nervous. “Not sure, why? Do we have an anniversary coming up?” He glances around. “Y’all better tell me if I do.”

  “I don’t think it’s been quite a year yet,” I say, and he looks majorly relieved.

  “I think it’s been about ten months,” Lilly says.

  “That Chloe is a real catch if you ask me,” I say.

  “Yeah,” J.J. says, “she’s a good one, no doubt about it.”

  “And so pretty,” Lilly adds.

  “That, too,” he says, looking at us with suspicious eyes.

  “And so nice,” I say.

  “She is a keeper,” Lilly says, and I make a mental note to brag on her later for coming up with that one.

  “Definitely a keeper,” I say. “One to keep around for a while.”

  The sheriff looks from me to Lilly, then back at me.

  “Have you girls been drinking?”

  “No!” I say. “We just left school thirty minutes ago. I mean, I could use a drink and I’ll probably have one later, but not now. No. I quit drinking and driving years ago.”

  “Years ago,” Lilly echoes.

  “Okay,” he says, looking at us like we’re a couple of bozos. “Guess we’ll see y’all Saturday night, then.” He nods toward the hot dogs. “Don’t spend too much time here. I think it’s messing with your heads.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Lilly says as he turns to go.

  “Epic fail,” I whisper, and turn back to the wieners.

  17

  Friday, even the loudest, most idiotic little asshole can’t put a bend in my stride, but that certainly doesn’t stop each and every one of them from trying. It should be against the law for a teacher to take off from school on Friday because substitute hell is at its very hottest at the end of the week. What these maniacs fail to realize is that I’m just as ready for the week to be over as they are, if not more so.

  During third period, I look out at twenty-five students, a good solid fifteen of whom are acting like they just snorted a line of crack cocaine. I think for a moment about how surprised they would be if they managed to push me over the edge. I wouldn’t tuck tail and run—which is what I think they’re going for—I would go stark-raving nuts and give them an earful of the cold hard truth. And the truth would hurt. At least it would hurt their feelings. And it would most certainly set me free from a substantial amount of annoying racket. But I can’t do that because there’re always a few, usually the ones with the absolute worst behavior, who would run home to Mommy and Daddy—who would never dream of hurting little precious’s feelings—and whine about the mean ol’ substitute who grew weary of their intolerable brattiness and told them something they didn’t want to hear. Then Mommy would call Mr. Byer and cuss him like a dog and I’d get called before the board and fired. Then Chloe would run over me with her office chair and it would be one big huge mess, all because I snapped and screamed something like, Shut the fuck up! to a rowdy bunch of devotees to chaos. Of course, I would never say anything like that in a classroom, but I certainly enjoy entertaining that fantasy.

  At lunchtime, I sit down with Stacey Dewberry in the noisy cafeteria where we finalize our plans for the night. She’s acting peculiar—even more so than usual—and I get the distinct feeling that she’s hiding something. I hope it’s not that she’s back with Joe Red and he’ll be joining us at the concert tonight.

  After lunch, I tough out two more hours in maniac central and just when I’m certain the day couldn’t get worse, Chloe comes over the intercom and summons me to her office during afternoon break. Lilly is already there when I walk in and as soon as I see her, I know we’re in trouble. Sure enough, Chloe hammers us about what we said to J.J. in the hot dog aisle of Walmart yesterday. We each make a legitimate effort to change the subject, but Chloe is determined to have this conversation.

  “You told him I was a keeper?” she says to Lilly. “How could you do that?”

  “I thought it was good,” Lilly says, looking at me. “You said it was good.”

  “I thought it was genius,” I say.

  “Do not say another word to him about me, got it?” she says, and her face is flush red.

  “Okay, calm down, Chloe,” I tell her. “You’re going to have a heart attack.” I look at Lilly. “I’m sorry. We’re sorry.”

  “We’re very sorry,” Lilly chimes in. “Won’t happen again. We promise.”

  She glares at us until the bell rings.

  “Have a nice rest of the day,” I say. Her response is a cold stare.

  “Shit,” Lilly whispers after we walk out the door. “This is going to be a long nine months.”

  “Seven,” I remind her. “Because she’s already—” I stop talking because we meet Mr. Byer in the hallway.

  “Hello, hello, hello, ladies,” he says. “How are we today? Glad it’s Friday, I presume? I know I am.” He does that funny little giggle of his and flashes that shy smile.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “So happy it’s Friday!”

  “Well, I hope you both enjoy your weekend to the fullest,” he says.

  “He is so nice,” I say, and turn to Lilly, who has stopped dead in her tracks.

  “When this weekend is over, he’ll be gone, Ace. When this weekend is over, Dax will be—”

  “Lilly, you
can’t think about that right now,” I tell her. “Just put it out of your mind. You only have two more classes and then you can go home and see him.”

  “I can’t,” she says, and her eyes fill up with tears. “I can’t stay here. I’ve got to go. It’s our last weekend together. Oh God! What am I going to do when he leaves?”

  “Oh my goodness.” I hurry back to Chloe’s office and tell her that Lilly’s having a breakdown in the hallway. “I don’t know if that medicine she’s taking is helping or hurting,” I tell her. “She’s a mess.”

  “I’ve thought the same thing,” she says, and I’m relieved to hear kindness in her voice.

  Chloe follows me to where Lilly is slumped in one of the chairs just outside the narrow office hallway. Chloe stops and knocks on Mrs. Marshall’s door.

  “Mrs. Marshall, are you in?” she calls.

  “Yes, Mrs. Stacks. What can I do for you?” Mrs. Marshall steps out into the hallway, sees Lilly, and says, “Oh no! Is she okay?”

  “She’s just upset and needs to go home,” Chloe says to Mrs. Marshall. “Would you mind finding someone to cover her last two classes?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Marshall says. She steps back into her office.

  “Lilly,” I say, “c’mon, get up. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Remind me what class you’re in today,” Chloe says to me.

  “Mr. Bridgeton,” I say as the tardy bell rings.

  “Walk Lilly out to her car and I’ll go down and stay in his classroom until you get back.”

  “Is everything okay out here?” Mr. Byer says, sticking his head out of his office. He sees Lilly and his eyebrows crunch up with concern.

  “Everything is fine, Mr. Byer,” Chloe says. “Lilly isn’t feeling well, so she’s going to leave early.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asks. “Do I need to run down and cover her class?” I can’t help but think about how lucky this school is to have such a genuinely nice person in charge of things.

  “Mrs. Marshall is taking care of it,” Chloe says, “but thank you so much.”

  I look at Lilly and she looks downright pitiful.

  “How embarrassing,” she says, standing up and smoothing her skirt. “I’m so sorry for making a scene, Chloe.” She wipes her cheeks.

  “Not a problem, Lilly. Just go sit in my office while Ace runs down to get your purse. I have to get to Mr. Bridgeton’s classroom.”

  “Thank you.”

  “C’mon,” I say, and walk with her to Chloe’s office where she sits down and puts her hands over her face. “You’ll be fine, Lilly. Just sit tight and I’ll be right back.” She doesn’t say anything, so I take off to D Hall.

  I hear a major ruckus going on in Lilly’s classroom before I even knock on the door. When I walk in, I see that Mrs. Marshall has recruited none other than Cameron Becker to cover Lilly’s class this period. Great.

  “Where’s Ms. Lane?” one student yells above the roar. “I saw her right before break.”

  “Ms. Lane isn’t feeling well,” I say.

  “I’m not feeling well, either, so can I leave, too?” a loudmouth in the back of the class hollers. The students roar with laughter and start talking even louder.

  “Be quiet, please,” Ms. Becker says. “Everyone needs to take a seat.”

  The students ignore her. I walk over to the cabinet where Lilly keeps her stuff, open the door, and reach in to get her purse. I turn around and look at Cameron Becker, who is failing miserably to get control of the situation.

  “Quiet, students, please,” she says again. “Stop talking! Right now!” She claps her hands, but no one pays her any attention. The expression on Cameron’s face brings back terrible memories from my first year teaching, but then I remember what a hussy she’s been each and every time we’ve spoken. I look at the door and tell myself to walk out. Leave her to it. But I don’t because I can’t. I stand by the cabinet, listening as the noise level rises to a dull roar. I know what I should do, but I don’t want to do it. I look at Cameron Becker and, despite my best effort to be a hard-ass, I feel sorry for the girl. She asks them to sit down and stop talking for a third time. When not a single student bothers to acknowledge her, I unleash the fury that only five years of teaching, a wrecked dream, and a few weeks of permanent substitute teaching can put in a woman.

  “Hey!” I yell. “I don’t believe anyone in this room is deaf! Ms. Becker has asked you nicely to stop talking and since y’all obviously don’t respond to kindness, let me put it to you like this: Get yourself in a seat! Face the front! Shut your mouth! And get out something to do!” I look at Ms. Becker. “Do you have any idea what they’re supposed to be doing?” She points to the board. “As you all can see, today’s assignment is on the board, so get on it! Right now! And when you finish that, you can find something else to work on quietly, or”—I glance down at Lilly’s desk—“Ms. Becker will provide you with a sheet of verbs to conjugate in French. Any questions?” No one says a word. I pick up the stack of dreaded worksheets and make a show of handing them to Ms. Becker. “Write down who you have to give these worksheets to so Lilly will know who gets a zero in the grade book should someone decide not to turn it back in.” I point to the intercom button. “Ms. Becker,” I tell her, “Mr. Byer is in his office if you need him. I’ll let him know you might be buzzing him.”

  “Ms. Jones, I assure you that we will be on our best behavior from here on out,” a student says from somewhere in the middle of the classroom.

  “Thank you so much,” I say with a sweet smile as I search out the would-be diplomat. An entire week of boisterous students plus this especially god-awful day has worn my nerves down to a raw nub, so I’m not in the mood to be patronized. “But I’m still telling Mr. Byer to be on alert for a buzz from Ms. Becker.” He picks up his pencil and gets to work.

  “Thank you,” Cameron Becker says, looking relieved.

  “No problem.” I take a step closer to her and whisper, “You’ve got to put the fear of God in them right off the bat and then make sure they’ve got plenty of relevant work to keep them busy. That’s the secret. They’re just normal teenagers; they’re not bad kids, but you have to let them know up front that you are in control. Not them.” You can do that when you’re a “real” teacher, I think, feeling miserable. She smiles and I am amazed at how beautiful she is. “Have a good weekend, Ms. Becker.”

  “You, too, Ms. Jones. Thanks again.”

  “Don’t mention it.” I walk out of Lilly’s classroom, close the door behind me, and stand there for a minute to make sure the students don’t go crazy again. Fortunately, they don’t. I feel bad for snapping on them, but that situation had to be dealt with or the next step would’ve been to call in the Mississippi National Guard. Kids get so carried away when their normal teacher doesn’t show up, and if the pandemonium isn’t reined in immediately, the mob mentality takes over and it’s all downhill from there. I walk down the hallway and wonder whose mommy will be the first to call Mr. Byer and report my failure to pussyfoot around an out-of-control situation. Substitute teachers can’t talk to students that way. Probably that really loud kid in the back who started yelling about wanting to go home.

  When I finally get back to my assigned classroom, Chloe is sitting at Mr. Bridgeton’s desk like a prison warden and there is a sentence on the board that reads, “I will not talk in class unless I raise my hand and am recognized by the person in charge of maintaining order within the four walls of this classroom.” When I walk in, some of the students look up, obviously relieved to see the sub coming to replace the guidance counselor. It’s sixth period, so I’m sure their friends had given them a heads-up on Mr. Bridgeton’s absence. I smile when I think about how shocked and disappointed they must’ve been when Chloe walked into the classroom instead of “the sub.”

  “Lilly’s on her way home,” I whisper to Chloe.

  “Great,” she says, and a few students start to whisper. She turns on them and says, “Don’t
make me make your sentences longer again.” Silence. She smiles at me. “See you tomorrow night.”

  “See you then,” I say.

  When she’s safely out of the classroom, one brave student raises his hand.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “Do we really have to write this sentence a thousand times?”

  I suppress a smile while I look back at the clock. We have twenty minutes until the bell.

  “Would you guys rather do today’s assignment?” The question produces a collective nod and sighs of relief all around. It’s amazing how easy it is to maintain order as opposed to establishing it.

  “Please, ma’am,” the student says. I pick up a stack of papers.

  “Mr. Bridgeton left you guys a pretty cool assignment,” I say, counting out enough for the first row.

  “A crossword puzzle!” the student on the receiving end of the first stack says. Then she looks up in horror and regret. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t make me write anymore.”

  “It’s Friday,” I say. “Who wants to write extra-long sentences on Friday? Raise your hand.” Sure enough, one clown raises his hand. “Well, you’re more than welcome to do that,” I tell him, smiling. “I bet you guys won’t test Mrs. Stacks anymore, will ya?” I can tell from their expressions that they won’t.

  “Can we work in pairs? Mr. Bridgeton lets us work in pairs.”

  “Only if you can stay quiet,” I say. “As you all know, there are classes all around us, so keep it down, please.”

  Toward the end of the period, the students start turning in their crossword puzzles and whispering amongst themselves. One student raises his hand and says, “Ms. Jones, I’m going to a concert tonight.”

  “Really?” I reply, thinking nothing of it.

  “Yeah, I’m going to see Poison and Def Leppard with my dad.”