Blinking rapidly, she stepped back, fearing somehow he might read her feelings. It was insane. It was her job to get rid of him, destroy his career, his reputation. It was no time for weakness, for daydreams, for romantic fantasy. What was happening to her? He spoke slowly, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m not asking for any favors.” He stabbed a thick finger at her heart, and she flinched from an impact that never came.
“I know what you’re here to do—I don’t kid myself about that.” Heart pounding, she stood her ground, holding his eyes with hers. She could take it. If he was tough she was tougher. “Then what is it you want? because you’ll get nothing from me.” He nodded, his smile making her somehow ashamed.
“I know it.” The woman was maddening. The worst of it was that he was sure she knew what she did to him. Why else would she stand so close? Maybe that was the way she worked—using that face, that body to fluster the men she went after, making them muddled, vulnerable.
if he hadn’t known better he might have thought she was embarrassed. Her cynicism sickened him. He knew it existed, but to see it in front of him, in such a face, behind such eyes —
Slowly, he turned and went down the stairs. “Forget it. It was a stupid idea.” Hands moist on the cold railing, she followed down the wide staircase. What had she seen in his eye? Revulsion? Attraction? Hopelessness? She would have to watch herself There was something here scared her. Something she couldn’t understand, couldn’t control.
if she was sure of anything, she was sure he was not going to be one of the easy ones.
Not even close.
• • •
For Celia, it was just another day.
Sorting mail for the teacher’s boxes, phone cradled at her neck, she made copies while pinching the nose of a sobbing kindergartner, his face smeared scarlet with blood. Dark hair trimmed short, standing barely five feet tall, Celia was a hundred pounds of high strung competence. Though she never raised her voice in anger, she ran the office with all the languor of a Marine drill instructor—a DI with a cute figure and an elfin smile.
Teachers respected Celia. Those that didn’t soon learned their mistake. Some feared her, but most, like Solange herself— couldn’t conceive of running the school without her.
As O’Connel came through the door, Celia handed him a message.
“Mrs. Sandoval just called again. You can use Dean’s office.” Solange caught her eye as she passed through the swinging door at the counter. Celia knew why she was here and didn’t like it.
Why should she be different? Recoiling from the frosty stare, Solange followed O’Connel inside, curious what to expect.
The vice principal’s office was a small, windowless room not much bigger than a janitor’s storeroom. A small desk and two chairs filled it. An old paddle, drilled with holes, hung on the wall, thick with dust. Solange hated the look of it. If inflicting pain was the only way you could reach kids, you’d lost already.
O’Connel shut the door and punched up the number, putting the call over the speaker. Mrs. Sandoval spoke as if she had just bitten into a lemon. “Yes, thank you for returning my call. Vincent received an F on his mid-term report, and I would like to know what happened.” She was not pleased.
O’Connel ran a finger down the open grade book. “What happened was, he didn’t do the work.”
“What work did he miss?”
“Well, I’m between classes now, I can’t list them for you, but out of twenty assignments, he didn’t bother to do ten, and the grades he does have are mostly C’s and D’s. He’s bright enough, he just doesn’t seem to care. What he does turn in is usually incomplete.”
“Yes. Could you please send me a list of the work he has missed? I’ll have him make them up. We’ve always told Vincent that his school work comes first, and that before he is to go out with his friends, he is to have it all done. We ask him every night, ‘Do you have any homework?’ and he says he has it all done.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sandoval, but your son’s been lying. And I’m sorry to say I don’t allow any make up work in my class.” There was a long pause. O’Connel smiled across the desk at her.
He’d been here before. He knew what was coming.
“You don’t allow any make up work?” Storm clouds gathered in her voice.
“No, I don’t. Your son thinks my class is a joke, my assignments are a joke, and sees no reason to do a thing. He spends his time in my class talking. I don’t see any reason to let him make it up now.”
“Vincent’s father and I do not allow Vincent to get any grades below a B.”
“Well, Mrs. Sandoval, I’m afraid you’ll have to make an exception this time. Vincent’s failing.”
“What are you going to do about this F?” she said, voice edged.
“I’m not going to do anything, Mrs. Sandoval. It’s simple. Your son didn’t do the work, and he failed.”
“Well, what are his father and I supposed to do if you won’t allow him to make up the work? We’ve got to get his grade up.” O’Connel shook his head, nudging wire rims back in place.
“You’re not supposed to do anything. There are only two weeks left in the quarter now. It’s too late. If Vincent decides to bring up his grade next quarter, all he has to do is work.”
“I want to make sure I understand you. This quarter, you’re going to give Vincent an F and there’s no way we can bring it up?” He raised his hands in appeal to heaven. “Yes, Mrs. Sandoval, you’ve got it right.”
“Well, that’s just not acceptable. You have to give parents a chance to help their children improve. You can’t just fail them.”
“Vincent isn’t a third grader. He’s in 8th grade, thirteen years old. We talk a lot about responsibility. Well, this is it. He’s blown it for this quarter. No, Vincent’s about to learn something very valuable—that lack of effort leads to failure, and that not even Mama can save him. You want Vincent to improve, I say that’s great. Next quarter he can earn an A; all he has to do is earn it.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said, all veneer of courtesy stripped away. “Have you been teaching long?”
“Yes, Mrs. Sandoval.” He looked up at Solange. “Some might say too long.”
“Well, Mr. O’Connel, I can tell you that I’ll be speaking to Mrs. Lovejoy about this.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sandoval, I’m sure you will.” He stabbed the button to disconnect and got up. “And that is, I hope, my parental contact for the day.” She followed him out into the office where Celia asked him if he got her.
“Yes indeed, another satisfied customer.” She made a face. “That bad, huh?”
“Well,” he paused in the office doorway, “just don’t put any big money on me for teacher of the year, huh?” Celia shook her head, smiling as she sorted a stack of notes a foot high.
Solange followed him out, irritated despite the material she’d gained.
“You certainly handled her with finesse.” He kept walking. “So write it up. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I’ve given in to these spoiled brats’ mamas for twenty years. Pat them on the kenneypopo, and send them home happy with an A for the little darling. No more.” He strode down the hall, making her skip every fifth pace to keep abreast. “Everybody talks about making the kids responsible, but when it comes right down to it, it’s all talk. If a kid fails today, it’s the teacher’s fault. Write a pass to the library, and when the kid ends up smoking out under the water tower, it’s your fault—you wrote the pass. We’re doing a great job of teaching responsibility, aren’t we?” Solange watched him, amazed. He was really worked up. It didn’t make sense. Today nothing did. She’d expected a burned out cynic, not this.
Did she know anything about him, really? He shouldered open a swinging door into the locker room with a bang, barring her way with an arm. “I told you I’d give you what you needed. That was it. Enjoy it.” He knocked back his glasses, ran a hand through his hair, took a long breath. When he met her eye, he lo
oked tired. “You’d better go on around and up the stairs. I’ll see you in the wrestling room in a minute.” He went in, letting the door swing shut after him.
• • •
Alone, still confused by what she felt, she crossed the ancient gym one slow step at a time, heels echoing across polished maple.
She loved this place. Silent, empty, it always reminded her of a church. So many voices raised in ecstasy, in despair, over so many years, perhaps in a way it was.
if he was a loose cannon, then why did she agree with him? Okay, too brash, too truthful maybe, but did that make him a bad teacher? She found the door around the side of the bleachers, and went inside.
The reek of unwashed sweat clothes hung heavy in the air. In the shadow of the bleachers, back against the cold wall, she stood where she could see without being seen. Out on the big mat, ten boys and three girls sat cross legged.
Sixteen years ago she’d been here. A different school, but the same. A small, dark thirteen-year-old speaking little English among big-boned blonds, she’d tried in vain to blend in. Wrong size, wrong color, wrong language—she’d been a poor chameleon. Was that why she hid here in the dark? The schedule said the class was self-defense. O’Connel came in the other door wearing gray sweats, arms cut off at the shoulder, and she could see why it was he moved with such evident ease. He held a pair of foam-padded gloves and a face shield.
He nodded, and one of the older boys led them in finger pushups, stretches, and crunchies. O’Connel did the exercises effortlessly in back where he caught one boy getting lazy, and called for an extra ten from everyone. Several boys shouted threats at the loafers, and this time they did it right.
As they formed a circle on the edge of the mat, she saw him spot her. He’d seen, but given no sign. She was glad of that. If she stayed where she was they wouldn’t need to show off—and she wanted to observe, not influence what she saw.
When they quieted he began. “Okay, last quarter, we went over strikes and throws. Today we’ll put them together in a take-down.” He called Moses onto the mat, and tossed him the face protector, pulling on the gloves. “I’ve told this guy I don’t want to fight, I tried to walk away, now I’m cornered and he throws a punch.” Moses struck out with a slow right.
“I block with both hands, double open palm strikes downward into his forearms, the pressure points here and here. Then I grab whatever clothing I can. Don’t forget your yells, I want to hear them.” He demonstrated, shouting as he struck, pulling his strikes. “If he’s wearing long sleeves, I grab above the elbows, if not, I get him by anything I can get hold of keeping my elbows up to block. He can’t punch me now, I’ve got him tied up. I kick him fast in the shins and stomp his instep.” He showed them, yelling with each kick. “I’m still hanging on so he can’t punch. Now I spin him around like this, and kick the back of his right knee with my right foot and lay him down.” He lowered Moses gently to the mat by his sweatshirt. “Remember, kick his left knee and you’ll be under him when he goes down.
In real life put him down hard and fast. Here I want you to lay your partner down easy; don’t drop him. We don’t want anybody hurt.” He stood. “Any questions?” A hand went up.
“Why do we have to kick him in the shins? That’s like what a little kid would do,” Frank said. “Why not punch him out?”
“Ever been kicked in the shin, Frank?”
“Hoo, yeah, sure have. My sister’s real good at that.”
“How’d it feel?” He reached down to rub his leg. “I thought I was going to die!” He laughed. So did the others in the circle.
O’Connel cocked a finger. “That’s why we kick him in the shin.
Now, get with a partner, and go through it. In twenty minutes, you’ll use it on me for a grade.” They paired off and went through the moves, as he moved among them, watching, correcting. A couple guys clowned. He warned them once, and when he turned his back they started in again.
“You’re done, hit the showers.” One began to protest, but he pointed at the door, and they went out. Twenty minutes later, he called the circle back. Frank was first.
All went well until the take-down, when he hesitated, scratching his head, ears crimson against white hair. “Aw, now what knee was I supposed to kick?” On the second try he got it, and O’Connel went down slapping the mat.
The circle cheered, and Frank swaggered back to the circle, skinny arms held wide. “Ah, I guess I made you eat some mat all right, huh, Mr. O’Connel?” O’Connel got up stiffly. “Yeah, Frank, I guess you did.” From her place in the shadows Solange smiled. She liked Frank.
One by one they took turns. Chelsea was last. When it came to kick she faltered.
The circle groaned. She tried again and it was the same.
The shower bell rang. No one moved.
“Come on, kiddo, you’re not going to hurt me.” She looked as if she might cry. “1 cant!” she said, covering her face.
He stooped, hands on knees, to look in her eyes. “Chelsea, look at me, come on, look at me, now.” She hung her head, hiding her eyes with her hands. “No, I cant! I just cant!” Solange’s eyes filled. She knew what Chelsea felt. The same things stayed the same. The wheel turned and you were older inside you were the same. A pair of wrestlers from the next period slammed in the door roughhousing, making her jump. O’Connel barked and they slid on their seats to sit quietly against the wall. He looked at his watch, made a decision.
Laying an arm gently on Chelsea’s shoulder, he bent to look her close in the face. “Okay, we’ve got time for one last try. I want you to do the best you can. Will you do that?” Wiping her eyes, she nodded.
Under the bleachers, Solange pressed a fist to her mouth. What kind of man was he that he saw so much, cared so much? He slapped the padded foam on his head. “You see this? You can’t hurt a hardhead like me in here. It’s okay. You can do it. This time, I want you to yell as loud as you can on every move, and I want you guys to yell with her, okay?” He clapped his hands. “All right, this is it. Here we go.” Fists clenched, Solange wanted her to succeed, needed her to. A tear coursed down her cheek and irritably, she wiped it away with an open hand.
Coming to the kick, Chelsea hesitated, and Solange squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to see her fail. A slap on the mat, and a cheer told her it was over. Solange looked up to see O’Connel flat on his back and Chelsea, a grinning, teary-eyed sprite kneeling on his chest.
O’Connel smiled, reaching up to touch her forehead gently with a finger. “Not bad, now get out of here and get a shower. You’re late.” When they had gone, Solange came around the front of the bleachers to sit on the bottom bench.
O’Connel lay where he was, arms wide, palms up. “I am too old for this.” She couldn’t help smiling. “She did it.” He shrugged. “Oh, yeah. I knew she could. She’s just a little hesitant. I can’t blame her.”
“What do you mean?” He looked over his shoulder at the locker room doors. They were closed.
“When she was six, her mother was strangled by a boyfriend.” Solange shivered, suddenly cold.
“She was there. She saw it. She’s been in foster care ever since, but Chelsea— “ He nodded. “She’ll make it, she’s a fighter. She waits tables at Bette’s five nights a week, and she’s still got a 3.8. What a sweetheart, huh?” The rain picked up again, peppering the roof high overhead, a gray, desolate sound.
He lay, head flat on the mat, watching her. Suddenly self-conscious, she looked away. There was no way he could know what he did to her, how he made her feel—she would make sure he never did.
“Your stupid idea.” She crossed her legs under her case. “I’d like to hear it. You said you want to be observed, but I do that anyway, I always do that.” He nodded, setting back his glasses. “You must be pretty anxious to get back to that cushy office.” She squirmed uncomfortably on the hard bench, ran her tongue along the inside of her teeth. So he was right, he couldn’t know for sure. She wouldn’t get sucked in that easily. She s
miled sweetly, eyes diamond hard.
“So you’ve said.”
“Hey, don’t give me that look, I don’t blame you. I’ve thought about it myself Nice office downtown— Nice secretary— Twice the money for half, or a tenth, the work, depending on your inclination—Meetings— Conferences— Suit— Tie— Just see kids when it’s time to give out awards— Shake a few hands— Pass out a diploma or two— Seventy-five grand a year.” He planted a noisy kiss on the ends of gathered fingers. “Sweet set up, a real gravy train.” She swung her foot impatiently, high heel dangling loose on a toe. “Does my job look easy to you?” He turned his head to look at her, ear to the mat, thinking it over. “I wouldn’t trade you.” He sat up with a groan, his hands braced behind him on the mat. “What’s nuts, what’s really nuts is without the kids, there wouldn’t be any reason to be here. Why not just work in an insurance office, hang out with the gals at the water cooler? No, the kids are what it’s about. They make it a great job on the good days, and a rotten job on the bad ones.” She had never met anyone quite like him. She couldn’t deny it—she was intrigued.
“So are you going to tell me?” He looked at her doubtfully.
“You want to hear it.” She said she did.
“Okay, if you’re going to take my scalp, at least stick around long enough to find out whose you’ve got.” He did the thing with his glasses, and she bit her lip to keep from smiling. It was a prim, almost effeminate habit. She liked to see him do it. It made him less frightening.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you spend a week as my Siamese twin.”
She let go of the breath she’d been holding. What was this? “A beguiling image, I’ve got three days.” He gave up, slapped the mat. “Okay, three days, then.” Her eyes narrowed. What could he want? “And in return you offer— “
“I told you—you see me the way I am, warts and all.”
She shook her head. “Uh, uh, not enough.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, feet spread. “What else do you want, my still-beating heart?”
A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room Page 3