Boaz Brown

by Stimpson, Michelle

  When Mr. Butler returned to the building, his secretary called me, and I went to his office. His shelves were lined with paraphernalia boasting of his golfing and sporting achievements. Nothing recent to show, however. I sat down and listened as he explained that the Donovans were planning to take the issue before the associate superintendent.

  “Exactly what grounds do they have to press this issue?” I asked him. “I thought we were all clear on the no-pass, no-play laws.”

  “Well, uh. . .“ Mr. Butler sat back in his chair, crossed one leg over his knee, and brought one hand to his chin. “The Donovans are going to pursue it because you, being the seventh-grade principal, have a history of making exceptions for black students.”

  I needed more from him. “Go on.”

  “Actually, Miss Smith, several incidences have been brought to my attention. I’ve been meaning to talk with you about this myself.” He reached into his top desk drawer and pulled out several files. “This one here, James Woodall, an African-American student. He was sent to your office for not bringing in homework. You sent him on to his next class and called the teacher in on it. Then this one here, Shaniqua Adams, also African-American. Mr. Frazier sent her to you after she had an argument with another student. You only assigned her to two days’ after-school detention. And there are many more. Shall I go on?”

  “Mr. Butler, both of those students’ situations were handled successfully. James’s parents were notified of his lack of homework, and that student hasn’t missed an assignment since. And, in addition to assigning detention to Shaniqua, I utilized our peer mediation program to help her learn the skills she needs to talk through her problems both now and in the future. Mr. Frazier hasn’t had any more problems with her. I fail to see how either of those situations, as successful as they were, relates to Katelyn Donovan’s situation.”

  “We’re starting to see a pattern, Miss Smith.” He nodded, his eyes darting to avoid mine. “These are not random incidents here.”

  “Exactly what is that pattern as you see it, Mr. Butler?”

  “Seventy percent of the African-American students who come through your office are given rather lenient punishments, while the white students who come before you are not treated as favorably.” He opened up another manila file folder. “This student here, Ashley Taylor, white. She was sent to your office, and you suspended her for three days.” He quickly closed the folder.

  “She stole money from her teacher’s desk, Mr. Butler.”

  “Like I said,” he breezed past my point and cleared his throat, “this is a pattern.”

  “Mr. Butler, has it ever occurred to you that while our student body is less than fifty percent African-American, black students make up over three-fourths of the referrals that come across my desk? That’s the pattern we need to be looking into.”

  “Miss Smith,” he said, “I have talked to several seventh- grade teachers who feel that they can’t trust you to back them with discipline. Your actions are creating a serious gap between you and those teams of teachers.”

  “I will go to the wall for any teacher who has done all that he or she can do to help a student be successful. Ask Mrs. Holloway. Ask Mr. Levian or Miss Gallahan. I have gone through the fire for them all recently. But my loyalty to the teachers does not override a student’s right to be treated equitably. That includes Katelyn Donovan. What kind of message are you all trying to send her—that her father’s money can buy her out of any situation? That grades and teachers and administrators are for sale?”

  He turned his head sharply, eyes widened. I watched his face turn from pink to white. “Miss Smith, you are out of line.”

  I didn’t say anything. He was waiting for me to go off, I think, but I didn’t. The silence was very uneasy, but I withstood it, waiting for his next words. He thrust his hands into his pockets. I watched him pace twice before his color returned. He sat down at his desk and faced me head-

  on.

  “If you don’t instruct Mr. Miller to change Katelyn’s grade, I will. And if you have anything to say to the contrary, I will launch an investigation into your administrative practices here.” His last sentence came out slowly, one syllable at a time. “I can make things happen or not happen.”

  The look on his face said get out of here, so I did. After lunch, it was my turn to go to the administration office for a meeting. I had time to Sit down and crunch numbers with my colleagues. The results of the preliminary data showed that our school’s standardized test scores were looking good. We would only be rated ‘Acceptable’ by the Texas Education Agency, but there was some improvement, and I was glad that I’d have good tidings to relay to the staff. Mr. Butler usually left that responsibility to me.

  I went back to the campus to close out the day. “How did the meeting go?” Miss Jan asked me.

  “Oh, it was fine,” I told her. “Our scores are looking pretty good.”

  “That’s great news,” she said, handing me yet another student referral that I’d have to deal with first thing in the morning.

  Peaches called me at around five o’clock. “Hey, girl,” she said.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Nothin’,” she said. “I was just calling to see how your day at school went.”

  “Crazy as usual,” I laughed as I turned down the volume on my television. “How about yours?”

  “Girl, I’m just on white-folks overload right about now,” she laughed. “Tired of miling’ and chirpin’ and laughin’ at stupid jokes and observations.”

  “And you want me to come work with you?”

  “They can’t be any worse than the white folks at your job,” Peaches remarked.

  “I hear you.”

  “You want to go running tonight?” she asked.

  “Girl, please. You know I don’t run. I might walk with you.”

  “I’ll meet you at the track in half an hour.”

  My poor little athletic shoes were longing to be worn. Exercise was not high on my list of priorities. I knew, however, that I needed to get into some kind of routine to preserve my body. The best things I did for my body on a regular basis were to get my checkups and take a women’s daily vitamin.

  Every so often, Peaches got onto me about exercise. I was thankful for her perspective on health. Because she had made a change in her diet and exercise, it affected what we ate when we were together. That alone probably added another ten years to my life.

  Peaches pulled up in her Mercedes and waved as she got out. Her short, cropped haircut was perfect for the active lifestyle she led. Dressed in Nike from her hooded fleece to her cross-training shoes, she looked like an advertisement.

  Eric ran straight to me and gave me a big hug. “Hi, Auntie Shon.”

  “Hey! You almost knocked me over, man.” I took a few steps back, exaggerating his strength. He looked up, laughing, and then ran to the playground within view of the track.

  Peaches started stretching, and I followed suit. She looked as if she were releasing the weight of the world as she inhaled and exhaled slowly to the silent count of eight. I let her lead me in the counts and the movements. Then she pushed a button on her stopwatch, and we took off walking.

  “So what happened today?” I asked her.

  “My team and I had to work up a settlement package to sever an employment contract due to embezzlement,” she said. “The kind of stuff a black man would have gone to jail over.”

  “Why would you need to offer a settlement package for an employee who was stealing?” I asked.

  “The company would have spent twice as much in attorney’s fees and court costs if he hadn’t accepted our offer to leave uneventfully. It’s white-folks’ –world stuff. Happens every day. What’s new with you?”

  I filled her in on the latest details with the Donovans. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Write her up,” Peaches said with a straight face, puffing air between strides. I gave her a puzzled look. “Trust me— write it up, leave it
in her file for however long you have to leave it in there, and then discard it when it expires. If she does it again, you’ll have a paper trail of her patterns, and a leg to stand on when you get ready to fire her. If she doesn’t, there’ll be no additional harm done. Furthermore, she won’t be able to say that you knew she had this problem but didn’t inform her that it was inappropriate.”

  “Do you think it’s that serious?” I asked Peaches. “That I could end up in court behind it?”

  “Pulleaze! Girl, people go to court every day wishing they’d documented their evidence more carefully. If I were you, I’d get in touch with one of those union attorneys and cover your behind completely.”

  The thought of having to call an attorney for legal defense frightened me. I’d never needed to call an attorney before. The only time I’d ever really mention the word “attorney” was when someone was joking about whiplash. I guess I always figured that if I did the right thing, I would never need counsel to defend me.

  “You ready to jog now?” Peaches asked.

  “You go ahead. I’m gonna walk today.” I was already panting from trying to keep up with her warm-up. She went ahead of me, her hood flapping in the breeze produced by her speed. Her “jogging” always looked like running to me.

  After talking with Peaches, I knew I had a lot to do. Call the union. Write up Ms. Ashton. Pray.

  Chapter 7

  Peaches sat on the floor, and I sat behind her on my bed, brushing, pulling, and pinning her hair into a French roll. The style was far too elevated for my taste, but Peaches liked her French rolls as high as I could possibly get them. She said the higher it was, the skinnier she looked.

  In a minute she’d take her turn behind me, sitting on the polish- stained bedspread beneath my poster of Michael Jackson. I liked my hair set with mousse so that my curls would dry quickly and I wouldn’t have to sleep with all that hard plastic in my head.

  “Hold your head down,” I told her.

  “Look—here’s an article about finding the right kind of guy for you,” she said as she thumbed through the pages of a Young Miss magazine.

  “Find something else,” I mumbled through the bobby pins I’d carefully placed between my lips. I pulled one from my mouth and placed it at the base of the French roll, shoving it in as far as it would go.

  “Here’s one about that guy in that movie Risky Business,” she said.

  “Tom Cruise?” I asked, peeking past her shoulder.

  “Yeah. Says that he is the number one heartthrob according to last month’s poll,” she summarized. “You want me to read it to you out loud?”

  “Naw, he ain’t cute to me.” I realigned myself with her head and continued my work. “I think he’s kind of skinny, too.”

  “Hmm. Let me see. . .“ Peaches sized him up, turning his centerfold picture vertically. “I don’t think he’s ugly.”

  “He looks like he needs a haircut every time I see him on TV,” I said. “I don’t see what all those white girls see in him. Then again, white people are always sayin’ somebody is cute when they look just as plain-Jane as the rest of ‘em.”

  “Yeah, you’re right about that. To me, the only time a white person is really cute is when they’ve got somethin’ else mixed in ‘em,” Peaches observed.

  “Otherwise, they’re just white with that do-nothin’ hair that they’re always tryin’ to tease so it’ll stand up like ours.”

  I agreed, putting the last pin in place.

  * * * * *

  I spent hump day in team meetings, listening to a variety of teacher concerns from problems in the cafeteria to curriculum issues. I took note of their concerns and put them on my lists of things to investigate, do, or delegate. I closed each meeting with the good news about our test scores and with reminding them about the next day’s career fair. I got moans and groans when I asked the teachers who were off during the morning to drop by and monitor for just a few minutes during the exhibit.

  Eighth grade was receptive to me, but I could tell that something was going on with seventh grade. Especially with Ms. Ashton’s academic team, the Pacers. They didn’t give me the courtesy of letting me know that they had changed their meeting place, so I ran around the building for a good twenty minutes looking for them. Then they scheduled a parent conference for the second half of the period, and the team secretary claimed to have misplaced the agenda that I e-mailed them the previous week. I couldn’t put my finger on which of them was the ringleader, but they were all in on this display of group unprofessionalism—griping about their duties, complaining about this and that, but offering no alternatives to solve problems. I explained to them that it was okay to complain about a problem, but it was also incumbent upon the complainer to suggest a solution.

  “Isn’t that your job?” Mr. Baudin, a language arts teacher, asked.

  “That job belongs to all of us. We’re a team,” I answered slowly.

  After I met with them and their nasty attitudes, I was just about ready to call Peaches and tell her that I was ready to come to Northcomp because I was fed up with being a vice principal. I went in every morning trying to do my best, but it was never good enough. For as much as I got done, it seemed there was twice as much left on my to-do list by five o’clock. Bottom line, I was frustrated and I wanted to quit that morning.

  You know how it is sometimes? Sometimes one little thing can make you just want to run off to Mexico, build a hut, and set up a jumping-bean store—anything to get away. You just get sick of it all.

  When I got back to my office, I slammed the inner door and prayed at my desk. The enemy was getting on my last nerve, and the week wasn’t nearly over. I needed strength. And even before I was finished praying, I heard the words of an old Clark Sisters song, “Count It All Joy.”

  I laughed at myself as I stood again. I knew that someday I would look back on all of it and be able to see what was happening and why the Lord had put me on a staff that needed so much work (myself included). I couldn’t think of a trial to date that hadn’t worked to my advantage in the end, and I knew that working here at this school, even with Mr. Butler, would be manipulated for my benefit.

  When I got home from work, I found a package on my doorstep. It was from Jonathan. I grabbed the box and unlocked the door. An all-too-familiar smell assaulted my nostrils as I realized that I’d forgotten to take the trash out again. I set the bags back into the garage. They’d have to wait there until Monday. I could almost hear Daddy in my ear:

  “See, if you had a man, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

  I ripped the box open, knowing that there would be some thoughtful gift enclosed. Jonathan had a knack for finding just the right things to give. I tore through the paper with no regard for the beautiful print. He hadn’t let me down.

  “Oh!” I put my hand before my lips and gasped. It was an old picture of Jonathan and me outside, leaning over the balcony, when we used to live in the old apartment. It was blown up, framed in antique gold, and the frame was engraved:

  To My Big Sister,

  LaShondra

  I’ll Always Look Up To You

  God Bless,

  Jonathan

  He’d attached a sticky note on the back of it:

  I found it while going through some old stuff Hope you like it!

  My hand fell on the bed as I revisited the picture. It had been probably twenty years since I’d seen it. Jonathan, with his chubby stomach hanging out of the bottom of his shirt, pants too tight, button screaming to be loosened. Then me, with untamed pigtails, snaggleteeth, and ashy knees. I remembered that day at the old apartment complex clearly. We’d been playing outside in the sandbox when Daddy came out to call us up for dinner. We’d just gotten the new camera. There had been a big fight about it only moments before.

  “Daddy,” Jonathan asked, “can you take a picture of me and Shondra?”

  “We don’t have to take pictures every five minutes,” Daddy bickered.

  “Well, what you
think we got a camera for, Jon?” Momma stopped washing dishes and asked.

  “For important stuff.”

  “What’s more important than our kids?” she asked.

  “Nothin’. Just, we don’t have to act like we’ve never had anything every time we get somethin’ new,” he said, shaking his head.

  Daddy had told us to go on outside and he’d take a picture of us later. We were thrilled when Daddy came to the apartment’s playground to get us. “Is it time for the picture yet?” I begged to know.

  “Go on upstairs,” he said softly, with a hint of mischief in his tone. I knew he was stalling. Jonathan and I got all the way to the second floor when he called, “Hey, look down!” He pulled the camera from behind his back.

  We ran to the balcony, linked arms, and smiled as Daddy snapped the shot. This shot that I hadn’t seen or thought about in so long.

  I called Jonathan later that afternoon. “Hey, Jonathan, it’s me. Thanks for the picture! That took me wa-a-ay back.”

  “Yes, I know,” he laughed. “I forgot how chubby I used to be. Say, what are your plans for your birthday?”

  “Nothing, really. I think I’ll just relax, you know?” I lay back on my sofa and let my head rest on the pillows.

  “That sounds good. So, no man, huh?”

  My neck tightened. “You sound just like Daddy.”

  “Yes, I know. I talked to him the other day. He’s been on my case, too. Says I should have settled down by now. I told him I could settle down if he didn’t mind me doing so with a German woman.”

  “Ha!” I screamed. “What’d he say?”

  “He said he’d give me some extra time since there aren’t as many black women out here.”

  “How fortunate for you,” I teased him. “It must be nice to have your harassment postponed. It’s getting so bad that I almost don’t want to go over to eat with them on Sundays.”

  “I’d trade places with you in a minute for a piece of Daddy’s fried chicken,” Jonathan offered.