Michelle typically remained in her office until three thirty. She would complete her work as fast as possible, grab her things, and get out of school before many students had even left the parking lot. But on this, the last Monday of October, she had decided to make a soda run to the faculty lounge and perhaps greet the spirits that haunted the halls of her alma mater.
She saw a few of these ghosts as she passed a ridiculously large trophy case near the entrance to the gym. Football and boys basketball occupied the prime real estate. Like many high schools, Unionville seemed most proud of the high-profile activities that brought in money. UHS had won six state championships in football and five in basketball to go with dozens of league and district titles. Trophies, plaques, and photographs hailing the two programs took up more than fifty percent of the shelving. But if Unionville High was mostly a bread-and-butter sports school, it wasn't only that. The institution had also produced its fair share of standout wrestlers, swimmers, and gymnasts.
Michelle paused and smiled when she spotted a large black-and-white photo of ten smiling faces. The members of Unionville's 1978 District VII champion gymnastics team looked just as happy, perfect, and innocent as she had remembered them. What a group they had been. When gymnastics coach Sheila Thompson had retired in 1990, after running the program for thirty years, she had told the Unionville Gazette that the '78 team had been her best. Six girls had competed at state in individual events, including a junior named Shelly Preston in the floor exercise. Two of the six had brought home titles. Shelly had placed third.
The time traveler knew that Shelly would not do quite as well as a senior. She had a lot more on her mind now and would devote proportionately less time to an activity that had been her passion for years. She would suffer two serious stumbles in the district meet, write off the failings to lack of preparation, and refocus her attention on music and academics. Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she would be inspired by the presence of a new friend in the stands, hit those back flips at district, and tumble all the way to a state crown. Two months into her second tour of 1979, Michelle had concluded that nothing – not even the past – was set in stone.
Michelle took one last look at the photo and resumed her walk to the faculty lounge. As she passed the first of five math classrooms, she thought about how she hated the subject. As she passed the second, she thought about geometry and algebra. As she passed the third, she thought about Robert Land. She had seen him almost every day and had had several more pleasant encounters with him in the staff room. But the pleasant encounters had always ended with pleasant but meaningless goodbyes.
Deciding that the time was finally right to say hello on his turf, she walked over to his classroom and stuck her head through an open door. But instead of seeing a handsome math teacher grading papers before football practice, she saw a familiar-looking student sitting in a chair desk near the front of the room. The girl had buried her face in folded arms.
"Shelly?" Michelle asked.
The ponytailed brunette lifted her head and looked toward the door.
"Hi, Miss Jennings," she said in a barely audible voice.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm just resting."
"Are you all right?"
"No. Not really."
"What's wrong?"
"It's this," Shelly said, pushing a sheet across her desk. "I just don't get it."
"You mean math in general or something more specific."
"I don't get any of it," Shelly said. "I feel like such a moron. Even third graders know how to do story problems."
"I'm sure it's not that bad."
"It is, though. It is. It's like I'm dyslexic with numbers," Shelly stared out the window. "I don't know why I have to know this stuff. I want to be a writer, not an engineer. People like Scott and Brian are the ones who need math."
"Have you asked Mr. Land to help you or sought tutoring?" Michelle asked, knowing full well that Shelly had.
"I have, but nothing seems to work."
"Maybe I can help."
"Are you good at solving story problems?"
"Let's say that I've become more proficient over the years."
Michelle walked into the classroom and sat next to the student. She saw the sheet of paper on the top of Shelly's desk and leaned toward it to get a better view.
"Do you mind if I look at this?"
"Go ahead."
Michelle held the sheet with two hands and smiled when she read the first of ten numbered exercises. A learning moment was on its way.
"Has number one been stumping you?"
"Yes," Shelly said.
"Well, let's see what I can do."
Michelle got up from her chair, placed the sheet on Robert's desk, and walked to the blackboard, where she grabbed a stick of chalk and wrote "Exercise One" on the board. She turned to face a suddenly attentive student.
"I can see why you are having so much difficulty. This exercise makes false assumptions. It is completely unrealistic and does not even remotely relate to your life."
"Exactly," Shelly said, seemingly pleased that she had found a kindred spirit.
"So let's fix that."
Michelle retrieved the sheet.
"Let's start with the exercise as written. It asks, 'How long will it take a car going 75 miles per hour to catch up with a car going 65 miles per hour if it starts one hour later?'"
Michelle wrote the question word for word on the blackboard, returned the sheet to the desk, and turned again to Shelly. She put her hands on her hips and smiled.
"The first problem, of course, is that the cars are speeding. You can't go that fast even on the freeway. I-80 is not the autobahn. It's clear to me that both drivers, probably football players, are going to get tickets and have to retake driver's training. You, on the other hand, are a safe driver and would never drive that fast. I know. I've been in your car."
Shelly beamed.
"There's another issue as well. I'm not sure that the speeds stated in this exercise accurately reflect what even fast drivers are doing these days. So let me fix that too."
Michelle picked up an eraser, wiped the original question from the board, and put up a new one. When she finished and pivoted to face Shelly, she saw not a girl with an ear-to-ear grin but rather one with a conspicuous frown and downcast eyes. Michelle glanced back at the board and reexamined her handiwork. The writing on the wall could not have been clearer:
How long will it take a Barracuda going 135 miles per hour to catch up with a Trans Am going 130 if it starts one hour later on Route 10?
"Shelly?"
"Yes."
"There are two answers to this question, and I think you can benefit from both."
Michelle lifted the exercise sheet from Mr. Land's desk, returned to her chair, and again sat next to Shelly. When the girl finally looked her in the eyes, she continued with the lesson.
"The first answer, the math answer, is twenty-six hours. In one hour, the Trans Am will have traveled 130 miles. The Barracuda will have to use 130 of its 135 miles per hour just to keep pace. That leaves five miles per hour for it to cover 130 miles. One hundred thirty divided by five is twenty-six."
Shelly looked at Michelle and nodded.
"I get it. I never really thought about it that way, but I do now. I get it."
Michelle smiled and sighed. She put the exercise sheet on Shelly's desktop.
"That's good. I thought you would. I think you'll get the second answer, too, even though it does not require a formula and is not something you'll find in any textbook," Michelle said. She paused until she again had Shelly's eyes. "If the Barracuda, traveling 135 miles per hour, hits an oncoming vehicle, then the Barracuda doesn't catch the Trans Am at all. Several people are killed and a beautiful young woman never gets to make her mark on the world."
Michelle paused for a moment to let her words sink in but quickly saw that the pause was not necessary. Tears from flooded eyes rolled down Shelly's cheeks. When the girl turned
away in an apparent attempt to hide her face, Michelle reached out and put a hand on her arm.
"April and I had a nice visit yesterday while we did our laundry. She told me all about your adventure Friday night."
"Did she tell you that I peed my pants?" Shelly asked, laughing through tears.
"She did! She mentioned that first."
Both women laughed so hard that they nearly fell out of their chairs. When they collected themselves, Michelle sat up straight, returned her hand to Shelly's arm and leaned closer to the student. She looked at her thoughtfully and smiled.
"April cares about you, Shelly. I do too. A lot of people do. Please tell me you'll exercise better judgment in the future."
"I will," Shelly said, wiping her eyes. "I promise."
Michelle glanced at the clock on the wall and then at her friend.
"You should probably get to practice. I don't think Mrs. Thompson accepts tardy notes from girls with the Hong Kong flu."
Shelly smiled.
"No, she doesn't."
Shelly finished drying her eyes and then threw her books and papers in a backpack. She got up from her chair and walked halfway to the door before turning around.
"Thank you, Miss Jennings . . . Michelle," she said in a soft voice. Her eyes projected deep affection. "I wish I could talk to my mother this way."
"You will," Michelle said. "Someday you will."
As Shelly walked out of the classroom, Michelle turned away from the door and stared out a window to the empty courtyard. She thought again about the wisdom of interfering in the lives of others and asked whether she was doing the right thing. No one had pulled her aside in her senior year and steered her in more positive directions. But the more she thought about the encounter with Shelly, the better she felt. She loved making a difference, and she loved making a difference in the life of this young woman.
"Well done."
Michelle jumped in her seat at the sound of the voice. She turned to face the owner of the voice and saw a man at the door, a man with a clipboard, a coffee mug, and a warm smile.
"You startled me."
"I'm sorry. It's a habit of mine."
"There's no need to apologize. I'm the trespasser."
"Then perhaps I should report you. But first I must commend you. That was quite a show," Robert Land said. "I could not have done better myself."
"How long have you been lurking in the shadows?"
Robert laughed.
"I'd say about five minutes now, long enough to witness a breakthrough. You accomplished in three minutes what I have been unable to do in three years and threw in a life lesson to boot. You're good. You belong in a classroom, not an attendance office."
"Thank you. That's very kind."
"It's not kind. It's the truth," Robert said. "I've taught here for twenty-five years and have rarely seen that kind of interaction between a teacher and a student. A lot of instructors would just as soon run off to practice or do something else than spend even five minutes with a kid. What you did restores a lot of my faith in public education."
"Well, thank you again."
Robert walked to his desk, sat in his padded swivel chair, and pulled open a file drawer. He grabbed a few sheets from a folder and added them to the clipboard before walking around to the front of this desk. He sat on the Formica top, took a sip of coffee, and studied the trespasser.
Michelle laughed.
"I must look pretty funny, sitting in one of the student desks."
"On the contrary, you look like someone who's eager to learn."
"Is the math teacher teaching an extra class today?"
"Unfortunately, I am not. I am off to teach running backs how to hit the right holes and hold onto a football like it's their baby sister."
Michelle smiled.
"Perhaps I can take a rain check on some after-school instruction."
"Perhaps you can," Robert said. "In the meantime, perhaps the student can help the teacher solve a story problem. It is one that has stumped him for weeks."
Michelle sat up in her chair, folded her hands, and wiggled the toes popping out of her sandals.
"Fire away."
"OK," Robert said. "But I must warn you. This is a particularly difficult problem. It involves a teacher and requires an open mind and a few calculations but not a lot of algebra."
"That's even better."
"This teacher is a good teacher. He has done his job for many years and won several awards. He also coaches football and baseball. He has been known to play poker, smoke an occasional cigar, and fish for steelhead on Sunday mornings when he should be in church. But he is a lonely teacher, one who has grown tired of eating alone night after night and who very much desires the company of a thoughtful, intelligent, attractive woman."
"This sounds serious."
"It is very serious."
"So what's the problem?"
Robert put his coffee mug aside and got off his desk. He walked to Shelly's chair, sat down next to Michelle, and looked at her thoughtfully.
"How many times must this teacher, the one who plays poker and smokes cigars, ask the new attendance secretary to dinner before she says yes?"
Michelle beamed.
"Just once."
CHAPTER 22: MICHELLE
Thursday, November 1, 1979
Michelle had been to the best restaurants in Seattle, Washington, and some of the best on the West Coast, but, in her mind, even those with three-figure entries and wine lists the length of yardsticks could not compare to the local secret near the corner of Second and Main.
Wedged between a bank and an antique store, the Bull Rider looked like the offspring of an English pub and a saddle shop. Spurs, lassoes, cattle skulls, and rodeo photos hung from barn wood paneling in its windowless dining area. Four chandeliers and candles atop ten tables provided customers and staff with limited illumination. Only patrons requesting a long table in the back of the room were able to form parties larger than four.
But the delectable products from a hidden kitchen more than made up for the restaurant's physical imperfections. The Bull Rider served the best prime rib between Portland and Boise and memories that only a time traveler could appreciate.
Michelle pondered both as she took in her dinner and remembered the many times she had come here her senior year, including this very evening. Not twenty minutes after Robert Land had escorted the former Michelle Preston into the restaurant, Scott Richardson had escorted the current Michelle Preston out – a transition that had not gone unnoticed by either couple.
Shelly had made the most of the encounter by introducing Scott to the attendance secretary he knew only by reputation. The couples had visited for ten minutes before Robert, Unionville's offensive coordinator, reminded Scott that the Cowboys had a big game with Hermiston on Friday night and that his star quarterback needed to hit the sack early. Seemingly eager to please his coach, and perhaps score points with his date, Scott had not objected.
Michelle had suggested dinner over the weekend, but Friday's game and Robert's plans to hunt deer on Saturday and Sunday had put Thursday in play. She didn't mind. She considered any night that involved sitting at a table with this interesting man a good night.
"It's too bad you're leaving this weekend," she said as she dipped a chunk of prime rib in horseradish sauce. "I had big plans to take you to the community theater Saturday night. The Taming of the Shrew is playing through next week."
"I must say that that sounds more appealing than trudging through the mud and freezing my extremities. If I weren't hunting with my old college roommate, I would have opted out. This is an annual thing for the two of us."
"So you're not a weekend warrior?"
"I'm afraid not, unless you count only one weekend a year. This is one of those male bonding things," Robert said. He smiled and took a sip from his wine glass. "What about you? You seem to enjoy the outdoors, or at least walking around town. Are you a sportsman?"
"I love to camp and
hike, but hunting has never been my thing."
"I see."
Michelle noted his puzzled expression and saw that he didn't see.
"I don't have a problem with hunters or hunting and, as you can see, I am quite the carnivore. It's the killing I can't do."
"Have you ever gone hunting?"
"I went once. My dad took me when I was sixteen. It was one of those father-daughter things that fathers do when they no longer have sons in the house. We accompanied two couples from our church to a spot not far from here."
"What happened?"
"I chickened out."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"On the morning of the second day, I had my chance. I had a four-point buck in my sights, eighty yards out. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull the trigger. Sparing a mule deer trumped pleasing my father," Michelle said. "I was so ashamed. He had bought a Winchester M70 just for the trip, just for me. But I couldn't do something that people do every day, something my dad and brothers and even my sister had been able to do on more than one occasion."
"I think you're being a bit hard on yourself."
"Maybe. I know I don't regret the decision. I would have never forgiven myself for taking that deer. But I've never felt good about that day either. I failed a test. As an educator, I'm sure you can understand the significance of that."
"I can."
"In any case, it's ancient history and my problem, not yours. I hope you have an enjoyable weekend with your friend," Michelle said as a smile spread across her face. "Just know that I will be rooting for Bambi."
Robert laughed.
"The way I shoot I think he'll have a sporting chance."
Michelle raised her glass of red wine.
"Here's to sporting chances," she said.
"To sporting chances," Robert said, as he brought his glass to hers, "and to a rain check on The Taming of the Shrew."
As Michelle studied her dinner partner, she could not help but notice that the man in the restaurant was the same as the man in the classroom. Robert brought intelligence, grace, and a sense of humor to both places, in addition to a level of humility that she found refreshing and appealing. While Scott had had his plusses, humility was not among them.
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