by CATHY L. CLAMP; FRANCIS RAY; BEVERLY JENKINS; MONICA JACKSON; GERI GUILLAUME
Norah didn’t even flinch. “Do I look like I’m laughing, Mr. Barrett?”
She had a game face that could put a champion poker player to shame. Whenever she looked at you from over the rim of those cat-eye glasses and pressed her crimson lips together into that tight line, there was no mistaking that she meant business. It was one of the reasons that I valued her so much. She handled the students so well, so expediently, that only the most delicate situations ever crossed my desk—which was why, I knew, she was coming to me now. As capable as Norah was, this situation was stickier than usual, involving students who were more intense than usual.
“Was it wishful thinking to hope that we’d solved this problem three days ago?” I asked, handing the stack of phone notices back to her.
“We suspended those boys for fighting three days ago. We didn’t solve the problem of what set them to fighting in the first place.”
“So, some of the students are still going through with the threatened sick-in to protest the suspension.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
I’d been forewarned by several of my staff members that some of the students were going to try it—to stay out of school for the next few days to coincide with the return of Zane Donovan, Brian Chalmers, and Rayford Vaughn. Three seniors who’d been suspended for fighting. An automatic three-day suspension was in line with the high school’s zero tolerance policy.
If I had my choice, I would have let them off with a warning. Made them perform some service to the school to set the example. I’d even told them as much. But like it or not, my hands were tied. Violence in schools was a hot button lately, getting more media attention than usual. And zero tolerance meant just that. None. Zippo. Zero. Zilch. Fighting, no matter what the cause, could not be tolerated in the schools. Trouble was, these were popular boys. Not necessarily model students, but the rest of the student body seemed to rally behind them.
Here it was two days into the suspension. The boys were scheduled to be back tomorrow and I was still getting calls from upset students. This was wasn’t good. Not like senior skip day, when everyone expected students to go AWOL. Besides, it was too early in the season to go on the hunt for the students, assured of their graduation status, wanting to ditch school for one last fling to jump-start the summer before separating for their respective colleges and trade schools. This was something entirely different. A malady that had spread across all four grades.
“All of this drama over what could very well have been an attack of hay fever.”
“Wasn’t that Zane Donovan’s story?” Norah didn’t sound convinced.
“That’s the story he’s sticking to.” I shrugged. Since it had been so early in the morning, there weren’t very many students to witness what had started the ruckus—just how it ended. I only had the word of three boys on what happened.
“According to Rayford Vaughn and Brian Chalmers, Zane deliberately spit on them while they were out raising the school flags.”
“I don’t know, Norah. I have a hard time believing that.”
“Why? Because Zane is so ‘popular’?” She held up two fingers of each hand, putting quotes around the last word.
New to Calhoun County, our pastoral little Mississippi town, Zane’s family had transferred from California just a few short weeks ago. His American literature teacher had submitted his name to participate in the school flag-raising ritual to help him adjust and to foster a sense of belonging. An average student, Zane didn’t say much. Kept mostly to himself. I guess he was still too much in culture shock.
But it didn’t escape my notice that most of the dissension surrounding Zane’s suspension came from the young ladies in the school—all mesmerized by Zane’s sun-streaked, spiky-gelled, ultrablond hair and wide, guileless, blue-eyed California surfer boy looks. He looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of some teen heartthrob music magazine.
On the other hand, I was also getting pressure from the athletes who supported Brian and Rayford. The two boys were star players on our football team. A suspension from school could also get them an additional suspension from the team. With an important game coming up, how could I be so cruel? So uncaring? So totally absent of school spirit? Their words . . . not mine.
“Popular? No, that’s not it,” I said slowly. “Because Rayford and Brian are both the size of small planets, defensive backs for our football team, they’ve made an early career of learning how to hurt people. I can’t imagine Zane picking a fight with them. They would pound the kid to an unrecognizable pulp if he even looked at them cross-eyed.”
“Sneeze or no sneeze, the boys thought that Zane was disrespecting them. What’s the phrase they used? Oh yes . . . not giving them their ‘props.’ ” Norah rolled her eyes.
“This whole situation would have been a lot simpler if this was just a case of school jocks hazing the new kid,” I said, handing the stack of notices back to her.
“And you know how sensitive folks are around here about those flags, Mr. B. When the fight started, all of them wound up on the ground. All of them. The Stars and Stripes. Our school flag. And . . .” Her voice trailed off dramatically.
I held up a hand to stop her. “Please don’t say it.” I knew where this was leading.
“Whether you want to face it or not, the students of this school respect our state flag. That’s how they were raised.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said sarcastically. “Let’s not disrespect the state flag, the good ol’ homage to the Confederate flag. Because everyone knows that the South will rise again. Tell me now, how long has it been since the Civil War ended?”
“That’s not the point,” Norah said, shaking her head. “There’s a lot of proud Southern heritage and tradition surrounding the Mississippi flag.”
“You mean that time-honored tradition of institutionalized slavery and oppression?” I retorted.
Norah blinked slowly, her calm expression taking a lot of the heat out of me as she replied, “You sound just like Mr. Spann.”
You would have to know Mr. Spann for her retort to make any sense. That was her way of telling me that I was arguing for the sake of arguing. J. T. Spann, the boys’ athletic director, was notorious among the staff for doing just that. He would argue even when he didn’t wholeheartedly support the proposition he was defending. Mr. Spann was a grad student, working on his master’s. He took every opportunity to use the staff as test subjects, ironing out the kinks in his dissertation regarding the effects of manufactured aggression and its impact on modern-day athletes. J.T. got more than he bargained for when he helped me bust up that fight between Brian and Rayford and Zane.
“And furthermore,” Norah continued with a sniff, “the Civil War was just as much about states’ rights. A lot of good Southern folks who fought and died in that war didn’t even own slaves.”
I should have known better than to go head-to-head with a former history teacher. Being an English major myself, I would have been on better footing if I’d argued the points of whether William Shakespeare or Francis Bacon had penned most of the classic required-reading plays and sonnets.
“Don’t sound so surprised that feelings are still running high. You grew up here in Calhoun County. Your daddy was born and raised here. And your daddy’s daddy. You of all people should know what the people are like.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to thank Norah with the utmost sarcasm for the lesson in genealogy. But I didn’t. I held back. I’d been taking some online courses lately. Working on developing my people skills.
When I started this job four years ago, I wasn’t necessarily the warmest person. But I was working on that and I think it was finally paying off. At least now I wasn’t getting blank stares whenever I cracked a joke.
“Seems to me that the students would find something more meaningful to protest. Violation of human rights around the world, global warming, the mystery meat that we’re still serving in the cafeteria . . .”
“One crusade at a time, Mr. B.” N
orah held up her hands, backing away. The upper right corner of her lip twitched. That was as close Norah came to an all-out, gutbusting belly laugh during school hours. Not that she didn’t have a sense of humor. You couldn’t be a teacher for over two decades and then accept a position as the school vice principal if you didn’t have one.
“What? Did I say something funny?” My expression was deadpan, making the other side of her mouth curl up. I was on a roll now.
“So what do you want to do about the students who called in sick?” Norah asked.
All kidding aside now, I answered without missing a beat. “First, figure out which ones really are ill. Let’s pull the attendance files of all of these students. Check their absences. Then have the attendance assistant call the parents back and let them know that we can’t accept phone calls as excuses for their absences. We have to have written and signed notification. If any of those kids have more than three unexcused absences, make sure you let the parents know that’s automatic grounds for failure of the six-week term.”
“Are you serious, Mr. Barrett?”
“As a heart attack.”
“We can’t fail them. Some of the kids in this stack are A students. They really could be out sick. It’s fall. Flu season. Mono. Maybe some of the parents are taking an early Thanksgiving break. It could be anything.”
“It’s two weeks before the Thanksgiving break, Norah. I doubt if parents will be taking vacation that early. But we’ll find out for certain once we start making those calls, won’t we?”
“But do you think that’s wise, Mr. B? I’m not telling you how to run your school, but I don’t think that’s what the school counselor would suggest is the best way to handle this.”
“I am running this school, Norah,” I said evenly. Though she had gotten under my skin with that last crack. It’s not that I can’t have my judgment questioned. Every person in a position of authority does. I relied on my staff as sounding boards to help me make the right decisions. “Ms. Kayin’s not here now, is she? And even if she was, the decision would still be left up to me.”
Norah blinked again. “Ms. Kayin?” She stepped close and said softly, “Paul, Kirby’s not the school guidance counselor here anymore. It’s Mrs. Adair now.”
I had to catch myself. Old habits were hard to break. I wish I could say the same for old hearts. “Oh. Yeah. Right. I knew that,” I said, bobbing my head. “It was just a slip of the tongue. But neither one is here. So, I guess we’ll just have to muddle through this on our own. OK?”
Norah sighed heavily. “It’s your call, Mr. B.”
“Actually,” I said, grinning at her, “it’s the attendance assistant’s call. Let me know when she’s reached all of the parents. I’m heading for the showers. Be back in a bit.”
Chapter 2
The calls to the parents to get the students back to school should have been enough to squash the sick-in. And to the credit of the parents, a few students did come trickling back that afternoon. I called some of them to my office to discuss why they felt the need to protest, but I wasn’t getting much out of them. I guess they were still ticked off that I’d interrupted their early vacation.
The ones who really had a knack at getting the students to open up were out of pocket. The current school counselor, Shirla Mencken Adair, was on her honeymoon. As much as I wished her and her new husband well, I wished more that she were here giving me as much guidance as she did the students.
Since she started at the beginning of this school year, she’d managed to gain the trust of me, the staff, and the majority of the students. I was proud that she’d accomplished so much in such a short span of time. She’d had a hard act to follow from the previous school counselor.
The other person I’d thought of to help me get a handle on school unrest . . . well . . . let’s just say that she wasn’t available, either. The former school counselor was Kirby Kayin. Also very well liked by the students. Almost revered. It was hard losing her. Not because of the effect that she had on the students but the effect she had on me. No wonder her name had slipped so easily off my tongue. She’d been on my mind lately. On my mind and in my heart.
We’d started out together at this school together . . . in more ways than one. Friends through high school, lovers through college, and, though she didn’t know when she made the decision to leave Calhoun County, she was on the verge of receiving a marriage proposal from me.
I had it all set up, planned out. I would propose to her during homecoming. Pretty clever on my part, since we were the senior homecoming king and queen back in the day.
But when I came to pick her up for the game and the school dance afterward, the excitement on her face, the shine in her eyes, had nothing to do with the homecoming chrysanthemum, complete with glitter and ribbons of the school colors, that I’d brought her. Something bigger than me had captured her heart and it wasn’t easy to hear. Still, I couldn’t fault her. She’d been given the opportunity of a lifetime. To travel, to work with disadvantaged kids, to be a counselor in a new concept school in South America where the need for educators was desperate. Helping others was in her blood. Her parents had been missionaries. Had traveled the world for humanitarian interest. Even though they were killed in a plane crash when Kirby was thirteen, they still had an enormous impact on how she saw the world.
When the opportunity presented itself to continue the work her parents had begun, how could she say no to that? And I wouldn’t give her the chance to say no to me. To force her to make a choice. I supported her decision as best I could. Put my plans on hold until she let me know that she wanted them to become her plans as well.
The long-distance relationship is hard on us—taking a greater toll on me than I want to admit. We try to keep in touch. But phone calls are expensive and E-mail is kinda impersonal. The things I want to say to her I don’t want to put out there into cyberspace.
She tries to make it back to the States on major holidays, but her time isn’t her own. Her days are rushed and jampacked with to-dos she has to accomplish before going back. I can’t help but feel that she’s slipping further and further away from me. A sense of loss I can’t shake. When anyone calls to my attention the fact that she isn’t here, isn’t close to me, I’m shaken. And it takes a while to get my equilibrium back. The only remedy I’ve found is exercise—which is good for my health. And work—good for my career. By focusing on the students, I’ve managed to gain a rapport with them. But I don’t think I’ll ever have anything as close, as connected, as Kirby had with them. That’s just the kind of woman she was.
Listen to me. Talking in the past tense as if I’ve already lost her. It was so effortless with her. With me, I’ve got to work harder at it. Which was why I was determined to get to the bottom of this sick-in. Find out who initiated it. If I could convince the leaders that it wasn’t a good idea, I could get them to convince the die-hard, committed students to come back. As long as the hint of rebellion was out there, it was going to disrupt the school.
I’d just have to find another way to get the information that I needed. It was a well-known fact that when you needed to know, you needed Mayron. Mayron had been the school’s custodian since it opened. He was as much a fixture as the brick and mortar that held the school together. He’d been the eyes and ears for each principal. Mayron was a trusted source of unbiased, unfiltered information. I should know. I’d relied on him more times than I cared to count—when I was a student here many, many moons ago, and now as an administrator.
Some of the kids called Mayron “Narc” or “Snitch.” He wore that badge proudly. Mayron knew that when the kids wanted the staff to know something but didn’t feel comfortable going themselves, they spoke openly and pointedly in front of Mayron. Better than Western Union for getting a message through.
Was I a little jealous of the trust the students granted to Mayron? Maybe, sometimes. I was also jealous of Kirby’s ability. Still, I could use it to my advantage. As the students trusted them and they
demonstrated trust in me, the students began to see me as much as an ally as an administrator. I hoped to be thought of as the type of principal who was fair in all his dealings, showed an honest interest in their development, kept their environment safe, and encouraged them to want something more for themselves than what could be found within the twenty-mile radius that was Calhoun County, Mississippi.
I went to the boys’ gym to shower and change. It might be early enough to find Mayron there. He could be restocking the towels. But he’d already been there and gone. I could tell that by the fresh stack of chlorine-smelling, sandpaperlike towels neatly folded on the cart. After asking around, I found Mayron behind the cafeteria, dumping cardboard boxes into the recycling bin.
I walked up beside him, making sure to come up on the side with his good eye—on the left. Mayron’s right eye was a glass one. How he’d lost it no one was quite sure. But he liked to tell the students that he’d lost it when a student ran through the hall, improperly holding scissors by the handle instead of the blade, and tripped. And to save another student from certain impalement, Mayron contends that he gallantly stepped into the path. Made a good tale. But the one circulating around the school about Mayron throwing himself in front of an unsuspecting student to save her from the exploding cafeteria mystery meat was the best tale yet.
“ ’Morning, Mr. Barrett. What brings you out here on a frosty November morning?”
“Come on, Mayron. Don’t snow me. I think you know,” I replied, grabbing a stack of flattened cardboard boxes and tossing them into the recycling bin as well. The wind caught the box and lifted it into the air, before dropping it back into the bin again.
“Mr. Barrett, you shouldn’t be out here,” Mayron said solicitously. “You might get something on that nice suit.”
“You let me worry about that, Mayron.”
“Something tells me that ain’t all that you’re worried about, eh, Mr. Barrett?”