I looked at the woman next to me as if she was from Mars, but she was now peering at me curiously.
“Hey…are you Sue’s new English teacher?”
“Yes,” I responded carefully, keeping an eye out for my seventh-grader in the middle of the motivational sex sandwich.
“I’m Sue Wong’s tutor.”
“Excuse me?” I was now barely giving this woman any attention because I was convinced that young Benjamin had just grabbed a motivational breast.
“I tutor Sue in English and history!” the woman continued brightly.
“How nice,” I murmured, edging away as politely as I could so that I could get a better view of the motivational sexual abuse, which I was now incapable of tearing myself away from…and why the HELL didn’t Randi Abrahams stop grinding with some child’s father and save young Benjamin’s innocence? I was a split second away from stepping in when the room went pitch black. My students screamed in delight.
“YO YO YO LANGDON HALL IN THE HOUSE!”
My students screamed even louder. Michael Kors looked flushed with excitement. Parents and children were moving frantically toward the center of the dance floor.
“JESUS WALKS…”
The music started pounding.
“JESUS WALKS!!!” My students screamed back, and then one spotlight exploded on the stage and revealed Kanye West in a white suit and a top hat. Oh, my God, it was actually him in the flesh. I had read somewhere that he didn’t make an appearance for less than a quarter of a million dollars.
“JESUS…WALKS…WITH…ME…, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH…BOW, BOW, BOW, BOW, BOW, BOW, BOW, BOW…”
Sue Wong was smiling calmly as her classmates were now roaring, “Go, Kanye” in such a frenzied delirium that I thought I might go deaf. Parents were shaking their hips as the seventh-grade class waved their hands back and forth and danced at their private Kanye West concert. The Oompa Loompas were equally excited, and a few had formed a circle and were taking turns going into the center and break dancing. Kanye West winked at Randi Abrahams while rapping “Diamonds from Sierra Leone,” and motioned for her to approach the stage. Parents clapped in encouragement and the kids were screaming, “Go, Ms. Abrahams! Go, Ms. Abrahams! Kanye wants you!”
I turned around in a mixture of shock, disbelief, and confusion, and raced out of Cipriani 42nd Street, which I was convinced was Dante’s final level of hell. Damian Oren was right about this world.
12
I was dreading my lunch with Benjamin’s mother. She hadn’t mentioned much about the peanut allergy debacle when I had called to confirm, and frankly I was surprised that she hadn’t cancelled, or at the very least had me fired. Guiltily, I made my way up Madison and turned into the restaurant on 92nd Street. The restaurant had a chic but rustic quality: burgundy awnings, yellow French doors, pine tables and floors, and a bakeshop counter where cute little rows of jams and home-baked pies were lined up on proud display. I felt like I had just entered a quaint bed-and-breakfast in Maine. One quick glance at its patrons, however, made one thing very clear: This was not Maine. Sarabeth’s was the playground of the Langdon Hall mothers. Lara Kensington had invited me here for one specific purpose: to be seen with me. When I finally saw where she was seated—all the way at the back of the restaurant—it became abundantly clear that she wanted all the other mothers to see me heading over to her table. I greeted the room as if I were Bill Clinton—shaking hands and exchanging smiles—and could feel the curious stares from the few women who were not Langdon mothers. They may have thought I actually was a celebrity!
When I finally reached Lara’s table she extended her hand as if she were Queen Elizabeth. For one wild moment I contemplated kissing it. Instead, I just took it in my own hand and waited for her to rise three quarters out of her seat so we could air kiss. Everyone was staring.
“Wow, so many of the other class mothers are here,” I offered helplessly.
“Oh, are they?” Lara asked innocently. “They must like the food as much as I do! Please have a seat!” Gratefully, I sank into the seat opposite her. A waiter appeared and asked if we wanted tap or sparkling, and Lara interrupted my “Ta—” with a cool “Sparkling.” I made a mental note never to order tap in Manhattan.
“I am so sorry about the other day—” I began immediately. I planned to begin with my apology so it wouldn’t linger over the entire meal.
“Oh, Randi was there,” Lara waved her hand carelessly. “And honestly, you’re new. You can’t be expected to be a super teacher and a lifesaver, now can you?” she asked charmingly, her white teeth glistening like a shark going for the kill. I inhaled.
“And speaking of great teachers,” she leaned in closer to me, “that is exactly what you are. A gifted teacher. I’ve never seen my Benjamin get so excited over a class. Never!” At that moment we were approached by Gillian Stein, Jacob’s mother.
“Ms. Taggert, is that you? What a lovely surprise!” A cloud of annoyance passed over Lara’s eyes. She might have wanted to be seen with me, but she did not want to be interrupted.
“So nice to see you, too,” I said, feeling Lara’s now very dark, annoyed blue eyes penetrating my skull.
“My son just adores you!” Gillian exclaimed. I felt like a man caught between his wife and mistress.
“He’s such a terrific kid,” I replied lamely.
“Oh, how lovely of you to say!” Gillian gushed, clearly enjoying herself. “And he was so proud of the A he received on his first paragraph!” She air kissed us both, and returned to her table where another blonde who was not a Langdon Hall mother was eyeing us curiously.
“Gillian can be so flashy and in your face. I apologize for her,” Lara said sweetly as she watched Gillian walk away. Something had happened between these two women in this brief interchange, and somehow, I was very much a part of it.
“She’s nice,” I defended, but not too strongly. “Shall we order?”
Lara was perfectly charming for the rest of the meal, asking me questions about growing up, college, and how I came to be at Langdon Hall. No check came at the end (a house account?) and as if she had never had to pay for a thing in her life, Lara got up gracefully and beamed at me.
“Anna, this was so much fun! We have to do this again!” I nodded yes, but was still mystified. We had not spoken about Benjamin. We had not spoken much about Langdon Hall. It had been all about me. I felt like I had been on a very lavish date with a man who was clearly trying to seduce me. Only Lara gave me one last innocent air kiss before getting into the Town Car that was waiting outside for her.
“Are you sure I can’t offer you a ride home?” she asked, but I shook my head. I wanted the walk and I needed to figure out what had just transgressed in the dark, murky waters of the Sarabeth’s cesspool.
I walked into school on Monday morning with three resolutions:
I would rededicate myself to being the best and most creative teacher I could be.
I would not allow Langdon mothers to dictate my life.
After returning Benjamin’s paragraph with an A, I would never remain quiet about a cheating incident again.
Filled with good intentions, I forced myself not to cringe when Benjamin screamed, “Yeah, baby!” and held up his paper for the class to see when I returned it. I couldn’t believe it—not a shred of remorse! That shaking, twitching boy in Starbucks was completely erased from his memory, and I watched him from the corner of my eye as I returned the other essays (which were all surprisingly sophisticated) as he made little raise-the-roof gestures with his hand to express his joy.
“Today I am going to give you all a card,” I stated firmly, then began to circle the table so the class had to keep turning their heads to keep their eyes on me. I had discovered that the busier and more confused the students were, the less able they were to call out or distract.
“On each card,” I continued, “will be a name. A very special name.”
“Whose name?” Madeline blurted, unable to restrain herself.<
br />
“Madeline needs Ritalin,” Jacob sneered.
I ignored them both.
“The name is someone from Romeo and Juliet and that person is who you will be for the rest of class. But you cannot show anyone this name. It is a secret.” I had planned this lesson down to its tiniest detail. It was flawless. I opened my mouth to continue.
“I don’t want to do this,” Jessica complained.
“Yeah, this sounds very complicated,” Sue agreed.
“Just listen,” I urged. “You will love this activity! And—”
“I want to watch Mean Girls again,” Max announced.
“Yeah, this card thing…sucks,” Benjamin announced devilishly.
I had spent hours planning this activity! I had gotten to school early just to cut out the damn cards! I had bought fucking Hershey kisses as miniature prizes! With my own money. Then it happened. From the corner of my eye…
One.
Hot.
Tear.
“THEN DON’T DO IT!” I snapped, and stormed out of the room, leaving fifteen stunned students sitting in the classroom. I ran down the long corridor toward the girls’ bathroom, tears stinging my face. Pushing open the door to an empty stall, I pulled myself up on the toilet seat so nobody could see my legs beneath.
That’s when someone else started to cry.
Sniffle. Sniffle. Gasp.
It was from the stall next to me. Slowly I lowered my legs and unlocked my stall. I gently knocked on the door next to mine.
“Hello?” I asked gently, forgetting my own ridiculous behavior. Had I really just run out of my classroom?
The sniffling stopped. Like me, the occupant of this stall had raised her legs so it would appear empty.
“It’s Ms. Taggert,” I prodded. “Are you okay?”
Silence.
“You can talk to me if you want.”
More silence. I had to give her something more.
“I just stormed out of my class,” I offered stupidly.
“You did?” a little voice squeaked.
I nearly jumped in surprise.
“I did,” I admitted. “I got scared and I just left in a panic.”
“That…was a pretty…stupid thing to do,” the voice stated between hiccups. Wait. I knew this voice. It belonged to Amy Greenberg from my third-period class.
“Amy?” I asked tentatively.
“Yeah,” she confirmed miserably.
“Amy, can I please come in? Or will you please come out? I won’t tell anybody that you cried,” I promised. The door unlocked, but Amy made no sign of coming out. Gently, I pushed the door open and found her huddled on the toilet seat, her pale skin streaked with tears. She turned her big green eyes upward.
“Hi, Ms. Taggert.”
“Amy, sweetheart, what happened?” The drama of my mad exit from class was completely erased from my mind. It was all I could do to stop myself from engulfing this little girl in my arms.
“It’s so stupid,” she sniffed, looking away.
“No, stupid is a teacher running out of her classroom,” I corrected, and we both giggled.
“Okay, well, if you want to know the truth I’m scared…for…lunch.” At the word lunch Amy started quietly sobbing again.
Why would the idea of lunch provide reason to panic? Was she anorexic?
“Amy, you have to help me out here…” I was completely in the dark.
“Ohmigod, Ms. Taggert, have you ever seen our lunchroom?” Amy cried, still shaking. “I…I don’t know where to sit!”
“But there are so many seats, Amy,” I replied ridiculously, not grasping that the number of available seats was not the issue.
“Okay, like, I always sat at this one table with Blair and Madeline?” Amy began, now ready to share her soul. “But then they were, like, Jessica is going to sit here, too, and that means basically they don’t want me? So, like, now I have no group and lunch is next period!”
I felt a smile creep into my face, and I squashed it like a bug. I had forgotten. Oh God. In my desperate need to be a teacher I had forgotten what it was like to be a student. There, in that stall, Langdon Hall and my role in it made perfect sense to me.
“Amy, how would you like to skip lunch next period and go get a slice of pizza with me on Lexington Avenue?” I asked.
She looked up, shocked.
“We can’t do that,” she stated firmly.
“Yes, we can. I’m your teacher. I will tell the main office and Dr. Zimmerman that we needed to have a girl talk, and you are having lunch with me,” I stated, equally firm. “Now, how about you go back to your class and I return to mine?”
Amy smiled. It was the first genuine smile I had received at Langdon. We left the bathroom together with a plan to meet in the lobby at noon. When I returned to my classroom, I was surprised to note that everyone was still seated at the table. Many of the kids were looking a bit sheepish.
“We’re sorry,” Jessica said softly.
“We want to play your game,” Madeline added.
I paused for effect, and then launched into the most heartfelt speech I had given since I got to the school.
“Actually, we’re not going to play a game,” I declared. “I am tired of being tested. I’m your teacher, and you can either be grateful that I put time and energy into my lessons, or you can just do assignments all year that I will, so help me God, photocopy out of some very boring manual and let you do while I sit at this desk and read magazines. Your choice. Now, I am going to assign your homework, and you are going to spend the rest of class working on it. If anyone,” I took a deep breath and glared around the room, “If anyone talks or so much as calls out, you are going straight to Dr. Blumenfeld’s office. Are we clear? And then, I am not calling your mothers. I am calling your fathers at work and I will let them know how you are behaving.”
No one said a word. The class worked in silence until the end of the period, and only when my last student had left my class did I allow myself to smile.
I learned more during my short pizza excursion with Amy Greenberg than I did during all of my education classes at Columbia put together. We had signed out in the main office and gone across to John’s for slices.
“This is super cool of you, Ms. Taggert!” Amy had gushed happily. “Lunch is, like, the worst part of the day for me.”
“So, it’s still that important, huh? Sitting at the so-called right table?” It made me sick to realize this was still going on. I remembered spending some of my middle-school lunches hiding out in the library because there were no seats left at the “cool” table.
“It’s, like, the most important thing,” Amy admitted. “I would, like, never tell this to my mom, but sometimes I pretend to be sick in the morning if I know I can’t sit with Blair and Madeline.”
“Amy, how in the world do you know before school starts whether you are going to be sitting with these girls or not? And last time I checked, the lunchroom was made up of long rows! Surely there’s room for you?” I looked over to the petite, brown-haired girl with affection.
“Okay…” Amy started, pausing to dab her pizza with a napkin to wipe the grease off. “So, at night? We all go online? Wait—you know what IM’ing is, right?”
“I’m not that old,” I laughed, rolling my eyes.
“Well, that’s, like, when stuff gets decided. Like who is sitting with who. And who is dating who and who likes who.”
“Sounds like a lot of who-who,” I joked, but Amy was staring back, deadly serious.
“And there’s only one end of the table where the popular girls sit, and that’s where Blair and Madeline sit. They decide every night who to invite to sit there,” Amy finished, now looking a bit miserable.
“So what happened last night?” I asked gently.
“Like, everything!” Amy exclaimed, her eyes welling up with tears. “So my mom is really strict and all? And she, like, doesn’t like me being on IM past 10:00 P.M., so she made me get off, and everyone decides al
l this stuff at, like, 11:00 or midnight!”
The image of my entire class sitting in their separate bedrooms IM’ing each other at night flashed through my mind. I could almost see them—little faces bathed in the luminous glow of their computer screens as they ferociously secured lunch seats and dates for the next day. And parents wondered what their kids were doing up so late at night!
“So it’s all about the IM, huh?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, being allowed up late helps. Which is a lot easier for the kids who have tutors and can get their homework done in time.”
“Tutors?” I urged. The word was beginning to taunt me.
“Yeah…but, Ms. Taggert, omigod, you, like, can’t tell anyone I’m telling you this,” Amy said seriously, leaning forward. “Everyone has tutors!”
“So, what exactly do the tutors do?”
“Well, they’re supposed to help with the homework…and stuff.” Amy was looking increasingly uncomfortable.
“Amy, this is just you and me,” I promised. “I’m not going to say anything.” I meant it, too. I had to learn the truth about this tutoring thing, and I had a feeling that only a student was going to be able to give it to me.
“So, there’re three kinds of tutors,” Amy began slowly. “The first kind helps you organize your binders and tells you how to manage your time and stuff.”
“Like a secretary,” I encouraged.
“Yeah, like a secretary. Then there are the tutors who help with the actual homework.”
“Help?”
“Well, some tutors help a little, like telling kids how to do certain math problems or editing their papers and stuff. But they don’t last very long. Not like the popular tutors.”
Amy’s face was completely flushed. There were popular tutors.
“So, what does it take to be popular?” I pressed, but I already had a sick feeling in my stomach.
“They’re the third kind of tutors. They…sorta…well…they do the work,” Amy admitted. “Ms. Taggert, you cannot tell anyone I told you this!”
“What do you mean ‘they do the work’?”
Schooled Page 10