Between Now and Forever

by Margaret Duarte

  I’d planned to save the chocolate chip cookies until later, after we’d had a chance to get to know one another. But, as I was quickly discovering, my plan needed major adjustment. Jason The Wolf Ardis leaned back in his chair at the base of the U and focused on the wall of windows. I sensed a quality in him that saddened me, a sympathetic, congenial energy muted by despair. You’d think these kids would be happy to be in a class created just for them, a class based on consciousness of body, mind, and spirit, where they could be free to be themselves. Dr. Matt had stuck his neck out for them. Where was the gratitude? Maybe these kids were impatient, resistant, tuned-out brats after all.

  Stay loose. Stay flexible. I headed for the kitchen. Give them a chance to explain.

  After distributing the treats, I took roll, a formality really, since all seven students were present and I already knew three of them. But it gave me a chance to note the silent messages in the air. Jason bit into his cookie, but the other six simply sat there, waiting. I tried to enter their silent dialogue, but they weren’t giving themselves away. Not a blink, not a twitch, empty eyes. How could I get them to voice their insecurities without turning them off altogether?

  Work with the cards you’ve been dealt. Seven students; lucky seven; magic seven. Seven planets; seven wonders of the ancient world; seven days of the week; seven days of creation; seven sacraments; seven virtues; Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. It felt as if I were playing a game of solitaire: Twenty-one cards face down; seven cards face up. It helps if you start with a king or a queen for a base. That is, if you plan to win.

  “What’s wrong?” I repeated, then positioned myself in front of Codi, seated on the west end of the U to the right of Jason. Her last name was Baad. No kidding. What would it be like to be shackled with a name like that? No wonder she dressed like vampy Morticia Addams. “And no shrugs, please. You look like a bunch of zombies sitting there. What’s the deal?” I concentrated on Codi’s forehead, just below all that spiked black and red hair. Woodpecker, ambitious and determined.

  “We feel like test rats,” Jason said.

  My first instinct was to laugh, but I suppressed the urge. “In a way, you’re right. This class is an experiment, but if it works, the plan is to—”

  “You’re going to try out a bunch of psychological mumbo jumbo on us,” he said.

  I repositioned myself in front of my desk and threw up my hands. Psychological mumbo jumbo just about summed up the day’s lesson. “Right again. But who knows? Maybe we’ll stumble onto something significant while we’re fumbling around in the lab, like Einstein or Ben Franklin. Why not consider ourselves lucky volunteers?”

  “Volunteers,” Codi cried. “I’m no candy striper.”

  “I thought you wanted to be here.” And that you, Jason, and Shawn had recommended me as your teacher.

  “You weren’t counting on threats from our parents.” This from a student new to me who’d claimed the seat left of Jason. Red hair, thick glasses, Luke Quin.

  Their parents? Okay, at least I had them on my side.

  “Let’s face it, Ms. V,” Jason said. “We’re just a bunch of guinea pigs.”

  I shook my head. “Well, if you’re guinea pigs, so am I.”

  “But you came into this by choice,” Angelina Souza piped in from the seat to my right. Long brown hair, milk-white skin; the word Angel came to mind.

  “Yeah, you can walk out any time,” Codi added.

  A shiver as pleasurable, as it was involuntary, shot through me as the sky lit up and sunshine filled the room.

  “Dr. Matt’s treating us like a bunch of underachievers,” Codi said.

  “We are underachievers,” Jason said softly.

  Silence.

  Okay, back to solitaire. Twenty-four cards in hand, Jack of Diamonds and six low cards face up on the table. Low numbers present a problem, except for aces. You need an Ace to start a discard pile. Count three cards, turn over, third card on top. Come on king.

  “Before we continue, I’d like to share a few rules based on the teachings of Emma Curtis Hopkins, who, in my opinion, was one of the most effective teachers in the world.”

  “Of course.” This from Jason, elbows on table, chin propped on palms.

  I sensed a trace of amusement in him, a turquoise glow. King of Hearts: sympathetic, congenial, and engaging, acknowledges any true call for help, sometimes provocative and condescending.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t test you on them, at least, not on paper and not for grades. Hopefully, over time, these rules will become second nature to you.”

  “If we won’t be tested on them, we probably won’t bother to learn them,” Shawn said from the table to my left. Jack of Diamonds: perceptive, alert, and shrewd, inquisitive, original thinker.

  “Rule number one,” I said, my heart lifting. So far, five students had spoken up, two to go. “No complaining.”

  “This whole thing sucks,” said the student sitting next to Shawn. Ethan Stein, a small kid with a large head and what appeared to be a perennial scowl. Ace of Spades: solves problems through doubtful means, source of illumination for others, key to the profound secret of life. Assort according to suit, color, and rank. No room on the table for the king to serve as a base.

  I raised a second finger. “Don’t condemn or criticize.”

  “This is crap,” said Codi. Queen of Spades: joint-ruler with high influence, level headed, and right judge of values.

  “Three: What upsets you tells a lot about you.”

  Unified laughter at Codi’s expense. “That’s not a rule,” she said under her breath.

  “Four: Be happy about the success of others.”

  This time Codi laughed.

  “Five and six: Embrace criticism as an opportunity to learn and grow. And handle change with grace and ease.”

  No more comments. The kids probably thought I was using them as inspiration for my rules, and they didn’t want to be part of the script.

  “Seven: Know that flaws and mistakes are part of the grand scheme of things.”

  “Cool,” said Angelina. “I’ll remember that one.” She wore a Pandora bracelet with beads and charms made of silver, gold, and glass, reflecting her own particular symbolism. Ten of Clubs: warm hearted with genuine desire to be of service to others without personal benefit. Ranks below Jack of Diamonds; space now open for King of Hearts.

  “Eight and nine: Be happy with yourself and consider yourself creative.”

  No comments, but at least they no longer looked spooked.

  “And lastly: Be grateful.”

  “Those don’t sound like rules to me,” Luke said. Nine of Diamonds: charitable, kind-hearted, companionable. Ranks below Ten of Clubs.

  “That’s because this class will differ from any class you’ve ever experienced. For some reason, call it synchronicity or luck of the draw, we’re all in this together. Something about each of us is special, or Dr. Matt wouldn’t have selected us.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jason said, casting a long look out the window.

  “If you’re nervous about this, you’re not alone. I’m nervous, too. The biggest obstacle to this class’s success is thinking things impossible.” Jeez, what a hypocrite I was.

  “What are you going to teach us?” Angelina asked. Lord, she was pretty, my Ten of Clubs. Enormous brown eyes, thick brows, Audrey Hepburn stare.

  I pointed at the door behind me. “Let’s check out the art room for starters.”

  Seven Indigos, including Tessa Lambe, who hadn’t spoken a word, got to their feet. Pinched noses, crossed arms, clenched fists. I felt the mood in the air. We’ve been had.

  “We’re going to learn about ceramic molds and how when slip is poured into them, it takes on the shape of the mold,” I said.

  No wonder solitaire was sometimes referred to as patience. This job was going to be even harder than I’d expected.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ACCORDING TO WHAT I’D
read thus far, Indigos were particularly sensitive to taste, light, texture, smell, and sound. So, while setting up for class the next day, I decided that, besides potted plants, votive candles, and aromatic diffusers, I would add background music to keep the atmosphere calm and balanced. Instrumentals and the sounds of nature would be nice. Maybe some Bruce Springsteen.

  “Hello.”

  I turned, surprised. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the room.

  “My son, Jason, is in your after-school class,” my visitor said by way of introduction, “and I came to ask you to be careful.”

  Jeez, not more negativity.

  “The decisions Jason makes in the next few years will affect the rest of his life, and it won’t take much to turn him in the wrong direction.” My visitor coughed, cleared his throat, and I braced myself for more unsolicited advice. “Excuse me if I come across as a bit overanxious, but…to be quite honest, my wife and I are at our wits’ end.”

  He was wearing a Cal Bears navy fleece jacket over a white dress shirt, an easy blend of football enthusiast and professional. His erect posture and firmness of jaw suggested a man who would have no trouble in the boardroom or at the helm of a ship. But in dealing with his son, it seemed, he was powerless.

  “You’re certainly not alone,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m here to tell you. I’m not the only parent who feels this way.” He sat on the edge of a table and shook his head. “Education has not been a friend to our kids.”

  “I’ll do my best, Mr.—”

  “Ardis. Ron Ardis.” He held out his hand with an almost desperate eagerness as if he’d come to Oz seeking solutions to the unsolvable. His hand felt cold; a surprise. I’d expected warmth coming from this man. “Old-style parenting isn’t working,” he said. “I need to be more open, do more listening, give my son choices.” He chuckled. “But knowing and doing isn’t the same thing now is it? I end up falling back on ‘because-I-say-so’ parenting more often than I care to admit.”

  Unlike previous visitors, Ron ignored the windows spanning the classroom wall and put the full weight of his attention on me. “I don’t know how Dr. Matt located you, but like an idiot at a slot machine, knowing I’m betting against the house and the odds are stacked against me, I’m feeding the machine in hopes of a win. Each push of the button, each spin of the wheel, gives me hope that this time will be different.”

  He stood, followed by another shake of his head. “I’m sorry. You must have a million things to do.”

  “It’s okay. This conversation is an important one.” Without the advantage of smoke, wheels, and levers and a booming voice with empty promises, I wished I could assure him I had what it took to accomplish the win he was seeking; that by focusing on the attributes he sought in me as a teacher, they would somehow manifest.

  “Do you think there’s any truth to the theory that my son isn’t the result of some freak combination of my wife’s genes and mine, but a leap in human evolution?”

  “My awareness of reality has been stretched a bit lately,” I said.

  “By Jason, I assume.”

  “Meeting Jason only confirmed what I already suspected, that we’re looking for the right things in the wrong places. We can’t keep talents like Jason’s suppressed or hidden. My aim is to help him and others like him gain control of their own narratives and share their gifts with the world.”

  “I swear to God, if you help my son, I’ll provide moral and financial support to the addition of more classes like this one, so more students can benefit.”

  “The world needs people like Jason.”

  “You could’ve fooled me,” Ron said, his voice hoarse. “Jason’s in pain and there’s nothing I can do about it. He turns everything I say into an insult and judgment. I can’t handle seeing him this way. The wall between us is so thick, you’d think I was his enemy instead of his father. ‘Quit judging me and telling me what to do,’ he says. ‘Just listen.’ But when I listen, he wonders why I’m not saying anything and misreads my silence as disapproval. I thought of getting him counseling with someone who knows what to say and when to say it, but that would only confirm his suspicion that I think he’s a loser. I’ve given him everything, yet he isn’t happy. How does one handle that?”

  I didn’t answer because I had no answer. Instead, I followed Ron’s gaze to the ancient acoustic tiles fitted into the metal grid suspended from the high ceiling. Tiny holes dotted the tiles as though someone had used a ballpoint pen as a punching tool. They reminded me of the Lite-Brite peg screen I’d played with as a child. I would insert plastic glow pegs into the holes to create pictures and watch them light up like constellations against a black sky. “What would you teach them?” I asked.

  “Cosmology.”

  His answer surprised me. Schools don’t usually stress the study of the universe and its origins.

  “Newton’s and Darwin’s cosmic perspective makes the universe sound meaningless, blind, and purposeless,” he said, “but we have to believe there’s more. Cosmology allows us to ask big questions, like where we come from, who we are, and where we’re going. I’d teach them about how the universe started as a tiny speck and unfolded over time to become galaxies and stars, eagles and butterflies, music and all of us alive today. I would teach them that the universe is not only a place, but a story they take part in, belong in, and out of which they arose. When the universe arrives at a fork in the road, it transmutes into something new, teaching us to break apart aspects of ourselves for ongoing creativity to continue.”

  “You sound like Carl Sagan,” I said. “What makes you such a purveyor of the cosmos?”

  He grinned. “My company develops software for computer-controlled telescopes that hunt supernovae. I also teach astronomy at UC Berkeley. If you need my expertise, all you have to do is name the place and time. Maybe in a classroom context, Jason would listen to what I have to say.”

  Just the person I needed to chaperone the trip I’d envisioned to the James Lick Observatory. My spirits lifted as they always do when I think of the cosmos and how it goes beyond personal predicaments and locates us into larger stories. “Where would you start?”

  “I would expose them to nature.”

  I smiled and gestured for him to follow me.

  When we entered the nature area, the wind blew my hair in all directions, covering and uncovering my eyes like someone playing Surprise! The birdsong was so raucous I had to raise my voice to be heard. “I want to teach them how to ‘make silence’ as Maria Montessori did in her schools, plus teach them meditation and yoga.”

  Ron faced the wind, either unaware or unconcerned that his hair stood on end. He stretched, unkinked his neck, and closed his eyes. “Nature is speaking to us. Do you hear it?”

  I wondered if he was testing me to see if I was loony enough to handle seven Indigos with inexplicable powers. Though at this point, being a bit loony would be an asset. “Mr. Ardis, I want to caution you—”

  “I know.” He blinked like someone waking from a dream. “You think I’m being overly optimistic, but if optimism works in business and science, and believe me it does, why can’t it work in school? I’m too old to be embarrassed by my enthusiasm, Ms. Veil. I’ll volunteer to help in any way I can.”

  “I’ll only be here until June,” I said, with an uneasy ache beneath my ribs.

  “Then let’s pray for a miracle.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE STUDENTS FILED INTO the classroom with an eagerness that contrasted sharply with their entry the day before. I gave the mouse totem I always carry with me a final squeeze before slipping it back into the leather pouch belted around my waist.

  Jason, who’d been balancing his backpack on his head, dropped it to the floor. “Let’s check out our greenware.”

  I’d taught the students the previous day that after ceramic slip hardens and separates from the mold, it’s called greenware and is extremely fragile. “You’ll need to remove
the rubber bands holding your molds together and gently pull the molds apart to see if the casted pieces are ready to come out.”

  “Are we going to wipe away the seam lines and clean the greenware for firing?” Luke asked. He peered at me over the rim of his glasses like a stereotypical librarian—protector of books, facts, and order.

  “Casting the slip into molds was meant to be a symbolic lesson,” I ventured. “To remind us that our thoughts take the form of the molds they’re poured into. I’m not sure how to proceed from there, especially the firing part. Something about using specific cones, numbered according to the necessary temperatures to be reached…”

  “They’re called pyrometric witness cones,” Luke said. “To gauge the heat during firing. You put them into the kiln sitter. No problem. When the kiln reaches the cone’s set temperature, it’ll turn off. I saw boxes of them in the art room. Plus, fettling knives and sponges and jars of glazes and stains. It would be a shame not to use them.”

  I’d already figured there would be advantages to seeing this project through, and it seemed Luke had a handle on the firing process. A little more research on my part and we could probably get the job done. “You seem to know a lot about ceramics.”

  “My mom was way into it when I was a kid. She still has a kiln and stuff out in the garage. She used to let me mess around with her rejects, which could’ve filled a warehouse when she first got started. Later, when she got better at it, the pickings got slim. I bet she’d come help.”

  Excitement was as palatable in the air as the scent of cookies, myrrh, and sandalwood had been on the day before. We opened the molds to seven pieces of greenware, fully formed: a brown bear, a German shepherd, a duck, a goose, an owl, a crow, and a teardrop vase. We stood back and stared at the molded clay. Luke was right. We couldn’t leave the project unfinished. Ethan traced the outline of his owl with the tip of his finger, wide-eyed wonder replacing the usual scowl on his face.

  “Let me know what your mother decides, Luke. If she can’t make it, we’ll wing it on our own.”