I remembered the story. My mother had told it to me once, when I was very young. It was hokey, but coming from Damian’s mouth it suddenly took on a different tone.
“But the boy says—”
“‘It made a difference to the one I just threw in,’” I finished, beating him to the punch line.
“Exactly,” Damian smiled. “If you try and win ’em all, you’ll lose your mind. But that doesn’t mean you can’t make a real difference to a handful of students. Maybe more than a handful.”
“Even at Langdon?”
“Even at Langdon,” he confirmed.
Monday morning I made a stop at Krispy Kreme and bought doughnuts for my students. It was a scorching June morning and as I approached Langdon, I couldn’t help but have a flashback to my first day. There they were again. The nannies with the dogs, the shiny Lincoln Town Cars, and the…mothers. Today they were all dressed in soft yoga pants and sheer pastel T-shirts. Without exception. The Hamptons season was right around the corner and the unspoken goal was, of course, to see who could hit a chic Nicole Richie–esque weight first. Lara Kensington pointed a skeletal finger at my doughnuts.
“I’m not sure Krispy Kreme is peanut friendly.” Her voice was cold, and it drew attention from the other mothers. They descended like an angry flock.
“Charlotte is trying to lose five pounds before camp.”
“Max does not eat sugar so early in the morning.”
“Sugar interferes with Jacob’s medication.”
“Really, are doughnuts an appropriate message for a teacher to give her students?”
I froze. My resolve was melting as quickly as the glaze on the doughnuts, and for a terrible moment I contemplated just dropping the boxes and running. These were the women who had highlighted and Sarabeth-ed and La Goulue-ed me. Who had lavished me at Christmas with Chanel clutches and Barneys gift certificates. Who were true to only one principle: I-love-you-as-long-as-you-do-what-I-say.
Had there really been a time when I thought they were my…friends?
“Only a new teacher,” a smooth voice behind me said, “only a new teacher remembers how much a kid likes some sugar every now and then. Aw, Ms. Taggert, did you buy those with your own money for our unruly middle-school charges?”
It was Damian. He was wearing the same jeans he had on at Starbucks and his hair looked a little rumpled. An unlikely ally, but my ally nevertheless. The mothers looked at him suspiciously.
“Damian Oren, high school history,” he grinned affably, eyeing Lynn Briggman’s perky breasts with undisguised appreciation. “Lara, I believe we already know each other. I had the pleasure of…seeing Eric through…How is he doing?” he asked meaningfully.
“Eric is doing, well, quite well,” Lara mumbled, a flash of fear crossing her blue eyes.
“That’s so good to hear,” Damian nodded with grave concern. “Considering…?”
Lara was positively ashen. The other mothers eyed her and my doughnuts were forgotten in the unexpected and glorious possibility of a Kensington flaw exposed.
“Anna, if I walk you in can I steal a doughnut? I need to fill out my bathing suit if I’m going to hit the ol’ beach in a few weeks. Good morning, ladies,” Damian said charmingly, then opened the door for me as if he were Rhett Butler incarnate. This time, the hushed whispers weren’t about me.
“Wasn’t Eric Kensington like a…drug addict?”
The possibility of a resurfaced scandal hung tantalizingly in the air.
“Damian, you’re brilliant, thank you. But you can’t keep saving me. I have to learn to do it myself.” We walked toward the elevators together.
“You’re just a puppy,” he dismissed affectionately. “Let an old dog teach you a couple of new tricks. If they ask you a question, or accuse you of anything, never respond.”
“What do I do?”
“Ask them another question. Preferably one laced with a little…sugar. We don’t have those files for nothing, you know. Don’t you agree?”
“Doughnut?”
“You learn fast.”
“Who? Me?”
The elevator doors opened and I went in smoothly, leaving Damian chuckling with approval in the lobby.
Dr. Blumenfeld was waiting in the hallway outside of her office. Like the mothers, she eyed my doughnut boxes suspiciously as if they contained anthrax-laced confections. Stay strong, Anna. You don’t need Damian to fight your battles.
“Ms. Taggert.”
“Dr. Blumenfeld?” Ask questions. Ask questions.
“It’s June and I’m still hearing complaints. Many parents are unhappy. Their children are anxious and quite frankly, paralyzed with fear. They feel as if your classroom has developed a hostile atmosphere. That you are taking a…how do I say this…adversarial role. I mean—unannounced quizzes? Really, Miss Taggert. This is not public school.”
“Oh, are pop quizzes not allowed at Langdon?” I asked innocently.
Damian was a genius.
“No, it’s not that at all.” Dr. Blumenfeld was momentarily flustered. “It’s just that it seems as if you’re still clearly inexperienced with handling the demands of our parents.”
“Which parents?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which parents are upset with me?” I repeated calmly, lowering the boxes on top of a nearby photocopying machine.
Dr. Blumenfeld played with her pearls and stalled.
“It’s not about naming names, Ms. Taggert. It’s about the environment you are creating. Too much homework. Too many anxiety-ridden expectations.”
“So I should…ease the homework load?”
“Yes, Ms. Taggert. I think that would be a start.”
“And…maybe limit my lessons so the expectations are more child friendly?”
“Why…yes.” Dr. Blumenfeld looked relieved. Pleased, even. “You know, Anna, you are so bright and have the makings of a wonderful teacher. It seemed like you were really getting the hang of it earlier in the year. I heard so many praises, but then the uneven response from the parents began to worry me. I want very much to extend your contract and have you continue with us in September. I’m sure you understand that we need our parents to be constantly and consistently happy.”
“Dr. Blumenfeld, I completely understand. I can assure you that I won’t be making the same mistake again, and can only hope you can have patience with such a novice teacher. I have lost sight of the needs and expectations of the parents from time to time. After all, we have to please the customers, right?” I could imagine Damian rolling with laughter.
“Yes, Anna, that’s absolutely right.”
And there it was.
As if Langdon was no different from any other high-priced boutique on Madison Avenue. As if Blumenfeld was the benevolent store manager.
“Dr. Blumenfeld, I couldn’t agree more. Can you give me a chance to prove it to you?” This was almost fun.
“Anna, my dear, we’re a progressive school. And as much as I adore to see our students flourish, it makes my heart burst when a teacher finally sees the light!”
“I wonder why I didn’t see it before?” I asked with exaggerated wonder. I picked up my doughnuts and, leaving Dr. Blumenfeld behind, headed confidently down the hall without waiting for a response to a question even I couldn’t answer.
Grinning like a madwoman, I wanted one brief minute to myself before entering my classroom. I ducked into the bathroom and discovered, thankfully, that I was alone. And there in the mirror was the Lifetime heroine who had gone missing for so many months: it was true-story Anna Taggert, the Manhattan teacher who battled the odds. She had accrued some scars along the way, and okay maybe spent a little too much money at Bendel’s, but there she was, golden highlights and all. True-story Anna Taggert knew all too well about the late nights, the endless assignments, and the empty demands of misguided parents that paid for each gigantic handbag and designer dress that hung in her closet. Let Randi have it all. There would be plenty left over fo
r Ashok.
By now Bridgette had probably been in her cubicle crunching numbers since 6:00 A.M. so she could afford her own showroom apartment and sushi dinners and peach Bellinis. But she had been right about one thing: I had been so busy trying to keep up with their lifestyles that somewhere along the way I had forgotten about mine. What a hypocrite. It had been a very, very long while since I had taken a deep breath and felt…like myself. I could look my parents in the eye again. But most important, I could look back in the mirror and like who I saw.
I walked out of the bathroom and headed straight to my classroom. The halls were empty and clear and there was nobody to stop me.
As expected, when the seventh-graders walked in they immediately spotted the doughnuts on my desk and came rushing over.
“You’re nice again!” Benjamin cried happily.
“Yeah, we were so scared!” Madeline cried. “You like totally freaked us out last week.”
“You’re the coolest!” Charlotte gushed happily.
I rolled my eyes and smiled, but this time it was at myself. I had been intimidated by them at the beginning of the year, but now I was really seeing them for who they were…children.
“Okay, okay,” I said loudly. “All of you have a seat. I know I caught you off guard last week, and for that I’m sorry. We haven’t done much in-class writing this year, and I wish it hadn’t been so stressful. Maybe the doughnuts will make us all feel a little better.”
I waited while they shouted with excitement again.
“And even though now it’s June and things are winding down, I do want to talk to you about the next two weeks. They’re going to be a little different, and I want to explain how so that you are not caught off guard again.”
“Oh, no!” Max groaned. “So you are going to become quiz lady again.”
“Not quite, Max,” I said gently. “But I’m going to treat you all like grown-ups. No surprises. I’m going to share every aspect of this change with you so you all know what to expect.”
They were staring at me intently. I knew a large part of this amazing attention had to do with the prospect of the impending doughnuts, but I noticed that many of them had sat up a little straighter when I mentioned the word grown-ups.
“Let’s start with the fun part,” I said slowly, anticipating the reaction to my first announcement. “No more written homework for the rest of the year in my class. Only reading!”
They went wild. Benjamin stood up and did a little dance while the rest of the boys hooted and the girls cooed “We love you, Ms. Taggert!” I just smiled calmly and let them go nuts for a few minutes because what was coming next, I was certain, was not going to garner the same response. I was making a bold change at the end of the year, and I had to tread carefully.
“But—” I raised my palms and gestured for them to calm down, “we’re also not making any trips to the library or the park or the Guggenheim for ice cream. I think it’s a fair trade, don’t you?” I asked evenly.
A few heads started to nod warily.
“We have one chapter left in Lord of the Flies. I am going to give you the rest of class today to read ‘Cry of the Hunters.’ Some of you will finish the book. Some of you will only get through the first five or six pages. That’s okay,” I said earnestly. “Read at your own pace. It’s not a race. If you don’t finish, I’m also giving some class time tomorrow. When you finish reading, you will correct the paragraphs you did in class last week.”
“What are you going to do while we read? Just relax like Mr. Warner?” Charlotte asked accusingly. “No fair! Teachers have all the fun.”
“Absolutely not,” I stated firmly. “I will be calling all of you up one by one so we can have a mini-writing conference and look at your paragraphs together. I want to give you personal feedback in addition to the comments I wrote.”
“Did you grade them?” Alexa gasped dramatically, covering her mouth with her hands. “Ohmigod I’m so nervous.”
“Not yet,” I said slowly. “You will all have a chance to rewrite your paragraphs after our writing conference. Then I will put grades on your revised copies.”
Benjamin and Jacob looked delighted, and I knew what they were thinking.
“All your revisions will be made only in class,” I said clearly, watching their grins fade. “They will not go home. They are not subject to outside help. I want to see what you are capable of doing on your own.”
“You’re doing this because you hate us!” Benjamin cried defensively. “No fair! You’re like, a teacher Nazi!”
“I’m doing this because I care about you,” I corrected him gently. “I want you to be able to have the confidence to write on your own.”
“I never write on my own!” Jacob howled. “I suck at writing!”
There it was. Again.
Finally cornered, Jacob had just inadvertently voiced the single fear that was, year after year, motivating and strengthening the tutoring industry. Students had become so accustomed to their tutor’s assistance that they were now conditioned to mistrust their own abilities.
“Jacob, I guarantee you’ll see a small improvement in two weeks,” I promised. “You might even surprise yourself and see a drastic difference. But at least you’ll know for sure that it’s you who’s responsible for the improvement. That’s why from now on, all the learning and the work you do in my class happens here.” I smiled confidently and took my seat at the head of the conference table.
“In school.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you first to my agent and dear friend Jeanne Forte Dube. You are truly one of a kind. At Hyperion, I am forever indebted to Ellen Archer for her immediate and overwhelming support and enthusiasm, and Brenda Copeland for her priceless humor and thoughtful editing. Also, my endless appreciation to my super publicists Christine Ragasa and Lauren Hodapp. Thank you also to Will Balliett, Kathleen Carr, Jessica Wiener, Navorn Johnson, and the entire team who worked on Schooled—an author could not dream for more. Love always to my father, Vinny Ahooja, and his beloved Benjamin Rory, the most handsome golden retriever in Hilton Head, South Carolina; my little brother Karan “The Chairman” Ahooja; and most of all to my mother, Anjali Khanna, without whom this book would never have been possible. The memory of the four of us at Soldiers Field will always be the best thing I have ever known. Finally, to my husband, Mussadiq Lakhani, for being my best friend and one, true love.
About the Author
Until 2006, Anisha Lakhani taught English at The Dalton School on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Soon after she started teaching, she was named chair of the Middle School English Department. Lakhani received both her B.A. and M.A. degrees from Columbia University. She was born in Calcutta, India, grew up in Saddle River, New Jersey, and now lives in Manhattan with her husband and their beloved shitzu, Harold Moscowitz. Schooled is her first novel.
Copyright
SCHOOLED. Copyright © 2008 by Anisha Lakhani. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.
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