Seventh period almost commenced without any further distractions, but as I passed a breezeway en route to my next class, I noticed Desiree Meadows standing alone beside a water fountain. She certainly wasn’t sipping any stagnant spillage from that antique dispenser, but her listless mannerisms made her appear as lost as a freshman on the first day of school. Her pale arms dangled languorously at her sides, and she kept glancing at her watch as if waiting for a tardy friend’s arrival. Naturally, I thought about the dire circumstances linking her to Shawn Winger, but I wasn’t yet prepared to intercede on this matter.
At present I couldn’t determine who deserved more sympathy. Was it the impregnated teenager? Even now she appeared strangely benevolent in her sexuality, incapable of deliberately cajoling her married coach into an affair. What starry-eyed dreams did the little waif whisper in his ear? Or was it Shawn’s own deviousness that required deeper reflection? He was a man who never complained about his demure wife until today. I presumed Jill Winger thought as highly about her husband as everyone else in this school.
Temptation to reprimand a wrongdoing lingered on my lips as I walked past Desiree, but I couldn’t be so impulsive. Additionally, Stanley’s parting advice to me still jolted around inside my head like a misfired pinball. I wasn’t prepared for any further rejection at the moment. Adding to this dilemma, many students filed into the corridor from the gymnasium. Now wasn’t the proper time to kindle any smoldering emotions in Desiree. She had enough to contend with on this morning without listening to my half-hearted homilies.
Any attempt on my part to arrive in my classroom on time for next period was becoming increasingly remote. Students whom I didn’t typically see outside of class more than once a day now sought me out of the crowd. One such example was Mitch Dalton. Like a seasoned defensive player, he knew precisely where to intercept me. As I approached my classroom, Mitch positioned himself directly in front of the door. I had no other choice than to converse with him.
“Hey, Mr. Cobbs, do you got a minute?”
I owed Mitch at least sixty seconds of my time for helping tame Drew Mincer outside the auditorium earlier today. Of course, his inquiry was purely rhetorical, for he had no intention of backing away from the door if I denied his request.
“What’s on your mind, Mitch?”
For a behemoth donning a football jersey, Mitch suddenly looked conspicuously deflated. Whatever he wanted to say, he didn’t wish to broadcast it beyond the range of my ears. “I was sort of thinkin’ about what you said before,” he whispered. “You know, about the football stuff.”
Over the years I had learned to infer the gist of my students’ conversations even when they were being unintentionally vague. In this instance, I presumed Mitch attempted to covertly refer to his steroid usage. His twitching eyes and quivering jaw plainly revealed his embarrassment, so I simply nodded my chin to indicate that I was attentive to his concerns.
“I don’t want to be on the juice anymore,” he admitted. “I think I can play a decent game without it.”
“I think so too, Mitch,” I concurred.
“The coaches always say we all need an extra edge, but it’s not worth it. I don’t want to feel so tense all the time. No amount of tackles is worth my sanity.”
I didn’t know if I trusted Mitch to honor his own convictions. He rarely followed up with any promises related to his studies, and I had almost surrendered to the inevitability that he’d end up a dejected ex-jock by the finals of his first semester at college. But at least he touched upon his reliance to the performance enhancing drugs that plagued most sports programs for longer than anyone cared to admit.
“I’m glad you’re finally seeing the dangers of those drugs,” I said.
“It didn’t really click with me until I talked to you before,” Mitch continued. “No scholarship is gonna make me do anything stupid. My parents just want me to get into a good school like my sister. But they don’t see me doing it without playing ball.”
“And do they have a plan for you if the football scholarship doesn’t pan out?”
“Not really. My dad just keeps tellin’ me not to blow it.”
“Does he or your mother know that you’re taking steroids?”
Mitch cleared his throat as if he had a piece of his own Adam’s apple lodged in it. He then looked around nervously before responding to my blunt question. “They never say nothin’ to me about it.”
“So what do you want to do next, Mitch? If you truly want to make a change in your lifestyle, then you’re the only one who can do it.”
I watched Mitch fumble through a pile of papers he had collected in a blue folder. He had difficulty pinching a few papers between his sausage-sized fingers, but he eventually displayed an application. “I went down to the guidance office last period and picked up some information on a few local colleges. I guess I need to write a couple of essays before sending them out though.”
“That’s a standard procedure for most colleges nowadays,” I affirmed.
“Yeah,” said Mitch in a hollow voice. “But I guess you sort of know that I ain’t so good at writing essays, Mr. Cobbs. So I was wondering if you could help me out?”
I instinctually never rejected a student’s request for help, and Mitch’s sudden enthusiasm for accomplishing something on his own provided me with a fleeting moment of inspiration. “I’d be happy to help you with the applications, Mitch.”
A sense of relief washed the tension from Mitch’s protruding brow. He looked like an oversized kid who wanted to squeeze the life out of something with a hug, but I’m grateful that he exercised enough restraint to maintain his composure.
“Thanks a lot,” he gushed. “I mean that’s really cool of you, Mr. Cobbs. I know I haven’t been your greatest student, but I promise I’m gonna try harder. Ms. Garland said that most of these colleges have strict deadlines, so I ain’t got much time to get these things done.”
“How much time do you have before the applications are due?”
“Basically none,” he replied. “I’ll need your help real soon.”
“How soon?”
“I was thinkin’ like today after school. I gotta have this one application in before the weekend.”
“Today?” I repeated in disbelief, knowing that of all days this one was the most inconvenient for me to schedule a meeting with Mitch. As much as I wanted to fulfill my promise, I simply needed more time. “I can’t meet with you after school today, Mitch. I have an important doctor’s appointment to go to.”
I watched Mitch’s face flood like a crimson tide as he processed my denial. His tone became gruffer, too. “C’mon, Mr. Cobbs. This is a huge step for me. You got to help me out.”
“I will help you,” I insisted, “but you have to be reasonable. I can’t just cancel an appointment with my doctor the last minute.”
“So what am I supposed to do now?”
“Look, I know there are a few other teachers in this school who’d be willing to look at your college essays. Why don’t you ask them?”
“Nah,” Mitch huffed. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause I don’t got any essays to show them yet.”
It then occurred to me that Mitch’s idea of seeking assistance in the writing process involved me composing the entire piece alone. Of course, I also realized that this boy’s temperament was as unstable as a trailer park in the midst of a tornado. His forehead had already begun to perspire profusely, which was a telltale sign of a spike in blood pressure. The tendons in his neck suddenly looked like engorged fire hoses, and his eyes narrowed as if the pressure behind his temples was too unbearable to contain. It didn’t require an expert in physiology to confirm the repercussions of steroid usage. I had only seconds to quell the storm raging within him.
“I know you’re frustrated, Mitch, but there’s always tomorrow. Maybe we can arrange to meet then.” Mitch clenched his fingers around the papers he held to the point where they crinkled.
&
nbsp; “Why do you got to make it hard for me, Mr. Cobbs?”
Students like Mitch didn’t quite understand that the “me-first” syndrome worked better with their parents than with teachers. It wasn’t unusual for teenagers to assume that their problems eclipsed everything else going on in the world. I had learned to cope with the egotistic mentalities parading through these corridors, but I was also weary from the confrontations after the students figured out that they weren’t truly as entitled as they were once told.
Mitch eventually loosened his grip on the papers and returned them to his folder. I must’ve appeared ill enough for him to accept the fact that medical treatment was necessary. “So what’s wrong with you anyway?” he inquired neutrally.
I shrugged my shoulders and answered, “No one really knows yet, Mitch, or if they do, they’re not telling me.”
“That really sucks, man.” I sensed the hulking boy’s gaze studying me as closely as he might’ve scrutinized the opposition’s playbook. “Come to think of it, it does seem like you lost a lot of weight lately. And you look kind of tired, too.”
“You’re right on both counts.” When identifying defects in adults, a classroom of high school seniors handled the task more efficiently than a team of elite doctors.
“I feel kind of bad saying so,” Mitch continued, “but some of us thought you might be partying too much.”
I didn’t know if I should’ve been flattered by Mitch’s erroneous assumption that I actually had maintained the air of socializing outside of school. After all, it didn’t bode well for English teachers when the students started to perceive you as a regular human being.
“I really look that haggard, huh?” I asked.
Mitch nodded his head timidly before confessing, “Sort of. I’m not trying to make you feel weird or anything, Mr. Cobbs. I just never thought about you being sick.”
It was a foolish pretense on my part to think that I could’ve shielded my ailment from so many pairs of watchful eyes. Even a casual observer would’ve detected the deterioration of my health. I felt a sense of relief with Mitch now, almost as if his words unshackled me from a lodestone pinning me to unrealistic expectations. In light of Mitch’s honesty, it seemed appropriate that I amended my earlier statement.
“I’ll tell you what, Mitch,” I offered. “If nothing goes horribly wrong, I should be finished at the doctor’s office by 4 o’clock or so. If you meet me in my classroom at that time with at least a rough outline of what you plan to write, I might be able to put a few paragraphs together for you.”
By now, any remnants of Mitch’s percolating anger receded dramatically. A mode of calmness smoothed the grooves from his creased forehead. He even appeared humbled by my willingness to accommodate his needs in spite of the crisis I currently endured. “Four o’clock,” said Mitch, making a mental note of my words. “You got it, Mr. Cobbs. I’ll be here.”
“Good enough then, but don’t forget your rough draft.”
“I won’t. You know, I’m sorry I got a little ticked off a few minutes ago.”
“No need to apologize,” I returned. “Besides, as far as I can tell, you’re already taking steps to fix that part of your personality.”
Mitch shook his head contritely and proceeded down the hallway with a bounce in his stride that he might’ve not utilized since his last football game. With another issue at least temporarily addressed, I turned my attention toward my classroom. The students for seventh period had already assembled in the room. This particular bunch of kids was my least animated audience on any given day. I attributed their lethargy to poor timing, as this group came to me right after lunch, and most of them would’ve rather napped than dissect analogies from early American literature.
Even while I remained outside the classroom to align my thoughts, they waited unresponsively behind their desks. Some of them had already lowered their faces onto their desktops and folded their arms to block out any obtrusive light. They were like a den of vampire bats awaiting dusk. I imagined that tributaries of spittle had already formed puddles beneath a collection of heads that seemed detached from spinal cords. A few others tinkered restively with their cell-phones, lending credence to my hypothesis that not even a state of somnolence derailed their ability to transmit mindless data to one another.
My decision to linger in the hallway for a few additional seconds proved initially more appetizing to the eyes. I didn’t expect to see Miss Hannah Dixon prancing down the corridor toward me. Several boys always followed her like plankton hitching a ride on a dorsal fin. Of course this fair-haired charmer relied on a series of catcalls with the same fervency that an entertainer fed off applause. I couldn’t deny that my pulse quickened every time I heard her heels clacking off the tiles outside my classroom. Her honey-scented perfume had the potency to attract a hive of bees on this occasion. As the temptress progressed closer to me, however, I noticed that her patented smile was strangely absent from her face. In fact, I hadn’t ever seen such a flagrant expression of anxiety cast from her before this moment.
“Hey, Mr. Cobbs,” she said, but her tone’s natural airiness was audibly deflated. “Do you have class right now?”
I motioned toward the assembled students hunkered beyond my classroom’s door like a cemetery of exhumed corpses, but I was in no hurry to join this mummified pack of underachievers. Perhaps it wasn’t the best occasion for one of my sarcastic quips, but I would’ve never been accused of exercising optimal timing. “What’s on your mind, Miss Dixon…I mean, Hannah? I don’t think most of those kids would notice if I stood out here all period.”
“It’ll just take a minute.”
“No problem.”
Miss Dixon hesitated before reaching into the contents of her black tote bag. She eventually pulled forth a generic cell-phone. It looked like a device that could’ve been clipped to any kid’s belt loop in this school. But my assessment didn’t fully explain the trepidation stewing in this young teacher’s eyes.
“I wanted to ask you about Harold Wagner,” she said numbly. “He’s in your English class in the morning, right?”
“Yeah,” I replied, still watching her curiously as she struggled to flip open the phone and push its power button. I couldn’t imagine what Harold could’ve done to become a topic of anyone’s scrutiny outside of class, but today had already proven to be replete with news that ranged from startling to grossly unpleasant.
“I don’t normally like to snoop into the kids’ private things,” Miss Dixon explained, “but Harold left his phone in my fifth period class. I think it fell out of his book bag.”
“That sounds like something Harold does at least once every period,” I smirked. My response was intended to elicit at least a bantam-sized smile from Miss Dixon, but she offered me nothing more than a pensive stare.
“At first I wasn’t sure if it was his or not,” she continued, “and so I decided to turn the phone on to see if I could locate its owner.”
“Sounds fair enough,” I said. “Judging by your face, I’d say you found something shocking.” One didn’t need to be too much of a visionary to surmise the seedy content clogging the cyberspace of most students’ cell-phones nowadays. I presumed even a boy as socially benign as Harold had a few tawdry secrets concealed in his data plan that might’ve caused his mother to cringe.
“I’m still not sure how I feel about this,” she mulled. “I’ve never really had any problems with Harold before. Granted, his stories are a bit weird sometimes, but I’ve gotten used to his routine.” As Miss Dixon spoke, I noticed her manicured nails tinkling against the phone’s plastic shell. Her uneasiness prompted me to suspend any further attempt at humor.
“What’s got you so upset, Hannah?”
“I…I don’t know if I’m upset. Concerned is more like it.”
“Okay,” I said while motioning to the electronic device. “May I see what you’re so concerned about?”
Miss Dixon’s hand still quivered as she exchanged the phone into my p
alm. The phone’s case was moist from the sweat on her fingers. “It’s probably nothing,” she noted. “You know how kids are. I’m sure it’s just an overreaction on my part, but I figured I’d check it out with someone I trust.”
Why this woman confided in me in any capacity was certainly intriguing, but for now I centered my thoughts on the object in my hand. At first glance, the phone’s menu screen revealed nothing unusual, but Miss Dixon then referred me to the text messaging data. I skimmed through a series of nondescript banter before receiving further directions.
“Scroll down to the last text message sent today,” Miss Dixon advised. “Tell me what you think.”
I toggled down to the last typed message and highlighted it on the phone’s browser. This text was also generic at best. It read: ‘The Plan Is Still On. No Backing Down Now.’ I barely arched an eyebrow to this statement, and so I assumed there had to be something more compelling to peruse.
“Is this what you mean?” I asked her while pointing to the message.
Miss Dixon nodded her head and said, “Harold texted that to a recipient with the initials S.G. But I didn’t see anyone with those initials listed in his contacts.”
“So? Maybe it’s a new number.”
“Maybe,” Miss Dixon debated, but still noticeably unconvinced. “It just struck me as a little bit strange, you know?”
“We are talking about Harold Wagner here,” I reminded the green educator. “An oddity for him would consist of doing something within the boundaries of normalcy.”
Miss Dixon managed to project a strained smile, but it dissolved before any true measure of levity persuaded her thoughts. “I know it’s probably nothing, but it just freaked me out a little,” she said skittishly.
Rather than hastily dismiss her paranoia, I began to reassess my conviction that Harold was as undisruptive as I initially perceived. After all, he did vie for attention from his teachers at times and assiduously tried to show off his intelligence to his friends. It didn’t require me more than a few seconds to associate the initials S.G. with the student I just escorted from the principal’s office.
“Hannah, have you ever noticed Harold hanging out with a boy named Stanley Glacer?”
Miss Dixon reflected a moment before replying, “Is that the kid with the….” She paused in search of a more compassionate adjective than ‘ugly’, but only managed to draw her hands up to her face and pretend to distort her facial features. “I think I’ve seen them together once or twice. Why?”
“His initials match the S.G. you’re curious about.”
“Of course,” she sighed self-deprecatingly. Her voice then became more solemn. “Do you think I should investigate this further?”
I, of course, already knew additional information about Stanley that should’ve confirmed both our suspicions. The note Mrs. Fassal referred to me earlier this morning immediately loomed larger in my mind now. But I also realized that Stanley had just absorbed a few punches from Drew Mincer. At this point, I didn’t want to aim any unwarranted friction in his direction.
“Honestly, Hannah, I wouldn’t make such a big deal about this right now. You might want to privately ask Harold about that text before doing anything else. He’s a pretty straightforward kid. I don’t think he’d lie to you.”
“I knew you’d help me think about this more clearly, Mr. Cobbs.”
Miss Dixon’s tense expression slackened as she considered my suggestion. I then set the phone back into the woman’s jittery hand. Her palm was drier now, and I sensed a faint fusion of energy darting between our fingers in this brief exchange. Perhaps it was just my imagination pining for her flirtations again. How could I expect such a tender beauty to lend me anything more than a courteous salutation on occasion? Even so, I felt almost entitled to participate in a little debauchery now. But her eyes did not look at me with the same fervency as before. Perhaps she finally recognized the signs of my disease as my wife had previously done. Miss Dixon’s invitation for me to join her at Rounders was retracted without a single utterance from her lips.
I soon felt sympathy oozing from the woman’s eyes; she must’ve seen my manifested decline. But the awkwardness of youth prevented her from questioning me on my health. It was more gracious for her to excuse herself and move on to other business. I didn’t bother to delay her. Besides, I still had a class full of torpid teenagers to excavate from the catacombs of monotony. As expected, when I entered the room, a few of them popped their heads off the desks. But most of their faces remained swathed in the blue tint of cellular data. Their fingers danced dexterously on tiny keypads. Such an agile display might’ve even caused Fred Astaire to lend his hands to ovation.
By the time I reached the center of the classroom, my stamina was nearly depleted once again. I made one attempt at grasping a black dry-erase marker from the whiteboard’s tray, but it slipped from my grasp, hit the floor, and rolled across the tiles near Melissa Hibbin’s feet. As always, Melissa wore open-toed shoes that looked more appropriate for a seedy street corner than English class. I noticed that the marker’s cap and Melissa’s toenails were colored the same. She looked peevishly at me, as if it was my intention to mock her peculiar choice of polish.
I didn’t bother to retrieve the marker now, and Melissa promptly nudged it away as if it was meant for her to wear like a badge of incrimination. Naturally, the students expected a lesson once they assumed I didn’t have one prepared, but the board remained empty of even the slightest resemblance of busywork. My head throbbed as if a thousand sharp pins jabbed simultaneously into my scalp. I took refuge behind my desk, sensing my legs buckling before I even made it to the chair. One boy, who I didn’t particularly like, Curtis Wilson, immediately tried to expose my frailty.
“Hey, Mr. Cobbs, ain’t we learnin’ nutin’ today?” he voiced derisively.
“Why should today be different from any other, Curtis?” I remarked tersely. Curtis would’ve normally countered with a glib comeback, but when he retreated so obediently I realized that it was an act of mercy rather than respect. The likelihood of another episode consuming me in front of these students was inevitable now. I made no effort to flee from the circumstances.
As I drifted closer to my next destination, I once again envisioned my wife embraced in another man’s arms. I wondered if this was her first affair, and how often she and her lovers laughed at my gullibility. Why, after years of marriage, had I just opened my eyes to her sinfulness? Others must’ve recognized this behavior before me—perhaps my mother tried to warn me years ago. I wanted nothing more than to imagine Rachel as a virtuous spouse, a woman whose thoughts remained as untainted as a virgin’s smile. But illusions such as this had only served to shelter me from the current climate of our relationship. I now contended that a notion of fidelity was a fable better reserved for storybooks. I certainly had an ample portion of such ignominious tales to draw upon within the framework of my dreams.
Chapter 42
12:17 P.M.
The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs Page 42