by Edward Bloor
It's the end of an era, all right. And it's like Old Charley Burns—the former Director, the racing fan, the real character—no longer exists.
But that's Dad. You're either at the center of his world, or you're nowhere. There is no in-between.
It's the Dad era now.
Friday, September 15
Mom and Dad and I drove up to the high school tonight to hear about the emergency relocation plan. I expected to hear that we were going to be out of school for a month or two, or maybe even six.
I guess we all thought that, because Mom had been calling every private school within driving distance. She was trying to sell me on a local Catholic school called St. Anthony's. The boys there have to wear blue pants, white shirts, and blue ties.
Mom was selling, but I wasn't buying. "Mom, we're not Catholic," I pointed out.
"That doesn't matter. I talked to the principal, Sister Mary Margaret. You don't have to be Catholic to go there. It just happens to be a Catholic school."
"What are you saying? It's just a coincidence that only Catholics go there?"
"Maybe you don't know everything about it, Paul. Would you please listen? Ten percent of their students are not Catholic. And the sister told me that she's been flooded by calls from Lake Windsor Middle, so you'd be with kids you know."
"There are about three kids that I can stand at Lake Windsor Middle."
"Well, I'll bet you Joey Costello's parents have called there."
"Sure. I'll bet Joey Costello's parents know what a rosary is, too."
Dad snapped at both of us. "I think this discussion is a bit premature, don't you? The school officials say they have a plan worked out. So let's all hear what it is. Until then let's have some peace and quiet."
Dad is stressed to the max about this sinkhole business. His department is getting dozens of phone calls from magazines, and wire services, and TV producers. He's talked to people from as far away as Australia and Japan. In so many words, he gives them all the same message: "Old Charley Burns did it. Now Old Charley's gone."
That's why the county commissioners want Dad onstage with them at the meeting tonight. They want everybody watching to get the message: "Old Charley Burns did it. Now Old Charley's gone."
When we got to the high school there were about a thousand parents and kids entering the gymnasium. We saw the Costellos getting out of their Jeep.
While our parents talked, Joey muttered to me, "Check it out. Some of these geeks still have mud on them."
I said, "Did you see the news?"
"Yeah. Can you believe it? If we hadn't gone home on that bus, we'd have been on TV with Mr. Ward and the rest of the 'rescue brigade,' right? They'd be making a movie about us."
"Yeah. Right."
"We'd have been heroes." Joey looked away. He clenched his jaw and added, "Mike would have been proud of what we did, I'll tell you that."
"Yeah. I'm sure he would have."
"OK, here we go. I'll catch you tomorrow."
"OK."
We split off from the Costellos and moved into the gymnasium. There were no seats at all. The pullout bleachers had not been pulled out, so everybody had to stand. We worked our way in as far as we could, stopping about twenty yards from a small stage.
Dad spotted the county commissioner who backed him for Charley Burns's job. The commissioner was a big guy with a big gut and a big bald head. Dad waved to him and then pushed his way steadily forward up onto the stage until he was standing next to him. Mom and I stayed down on the floor.
After a few minutes Mrs. Gates walked to the microphone and tapped it. "I want to begin by apologizing for the standing-room-only conditions, but it was the only way to get all of us in here tonight. I want to thank Mr. Bridges, the principal of Lake Windsor High School, and all of his staff. They, along with our own remarkable middle school staff, have been working nearly round the clock since Tuesday morning."
The people in the crowd applauded in appreciation.
"I don't need to tell anyone what happened here on Monday. But I do want to assure you that none of our students were seriously injured. And that's because every student behaved in a very mature way. The fact is, many students showed a great deal of courage out there. They helped to keep a natural disaster from becoming a human disaster, and they, too, deserve our applause."
There was louder applause this time. I strained to see Joey, but I couldn't.
"I want to introduce the people up here on the stage." Mrs. Gates then went on to introduce about twenty people: the Commissioner of This, the Coordinator of That, the Superintendent of Something. When she got to the Director of Civil Engineering and read out Dad's name, the crowd buzzed ominously.
Finally she got to the part that everyone had come to hear. "All these people, in conjunction with the State Department of Education in Tallahassee, have helped to devise this emergency relocation plan." Mrs. Gates stopped and held up some papers. She looked over the crowd. "I cannot stress too strongly that this is all temporary. This is a plan to hold us over until we've fixed our problem—fixed it quickly, fixed it completely. The Department of Civil Engineering"—she stopped and looked down at her notes—"under the new direction of Mr. Fisher, has a small army of contractors at work out there. They will make sure that the sinkhole is completely stabilized and that there is zero chance of this ever happening again." Mrs. Gates paused, but no one applauded.
"Now. The estimated timetable for repairs to our school, and that means restoring everything to just the way it was, is three months. Our target date for returning to normal life at Lake Windsor Middle is January eighth, the start of the new term. For the remainder of this term, we will all go by this emergency relocation plan, which goes into effect on Monday."
Wait a minute! Whoa! I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Monday? I had figured on a month's down time at the very least. Now, basically, we had the weekend off, and then we were due back in school.
Mrs. Gates turned to page two of the plan and began to read the details. They added up to this: All the eighth graders would have to squeeze into the high school; all the seventh graders would have to squeeze into the middle school.
Parents around me whispered to each other and acted like they understood.
Mrs. Gates should have quit while she was ahead, but she continued. "Unfortunately this means that the middle school will have to run on a split shift for the rest of this term, with class periods reduced to forty minutes. Sixth graders will begin at seven-thirty A.M. and end at one P.M. Seventh graders will begin at one-thirty P.M. and end at seven P.M."
An unfriendly-sounding rumble began in the crowd.
Mrs. Gates spoke again quickly. "We understand what a strain this will put on everyone, but I ask you to remember that this is only until the end of the term. We also understand that this plan simply will not work for some families. That is why seventh-grade parents will have another option."
Mrs. Gates turned and pointed to a black woman in a blue suit. "Dr. Grace Johnson, the principal of Tangerine Middle School, has agreed to take in any of our seventh graders for the remainder of this term. Lake Windsor students who choose to go there will be absorbed into the existing class schedule at Tangerine Middle School, which is the same as our normal class schedule. Those of you who choose this option, however, will have to provide your own transportation."
The crowd noise started to increase.
Mrs. Gates said, "Seventh graders, please do not leave without a split-shift schedule." She then closed the meeting by saying, "That's all for now. Remember: We're all in this together, and we'll come out of this an even stronger Lake Windsor Middle School family. Good night."
As the people around me started toward the exits, I stood rock still, looking up, like I was looking toward the heavens. It was a miracle. I could not believe what had just happened.
Dad found us in the crowd and said, "Come on. We can talk about all this in the car."
"No. No!" I shouted above the noise. "We hav
e to talk about it here. The miracle happened here!"
Mom looked at me curiously, but she sided with Dad. "Come on, Paul. The car is quieter, and we need quiet. This is a big decision to make."
I was elated, and I wasn't budging. "What's to decide?" I faced down Mom and Dad in the middle of that gymnasium. "Mom, you ruined my life at Lake Windsor Middle when you turned in that IEP. This is your chance to un-ruin it! Dad, I don't mind if you never pay any attention to me for the rest of my life, just give me this chance! I won't complain about Erik, ever. Just give me this chance. Both of you. I want to go to Tangerine Middle School, and I want to go with no IEP."
I looked at Mom, and I knew I had her. She couldn't resist me, not after what had happened with Coach Walski. I looked at Dad, and he seemed puzzled. Not angry, just puzzled. He said, "What's this about me never paying attention to you? Maybe during football season I'm more wrapped up with what Erik's doing. That's true. But the rest of the time I pay equal attention to you boys."
"Football season and soccer season happen at the same time, Dad. It's OK with me if you can't pay attention to both. Just let me go to Tangerine Middle. Do you understand? I wouldn't be the water boy there. I'd be the goalie."
Dad started nodding—slowly at first, but then he picked up speed. Mom looked at me with her nervous smile, but she nodded right along with him.
The heavens had opened up for me.
Part 2
Monday, September 18
The first day of school. Take two.
Mom drove me into Tangerine this morning at seven-thirty. We drove past the lime green houses and the citrus packing plant. We passed through a small downtown area and then pulled up to a concrete building that looked like a block-long post office. We parked across the street, and I reminded her, "I'll be at soccer practice until five. I hope."
"I hope so, too," Mom replied. "Look, I really should go in with you this morning. There must be transfer forms for me to sign."
"No, there aren't any forms for you to sign. All I need is my computerized class schedule from Lake Windsor Middle. No forms. No mothers."
Mom was staring across the street and not liking what she saw. There were two small groups of guys karate-kicking at each other outside the building. There were larger groups, too. Menacing-looking gangs, just standing around, watching the karate kickers go at it. Mom said, "Look at that! Why isn't this area being supervised?"
"Hey, that's no big deal. That's just what some guys do, Mom."
"At the entrance to the school? What kind of first impression is that?"
"They do that wherever they are. Lighten up. I'll see you at five."
"Yeah. If you live."
I walked around the karate kickers and the gangstas and pushed open a heavy wooden door. I saw that I could go straight, toward the first-floor classrooms, or I could climb the stairs on the left, toward what seemed to be the office. I went left and started up the worn marble stairs, thinking how unusual it was to find stairs like these in Florida. For that matter, the whole building was unusual. I hadn't been on the third floor of anything since we moved here.
The school's office was located at the top of the first flight. The principal herself was standing just inside the glass doors. She walked right up to me and said, "I'm Dr. Johnson. Who are you?"
"Paul Fisher, ma'am."
"And you're from Lake Windsor Middle School, I presume?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She took my schedule from me and read it carefully. Then she turned around and called into one of the side offices, "Theresa! Come out here and take this one."
A small, skinny girl with brown hair tied back in a ponytail came out of the side room. Dr. Johnson said, "This is Paul Fisher. Paul, this is Theresa Cruz. She'll be your escort for your first day at Tangerine Middle School. She'll be your escort for your second day, too, if you want. After that you'll be responsible for getting around on your own. But Theresa will continue to be a resource person for you, for any questions that you might have."
I said, "All right. Thank you, ma'am." I paused. I don't know why, but I just felt I had to say it. I said, "It's nice to be here."
Dr. Johnson gave me a huge smile. "Well, it's nice to have you here."
It was pretty much downhill after that.
Theresa Cruz had very little, or nothing, to say. I followed her silently from class to class. She would introduce me quietly to each teacher, and we would sit down together.
I tell you, it was eerie. Like a science fiction story. Like I had entered some kind of mirror universe. The subjects and the class times are exactly the same as in Lake Windsor Middle, but the rooms and the people are completely different.
Tangerine Middle is a tougher school, no doubt about it. I got real nervous whenever we went out into the hall. If any-thing's going to happen to you in a school like this, it's going to happen in the hall. One big guy took his forearm and swatted me out of the way, like I was some kind of gnat. But I didn't take it personally. I just kept my head down, followed Theresa, and went where I was supposed to go.
My classes are all on the second floor. Basically the third floor is entirely the sixth grade, the second floor is the seventh grade, and the first floor is the eighth grade, with a few exceptions. The first floor also has the cafetorium which, obviously, doubles as the cafeteria and the auditorium. It's pretty gross. The cafetorium has a kitchen at the near end and a stage at the far end. In between are rows of wooden tables with wooden folding chairs. It's loud in there, like in some old prison movie.
Theresa stayed with me when we passed through the lunch line in the cafetorium. She even sat down with me to eat. To eat, but not to talk. I tried to get the lowdown on some of my new teachers, the inside stuff, but Theresa wasn't cooperating. I'd say something like, "So, how's this Mrs. Potter for science?"
And she'd say, "Pretty good."
"How's Mr. Scott?"
"Pretty good."
And so on. I finally gave up and ate my lunch. But afterwards I tried with the question that meant the most to me. "Do you know anything about the soccer team?"
Theresa pulled back a little and actually looked at me, surprised. She nodded and said, "Oh yeah. Yeah. My brother Tino plays on the team."
"Yeah? He's an eighth grader?"
"No. He's my twin brother. He's in seventh grade, too."
"Oh? Well, I was thinking about going out to practice today, to see if I could get on the team."
Theresa thought about this. "Yeah. You could do that. Tino won't be there today, though. He's still suspended. Victor, Hernando—none of those guys'll be there today. But I guess they'll still have practice."
I knew the answer to the next question, but I asked it anyway. "Why won't any of them be there?"
"Oh, they got into some trouble over at the carnival. Ms. Bright grabbed the whole bunch of them while they were sitting here eating lunch. She brought them up to Dr. Johnson, and they all got suspended for three days."
"So they'll all be back tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Tino, Victor, Hernando—all those guys."
"And they're all starters?"
"They're who?"
"They're starting players? On the soccer team?"
Theresa answered with pride. "Oh yeah. Victor, he's kinda like the star. Victor and Maya, they're like the two stars, you know? They score most of the goals. Tino scored two goals last year. I think Victor scored sixteen, and Maya scored fifteen. They both made the All-County Team."
"And who's the goaltender?"
"The goalie's Shandra Thomas."
"Shandra? That's a girl, right?"
"Yeah. Shandra's a girl. Maya's a girl, too."
"What? Don't you have a boys' team and a girls' team?"
"No. There's only one team. Boys, girls—they both can play on it. They're mostly boys. But some of the girls are good. They've played in the Y league all their lives and stuff. Maya learned to play over in England. That's why she's so good."
I was trying hard
to process this information. I said again, "So Shandra's a girl?"
Theresa seemed to be enjoying this. "Oh yeah. There's four girls: Shandra, Maya, Maya's cousin Nita, and Dolly. They're all on the team. Then there's Tino, Victor, Hernando, and about ten other guys. They're good! They were second in the county last year."
After lunch we went back to our routine, with Theresa only speaking when she introduced me to a teacher. But at least we had broken the ice. I was starting to get a picture of this new place, and I was glad I had come here.
I'd say the most obvious difference between my new school and my old one is this: At Tangerine Middle, the minorities are the majority. I have no problem with that. I've always felt like a minority because of my eyes. The next-most obvious difference is the building itself. It's old. I have no problem with that, either, except that it has a disinfectant smell that kind of gags you. The textbooks are old, too. Really old. And they have stuff written in them. The teachers seem to have adjusted to this by not using them much. A couple of teachers have talked about class projects and group projects that are due. I guess I'll find out about those things soon enough.
I also figured out why Theresa was assigned to be my guide.
We have exactly the same schedule, mostly advanced classes. My day went smoothly enough until seventh period, when I had an unpleasant surprise. My language arts teacher is Mrs. Murrow. Get this: Mrs. Murrow is married to Mr. Murrow, the head of guidance at Lake Windsor Middle. I'm going to work hard at not being noticed in that class. I don't want to risk his hearing my name and announcing, "That kid's handicapped! He needs an IEP!"
After the bell rang, Theresa and I walked downstairs and out the back door. To the left, behind a baseball backstop, was a green scoreboard. Across the top was written TANGERINE MIDDLE SCHOOL—HOME OF THE WAR EAGLES. We crossed over the bus lanes and headed down to a soccer field that was circled by an asphalt running track.