by Linda Byler
“What have I done to encourage you to, well … in plain words, just turn against me like this?”
Fresh tears rose unbidden as her eyes searched the older pupils’ faces, hoping for, and yet dreading, their answers. There was dead silence. Lizzie waited, alarmed to see tears rise in the eyes of the most timid of her little girls. She tried to summon a reassuring smile for her, feeling sorry that she had to put her through this lecture.
Slowly, an upper-grade girl lifted her arm.
“Yes?” Lizzie said.
“It started with the boys.”
Lizzie looked at the boys, her eyes never wavering, until one by one, they dropped their eyes from her gaze. “I know, Rachel. I know that’s where the problem started, but you girls were willing accomplices these past few weeks. But, to be perfectly honest, I can’t put the blame 100 percent on the boys. I know I don’t have a happy, carefree attitude myself. I haven’t come to school and remained enthused about ordinary, everyday lessons. Maybe I was a worse teacher than I thought I was.”
The oldest of the boys, Melvin, raised his hand.
“Yes?” Lizzie said, raising her eyebrows.
“You give us too much work. You’re always pushing us too hard, and we never hear one word of praise. That’s what started it.”
Lizzie’s eyes opened wide in disbelief, and she struggled to maintain her composure. Of all the nerve! Spoiled child! He was so lazy, it wasn’t even funny. How dare he?
“But … but …” Lizzie sputtered. “You’re supposed to do all the assigned work the teacher tells you to do. I can’t cut back on lessons just because the pupils think it’s too much. Don’t you have any spare time at all? Ever?”
Rapidly, heads began to shake back and forth, and a few of the boys snickered.
That’s when a hot, white anger coursed through Lizzie’s veins, and she pulled herself up to her full height, surveying her classroom much as an eagle watched its prey. “All right. That’s enough. I made the mistake of being less than happy some days, grouchy really, and that is my fault. I’m sorry. But you boys are just not doing your job either. You are not trying to do your work nearly as well as you could. As for spare time, the library books are being used much more than necessary. How many of you have a book you’re reading in your spare time?”
Every hand shot up.
“How many of you are finished with yesterday’s vocabulary?”
Only a few of the girls raised their hands.
“And … how many have finished the art I assigned you on Friday?”
Not one hand was raised.
Lizzie sighed before she began again, “So you see, what we have going all wrong is a vicious circle of me being grouchy and you pupils being lazy. None of us has the enthusiasm we should have. But as far as me assigning too much work, I find that extremely hard to believe. How can I offer any praise for lessons that are rarely completed on time or with so little effort put into them?”
Mary, an older pupil, shook her head slowly. That gave Lizzie the courage to continue.
“So there are going to be a few changes. There will be no recess for pupils with unfinished work. I know for a fact that every one of you is perfectly capable of completing every assignment on time, and if any of you has a problem with that, you may raise your hand.”
No one raised their hands. Lizzie sighed as she searched the boys’ faces anxiously.
“Now, does anyone have an idea about how we can all stay enthused and energetic with our work?”
Two of the girls raised their hands.
“Yes, Sally?”
“You could give us points for 100 percent, then have a prize after we have so many points,” she said.
“Not 100 percent! Anything over 92 percent. It’s too hard to get every single problem right,” Allen, one of the boys, shot back.
Suddenly Lizzie saw the opportunity to win over Allen.
“Good idea, Allen! Of course, it is hard to get 100 percent in every subject. But 92 percent is a bit lenient, so why don’t we say 95 percent, or anything over that, is a point?” she asked, smiling at him.
His face reddened, and he looked flustered but said, “Sounds good.”
“All right. That’s what we’re going to do. Now how are we going to keep track of each individual’s points? And, how many points are a fair amount before we have the prize? What will the prize be?”
Over half of the classroom’s hands shot up, some of the children raising their hands as high as they would go while they opened their eyes wide with anticipation, bursting to tell Lizzie what they thought.
One by one, the pupils told her their ideas, until they had come up with a feasible plan. Stars were the answer, they said. Those little foil stars you licked on the back and stuck on a chart. After they each had over 500 stars, the whole school would go on a hike.
“That is just a great idea,” Lizzie said. “Tell you what! The day of the hike, we’ll ask permission to roast hot dogs and marshmallows!”
“Crackers and peanut butter!” shouted a fourth-grader, who instantly slunk down in his seat after receiving some lowered eyebrow looks from the upper-graders.
“I love a burned marshmallow between Ritz crackers with peanut butter on them,” Lizzie said, smiling to reassure him.
That evening, Lizzie found four notes attached to workbooks. Her heart swelled with love and gratitude to her pupils, especially the upper-grade girls who wrote endearing little notes of apology. The boys didn’t write notes, but they may as well have, she thought.
One by one, they wandered up to her desk, starting friendly conversations with Lizzie until they were talking and laughing like old friends. Then they picked sides to start playing baseball on Monday morning, teasing Lizzie because she was no longer the first one to be picked.
The change in Lizzie’s enthusiasm was almost unbelievable. Every day she sensed the pupils brought equal eagerness to arriving at school, playing baseball at recess, raising averages during class, and bending their heads studiously as they all tried to receive good grades.
The weather was beautiful with soft breezes beckoning them all outside at recess. Often she allowed them 15 minutes extra playtime, mostly because the baseball games were extremely competitive, which Lizzie enjoyed more than anything. There were still minor discipline problems, but she no longer went home with a sinking feeling of failure, of not knowing which way to turn.
A few weeks later there was a knock on the schoolhouse door. Lizzie opened it to find the porch filled with the school board members and their wives. Her knees felt as if every bone and muscle had turned to gelatin. “Come in,” she said, trying to smile calmly and naturally, although her mouth had instantly turned into the texture of a cotton ball.
She put out folding chairs and directed a few of the school board members to empty seats on a bench along the back wall while her heart hammered in her ears. Please, please let my pupils behave, she thought.
After everyone was seated comfortably, Lizzie resumed teaching her German classes. Good, she thought, I’m glad we’re having German. Most of her upper-grade pupils were good readers in the German language, which Lizzie knew impressed their parents, and especially school board members.
As usual, Melvin read clearly and properly, followed by Rachel who did just as well. She stole a cautious glance at the men and was gratified to see them raising their eyebrows at each other.
That is a good sign, she thought. Hopefully, things will be all right. Next she reviewed flashcards with the fourth-graders, who loudly pronounced each German letter.
After the lessons were completed, the children all filed to the front of the room to sing for their visitors. The pupils minded their manners, walking quietly without whispering or punching each other. Oh, bless them, Lizzie thought. She chose songs that normally went well, and as the music rose in volume, swirling around the classroom with its warm melody and touching words, she was very grateful to her pupils for putting their hearts and souls into the singing.
She couldn’t praise them with the school board there, but she rolled her eyes and hissed, “Thanks!” to the older girls, which brought a smile to their faces.
After the children were dismissed for recess, she talked with the visitors, answering questions and thanking them for the fresh gravel that had been put down in the driveway.
“Well, it looks as if you needed it,” one of the women answered.
“Oh, we did. I even had the nerve to ask for it,” Lizzie said, laughing.
Before the school board members left, they all mentioned that they hoped she would consider teaching at least another term.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lizzie said, flustered. “Does this mean you’re asking me seriously or …?”
“Oh, no, we’ll come around to ask you,” Jonas Beiler said. “This is just to warn you.”
Lizzie was left with a warm feeling of accomplishment after the school board members left. There was something satisfying about winning their approval that made her want to become an even better teacher, to exercise all of her ideas and plans because she was doing some good for the community.
Teaching school was like that. It continually held Lizzie’s interest and fascination. It was like being at the helm of a little boat filled with children on an unpredictable body of water. You never knew what would happen from one day to the next, and you couldn’t always depend on smooth sailing. But in spite of it all, every day was filled with love from the children. They were, indeed, such unique little individuals, each having their own separate needs. Each one teaches me something, Lizzie thought wryly.
She sat down on the front porch steps, her chin in her hands as she reflected on the past year. It certainly had not been without its ups and downs, its trials and challenges, but through it all, she wanted to continue teaching more than ever.
What else would I do, she thought. Grade eggs until I’m gray-haired and bent over from old age? School gives me the blues sometimes, but not always. Not nearly always. Actually, only a small fraction of the time.
Now that she was 18 years old, she felt every inch a young woman, capable of handling her job, looking forward to another year of teaching, achieving goals, and finding fulfillment doing something she loved.
Lizzie watched the creek that ran beside the school, babbling over the rocks, winding its way to the river, meandering through the green, sleepy pasture. Yes, she decided, she was happy. Genuinely happy being a teacher. But deep down, she knew she did not want to be a teacher forever, or rather, until she died. She wanted to have a home of her own, a husband and children, just like every ordinary Amish girl. Just like Emma.
She shook her head, thinking about Mandy and John. Boy, if they weren’t off to a running start. She accepted the idea of Mandy dating, no longer struggling with jealousy, thanks to John’s farm and his cows, but still … sometimes she longed to have a special friend of her own. Not always. Boys can be so … immature sometimes, acting so childish. ’Course, I better watch it. Mandy says I act the same way at times.
She was just ready to get up and go inside when she heard the distinct rattle of wheels, along with the steady clip-clop of a horse-drawn buggy approaching. She watched as the black horse slowed and turned in, coming to a stop in front of the porch. The door of the buggy was pushed open from inside, and Rebecca stuck her head out the door.
“Hi!” she said, her blue eyes sparkling from beneath her heavy, black lashes.
“Hi, yourself!” Lizzie grinned, genuinely glad to see her friend. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, I had to help Sarah for the day and finished early, so I came to talk to you for awhile.”
“Good! Tie your horse to the fence and come see my classroom,” Lizzie said happily.
“I can’t. I have to get going. We’re planting the garden tonight.”
“Really? Already?”
“It’s late this year.”
“I guess.”
“What are you doing this weekend?” Rebecca asked.
“I don’t know. Why? Come over.”
“Elmer Riehls have the supper for us on Sunday,” Rebecca said, swatting at a fly that tried to enter the buggy.
“Good!”
“Did you know Stephen’s coming home?” she asked.
Lizzie’s attention was suddenly riveted on the horse’s ears. For some strange reason, she could not meet Rebecca’s gaze at that moment. She straightened her black apron belt, running her hand quickly across it to eliminate some imaginary dust. Wiping a hand across her forehead, she finally turned to face Rebecca.
“Is he? When?” she asked.
“Saturday. He’s going to stay home, he thinks. I hope he does. I miss him too much when he lives so far away.”
“I bet,” Lizzie said absentmindedly.
“Well, see you, Lizzie. I really do have to go.”
Before Lizzie could answer, Rebecca was off down the hill, rounding the turn at a dangerous speed before racing down the road on her way to plant the garden.
Stephen is coming home to stay. Oh, my word. Now what? How am I supposed to feel? She sat back down on the concrete steps of the schoolhouse and held perfectly still, lifting her face upwards to trace the pattern of two swallows who were dipping and weaving their way across the blue sky.
Quite unexpectedly, she felt the soft strains of music in her heart. The tune grew louder and louder, like an iridescent bubble beginning to form. It grew in volume until she thought of the mound of bubbles running over the side of the sink when she washed dishes as a little girl.
She wondered if God spoke to a person in bubbles. Or feelings like bubbles. She breathed deeply, sighing happily as all the imaginary bubbles floated toward the sky, joining the soaring swallows with music on their wings.
Chapter 13
LIZZIE STOOD IN FRONT of her open closet doors, flipping through the sleeves of her dresses, trying to decide what color she should choose. None of her dresses fit her mood. She should have made a new one for this evening.
She considered the light aqua blue dress. No. Too pale. Just wore it a week ago. Navy blue. Don’t think so. Too dark for Saturday evening. Burgundy. Deep, dark red. Hate those sleeves. Too short. And on and on, until she was almost through her row of dresses.
“I have nothing to wear!” she wailed out loud, hoping Mandy would hear her and come to her rescue. She didn’t like to admit it, but Mandy’s choices were sometimes better than her own. That, or it boosted Lizzie’s self-confidence to have Mandy say she looked nice in a certain color.
As nervous and edgy as she felt this evening, nothing, not one color, looked right to her.
Mandy’s face appeared at the doorway, laughing. “Red. Deep, dark burgundy would look nice on you tonight with your tanned face.”
She disappeared, swiping furiously at her wet hair with a fluffy blue towel.
Lizzie pulled at the sleeve of her burgundy dress, liking the feel of the soft satiny material, thinking that Mandy was probably right as usual.
She pulled on the dress, gazing at herself in the mirror, nervously biting down on her lower lip. She whistled under her breath as she combed her hair, wondering what the evening would bring. Her heart thudded, almost stopped, then went racing on every single time she thought of Stephen.
As soon as Lizzie and Mandy arrived at Jacob Beilers, Rebecca and Mary Ann raced out of the house, hopped into the buggy, and rode with them into the barn. Laughing and talking, the friends remained in the buggy, catching up on all the latest news, admiring each other’s dresses, and laughing at Rebecca’s antics as she imitated her failure at combing her hair into a bob earlier that evening.
Lizzie laughed along with the rest of them, although her laugh felt a bit forced and strained as she kept glancing furtively over her shoulder, wondering where Stephen was at that moment. Maybe he hadn’t even come home this week, she thought. She didn’t have the nerve to ask Rebecca, although her curiosity almost overwhelmed her common sense. Better to be quiet, she knew.
“And then,” Mary Ann concluded, “she told me I have to chop my onions even more! Can you imagine? The tears were already running down my face!”
“Oh, I envy you! I wish my mom would let me work in the kitchen of a restaurant!” Lizzie burst out.
“It’s okay. I enjoy it. But it’s harder work than you think, Lizzie.”
Lizzie smiled back at Mary Ann, thinking how fortunate she was to work in a restaurant. Mam was so strict. She always told them a restaurant was no place for her girls—too many men, too many temptations, which Lizzie thought was just ridiculous. What was the difference? She had dealt with temptation in the egg-grading room when that English truck driver, Don Albert, had flirted with her. She enjoyed teaching school, but a part of her longed to work as a waitress in a real-life restaurant. But Mam would never agree.
There was just something so glamorous about lifting a tray of glasses or dishes of steaming food in one hand while walking swiftly to serve a table of waiting patrons, she thought. When she was a little girl she had often practiced that maneuver, playing restaurant for countless hours, holding a small tablet, asking her “customers” what they would like.
“The volleyball net is set up,” John called to the girls. “Let’s play.”
They clambered down from the buggy and headed across the neatly mowed lawn to the playing field where the volleyball net was stretched between two heavy poles. A few of the boys tightened the pegs holding the poles.
The girls called hello to the young men as the game quickly began in earnest. Lizzie didn’t see Stephen anywhere. He wasn’t here. Well, all right, he probably never came home. After all, Rebecca hadn’t mentioned a thing.
As the evening wore on, the volleyball game became more intense. Competition was fierce, and Lizzie forgot about Stephen as she was swept up in the heat of the game.
“Time out!” one of the boys yelled.
“Game over!” John shouted.
Lizzie laughed and shook her head. Her breath was coming in short gasps from the exertion, the constant movement of the game, and all of the shouting. Her side had lost in spite of her efforts. The group drifted away from the volleyball net. The girls laid out the food while the boys carried out a cooler filled to capacity with ice and sodas. Lizzie bent over to choose a drink when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Straightening, she looked directly into Stephen’s face.