by Carol Snow
He shrugged. Mumbled something into his cup.
“I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that.”
“I didn’t have time.”
“Mm.” I gave him The Look again. Since he kept his eyes on his desk, it didn’t do much good. “I’m not doing this for me, you know. I could have slept another forty-five minutes.” (Look up, darn it.) I took a deep breath. “I’m trying to help you.”
“I know,” he said, finally meeting my eyes. “And I appreciate it. The thing is, I don’t think it’s doing any good.”
“Of course it is! I can’t believe the progress you’ve made! If you keep it up, you’re going to graduate. That’s huge.”
“What difference does it make? I’m still going to be working at the hospital, same as if I didn’t graduate. And if that doesn’t work out, I’ll probably be flipping burgers or doing road work. It’s not like a high school diploma gets you anywhere.”
“If you try really hard, you can make it into college. Maybe you start off at a two-year, get your feet wet—”
He sat up straight. “I don’t want to go to college! Don’t you get it, Mrs. Q? I hate school. I’ve always hated school. There’s no way I’m going for another four years, even another two years. You’re a nice lady, and it’s nice that you’re trying to help, but I really just want to get out of this place. If it weren’t for my mom, I’d have left already.”
My hands shaking, I reached for my cardboard cup and lifted it to my lips, remembering too late that it was empty. I looked up at the clock; the first bell would ring in twenty-eight minutes. “Well, you’re here now. You want to work on reading strategies?”
He shrugged, slid back down in his chair. “Whatever.”
Mrs. Clausen pursed her lips when I told her about Robert. “Let me think on it,” she said. And then she gave my arm a little squeeze and said, “Think positive thoughts!”
I tried to think positive thoughts as I began my Freshman Honors class. I tried to smile at Jared (it made my face hurt) and see him as the lost, hurt little boy Jill said he was and not as the spawn of Satan.
We had just started reading Lord of the Flies, and I was feeling in control, not least because I had read the book. I asked the class for their initial impressions.
Sarah Levine started. “I was thinking—and maybe I’m just reading into it—but the island seems like a kind of microcosm. And that the anarchy . . . I don’t know . . . maybe it’s about more than just those kids. Maybe it’s what happens when there’s no structure, no law, and things start to go really bad.”
“Why aren’t there any girls in the book?” Claudia asked. “It seemed really antifeminist to me. And the thing is, if there were girls, I bet everything would have been different. They wouldn’t have been so mean, and maybe they would have thought of a way to get off the island.”
Jared raised his hand.
“Yes? You have something to add?”
“That fat kid is just a total loser,” he said.
Spawn of Satan.
Jill was sitting at our usual table when I entered the lunchroom. I was almost there, insulated lunch bag in hand, when Mrs. Clausen motioned me over. “Sit!” she commanded. “I’ve been thinking about Robert. Are you familiar with Neil Weinrich’s internship program?”
“Only in a general sense,” I said. I had no idea what she was talking about.
“Neil has spearheaded this marvelous program that matches students with local businesses. Please! Don’t let me keep you from eating!”
Lars had just walked in carrying an orange tray. He scanned the room and smiled when he saw me. I gave him a little wave and gestured with my head toward Jill’s table: I’d be there in a minute.
“It’s okay, I’m not really hungry.” I was starving. “Tell me more about the program.”
“You should really talk to Neil about it.” She twisted around until she located him. “Neil! You have a minute?”
Neil Weinrich looked up from his copy of Scientific American. He blinked at Mrs. Clausen for a moment before standing up ramrod straight, sticking his magazine under his arm, picking up his tray and marching over to us.
I looked forlornly over at Jill and Lars. They were laughing. I looked back at Mr. Weinrich and tried to smile.
Neil Weinrich is in his early fifties, with greasy dyed black hair (you can see gray at the roots) and a long, acne-scarred face. His breath smells of wintergreen mingled with decay. He is of average height but seems taller because he holds himself so stiff, his chin tilted upwards. Neil Weinrich is the kind of guy who was picked on in high school and has exacted his revenge by dedicating the rest of his natural life to belittling teenagers. If he were a student today, I wouldn’t even consider letting him into the building until he had passed through a metal detector. Naked.
“Mrs. Clausen was telling me about your internship program,” I said.
He inhaled. I held my breath in anticipation of his exhalation. “As educators, we cannot expect a one-size-fits-all approach to fit every student,” he intoned. “Different students have different needs. Different strengths. Different capabilities. Are you going to eat that roll, Margaret?”
Mrs. Clausen blinked. “Excuse me? Oh. Um, I was, actually. I like a roll after my salad. But if you’re hungry, I guess—”
“No! No! Only if you’re not going to eat it. But as I was saying, as educators we must be the pioneers who forge new paths for our youngsters, and we must provide them with as many paths as they need to succeed. The world is changing. Technology . . . I could go on.”
He did go on. I eventually broke down and ate my yogurt, glancing wistfully over at Jill and Lars.
The internship program did sound good, though (once Mr. Weinrich finally got around to talking about it). It allowed students to spend half of their time in the classroom, the other half in a work setting. Each student was paired with a work mentor, who was supposed to ensure that the student actually learned something on the job and wasn’t used as an unpaid drone.
The application deadline had passed. “And you missed the orientation meeting. It was a top-notch event, with former participants speaking, along with some of our business partners . . . you know, the program benefits them as much as it does our students, gives them a role in educating the future workforce. As educators, we can only provide our students with so many tools . . .”
Despite missing the deadline, my student was not out of luck, Mr. Weinrich told me. There were a few business partners available for the right applicant. Nicolette had the applications in her desk. “Mr. Weinrich creeps me out,” she whispered, handing me a yellow sheet. “I don’t like the way he looks at my boobs.”
Robert actually looked excited when I told him about the internship program. “I’d get to leave school for half the day?” he asked, looking over the application form and, I hoped, understanding some of it.
“Yes,” I said. “But not to go to the mall. To go to a job.”
“What if it’s a job at the mall?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. Maybe, just maybe, the old Robert was back.
After school, he showed up at the amphitheater and sat down next to me. It was our first dress rehearsal. Katerina was walking around in a negligee having just finished a scene in which Romeo sneaks into her bedroom.
“I filled out as much of the application as I could,” Robert said, trying not to disturb the actors. His eyes kept flicking forward, where Katerina commanded the stage.
I looked at the yellow sheet of paper. In careful, spiky writing, he had written his name, address and phone number. Under “career interests,” he had written, “hotel or restaurant or cruise.”
“Just so you know,” I said, “the chances of working on a cruise ship in Arizona? Not so good.” I was so proud of him for understanding what “career interests” meant.
He shrugged and grinned. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“You need to write an essay,” I whispered. The application asked, “What would you gain from an interns
hip? What could you offer to employers?”
“I didn’t understand that part,” he mumbled.
I read the question to him. “Here’s what I want you to do tonight. Jot down ideas about two things. First, why do you want to do an internship? And don’t say because you’ll get out of school early. What will you learn and how will it help you get jobs in the future? Then tell us why you’d be a good intern. You can talk about your personal skills and your job experience.”
“That’s . . . I don’t think I can do that part.”
“Of course you can! I’m not asking you to write an essay. Just put down some ideas. In the morning, we’ll work together so you can hand it in.” He looked dubious. “Don’t worry about spelling. Or grammar. You don’t even have to use complete sentences. What you’ll be making is a kind of outline, just like we went over in class last week. But it doesn’t have to be a proper essay with the Roman numerals and the subcategories, and it doesn’t have to be consistent in form. Just think of it as a list of your ideas. Then we can work together to organize your thoughts, to give them a kind of structure—”
He was paying absolutely no attention to me.
Katerina walked over and stood in the aisle, a short way from Robert. “Hi,” he said, his eyes bugging out.
“Hi.” She giggled, blushed and looked down. The negligee was peach silk and hit her at mid-thigh, which still left a vast expanse of her long legs naked. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted fire-engine red. Her long, black hair was up in a messy hairdo, stray tendrils tumbling along her face and neck.
“You look really good up there,” Robert said. “I mean, you’re a really good actress.”
“Thanks,” she said, smiling at the ground.
I stood up and climbed over Robert, mumbling something about checking on the props and grinning like a fool as I scurried down the steps.
twenty-one
The next morning Robert was waiting for me at the classroom door, holding a folder and a brown paper bag.
“Muffins?” I asked, eyeing the bag.
“Lemon poppy seed.”
I unlocked my door and turned on the fluorescent lights. It was like I was seeing my classroom for the first time. It was deadly. The Shakespeare quotes had to go—especially since I wasn’t even teaching Shakespeare this quarter. I’d set up a writing center, I vowed, and post student poetry. Maybe I’d come in one Saturday and paint the walls green or blue.
As instructed, Robert had produced a list:
Ive bin at hospitle for 3 years I work in loundry
I work herd I work lotsof howrs
I want to see wat its lik to work somplace other then school or hospital
I want to work in a hotel or restrant somplace wear I dont have to sit down all day
Im good with peple I can make them laf
I helped Robert construct a rough outline, basically just dividing his ideas into sections: why internships are a good idea; why I want an internship; my skills and experience. In conclusion, he was to begin his final paragraph with the words, “In conclusion . . .”
He wrote his rough draft during study hall and met me in my classroom after school. He stood over my desk as I read. The essay didn’t need nearly as much editing as I’d expected. “I’m so proud of you,” I said, gazing at the lined paper.
“You did most of it,” he said, scuffing his sneaker on the floor.
“No way. I guided you a little, but this is your own work. I can’t believe how far you’ve come in a month.”
“Whatever,” he said, trying to hide a smile.
I locked up my classroom—which took awhile; my lock was funny and always took a bit of jiggling before it would catch. We traipsed down to the Media Center, where he typed the essay into a computer. Spell-check was a godsend. The printer actually worked.
“I gotta get to work,” he said when the sheets printed out.
“That’s okay. I’ll run this over to Mr. Weinrich.”
Neil Weinrich was sitting as his desk, nibbling sunflower seeds from a crinkly packet. I tried to see him as a bunny, but no: the man was definitely a rodent.
“Hi, Neil!” I chirped, willing the rat image away.
“Yes, Miss Quackenbush.” He squinted and shot me a social smile. I glanced at his room: desks in rows, the periodic table of elements plastered on the walls. You can bet students spent a lot of time staring at the clock over the door.
“I have the internship application. From the student I told you about.”
“Yes, of course.” He picked up eyeglasses from his desk and slid them on. He stared at the application for a moment before handing it back to me. “I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to accommodate this student.”
“But you said—you said there were still some openings.”
“There are openings for the right applicants. There are no openings for Robert Baumgartner.”
“Robert has excellent work experience,” I said. “And he’ll try really hard. Academics have been difficult for him because he’s got a learning disability, but this internship can really open doors for him, give him some confidence.”
Neil Weinrich picked up his half-empty package of sunflower seeds. He twisted the cellophane until it closed out most of the air, opened a desk drawer and dropped it inside. He closed the drawer and looked back up. “What Robert Baumgartner does not need is more confidence.”
“I stand behind this applicant.” My voice was quavering. “I stake my reputation on it.”
He pursed his lips. “It is not your reputation that is at stake. I have been running this program for three years now. It has taken a tremendous amount of time and energy to recruit our business partners. I cannot take a chance on a student who has shown himself time and again to be irresponsible, insolent and tardy simply because you think he’s cute.”
I stared at him, speechless for a moment. My face grew hot. “Excuse me?” I finally sputtered.
“Oh, it’s not just you,” he said, backing off. “All females find him charming. It’s why he gets away with so much. But I think you’ve been fooled.” There it was then: Neil Weinrich was once again taking revenge on all those “cool” boys who teased him in high school. Robert was different. He had a history of tardiness and irresponsibility, it’s true, but I’d never seen him be mean, not once. Still, as much as I didn’t want to, I could understand Neil Weinrich’s reservations. I just couldn’t understand why he seemed to enjoy rejecting Robert.
“What if I set something up?” I said suddenly. “If I arranged an internship for him.”
“Finding willing business partners is not easy,” he said.
“But I can try?”
He pursed his lips, wiggled his nostrils a little. “I could give you till the end of the week,” he said finally.
“But that’s—three days?”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I have deadlines. I need to finalize paperwork.” He smiled. There was a sunflower seed stuck between his two front teeth. “Maybe you’ll work something out.”
I was tempted to rush out right then and skip play practice, but I’d missed over an hour already, and it was another dress rehearsal.
It took a second to register that the amphitheater stage was empty except for Dr. White, but the concrete benches were full and noisy. My first thought was that something terrible had happened—a student had collapsed, an ambulance called—but there were no emergency workers, no flashing lights.
I spotted Jill down near the front, and I worked my way down, pushing past wide-eyed students and angry parents. “What happened?”
She had her arms crossed in front of her chest, her mouth in a hard line. “Closed-minded, censor-crazy, naïve jerks,” she muttered.
“What!”
“Some mother came by to pick her kid up early yesterday and saw Katerina in her costume.”
“The undies?” I asked.
“It’s a nightgown,” Jill hissed. “It covers more than what half these girls wear to school
. So the mother has a nervous breakdown, says this is not suitable. Lars thought he’d calmed her down, but then she reads the script and she thinks it obscene because it has these, like, veiled references to sex. So she calls the president of the PTA, the president of the school board and every close-minded, hypocritical parent she can find and they come down, interrupting rehearsal and demanding an explanation for why the school is allowing obscene material to be presented. Obscene material! It’s based on a Shakespeare play, for God’s sake!”
I scanned the crowd for Lars’s golden hair. He was surrounded by three women and one man, all of them red-faced, talking and gesturing at the same time. I recognized Lynette Pimpernel, Claudia’s mother. The kids from the play huddled on the benches, whispering.
“Can I have your attention, please,” Dr. White called out from the stage. People quieted. “I understand that many people are upset. We need to have a meeting, a formal forum where we can discuss this matter rationally. May I suggest”—here she stopped and glared at everyone: she wasn’t suggesting anything; she was telling—“we disband for now and reconvene Friday evening for a measured discussion and resolution of the issues.”
“But this is ridiculous!” Lars called out. “This play is based on Romeo and Juliet! It has some sexual references, okay, but nothing graphic. Do you know how many of these kids watch Real Sex on HBO? How much porn they’re looking at on the Internet?”
“We have parental controls on our computer!” A parent called out. “We haveaVchip!”
“And what about when they go to their friends’ houses? Do they all have V chips, too?”
I checked the students. Some of them were smirking, though trying to hide it. They’d all seen Real Sex. And they’d figured out how to bypass their computers’ parental controls in junior high school.
“Mr. Hansen!” Dr. White snapped. “As I said, we will reconvene Friday. Let’s say seven P.M. In the meantime, I will read the play and discuss this matter with the school superintendent. We are finished here.” She glared at the crowd. They stayed rooted. “Go home,” she snapped.