Where You Are

by J. H. Trumble

  He laughs. “Hardly. I’m on the merry-go-round at the mall with Kiki. And frankly, I’m a little nauseated.”

  “I think your ex-wife knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “About us.”

  For a moment all I hear is the music of the merry-go-round and the chatter of voices in the background. Then Andrew says, “No way.”

  “She asked me who my math teacher is.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Look, I know it may sound like she’s suspicious, but it was probably just natural curiosity. She knows you’re a senior. She knows I teach seniors. At some point she probably realized I might be your teacher.”

  “But we acted like we didn’t know each other.”

  “Okay. There is that.”

  “I told her it was just weird running into you like that outside of school.”

  “Makes perfect sense to me.”

  “I don’t think she believed me.”

  “Okay, let’s just assume for a moment that she knows. What? That I’m your teacher? That it was awkward running into each other at my ex-wife’s house? She doesn’t know anything. Maya’s been my best friend for more than ten years. If she knows something, if she’s suspicious, she’ll say something to me. She’s always had my back. Okay?”

  I’m not so sure, but I say, “Okay,” anyway.

  “Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to be paranoid here. I’ll let you know if you need to worry. And, hey, I kind of like you calling me.”

  Since he likes it so much, I call him in the morning too.

  “You are going to make me late,” he says quietly when he answers. No hello. He just jumps right in. I like that.

  “I just wanted to say hi.”

  I can actually hear him smiling through the phone. “Hi to you too.”

  “Do you always leave for school this early?”

  “No. I have a parent-teacher conference this morning. My favorite thing to do, you know.”

  “Somebody giving you a hard time?”

  “Oh, you could say that.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “A kid named Stephen Newman. He’s a freshman and a pain in the ass.”

  “I know his sister. She was a flute player.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I laugh. “If he gives you too hard a time, just let me know. I’ll beat him up.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. But I don’t think we’ll have to resort to that. He’s a big talker, but he’s pretty harmless.”

  I draw my phone a little closer to my mouth. “Can I see you tonight?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask that. Got a place in mind?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “And I’m going to try very hard not to think about it.” He laughs. “You are going to get me in so much trouble. I got to run. I’ll see you sixth.”

  “Try not to grope me in class, okay? Kids might start to talk.”

  Chapter 38

  Andrew

  The meeting is being held in a small conference room behind the receptionist’s desk. “They’re waiting for you,” she says.

  “Thank you very much.”

  I am smartly dressed in a pair of dark gray slacks and a white, long-sleeved button-down with a tie. And I am right on time. Nevertheless, when I open the door I apologize for keeping them waiting.

  “I’m Andrew McNelis,” I say, extending my hand. Mr. Newman looks at it like I might have peed on it first. Like father like son. I withdraw my hand and greet Stephen (who also looks at me like I’m urine-soaked) and Mr. Redmon as I take a seat. This is going to be fun.

  I lay my records out on the table in front of me. Mr. Redmon starts the meeting with some small talk. “Mr. Newman was just telling me that Stephen has been tapped for varsity next year.”

  “That’s great,” I say, looking directly at Stephen. They must need a freakishly short ball boy. He glares back at me. Neither he nor his dad responds.

  Mr. Redmon clears his throat and suggests we get started. He asks me to talk about what I see going on in class and about Stephen’s grades.

  Fortunately, I have come prepared. I address his grades first since that’s the most objective issue and the least likely to call my professionalism into question. I’ve printed out three copies of his grades and slide one over to Mr. Redmon and one to Mr. Newman.

  “Stephen is not turning in his homework. I’ve received only three partially completed assignments since we returned from the holiday. Not only is that pulling his grade down, but I believe the lack of practice is really hurting his performance on quizzes and tests. The last test he took”—I remove that from the folder and pass it across the table—“he made a forty-nine on. As you can see, he didn’t even attempt about a quarter of the problems. I gave him as much partial credit as I could on the other problems he missed. I also gave him the opportunity to make test corrections after a review with me. That could have brought his grade up to a seventy, but he declined.”

  I rest my case.

  Mr. Newman barely glances at the papers in front of him. When I’m done, he pushes them back across the table. I take them, stack them neatly, and return them to Stephen’s file.

  “My son doesn’t like you,” he says, which are the first words he’s spoken since I arrived.

  “I understand that, but I’m not here to be popular with kids, Mr. Newman. I’m here to teach algebra.”

  Mr. Redmon clears his throat again. “Mr. McNelis, Stephen believes that you have singled him out, that you are treating him differently than other students.” He consults the paper in front of him. “He’s says you’ve humiliated him in class, that you’ve threatened to kick him, that you’ve told him to shut up and get out, and that you’ve stood him up for tutoring. He also says you called him a prick yesterday.”

  That little prick.

  “Mr. Redmon, I think I’m a pretty good classroom manager. Some of what Stephen has described is merely part of my management system. The kids understand it for what it is. When I tell a student I’m going to kick them, and then I’m going to kick their dog, absolutely no one takes that literally. The same goes for telling them to shut up and get out. I’m sure I say something like that a couple times a day, and have for over a year. It is not meant in any way to shame students. They know that. And I believe Stephen knows that too.

  “As to why he’s coming to you with this now,” I continue, “I can only assume he’s expressing his anger at being held accountable. He’s been increasingly disruptive in class.”

  “That’s a lie,” Stephen cuts in.

  I continue without pause. “I have had no choice but to deal with his disruptions, including referring him to the office yesterday. I have a class to teach, and I cannot teach if a student insists on hijacking the entire class.”

  “Everybody’s talking in class,” Stephen sputters. “And everybody’s goofing off because we’re bored. He doesn’t teach us anything. And he just doesn’t like me.”

  Mr. Redmon addresses me, ignoring Stephen’s outburst. “Have you spoken with Mr. Newman about Stephen’s behavior?”

  “Actually, no. I think it’s more effective if I work directly with my students. Unfortunately, in Stephen’s case, I believe we were headed for parent intervention.”

  I can tell from Mr. Redmon’s demeanor that he appreciates the fact that I have dotted my i’s and crossed my t’s and that our discussion so far has remained professional. It makes his job a lot easier.

  “Did you call Stephen a prick during tutoring yesterday?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Liar,” Stephen says again.

  You know what, you little shit? Two can play this game. And I’ve had a hell of a lot more practice than you’ve had.

  “I don’t really understand why Stephen is so angry with me and why he is choosing to act out in class.” I say this looking directly at Stephen. I love the expression act out. It makes him sound like
a two-year-old. “But I assure you I don’t treat him any differently than any other student. If anything, I’ve given him more latitude with tardies and such just to avoid getting into a battle with him over petty issues. And I certainly haven’t called him names.

  “I am happy to do anything I can to get him back on track. In fact, I’ve already rearranged my own personal schedule to accommodate his football practice. I don’t know what more I can do.”

  Take that, twerp.

  Mr. Redmon thanks me and releases me back to my classroom. He is clearly planning to remain behind to continue speaking with Stephen and his father. I offer my hand to Mr. Newman again just to emphasize what a pompous ass he is, and just as I expect, he refuses to shake.

  Afraid of the gay?

  I retrieve my hand, give him my biggest smile, and leave the room.

  I can only imagine what’s being said in there. If Mr. Redmon is half the principal I believe him to be, he’s supporting me 100 percent, just as he said he would. If he believed everything kids told their parents about teachers, there’d be none of us left.

  Last year Ms. Young—one of our more senior teachers with thirty-five years in the classroom and six months from retirement—was accused of inappropriate contact with a student because she, allegedly, tried to kiss one of the boys in her class. Yeah, she did. When kids misbehaved, she threatened to kiss them. That was her classroom management plan. First, she warned them. With the second warning she pulled out her fire-engine red lipstick and slathered it on her thin lips. There was no third warning. The next time a kid misbehaved, she gave him a big ol’ smooch on the cheek. She rarely had to correct a student three times.

  I get back with plenty of time to spare before first bell, and I have to admit, I’m feeling pretty good. Numbers don’t lie, but kids do, all the time.

  “How’d it go?” Jen says from my doorway.

  “Good. We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

  Robert

  It’s dark and it’s pouring rain; we take advantage of both to make out in a far corner of the H-E-B parking lot. Andrew is soaking wet and his skin is cold and goose bumpy. I’m doing my damned best to warm him up. Nobody’s undressing today, though. We’re taking a risk as it is, but we’re not that stupid. That doesn’t mean that we’re hanging out in the backseat like altar boys, though.

  “Can you get away for a night this weekend?” he asks. “I’ll get a hotel room downtown—a late Valentine’s Day present, or maybe an early birthday present.”

  “Really? All night? Like with a bed and everything? And a lock on the door? And no pictures of your ex-wife anywhere?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t know. Are you sure your heart can take it?”

  “You know, you keep that up and I’m going to . . .”

  “You’re going to what?”

  “I’m going to dock you ten points on your next test.”

  “Gasp. Abuse of power. Sorry, Teach.”

  “Don’t say that, okay?”

  Chapter 39

  Andrew

  I lean back in my desk chair and close my eyes. God, I’m tired.

  Robert and I stayed out later than we’d planned—ten o’clock, not that late—but when I got home, Maya ripped into me for not calling and for standing up my daughter.

  “You know,” she’d said angrily, “your daughter likes routine. And she was expecting you to read to her tonight.” I felt like I was in high school again being scolded by my parents for missing curfew. She wanted to know where I’d been. I told her, “Out with a friend.” She didn’t seem to like that answer very much.

  When the bell rings, I start, then rub my eyes and get to my feet. The kids start trickling in. I’m just finishing writing the day’s objectives on the board when Stephen shows up . . . on time. And the real kicker, he actually acts human. And do I detect a small measure of contrition?

  I allow myself a moment of pride at my eloquent presentation of the situation yesterday and the subsequent taking down a peg of one Stephen Newman.

  The kids have a quiz today. After we go over homework, I pass out the quizzes and instruct the kids to place them in a basket on my desk when they’re done and get started on tonight’s homework.

  I park on the stool in front of the classroom to monitor, but I’m foggy-brained, and at least once I almost lose my balance and tumble off the stool. I need caffeine, and I need it badly. But there’s no leaving the room.

  The first kid to finish is one of the girls—Safina Ahmad. She drops her quiz in the basket and catches my eye. I motion to her. “Would you do me a big favor?” I ask quietly. “Would you take this cup to the teachers’ lounge at the end of the hall and fill it with coffee?”

  “Sure.” She takes the cup.

  “And there are some little containers of cream and some sugar packets. Would you bring me a couple of each?”

  She smiles and quietly lets herself out of the room. Not only is Safina bright as hell and poorly placed in this class, but she’s one of those kids who loves to help out her teachers. And she’s one I can trust to go into the teachers’ lounge and not get into some mischief on the way.

  When Safina gets back, I mouth a thank you and give her a wink, then set the cup on my stool to add cream and sugar.

  The kids are starting to finish in larger numbers now. Two and three at a time are at my desk. I notice that Stephen is still working. No doubt he’s just doodling since he hasn’t done any homework on this unit and has wasted every class period. But he’s not acting like a jerk. I take that to mean that his dad gave him the what for after our meeting, and I wouldn’t be having any more trouble from him. Maybe after this quiz I can get him back on track and help him salvage what’s left of the school year. In high school, kids should be using summer school to get ahead, not to recover credits. Even an immature little brat like Stephen Newman.

  In the back corner of the room, I see Tyler Hicks stretching his scrawny self in his seat to see over Izzy Garcia’s shoulder. I’m pretty sure that’s not going to do him much good. I clear my throat and he darts a look at me, then hunches over his quiz again. I keep my eye on them until Izzy turns in her quiz.

  That’s when I see the note being passed hand to hand. I consider letting it go, but I figure I’m on a roll, so I might as well ride this baby as long as I can. I pick up the note and make a big show of dropping it in the trash unread.

  Another quiz, second period, practically puts me in a coma, despite the coffee. By third-period conference, I have to move around.

  I grab some more coffee, check my mailbox, stop by the attendance office to sign a few forms, then just to keep busy stop by the library to check out some picture books for Kiki. The librarian, Ms. Wetzel, purchases them for teachers in English classes to use in teaching literary elements.

  She pulls a couple of new ones from her not-yet-available-for-checkout shelf and checks them out to me because, she says, I’m too cute for words. She’s about eighty. She talks to me like I’m eight. Sometimes I think she thinks I’m checking out the picture books for myself.

  On my way back to my classroom, I reach for my phone to check the time. It’s not in my pocket. I try to remember when I last had it, but I just don’t know. Sometimes I place it on my desk during class, so I check there first, under papers, around my computer, in my desk drawers, under my desk. Then I resign myself to retracing my steps. Lounge, mailboxes, attendance, library.

  No phone.

  In the few minutes I have before fourth period, I go out to the parking lot and check my car. Nothing. That’s just great. I probably left it at home this morning. I’m going to feel naked all day without it.

  And I do. Countless times I reach for it, and then remember it’s not there. I even call myself from my classroom phone. Nada.

  During fourth, I pull a book from my shelves—a biography of Galileo—and tuck a note inside, leaving about a quarter inch exposed: Phone missing. Don’t text. Will call later. On the outside I attach a
Post-it: Robert Westfall. Then I look up Robert’s schedule and add Room 242. Out of an abundance of caution, I put a rubber band around the book, then shanghai the first kid to finish the quiz, Annie Dunn.

  “Would you take this to Robert Westfall, room 242. He left it in my classroom this morning.”

  When Robert comes into class sixth, he waves the book at me. “Thanks for returning my book, Mr. Mac.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Westfall.”

  I search everywhere when I get home for that damn phone, but it’s just gone. I use Maya’s phone to call myself. Nothing.

  It is beyond frustrating to lose a phone. Do I wait and keep looking? Or do I just drop another couple hundred dollars or so that I don’t have and buy a new one? I decide to wait until Saturday morning at least.

  When Maya takes a bubble bath that evening, I borrow her phone and call Robert.

  “Hello? Ms. Momin?”

  “Not Ms. Momin.”

  He laughs. “I didn’t think so. Still no phone?”

  “Nope. If it doesn’t show up by tomorrow morning, I’m going to have to buy a new one. In the meantime, though, we have some plans to make. And we have about ten minutes to make them.”

  I hate hanging up when I hear Maya pull the drain on the tub because I know there will be no communicating with him until tomorrow. I delete the call dialed and replace the phone exactly as I found it.

  By two o’clock Saturday afternoon, I’ve got a new phone, disabled the SIM card on the previous one, and downloaded all my contacts. It costs me almost two hundred dollars for a similar refurbished phone since my contract isn’t up for renewal yet. I don’t carry insurance, because I don’t lose my phones.

  Maya is vacuuming when I get home, and Kiki is napping in a pile of clean laundry on the couch. I move her to a cozy, oversize chair and sit on the couch to fold. Maya turns off the vacuum cleaner. “Did you get a phone?”

  “Yep. What a pain.”