“Okay. The pay stinks. There’s no insurance and you get lousy hours. The kids are environmentally and socially challenged. You won’t get any support from my tired staff or even me, for that matter. I’m a tired old hag waiting to go on my next cruise. Still want the job?”
“Still.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Then I guess you're hired, Mr. Battle.”
“That was easy,” he said.
“I’m desperate. If you can make it work, then Godspeed.
By the way, I circled the typos on your resume. There are no middle schools in Chicago. Sullivan Elementary burned down in 1992, not 1994. I grew up in Chicago, too.”
He didn’t say anything. The Principal’s face broke into a grin. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen sloppier resumes.”
Mr. Wirtz appeared in the doorway. “The classrooms are empty and the little ones have scattered for the weekend,” he said with sarcasm.
“Ah! Mr. Wirtz! I’d like you to meet Mr. Battle. He’ll be our new teacher for the After School Program”
“We met,” John smiled at the Principal.
John offered to shake hands, but Mr. Wirtz seemed preoccupied as he brushed past him to a filing cabinet in the corner.
“I don’t recall,” Wirtz said.
“You gave me the job posting.”
“Did I?”
Mrs. Weed spoke with a pasted grin. “Mr. Wirtz is our Assistant Principal and Disciplinarian. And in a pinch, he can run any class we offer.”
Wirtz shrugged. “He’ll need a classroom and keys, I suppose. Has he been fingerprinted with the city yet?”
Battle tensed.
The savvy principal noticed his reaction. “That won't be necessary. He’s part-time.”
Wirtz let out a long, gassy sigh of exasperation. “For the record, I must protest this whole After School thing.” He addressed Battle directly. “Nothing against you. I haven’t seen your resume, but these five teenagers? They’re unteachable. It's a major waste of yours or anybody else's time, not to mention the added expense on our budget.”
“Been teaching too long?” Battle asked.
“Long enough to admit failure when I see it.”
Mrs. Weed stood up, intervening. “Now, now gentlemen. The ink isn’t even dry on our arrangement with Mr. Battle. Mr. Wirtz, if it isn’t too much trouble, perhaps you can fill our new volunteer in on his future students?”
“Students? Hardly the word I‘d choose,” he said with disdain. “Mr.… What is your name again?”
“Battle. John Battle.”
“I’m not much for names,” Wirtz said without apology. “I have to chase a few stragglers off the premises before they spray paint the building. Meet me in Room 107 in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there,” Battle said.
Mr. Wirtz flew out of the room in a hurry, leaving the principal and new teacher alone.
“You’ll have to excuse his behavior,” Mrs. Weed said. “But between us? He really does care about the kids here. That’s why the Tadpoles frustrate him so. He used to get along with all the students but lately… Twenty-five years of teaching wears anybody down.”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” Battle said.
“Oh?” The principal asked. “Do tell.”
“I think Mr. Wirtz is a manipulator. He play-acts for sympathy, attention, and empathy.”
The principal laughed. “Ah! That is refreshing to hear. Mr. Wirtz can be overtly smug sometimes.”
“He reminds me of a character out of Charles Dickens,” John said.
“Let me guess,” said Mrs. Weed. “Mr. Scrooge?”
“Mr. Scrooge.”
“Bah, humbug for him!”
Battle arrived at Mr. Wirtz’s office ten minutes later. Wirtz was already there, a short stack of files on his desk. He seemed prepared for a fight.
“It’s late,” Wirtz said. “So I’ll make this short and direct.” He picked up his first folder. “Julio Ramirez. Nineteen years old. An only child. His mother died from a drug overdose six months ago. He lives with his alcoholic father. Hobbies include cold-cocking unsuspecting kids in the hallway. He has a reputation for cheating on every test. My guess is that Julio has an addiction to alcohol. He should have graduated a year ago, but still needs twelve credits.”
He handed Battle the folder. John recognized the picture stapled inside. It was one of the kids in the photographs Hogan supplied.
“Nice picture of him with a black eye, eh?” Wirtz said. “Julio thinks fighting is a gym assignment.” Wirtz attacked the next file. “Tobias Chambers. Toby. Nearly eighteen. His parents are deaf. If you listen to Toby, he’ll tell you that he has every ailment known to adolescence. ADD, ADHD, bipolar… We haven’t had the chance to test him because he skips so much school, but my prognosis is that he’s probably dyslexic. The boy is athletic, but won’t involve himself in any group activities. At least not here. I suspect he is bright in all of his subjects, but he flat out refuses to lift a finger to accomplish anything. Toby is only at a sophomore ability level.”
“Deaf parents, you say?”
“Yes.” Wirtz handed Battle the folder. “It’s a big secret with him. Next… Matthew Golden. He’s born-to-the-manor trailer trash. His stepfather is a Neo-Nazi biker with diabetes. Mum is a self-taught tattoo artist. Like Toby and Julio, Matt could be out of high school, but he never finishes anything he starts. Not ever. His parents make him baby-sit their three other love children a lot. Kid has promise, but the parents are screwing it up for him.”
“Maybe he thinks that by finishing school, he’ll be forced to grow up and move on, but since he’s been tagged as a surrogate parent already, he feels guilty about abandoning the family to achieve his own goals.”
“Interesting observation,” Wirtz said. “It may also be why he’s a Tadpole.”
“Tadpole?” John asked.
“These kids are all connected at the hip. Best friends. They hang together along a creek in the neighborhood. Call themselves the Tadpoles. Very immature for their ages, if you ask me.” He passed John the Matt Golden file and picked up another. “Now we have our little Lolita. Marie Fuentes. She acts like she’s a quiet and demure twelve-year-old but she’s really an Hispanic vixen with razor-edged nails. She filed three improper conduct cases against former teachers at previous schools. All unfounded. She'll be looking to add you to that list if history serves itself. The young lady is as slow as slow can get when it comes to schoolwork and motivation. She lives with her grandparents, who are both in denial, by the way. Good luck getting her to show up.”
“Why does she live with her grandparents?”
“We can’t keep track of everyone, Mr. Battle.”
A small headache erupted in Battle’s temple. He rubbed it, trying to catch the pain.
“You seem ill, sir.”
“I’m fine. Just a migraine.”
Wirtz sniffed, then continued. “Last on the list is Amber Beulah. Our foster care expert. She’s been in six of them. Now she’s in her fourth group home in the past three years. Amber is sixteen going on sixty. Five different high schools, almost no credits anywhere. But if you have a conversation with her, there’s a learned intelligence. Let's see... Comments from teachers and caregivers:
‘Amber is at the center of a very strange universe.’ ‘Anyone over eighteen is an authority figure and therefore a threat.’
‘Do not fall asleep around this girl with sharp objects nearby...’
‘Anger management should be offered on the hour...’ ‘Strikes out when cornered... Probably hates men. ‘Masochistic acts always followed by extreme depression.’
‘Abandonment issues.’”
Wirtz laid her folder on top of the rest. “There you have it, Mr. Battle. Behold the five faces of evil. Five little pearls waiting for you to polish them up.”
“Just a bunch of kids to me,” Battle said.
“Mark my words. This bunch will wear you out.”
Wirtz stood
and pulled a set of keys from his vest pocket, locking his desk and the filing cabinets in the room.
“I’m allowed to take these files?” Battle asked.
“You can borrow them, read them, burn them if you like.”
“Why the sarcasm, Mr. Wirtz?”
“You’re their last stop on the education train, Mr. Battle. An outsider. A nobody to them. If you fail, they all fall down.”
“Why do you teach, Mr. Wirtz?”
“I’m two years from retirement.”
“In the early days, why did you want to become a teacher?”
“It wasn’t for economic gain, I can assure you. Anything else, Mr. Battle?”
“Not at the moment.”
“You start on Monday, five to seven every evening, Monday through Friday.” Wirtz slid a set of keys to Battle. “Your lab is in the basement. Room B1. The kids all say it’s haunted. Come in an hour early, and I’ll show you how to operate the pass codes for various rooms, the alarm system, lights and copy machine. For security reasons, I can’t give you a key for the library or computer lab.”
“I’ll adjust.”
“Just doing my job.” Wirtz slipped on an overcoat. “I wish I could sound enthusiastic, but you see, I’ve met almost as many teachers as students over the years and quite frankly, I’ve only been impressed by a handful. What kind of teacher are you going to be, Mr. Battle?”
“Ask me in a month.”
“I hope you’re not an idealist. Shall I walk you out?”
Mr. Wirtz picked up a bag stuffed with student papers, turned out the lights, and escorted Battle towards the exit.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marie Fuentes darted out the side gate of her grandparents’ house towards the sidewalk. She had been living with the two old people since last Spring and life was getting more difficult with them every day. They had too many old-fashioned rules. When she broke them, she had to listen to their lectures. But they were always the same lecture.
You’ll get pregnant. You’ll become addicted to drugs. You’ll be murdered. You’ll go to a woman’s prison.
In one ear, out the other.
Grandfather was on the porch. He was reading his Spanish language newspaper. He yelled at her. “Where you think you’re going, looking like that?”
“Out,” she said.
“Go back in the house and change those clothes!” he pleaded.
She was wearing a black leather miniskirt, torn tee top and three clunky cheap necklaces.
“You look like a slut!” he said next.
“This is how kids dress today,” she said.
“What kids?” he asked.
“Just watch Telemundo,” she said. “This style is everywhere.”
“For whores, maybe.”
“I’m not a whore!” she screamed.
“You’re no young lady either,” he said.
“Live with it,” she said defiantly.
“Your school called,” he remembered. “They found a teacher! You start Monday. Maybe he can teach you somethin’.”
“I don’t need no teachin’.”
“’I don’t need no teachin’. What kind of English is that?” “Better than your English,” she said.
Marie’s worried grandmother came out of the house and stood next to the old man. She had a dishtowel in her hand. Her eyes followed the young girl who hurried down the street.
“You listen to your grandfather!” she yelled after her in Spanish.
But the child kept walking away.
The old woman sat on the porch swing next to the old man. “She is lost to the streets,” she lamented.
He shuffled his newspaper. “I hate this goddamned country!”
“Come inside,” the grandmother said. “Dinner is ready.”
“What about our stray cat?”
“She comes when she is hungry. At least we have that.”
The old man stretched and rose from his seat. “It is her mother’s fault. She never should have left her. And those things on her neck. Those boys… They are animals.”
“They are called hickeys,” grandmother said. “You gave me one once.”
“No!” Grandfather said.
“Yes,” she said. “When we were fifteen.”
He scratched his head trying to remember so long ago as he followed his buxom, round wife inside for dinner.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Marie sat brooding on the old log. “School on Monday, already. A new teacher. Ha! See if he can teach me! See if I even go.”
Her grandparents had made her furious, calling her a whore. She knew they saw the hickeys. But that was all the boys did to her – suck on her neck.
But no lower.
Marie picked up a stone and bombed it in the creek. Matt and Amber appeared on the footbridge above. “Have you heard, Marie?” Matt called down. “We got a
teacher!”
“I heard,” she called back up.
Matt and Amber slid down the trail and joined her. “Why can't these old people just leave us alone?” Marie
asked.
“Leave us alone to do what?” Amber asked.
“To have fun. Mess around.”
“I’m not having any fun,” Matt said.
“Neither am I,” said Amber.
“Then I suppose I’m not either,” Marie realized.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After his short walk around the block, John Battle was surprised to find that an early supper was being served in the dining room. Mrs. Powell had polished her silver and dusted off the fine China.
“I thought a nice Yankee Pot Roast with potatoes and carrots was in order,” Mrs. Powell said. “Comfort food from my Dutch oven to celebrate the start of something new.”
She removed the lid from the pot.
John’s eager eyes followed the aromatic steam as it rose towards the giant chandelier hovering over the center of the big table. The food smelled delicious.
“I haven’t eaten in here since my husband passed away,” Mrs. Powell admitted. “Such a beautiful room to entertain in, but so few friends left.”
“Have you considered taking up bridge or some other inhouse social entertainment?”
She carried the pot from her end of the table to his. “I already tried that. My first partner went blind, my second missed too many tournaments due to a hip replacement surgery gone bad, Another drank too much and played silly. Besides, old women talk too much about the past and I have no time for idle chitchat and gossip. And you? Did you enjoy your walk through the neighborhood?”
“Very much so,” John said.
“Nothing too strenuous, I hope?”
“Just far enough.”
“Shall I fix your plate?”
“Yes, please. Easy on the onions.”
She scooped out a large helping. “Is this too much of a meal for your stomach?”
“Mrs. Powell, everything you prepare is wonderful. My brain isn’t connected to my stomach.”
“It’s just that…” she admitted, “I don’t want to burden you with anything out of the ordinary, anything that might go wrong…”
“What is it, Mrs. Powell? You seem upset.”
“Oh, John,” she declared, dropping her serving spoon and fork in the pot, “I don’t want to meddle. I promised not to interfere, but this, this teaching business, it smacks of absolute insanity!”
“Perhaps it is,” he said in a low voice.
“Please, John. Please tell me why you’re doing this. You only have a few months to live. Why this?”
John picked up the cutlery and spooned out a small portion of pot roast, then led Mrs. Powell to her own seat where he served her a similar-sized dish.
“It’s simple, really. Quite simple. I committed a terrible sin fifteen years ago and now I must reconcile things.”
“What are you running from, John?”
He returned to his seat, sat and remained very still.
“Please, John. There is a secre
t in you. Dark and brooding. Share it with me. Perhaps I can help.”
John locked his hands together, closed his eyes and lowered his head.
“What do you hope to accomplish with what little time you have left?”
“I can’t tell you, Mrs. Powel,” he conceded.
“Why not, John?”
“Because it is a foolish idea.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “And yet I can think of no other approach to my dilemma.”
“Talk to me about it. Tell me what it is. There might be a better solution.”
John left his seat and crossed to the window, staring out at the yard. “I sat in a steel and cinder block cell for fifteen years. Why? Because of my ego. I used to be an attorney, Mrs. Powell. A very good attorney. I made too much money, never lost a case. My life was all about me. I had a wife, children, a beautiful home, too many friends. It only took one night to change all that. And after that, still I was too almighty about myself.” He laughed ironically. “I even handled my own defense… searching for loopholes, digging through similar case studies for an out. You see… I wasn’t willing to accept the guilt of my crime. At first, I wanted to believe I was above punishment. After all, I was a legal insider, a player. I found myself competing with God.” He took a chair next to the old woman, desperate to be understood now. “I truly believed I could outsmart the system, that I deserved to win because of arrogance. maximum sentence. But all those days and years in prison took their toll. One day, the light finally came on in my heart and soul. God and I became friends again. My arrogance annihilated, now I’m here to make restitution. Even with so little time left, still I must move slowly and methodically.”
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