Schooled

by Anisha Lakhani

  “Exactly!” I beamed at him, and he looked thrilled. “Music, lighting, and costuming are just some of the ways you can make a scene from a play appear to take place in any era.”

  “That’s so cool,” Jessica breathed.

  “And for the next two weeks, you are all going to be directors!” I was positively floating with excitement as I saw the thrilled expressions on my students’ faces. “You are going to take your favorite scene in Romeo and Juliet, and without changing any of the text, you are going to create a director’s book. It’s going to include stage directions, costuming, lighting, music, and all the other details listed on this assignment sheet.”

  Without missing a beat, I started passing around an assignment sheet. The project would require them to basically memorize and take control of an entire scene in the play, and then redirect it through the lens of another time period.

  “You have to get your time period approved by me,” I continued, “but I want you to be creative! Do they meet at a dude ranch? At the Parthenon in ancient Greece? At a clambake in the Hamptons?” The last suggestion received a sprinkling of giggles.

  “You will have class time and of course, you will work on this at home. In two weeks, the most realistic and detailed director’s book will be given the honor of getting staged by the entire class!”

  For the next forty-five minutes, my room was a hive of productivity. Papers, markers, and texts of Romeo and Juliet were furiously produced as my students searched for the scene they most wanted to direct. They ran to corners of the room to create private work spaces and I was an air traffic controller trying to control fifteen little planes all trying to land at one time.

  Surely this was what Harold Warner had meant when he requested more serious lessons?

  A week later when I saw fifteen messages blinking on my answering machine, I felt more confident than I had in a long time. My classes, I knew for a fact, were going spectacularly well. The students rushed in every day with huge smiles on their faces, and I could barely contain myself until I told them what I had planned for that day. The room had gotten a bit messy with all the colored paper, glue, and scissors we had been using for our director’s book project, but I had never seen the students more inspired and excited to work. It was about time I could sit back and enjoy some good news from the Langdon mothers!

  I picked up the receiver and started with Gillian Stein. She answered on the first ring.

  “Ms. Taggert, I’m so glad you called. We’re having a huge meltdown here.”

  “Oh, no! Ms. Stein, what’s going on?” My mind started racing. What had Jacob’s file said? He wasn’t also a peanut allergies kid, was he? No—that was only Benjamin. He was…. Aha! Jacob Stein was the “tutored in six subjects grandfather billionaire boy”! What could possibly be their problem?

  “Jacob has been working on your director’s book since he returned from school,” Gillian replied accusingly. “And he worked on it for most of Sunday as well.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed. If I hadn’t seen Jacob work so hard on it in class as well, I would have sworn that Gillian had been lying. I hadn’t seen Jacob work hard on anything till this project.

  “No, Ms. Taggert, it’s not wonderful. I’m sure from your point of view your class is the only class these children take, but I assure you that is not the case.” Gillian’s voice was frosty.

  “Um, no, I’m aware they take oth—”

  “All the mothers who have children in your class have signed a letter I drafted yesterday. We are taking it to Dr. Blumenfeld. We were wary of her decision to hire such an inexperienced teacher to begin with, but now we are certain that our fears were warranted.”

  Oh, God! I felt those hot tears rise up again in the corners of my eyes. I wasn’t sure what exactly I had done wrong, but a letter to Dr. Blumenfeld? Signed by every parent? I was getting fired!

  “Ms. Stein, please,” I begged, “I don’t understand. I’ve never seen Jacob, or any of my other students, so excited to be in my class and work on this project!”

  “How dare you question our judgment!” Gillian shot back furiously. “I hate to speak for other mothers, but do you know Lynn Briggman walked into her son’s room at 10:00 P.M. last night and Max was still working on his project for your class?”

  For one second I allowed myself to be delighted. Good for Max! I could think of worse things than a child staying up till 10:00 P.M. working on an English assignment. Shouldn’t his mother also be delighted that he was doing schoolwork rather than IM’ing and text messaging?

  “Ten at night!” Gillian exclaimed.

  “Ms. Stein, I assure you that many of my students are up much later than that watching TV and IM’ing each other,” I cried defensively. What was going on here?

  “Obviously you’re not willing to be reasonable. We’ll just let Dr. Blumenfeld explain it to you. Good night, Ms. Taggert.”

  Click.

  I sat there looking at the receiver, which was still in my hand. Did I just get shouted at for giving too much homework? That couldn’t be right. I finally believed that I was becoming the teacher I always dreamed of being, only to discover that this Langdon mother seemed intent on ruining me. I was just very unclear as to what exactly I was being accused of. Too depressed to call anyone else back, I dove into planning the next day’s lesson.

  There was a note on my desk when I walked into my classroom the next morning. There, on a little yellow Post-It, in red ink, were the dreaded two words: SEE ME. In the lower right corner Dr. Blumenfeld had signed her scrawly signature. My first class was scheduled to start in fifteen minutes. With my heart sinking to my stomach, I headed toward her office. Had that evil Gillian Stein gotten to her already with that signed letter?

  Her office door was open when I arrived, and she was sitting at her desk waiting for me.

  “Close the door behind you, Ms. Taggert, and have a seat.” she ordered sternly. “I have here,” she began immediately, pulling out a sheet of paper with a single typed paragraph and several signatures below, “a very serious complaint. From every parent who has a student in your class.”

  I gulped.

  “I’d like to share the contents of this paragraph with you first, before we decide what to do,” she went on. “And don’t worry about your first-period class. I’ve asked Mr. Warner to tell your students to report to the library for a work period.”

  Oh no! If I missed my first-period class then I wouldn’t get to provide my students with the final instructions for their project!

  “I really need to teach my class! Their projects are due next week and tod—”

  “Please read, Ms. Taggert.”

  Clearly, I had no choice.

  Dear Dr. Blumenfeld,

  Over the course of the last two weeks, Ms. Taggert has taken it upon herself to assign a minimum of two to four hours of homework nightly. Our brave and hardworking students haven’t voiced a single complaint, but as concerned parents we realized that some adult intervention had to be taken. Our children are staying up as late as ten in the evening, and many of them have voiced reluctance to attend social engagements on the weekends. We can only imagine that they are nervous about completing Ms. Taggert’s assignments. Furthermore, we also question the content of these assignments, many of which require a shocking amount of art supplies. Is this English class or camp?

  We ask you to please look into the situation and rectify it immediately. We also ask that should Ms. Taggert teach eighth-grade English next year, none of our children be placed in her class. Another year of such an inexperienced teacher would be just too detrimental to our children’s learning experience at Langdon. Below are the signatures of every parent at Langdon whose child has Ms. Taggert as their English teacher.

  Sincerely,

  Parents in Ms. Taggert’s class

  Motherfuckers! I was absolutely enraged. For the first time, their children were actually excited about an assignment. And yes, I could tell that some of the work I ha
d been receiving lately had been the product of several hours, but only because the seventh-graders were inspired to work harder. And art school??? Just because the director’s book required some colored paper and scissors?

  “It’s been a long time since I had a teacher who received a letter like this,” Dr. Blumenfeld continued, a bit more gently. “Obviously, whatever it is that you are assigning must come to a halt immediately. You will draft a letter that I will then make sure gets mailed to all these parents. Another letter like this, Ms. Taggert, and I simply cannot extend you a contract for next year.”

  “Please let me explain myself!” I cried, standing up. “These women are cr—”

  “I have back-to-back meetings this morning, Ms. Taggert. This conversation is over. There is nothing you can say that can cancel or refute the voice of so many parents at this school. Frankly, you should consider yourself lucky that I am extending you a second chance. Good day.”

  Dr. Blumenfeld dismissed me with her back and I had no choice but to exit her office. I found my classroom empty—Harold Warner had apparently gotten to them already—and I was in no mood to go up to the library to find them. I just didn’t get it. For weeks I had thrown lessons at the students that came straight out of teaching manuals written in the 1970s. They were uninspiring, dry, and arguably bored me even more than they had bored my students. I had finally found a project that was meaningful. Now, when I was sure that my students were not only enjoying my class, but actually learning the material, I was getting chastised? It almost seemed like Langdon supported the notion that children simply be sent to the library to “work” and be given simple little assignments that might be boring but nobody questioned. From the meeting I had just had, the message seemed clear: Give up the director’s book project immediately. But my students loved it! Amy Greenberg had told me just the other day that they had gotten in trouble in the cafeteria because she and a group of girls had tried to work on it during lunch. I had witnessed Max Briggman reciting the Friar’s lines from Act III, Scene I, just so he could pencil in appropriate stage directions. My students were living and breathing Shakespeare, and their mothers were annoyed?

  “We have spent quite some time working on the director’s book,” I started as calmly as I could when my next class began, “but I’m going to collect them today and assess them based on where you are.”

  “But we’re not done! You said they wouldn’t be due till the end of the week!” Blair yelled wildly, jumping out of her chair.

  “Blair, sweetie, please sit down,” I replied as gently as I could. I was broken-hearted. I knew Blair had been extremely proud of her project, and had even told me that she thought she might win the privilege of having hers be the one we all performed.

  “I thought this was like some big thing! I was going to win!” Jacob screamed, and the look on his face convinced me that Gillian Stein had never consulted her son before making that phone call or drafting the letter to Dr. Blumenfeld.

  “It is a big thing,” I affirmed, trying to stay calm. “Hey, listen, how about we just take a break from them? Give me a week to see where you are, and then maybe revisit them?” I asked weakly.

  “What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Madeline asked suspiciously.

  “We’re going to work on essay writing structure.” I prayed they wouldn’t smell the scent of fear on me.

  “Essays are boring.”

  “Yeah, we want to play a game.”

  “Didn’t you bring any candy for us?”

  Shit.

  I had been spoiling my kids. I looked at the fifteen hostile seventh-graders glaring at me, and I glared back.

  “Well, we have to learn to write essays. We cannot play games and have candy every day. So, everyone, please clear your desks and get ready to focus on the assignment sheet I am about to pass out.”

  Groaning, the class began shuffling binders and pencil cases under their seats as I passed out the three-page essay assignment.

  “Charlotte, please read the first paragraph,” I instructed firmly.

  “Over the course of the next week, we will be writing a five-paragraph essay in class—”

  “WHAT?!” Jacob Stein shouted.

  “Excuse me, Jacob, don’t interrupt me while I’m reading. It’s very disrespectful,” Charlotte sniffed haughtily.

  “Jacob, you may not call out,” I trailed after Charlotte, who was clearly a better teacher than I would ever be.

  “We are writing this in class?” Jacob’s face was red.

  “I can’t do that!” Benjamin followed, his right leg starting to twitch nervously. I looked around the room. They were panicked. What was it about writing an essay in class that had them in such an uproar?

  “Guys,” I said calmly, “it’s only on the Balcony Scene. You know it cold! What’s the problem?”

  “I think,” Jessica began helpfully, “that many of us like to write essays at home. In the comfort of our own rooms and our own laptops.”

  “Yes, Ms. Taggert,” Blair added in her sweetest voice, “we love to learn about essays in school, but it’s much easier to write them at home!”

  I tried to catch little Amy Greenberg’s eye, but she was looking nervously at her binder. Even she had apparently deserted me.

  “I could have my mom call and explain it to you,” Benjamin offered evilly.

  That did it. I couldn’t handle another encounter. Or fifteen phone calls. Weakly, I told the class that indeed the essays could be written at home, and we would just spend the time in class going over various skills. The seventh-graders were relieved and eager to discuss essay strategy, but their enthusiasm was eerie. As if they were putting it on just for me while laughing behind my back. The bubble of built-up confidence I had experienced in the last month unceremoniously and officially popped. I might have gotten back on the track of winning over their parents, but I had lost the students once again.

  15

  I was doing my best to get used to Langdon—the visual learners, the Prozac-popping teachers, the cafeteria food festivals, and the “progressive” learning—when another door opened and, like Alice, I fell down the rabbit hole. It all began with a simple question.

  I was waiting for the elevator to go up to my homeroom when Francine Gilmore, Langdon Hall’s learning specialist, came and stood next to me. Close to me, in fact. Very, very close to me. I gave her a polite smile and discreetly stepped away. She stepped closer. She looked around furtively. She whispered, “Do you tutor?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you tutor?

  “Umm…yes?” When in doubt, always answer yes. That much I knew.

  “I have a family. Child goes to Chapin. I’ll e-mail you the number and the mother’s name. I prefer you not mention this to anyone.”

  “Ummm…”

  “And charge a minimum of two hundred dollars an hour. They’ll think you’re not worth it otherwise.”

  The elevator door opened and closed, and Francine Gilmore vanished like a true fairy godmother. I was incapable of moving. Two hundred dollars! I didn’t make that much in a day. In TWO days! And then it hit me. In a flash of blinding clarity I knew the secret of Randi Abraham’s success. If she tutored just five students a week, she made one thousand dollars. Four thousand extra dollars a month. And that’s if she only tutored five students. What if she tutored ten students? Or twenty? I was going to lose my mind. I thought I might throw up. Throughout the day I lunged for every available computer terminal and checked my e-mail like a crazed woman. When Francine Gilmore’s e-mail came with the contact information, I slipped into an empty classroom and called Chapin Mom immediately.

  Pick up pick up pick up.

  The ringing was endless and my heart stopped beating for a split second every time a ring was ignored.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is Anna Taggert. May I please speak with Mrs. Carleton?”

  “Mrs. Carleton is indisposed at the moment,” a snooty voice sniffed.


  Indisposed? Who talks like that?

  “Oh…could you please tell her that I called?” Shit! A long silence ensued and just when I was beginning to think the woman had hung up on me, she returned, this time with a much friendlier tone. “I’m sorry, Ms. Taggert. Actually, Mrs. Carleton was expecting your call. Just a moment, please.”

  Two minutes and an eternity later, Mrs. Carleton breathed Hello. “Thank you for calling!” she gushed. “You come so highly recommended. Francine is a good friend, and she says the children just adore you at Langdon! I’m delighted you called. Just delighted!”

  “Wonderful! I’m thrilled to be in touch with you, too!” God, I sounded so fake. Could Mrs. Carleton tell from my voice that I would trade my kidneys for this job?

  “My daughter is in the seventh grade at Chapin. She’s very bright, but just needs some help with organization and getting her homework done.”

  “Wonderful!” I had forgotten every adjective but one.

  “Why don’t you come over and meet Katie. We’d love to get acquainted with you and figure out a schedule. My address is 801 Park Avenue, Penthouse A. Can you come over after school today? Say around 3:15ish?”

  “Wonderful!” That word again.

  “Marvelous. See you then!”

  Click.

  That was it. She didn’t even allude to an hourly rate. I guessed that in the Carletons’ world payment was considered a vulgar topic. The day passed in a blur. When it finally ended, I was right on Randi’s heels as we raced down the staircase and flew out of school. Neither one of us spoke as we both turned left onto Park Avenue, walking separately and incredibly fast, until Randi disappeared into a large building with a green awning and white-gloved doormen.

  I passed three kinds of people on my way to the Carletons: children clad in private-school uniforms; slightly overweight, brown-skinned women in white uniforms; and a slew of anonymous-looking men and women carrying huge totes stuffed with papers. They had to be teachers! Could it be possible that after the hour of three every day, teachers became tutors who marched up and down the Upper East Side like a quiet, purposeful, underground army? I caught the eye of one young woman who looked about my age and we exchanged a cold glance. I had this unreasonable surge of anger. Who was she tutoring? How had she found this person? I wanted her job. She wanted mine. This was war. As I passed her, I couldn’t help but also notice that she was in the same Juicy Couture tracksuit that Randi had been wearing at Starbucks. Was this the uniform? Pop in a telephone booth after school, rip off her skirt suit, and emerge as Super Tutor, a la Juicy Couture?