Sophomore Slump

by Alan Lee

  “This is bullshit. I’m a grown man.”

  The classroom fell quiet. There was a hint of danger on the air.

  “I can’t say hush but you can say bullshit?” I said. “Seems unlikely.”

  “This class is a joke. Such bullshit.”

  “Kevin, step into the hall.”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  Jeriah, his buddy the instigator, laughed. “Kevin, don’t be a dick, go in the hall.”

  Wow. Language. Well, one battle at a time.

  “Hallway, Kevin.”

  “Fuck you, Teach.”

  Kevin stood up. Tall kid, starting safety on the JV team. His Jordans were two years old.

  “Going to the hall?” I asked.

  “How ‘bout you make me.”

  “Oh Kevin. Oh no. Such a bad decision. Your poor granny.”

  “You talk. All you do is talk talk talk. Maybe I kick your ass.” Kevin was walking toward me. “Be worth the suspension.”

  Megan, the cute little girl near the door, was about to hyperventilate. “Mr. August, should I go get the principal?”

  “No thank you, Megan. There’s still time for Kevin to make a good decision.”

  “But—”

  “Watch, Megan. Kevin’s going to do the right thing. And then we’ll all laugh and hug.”

  I was wrong. Kevin got into my face and threw a punch.

  Who throws punches at teachers?

  I threw a lazy forearm to block it.

  “Okay, Kevin. Done? Now go into the hall.”

  He wasn’t done. He shoved me with all his strength. And missed. I twisted and he staggered off balance into the whiteboard. His face smudged some of the dry-erase marker.

  “Now you’re done, I bet. Go into the hall. There’s still time to be cool.”

  “Kevin!” Jeriah called. “What are you doing, bro! Listen to the man! They gon’ lock you up!”

  Another punch. Another miss. Like fighting in slow motion.

  “Megan,” I said. “Would you open the hallway door?”

  She did.

  “Last chance, Kevin. Attacking teachers is a good way to end up in handcuffs. Go nicely into the hallway or you will be forced.”

  Kevin was embarrassed now. This would be talked about for days and he’d be the butt of jokes. He was dark in the face, breathing hard, and he came in a rush. Tackle the teacher, save his reputation. I bopped him on the nose, which brought him up short. It hurt. I got his arm and twisted it behind his back. Made him stand straight, on his toes, and I walked him through the door. Poor Kevin thought his arm was about to break.

  “Now Megan. You may fetch a principal.”

  * * *

  Low and behold there was another incident later in the day. Big fight in the hallway. A black kid and a white kid. White kid had a rebel flag T-shirt on and was screaming, “Nigger!” A crowd formed, with that electric energy only bloodthirsty mobs produce.

  Reginald Willis tried to push through but without much energy. “Move aside, now, youths, move aside. No sir, put’cha phone away!”

  I debated letting the white kid get destroyed by the larger student, until Ms. Bennett ran into the hall. She tried to break up the fight but got slammed into a locker.

  Whoops. Partially my fault.

  Most combatants want the fight to end. They want someone to break it up. Not these two. Rabid dogs.

  I got my arm around the white guy’s neck, nearly a choke hold, and hauled him backwards.

  “Stay back,” I told the other kid. “Understand? This fight’s over.”

  He did not understand. The big guy came on.

  I used my free hand. Grabbed him by the throat and slammed him hard into the locker. Pinned him there. A kid in each hand.

  “Fight’s over. Understand?”

  Both students had flowing oxygen, but only just. A panicky feeling. Gets their attention.

  He nodded.

  The crowd of amazed onlookers parted. I hauled Rebel Flag to the office, out of which poured administrators and the resource officer.

  “I’ll handle the white supremacist,” I told Ms. Deere. “You check on Ms. Bennett.”

  * * *

  Manny came home in time for supper. I was kneading ground beef and blue cheese crumbles into burger patties.

  “Buenas tardes, guapos,” he said, and ruffled Kix’s hair. Or the fuzz Kix called hair. “I tailed your boy Eddie. Your suspicions were correct; he parks at the Shenandoah Insurance lot.”

  “I’m so smart I scare myself.”

  “Eddie left the lot and went to Cave Spring High.”

  “A second high school? Two in one day? Industrious young man. I like that about him.”

  “But he’s pushing drugs.”

  “I didn’t say I liked everything.”

  Kix threw cereal at me.

  “Cave Spring has a wooded area adjacent to campus, same as Patrick Henry,” I said.

  “Correct.”

  “Eddie use it to cover his approach and retreat?”

  “He did. You’re so smart you scare me,” Manny said.

  “Muy intelligente. Eddie has a pattern. Where’d he go after that?”

  “The mall. Want me to pick him up tomorrow?” he asked.

  I was thickly coating my patties with salt and pepper.

  “No. I’m going to follow him home one day soon. You want a burger?”

  “Hell yes I want a burger.”

  “Language,” I said. “Sometimes Kix repeats stuff.”

  Kix glared furiously at Manny and slammed his milk.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Principals have the difficult task of evaluating teacher performance. Only a maniac would base a teacher’s effectiveness on test scores alone, so one solution is in-class evaluations.

  A couple times a year a principal will observe the teacher. Principal wants to see lesson plans, engaging instruction, on-task students, SOLs written on the board, blah blah.

  Assistant Principal Deere marched into my room during first period. She was dressed in an olive pantsuit that didn’t hide the fact she took care of herself. This was very early in the year to monitor; we hadn’t settled into a routine yet, and usually teachers get a warning as a professional courtesy. No such luck for me. Ms. Deere was out for blood. She sat at my desk and began flipping through my lesson plan book.

  Lesser men would tremble.

  Someone in the back, Jeriah I assumed, snickered.

  “Mr. August’s busted.”

  I told the class, “After you finish with your writing journal, open up to your notes section.”

  “Ugh, why?” Jeriah demanded. He was sprawled out, his feet almost touching the desks on either side. His boy Kevin wouldn’t be back for a while.

  “Raise your hand before you speak,” I said. “And to answer your question, I said so. We’re going to practice conclusions.”

  “Man, this class sucks,” he grumbled.

  But he was wrong. Most students loved this class. I knew for a fact Ms. Deere was getting good reports.

  Hah.

  I put a list of topics on the board and set the students to work on creating conclusions. As they wrote, I leaned down to Jeriah.

  “You will stop talking in my class, otherwise your coach will no longer be able to play you during games because of suspensions.”

  He didn’t say anything. The adjacent students listened.

  “You will succeed in this class. And you will not disrupt it.”

  He knew I was serious. One benefit of my fight with Kevin — the students thought I was a badass. Crazy as hell, I’d heard.

  If students realize you’re bluffing and that you’re afraid to pull the proverbial trigger, they’ll walk all over you. They knew I didn’t bluff. Tough love.

  Ms. Bennett (who’d suffered a mild concussion) was new and she was afraid to follow through with threats. They ganged up on her, made the class wild and her life miserable. I encouraged her to “shoot” the leader by sending him
to the office for a minor offense. Shoot the leader and his posse quiets, like Wyatt Earp. With detentions instead of pistols. But she couldn’t yet.

  The collective opinion of a classroom was a physical force. And she worried about upsetting them. Hard to blame her, but she’d be exhausted by October.

  We discussed the class’s conclusions. We brainstormed improvements. I engaged in elite Socratic questioning. Then we opened up our Fahrenheit 451 novels.

  Ten minutes before class ended, Ms. Deere snapped my lesson book closed and walked out.

  “Are you in trouble?” Megan asked.

  “Probably. I keep parking in her designated parking spot.”

  “Do you really?” Her eyes were wide behind the tortoiseshell glasses.

  “No. And my lesson plans are perfect. She’s mad because I’m so great.”

  Chuckles around the class. I’m hilarious.

  “She’s kinda fine, right?” Jeriah said. His hand was raised. “I mean, for an old lady.”

  “Jeriah,” I scolded. But I didn’t correct him.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, I stuck my head into Ms. Deere’s office.

  “Those lesson plans. Elite, right?” I said.

  Her head was in her hands and she stared vacantly at her desk.

  “I must admit. I was impressed,” Ms. Deere sighed.

  “Long day?”

  “Yes. And I still have a mountain of work.”

  “I hope you’re realizing that my classroom is in good hands. That I’m not simply a gorgeous thug. That I actually can teach.”

  She smiled.

  “No one said you’re gorgeous.”

  “I did.”

  “Yours is the only classroom in which a student has attacked a teacher.”

  “Kevin was high. And unprovoked. Mostly.”

  “Uh huh. I hope it doesn’t happen again. And videos are circulating of you choking two students in the hallway.”

  “I am a legend.”

  “You certainly are. But the good kind? I’m unconvinced,” she said.

  “What purpose does Nate Silva serve here at Patrick Henry?”

  She stared at me blankly.

  “Who?”

  “Nate Silva. Wears a tight t-shirt. Shaved head. Hispanic. Tattoos on biceps.”

  “Oh yes. Students call him Master Silva. He mentors at-risk students, and also runs some sort of karate studio. Tae kwon do, maybe? It’s all Greek to me. He’s been here a year. Is he part of your investigation?”

  “I’m still in a fact-finding phase. Only curious how Silva fit in,” I said.

  “When he’s here, he meets with students in detention. We’ve never had problems before.”

  “I’m sure he’s a swell guy.”

  “Have a good day, Mr. August.”

  * * *

  That night, Manny, Timothy August, and I sat on our front porch. We could hear live music from a festival in Grandin.

  Kix had been tired and told me in clear words, “No song. Night night. Love you.”

  Well then. I should be Father of the Year.

  Manny, Timothy, and I each had a beer to beat the heat and we were trying to remember our first beer. Manny had been nine when his mother began sharing.

  Dad thought he was seventeen, but he told us, “It was different back then. We used to smoke at school, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Mack?”

  “I don’t remember. I didn’t like beer until mid-twenties. I snuck a pack of cigarettes, once.”

  “You did?” Dad asked. “When?”

  “Backyard. Kept them behind the shed.”

  “I’ve failed as a father.”

  “Probably. Maybe there’s still hope.”

  “So hot here,” Manny said. “The air is thick.”

  “No humidity in Los Angeles.”

  “Not like this.”

  “However, the worst is only in July and August,” Dad said. “Other than that, it’s very pleasant. The humidity should dissipate soon.”

  We heard heels coming down the sidewalk. Sexiest sound in the world.

  Dad looked up. “That will be Sue.”

  Sue was a divorced bank manager who ran by our house in tiny shorts every night, and she’d eventually made her way onto the porch. She laughed at Dad’s jokes and touched his shoulder and one thing led to another. I debated informing her she was ten years too young for him, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “Sue. From two nights ago?” Manny asked.

  “No.” Dad cleared his throat. “That was Karen.”

  “I have so many moms,” I said.

  “Señor August, you collect women,” Manny said.

  “I do not collect women. But. Don’t mention Karen.” He stood up to greet Sue. Her hair was up and she wore jeans with her heels. A good look. She threw us a perky wave and they went inside.

  “So gross,” I said.

  “Love is not gross.”

  “Someone played a dirty joke on you, Manny. Told you the wrong definition of love when you were growing up.”

  “Maybe she is the one, yes?”

  “Good ol’ mom.”

  Manny’s hand was wrapped with an ice bag. US Deputy Marshals were professional hunters. Charged with the apprehension of wanted individuals. When Manny got bored, he didn’t use his gun. He egged them into a fistfight, like today, and never lost but sometimes bruised his knuckles.

  Manny’d make a better gangster than law enforcer. He liked to fight. Was a crack shot, the best I’d ever seen. Was not above taking bribes or bending the law or killing suspects instead of apprehending.

  And he still slept on my floor and watched cartoons. Not many gangsters do that.

  We sat on the porch and drank our beer and thought thoughts.

  Our silence was broken by Stevie. An eight-year-old kid who lived three houses down, we’d see him on his bike most days. Tonight, however, his face was streaked with sweat and his eyes were wide, like he’d seen a monster. No shirt, and his little chest heaved.

  He darted onto our porch.

  “Mr. August,” he panted. “Can I stay with you?”

  “Something wrong, Stevie?”

  “Mr. Earl. He mad.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I broke a plate. He don’t like it I break stuff.”

  “Is Earl your grandfather?”

  He shook his head.

  “Foster parent.”

  “Ah. I’d always wondered.”

  “Please? He’s coming.”

  “Wait inside.”

  He darted through the screen door.

  The monster came out of the shadows and into our porch light.

  I’d met Earl our first week in the house. Quiet man in his sixties. Buzz cut, beard going gray, living on a railroad pension. He wore a stained white T-shirt and Dickies. No shoes.

  “Mack,” he grunted. “You seen my boy?”

  Maintaining his balance appeared to be a challenge.

  Manny and I shared a look. This was an unexpected turn of events. Several ways we could handle this. The fear in Stevie’s eyes made me mad.

  “Evening, Mr. Earl,” I said.

  “Evening.”

  “You look sick? Are you sick?”

  “Ain’t sick. Lookin’ for my boy.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “You ain’t seen Stevie? Saw him running this way. Give him here.”

  I stood up and descended the porch steps.

  “Why is a little eight-year-old kid terrified of you?” I asked.

  “S’way they outta be.”

  “You smell like a garbage can, Mr. Earl. Go home. And sleep. Stevie can stay here for a while.”

  “The hell he can.”

  “I’d like to talk with Stevie, anyway.”

  “I’mma call police,” he barked.

  I put my arm around his shoulder. Locked him in place, my face near his. He stilled.

  “Good idea, Mr. Earl. Let’s call the p
olice. Because I’ll make sure they know you’re drunk in public. And the kid in your care is afraid of you. And we’ll ask both of you a lot of questions. Maybe, just maybe, you end up in jail tonight.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Go home, Earl. Go home and sober up. Right now. Stevie can spend the night here. You understand?”

  I walked him to the edge of my lawn and released him.

  He didn’t turn. Didn’t look back. Shuffled home.

  I came back to my rocking chair and debated a second beer. Manny was on his second. I’m way tougher than him.

  Stevie’s silhouette hovered beyond the screen door.

  “He gone?”

  “Yes. Has he ever hit you, Stevie?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Yessir. He get mad, but. Never hit me. Throws stuff sometimes.”

  “Just you and him?”

  “I got an older foster brother. He’s out a lot,” Stevie said.

  “You and the foster brother get along?”

  “Sure. He looks after me some.”

  Stevie was staring at Manny. Even kids appreciated the depth of Manny’s handsomeness. Mine must be more subtle.

  “There’s juice in the fridge,” I said. “Get some, if you want.”

  “Okay!” He darted to the kitchen.

  Manny stood and drained the bottle.

  “Stevie and me, we’ll go to his house. Get a change of clothes and his backpack,” Manny said. “Back in five minutos.”

  “He can sleep in the guest bedroom, seeing how you never do. You going to rough Earl up?”

  “Nah. Flash my badge, though, he gets tough on me,” he said. “Arriba, Stevie!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Saturday. Finally, sweet Saturday.

  Ronnie came over at six. I met her on the lawn. She wore slim jeans and a silky pink top which tied at the neck.

  “An asymmetric hem,” I said. “Very trendy.”

  Her hand slid into mine. “You’re a boy. You’re not supposed to notice the clothes, but rather the girl under them.”

  “I can admire simultaneously.”

  “Then get started.”

  “Yowza.”