Because of that horrible, horrible, horrible child!!
I quickly crossed my sunny, light-filled homeroom, opened Tobias’s desk, and thrust his journal inside. His desk looked like an infected sewer. I was certain that if I peered closely I would find a dead rodent or perhaps a severed hand.
It is critical for the good teaching that the student never suspects the teacher is reading his or her private journal. That defeats the purpose of the journal! Every teacher knows that, when you have finished reading a student’s personal, confidential, private journal, it is crucial to place the journal inside the student’s desk in exactly the exact same place from where one removed it. Young Wilcox’s desk was such a foul, repulsive mess, I could have hidden a live rhinoceros in there and he never would have noticed.
What I should have liked to have hidden in his desk, of course, was a hungry boa constrictor, but I felt it would not be in good taste and might be harmful to the boa constrictor.
CHAPTER 6
Tragically for me, during the long, long evening that followed, I was not able to make my sad mood go away. Even drinking with Mr. Ravenbach three bottles of the finest Spätlese Riesling wine had not helped. Well, it helped some.
To make the matters worse, when I arrived at my classroom the next morning, not only was I still sad, but I had a headache the size of Neuschwanstein Castle. Unfortunately, my headache was not as pretty as Neuschwanstein Castle.
Soon, the children flooded in, flushed, excited, red-faced, and bubbling over with childish enthusiasm. As they came into my bright, sunny classroom, I could see their little faces turning into frowns, their childish enthusiasm disappearing as if it had been blown away by a hurricane. With my teaching, I aspire for this. The classroom is a place for the learning, the order, and the discipline, not a place for the childish enthusiasm.
Drusilla was always the first to arrive. She sat at her desk, straightened her little skirt, and laced her fingers together with her back erect, and sat patiently waiting for instructions from her beloved teacher. I do adore a child like Drusilla.
She smiled at me. I smiled at her. She nearly levitated out of her chair, such was her happiness at being smiled upon by her beloved teacher.
“Mrs. Ravenbach?”
“Yes, Drusilla?”
“Is something the matter, Mrs. Ravenbach?”
By now the classroom was nearly full. My students are quite punctual. Fear will do that for a child and the parents of that child.
“Yes, Drusilla. I read something which made me quite sad.”
“Oh. That’s awful.”
“So it is.”
The other children, they asked all kinds of questions about what had made their beloved Mrs. Ravenbach sad. I was not answering the questions. Private business is private business, but it proved impossible to hold my sadness inside where no one could see it.
“Oh, Mrs. Ravenbach,” said Drusilla, “isn’t there anything we could do to make you feel better?”
They all added their high-voiced two cents. “Pleeeeeease.”
“Mrs. Ravenbach, please?!”
“Oh, please.”
“What, what, what, what can we do for you?”
To answer that question, it did not take me long.
I said, “Welllllll . . .”
Instantly they understood my meaning. It was a school for gifted and clever children, after all. Together, they all shouted, “Reward Time!”
One of the happiest times for any child in Mrs. Ravenbach’s fourth grade classroom is the Reward Time. When the child has done exceedingly well, she or he, although I must confess it is most often a she, gets a reward. The Highest Honor. The two highest honors a child can receive in the classroom of Mrs. Ravenbach are the brushing of the hair and the massaging of the feet.
At Reward Time, the children wait in a perfectly straight line, giddy at the anticipation of the possibility of being allowed to brush my hair using my great-great-grandmother’s sterling silver hairbrushes, mirror, and comb made from the finest silver from the Harz Mountains. The Harz Mountains are a beautiful part of Germany, I’m sure you know. The mirror and hairbrushes have the most beautiful handles, made of antlers from a stag shot by Count Otto von St. Paul, the husband of my great-great-grandmother. On one magnificent day, he shot seven stags, and the most beautiful antlers of the most beautiful of all of the seven stags he had shot that day were used for the handles of my hairbrushes and mirror. Think of that, seven animals taken in one day! What a happy man he must have been, outside his hunting lodge with those seven stags piled up like a still-life painting, dead in a heap, bleeding rich, red blood over the gray granite of Baden-Baden.
I think of that happy tableau every time the little children brush my hair with my beautiful sterling silver hairbrushes, which have boar’s hair bristles and are very stiff. The children must work their little arms with great vigor to exert themselves enough to get the bristles through my thick, luxurious blond, blond hair, which, I am quick to point out, I do not dye.
Even though their little arms get very tired, the children, they are delighted to brush my hair for minutes, and minutes, and minutes, and minutes at a time. I love the feeling as the bristles tug through my hair as it gets smoother, more glossy, and more gleaming with honey-blond goodness. Good German hair. Good German hairbrushes.
And, of course, attractive high-heel shoes. My Christian Louboutin shoes have a stiletto heel and are the most supple leather imaginable. But even in my beautifully constructed French high-heel designer shoes, my poor feet get tired and sweaty and the bunions and the corns ache and give me enormous trouble. For this reason I have special oils and unguents that the children can apply to my sweaty feet, and rub them, and rub them, and rub them until they do not hurt me anymore. Again, the children fight to get in line for this honor. My homeroom is such a pleasant place, what with the brushing of the hair, the massaging of the feet, and the singing of the Wehrmacht marching songs.
I said to Drusilla, “I must confess, a vigorous brushing of the hair might do wonders to improve my sad, sad mood.” When I said this, Tobias Wilcox was busy scratching his bottom and did not notice I was giving him a look.
I knew precisely what Drusilla would say.
“Oh, Mrs. Ravenbach, I would love to brush your hair! Would that be all right with you?” The other children squirmed in their chairs. They did not enjoy the honor of brushing my hair quite as much as Drusilla.
“Drusilla, please go and retrieve my sterling silver hairbrushes and mirror and comb from their comfy spot in the back of the classroom.”
“Yes, Mrs. Ravenbach. I’d be delighted,” said Drusilla. I loved her so much. Because she loved her teacher.
She hurried to the gold-trimmed red velvet cushion that my sterling silver hairbrushes and mirror and comb rested on.
First Drusilla, then Arthur, then Rachel and Larry and Lisbet and James brushed my hair. With each stroke of the sterling silver hairbrushes, accompanied by spirited grunting by the children from the effort, I felt my mood brighten and the dark, burning, pus-filled carbuncle on my soul began to dissolve away.
After an hour of hair brushing, I felt a good deal better.
And I know the children did too. Because their teacher was no longer sad.
Young Tobias Wilcox had a long face and pouty mouth. It was very clear he desperately wanted to be invited to participate in the Reward Time. I denied him that pleasure. It would not do for him to be enjoying the happiness of making me feel better when he was the cause for my sadness.
From the grumpy look on his unpleasant little face, I could see that, as some might say, young Tobias Wilcox “needed some schoolin’.” I resolved to be the one who gave it. In great, industrial-size dollops.
“Come children. Gather round your beloved teacher. It is time for a sing-along!” The children, they squealed with the delight. It was a red-letter day! Reward Time and a sing-along! I suppose life for a fourth-grader could get better, but I frankly have no idea
how. “Fourth-graders, let’s sing at the top of our little fourth grade lungs!” I saw Tobias Wilcox smiling. He always enjoyed singing. Well, not for long.
“There once was a teacher . . .”
“THERE ONCE WAS A TEACHER . . .”
“With blond hair and a wonderful smile . . .”
“WITH BLOND HAIR AND A WONDERFUL SMILE . . .”
“She made her students happy . . .”
“SHE MADE HER STUDENTS HAPPY . . .”
“Brushing her hair for mile after mile . . .”
“BRUSHING HER HAIR FOR MILE AFTER MILE . . .”
“But there was one . . .” I could see Tobias getting a tad anxious.
“BUT THERE WAS ONE . . .”
“Who didn’t behave great . . .”
“WHO DIDN’T BEHAVE GREAT . . .” Fourth-graders adore a sing-along.
“And wasn’t allowed . . .”
“AND WASN’T ALLOWED . . .”
“To participate!”
“TO PARTICIPATE!”
At this point, I pointed, ha-ha, get it, at the fat-cheeked clod to my right.
“Toby, Toby, Toby!”
“TOBY, TOBY, TOBY!”
“Wants to go his own way!”
“WANTS TO GO HIS OWN WAY!”
“Like he’s pursued by a pack of hounds!”
“LIKE HE’S PURSUED BY A PACK OF HOUNDS!”
“His own way! His own way! His own way!”
“HIS OWN WAY! HIS OWN WAY! HIS OWN WAY!”
“When in fact . . .” Time for the strong finish.
“WHEN IN FACT!”
“He’s penitentiary-bound!”
“HE’S PENITENTIARY-BOUND!”
“Toby, Toby, Toby!”
“TOBY, TOBY, TOBY!”
“Come back to the fold!”
“COME BACK TO THE FOLD!”
“Or . . . be left out . . . in the cold!” I was regarding him directly. Not a kind regard, either.
“OR . . . BE LEFT OUT . . . IN THE COLD!”
The other children, other than Richard, having moved several feet away from him, young Tobias Wilcox stood rigid, hands behind his back, shaking. Bitter, salty tears were running down his chubby little cheeks.
Toby was not having a very wonderful day. Well, it was his own fault.
CHAPTER 7
One beautiful Wednesday morning, I was seated at my beautiful Biedermeier desk in my beautiful, peaceful, quiet classroom. I would even go so far as to say it was a wonderful Wednesday morning. It was early. The first bell had not yet rung.
I heard a small set of footsteps coming timidly down the hall. An excellent teacher recognizes the sound of each child’s individual footsteps. Precisely like their handwriting, or a fingerprint. It was young Tobias Wilcox coming down the hall, one miserable step at a time.
He brought his little overweight self quite slowly to the doorway.
Tobias Wilcox leaned into the classroom and said in a quavering voice, “Mrs. Ravenbach?”
“That is my name, Tobias. Are you here early because you are excited because Mr. Grossinger will come today to give his demonstration of the fingerprinting?”
“Sure. But. Can I talk to you?”
“May I talk to you?”
“May I talk to you?”
“Of course you may. That is what I am here for, to listen to your every question, no matter how stupid it might be.”
“I don’t think this’s a stupid question.”
“No, Tobias, you never do, do you?”
He was shifting from foot to foot, like he needed a potty break.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“May I ask you a favor?”
“May I ask you a favor?” I swear to you, I saw that boy sneer at me.
“Perhaps.”
“Can you please be nice to me?”
I wasn’t certain I had heard him correctly. I have never had a student ask me to be nice to them. Every teacher is always nice to every student all of the time, without fail. Especially a teacher who got her training in East Germany.
I said, “Excuse me?” And I waited. And waited. And I waited some more.
“Well. It’s. Like this.” He was taking far, far too long to say anything. It was getting a little aggravating. The other students would be arriving and I would need to devote my energy to them and their particular problems, instead of whatever ridiculous idea young Tobias Wilcox had in his mind that I needed to be nice to him about. Can you imagine? Nice? Such a silly concept.
I stared at the boy. I pride myself on my stare. It is one of my finest skills. I practice it often in the mirror, and on the cat.
His little eyes were brimming with the tears. It’s a wonder the Americans won the war at all. “I was hoping, you might, be able to, be nicer to me . . . cause . . . all this . . . stuff upsets my parents. I don’t want to upset my mom and dad. I love them a lot. They do pretty much everything they can for me, and I don’t want them to be unhappy.”
“Well. Tobias. I merely react to the things that the students are doing. If you feel I am not being, as you say, ‘nice,’ perhaps there is some little thing inside yourself that is lacking.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did I ask you what you thought?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, then.”
There was a long pause that was extremely difficult for young Tobias and extremely delicious for me. I must tell you that, so far, this was the High Point of my semester!
“It’s important I tell you what I think. I saw it on TV.”
“I am certain that you are watching entirely too much television. All American children do this. It is one of the great faults in American parenting.”
“I don’t think I watch too much TV, but I really need you to know this can’t go on.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because I can’t stand to see my mommy and daddy so upset. My mommy cries herself to sleep at night, at least that’s what my daddy says when he makes me breakfast in the morning.”
I sat up straight at my desk. When I am sitting up straight, I am very tall. This was getting to be an even higher High Point!
“Approach my desk.” He did. “Young Tobias?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Do you wish to repeat the fourth grade?”
“Excuse me?”
“There is nothing wrong with your hearing, is there?”
“No, ma’am. I hear really good.”
“Really well.”
“Yes, ma’am. Really well.”
“So what was it that I said?”
“You said something about school.”
“Yes. I did. And what was it that I said about the school?”
“I don’t know.”
“Even though you hear well, you don’t have a tendency to listen terribly well, do you?”
“I think I listen pretty good. Well. For a kid, I mean.”
“And what if I told you I did not think you listened so very well?”
“You’re the teacher.”
“Are you being insolent?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you aware that you are dangerously close to repeating the fourth grade?”
“How close is ‘dangerously close’?”
“Do you know how it is when you are picking a scab, and you pull it off of your skinned-up knee, and you look at it in a bright light and you can see the light shining through it?”
“I know all about picking scabs.”
“You are as dangerously close to repeating the fourth grade as that scab is thin.”
Did I mention he was sweating?
His breaths came in short, ugly little gulps. It did not sound remotely attractive. There was very little about young Tobias Wilcox that I found attractive.
I leaned down. My nose nearly touched his own, which I am certain he had recently been picking. “Do you have a plan, young Tobias, to ensure that you do not enjoy the fourth grade for a
second time?”
“I’m gonna study harder. I’ll make better grades. I’ll be more organized,” he said. Up my back, I got a Schauer. The order and the discipline!
“Tell us of your plans for becoming ‘better organized.’ ”
“I’ll update my notebook every day. That’s what Clarinda Templeton does.”
Seeing my smiling face so close to his own, mere inches away, would give him the boost of confidence he needed to come up with the correct answer. It often worked with girls. “Is there anything else?”
“Please don’t make me repeat fourth grade.”
“Whatever makes you think I would make you repeat the fourth grade?”
“You’re doing all this stuff to me. It’s your idea. It’s not my idea. I don’t wanna repeat fourth grade. School’s real expensive. You want me to repeat fourth grade.”
“I most certainly do not have any desire for you to repeat the fourth grade. I hope you get your little Kiste out of my class as quickly as possible.”
“Then why are you being so mean to me?”
“In all my years of teaching, that’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard a little boy say.”
“What does ‘preposterous’ mean?”
“Never you mind. If you want to be repeating the fourth grade, you will do the things that are necessary for you to repeat the fourth grade. If you do not wish to be repeating the fourth grade, you will do the things that are necessary to keep yourself from repeating the fourth grade. The only person who has ever repeated the fourth grade in all my years of teaching at the McKegway School for Clever and Gifted Children was Fast Eddie LeJeune. He repeated the fourth grade, and, as every child I ever teach knows, he is currently in a federal correctional facility serving richly deserved hard time.”
I could see his fat little chin quivering. At any moment he was likely to burst into great big fat tears. What a High Point that would be for Mrs. Ravenbach! Something wonderful that night to share with Mr. Ravenbach over several generous glasses of Assmannshauser Hollenberg Spatburgunder Spätlese Trocken wine with fresh Floured Board bread and country pâté.
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