Saving Mr. Terupt

by Robert W. Buyea

  Once again, my breath had been taken from me. I watched her climb into Vincent’s car, and I waved to them as they drove away.

  My head was spinning. The day had been a whirl, with more crazy twists and turns than Jeffrey’s match against Winshall—and it wasn’t over yet. The next thing I saw was T sprinting out of the school and across the parking lot.

  “Mr. T, is everything all right?” I yelled.

  No answer. He was already in his car and speeding away. What was wrong?

  I took photos of Peter and Jeffrey wrestling—action shots—and of each of them getting their arms raised in victory. (These were definite possibilities for the yearbook.) I got a couple of Mr. Brobur coaching, and I had several nice ones of Mr. Terupt. But my favorite picture from the day was the one of Jeffrey and Asher. This captured a special part of the afternoon.

  Jeffrey had given me his heart and opened it up to me. His story of Michael, the brother he lost, blew me away. As I sat next to him on the bleacher, listening to him talk, I was on the verge of tears.

  “Don’t cry,” he told me. “It’s a sad story with a happy ending. Asher’s here now. I’ve always thought Michael wanted me to find him, wanted him in our lives, and now I know I was right.”

  I snapped my photo of Jeffrey and Asher posing side by side after that. Their arms wrapped around each other with so much love between them that I could feel it. And with Michael’s enduring spirit holding them and keeping them strong.

  It was only seconds later when Mr. Terupt took us by surprise. “I’ve got to go,” he said. There was panic in his voice. Fear in his face. “Mrs. Terupt is on her way to the hospital in preterm labor.”

  Then he was gone, running out the door. I didn’t even get to say anything, not that I knew what to say. I was scared for him—and Mrs. Terupt. It was then that I felt Jeffrey’s hand take mine. But it wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was just the two of us holding each other, because experience had taught us that was what we needed during scary times like these—and we were just getting started.

  Dear Journal,

  The highly anticipated budget meeting was held in the high school cafeteria. The long rectangular lunch tables that normally occupied the space had been removed. The speckled tile floor had been swept and mopped and was now lined with chairs from wall to wall. Sitting opposite the chairs, behind a table and microphone at the front of the room, were the members of the school board and Dr. Knowles, our superintendent.

  I’d never attended a school board meeting before, and from what I understood, that was true for most people. These meetings were often described as quiet and orderly, with few, if any, spectators. By all accounts, they were boring. But none of that was true tonight. Tonight’s meeting was brand-new territory for our community.

  It was a standing-room-only crowd. Mr. Terupt was not there, however; he was at home with Mrs. Terupt. They were able to stop her early labor with some medicine at the hospital, but she was now on bed rest until she delivered. There would be a long-term sub finishing the year with her students.

  I sat on the floor along with the rest of the gang, our backs pressed against the cinder-block wall. We were there to listen but not be seen, like mice, huddled together in a corner. It was hot for March, and the room was packed with warm bodies. The windows were cracked open, but there was no breeze and no air circulating. It became stifling, like a sauna. Whenever we leaned forward, our sweat marks stamped the concrete, but it wasn’t just the room heating up. The people attending were hot. The folks I’d seen at that wrestling tournament were nothing compared to this spirited bunch.

  The men and women sitting behind the front table conducted routine business to start—and the room waited. Some people talked in hushed whispers with their neighbors, others sat with folded hands in their laps, and some busied themselves with their phones. After fifteen minutes of the boring stuff, we reached the point in the agenda that everyone had come for.

  The man sitting in the middle seat pushed back from the table and stood. “Good evening. My name is Dominic Murphy. I am the president of your school board. I’d like to start by thanking all of you for your attendance and attention to this matter. Clearly, we find ourselves in a difficult position with this year’s budget.”

  That was all Mr. Murphy managed to get out of his mouth. The word “budget” was almost enough to incite a riot. An old man sitting in the back row shot up from his chair. “If you’d make some cuts and stop hiking up our taxes, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

  “Thank you, Harold,” Mr. Murphy said. “We’d all like to keep our taxes from going up, but that’s hard to do when we receive less and less aid from the state, and the cost of operating continues to rise.”

  “Then make cuts!” Harold roared back.

  “Making cuts is not an easy thing to do,” Mr. Murphy explained, somehow still managing to keep his composure, “and I’ll remind you that we did that last year in order to pass the budget then. We eliminated a librarian position, three different modified athletic programs, and a custodial position. In other words, people lost their jobs and our kids lost opportunities. That’s not a trend we’re hoping to continue.”

  “My taxes going up year after year is not a trend I want to see continue,” Harold retorted, followed by a chorus of “yeahs.”

  A woman in the middle of the crowd sprang from her chair and fired back. “What exactly do you want them to cut?”

  “That’s what those hotshots sitting behind the table are supposed to figure out, but they don’t seem to be doing that. How about starting with the pay raise them teachers keep getting every year? From what I can tell, they’re doing less and less, still enjoying their summers off, and getting paid more and more for it.”

  Again, Harold’s remarks were met by a chorus of “yeahs,” and that was when my blood started to boil. How dare this man speak negatively about teachers? Fortunately, I wasn’t the only one feeling that way. Danielle’s grandmother was right there with me.

  “Stop your blasphemy, Harold,” Grandma Evelyn snapped. I felt Danielle stiffen. “You didn’t know enough to respect your teachers when you were in school, so I’m not sure why we’d expect you to show them any respect today, but disgracing them is not the answer.”

  There was a strong round of clapping after Grandma Evelyn said her piece. I don’t know if it was her remarks, or if Harold was scared of her, or both, but for the first time all night he didn’t have anything more to say.

  Mr. Murphy seized this opportunity to interject and present the board’s newest proposal. “Despite the extreme difficulties the board faced in doing so, we’ve gone ahead and made additional cuts to this year’s budget,” he explained. “Our new plan will reduce taxes some, but probably not as much as many of you would like. However, we’re hoping you can meet us halfway on this.”

  Mr. Murphy took the next several minutes to talk numbers, and while he did, my mind wandered—all the way back to California, to when Dad was a part of my life, and he had me read one of his all-time favorite books from growing up. I still remember how he held the worn paperback out to me, and before letting go he looked at me and said, “I’ve been waiting for the day when I would give this to you. Take extra care of it, Jessica.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  I read The Phantom Tollbooth and loved it. As I read, I pictured my father as a little boy gripping the pages of the same wonderful story. Together we traveled with the character Milo to a magical place where there were peculiar characters and a thought-provoking feud. Fantasies rank with fairy tales for me; they aren’t my favorite. But this particular story grabbed my attention because of the battle at its core. That battle, the one taking place in a magical world, suddenly seemed to be the very fight I was witnessing. For me, the question before our town was simple: Which is more important, numbers or letters?

  Before finishing his presentation, Mr. Murphy explained to the packed room that if the budget failed, then the board would be forced to take mor
e drastic measures—measures that would include the elimination of several teaching positions. Mr. Murphy stressed once more that the board was hoping to avoid these consequences. Then he listed the positions that were on the chopping block: a high school guidance counselor and business teacher, an eighth-grade technology teacher, and two different elementary positions. Because of seniority, we knew that meant Mr. Terupt.

  If the budget failed, it was because numbers were more important in our community. Being the person I am, that did not sit well with me. That would not deliver a happy ending. Letters, words, and stories are my passion; it has always been that way. When I finished The Phantom Tollbooth and returned it to my father, he had asked me then, “Well, Jessica, which do you think is more important?”

  “Letters,” I said. “I can’t imagine not being able to put letters together to tell a story or to express my thoughts and feelings.”

  Dad smiled at me. “Someday you’re going to do great things with the letters you put together. I know it.”

  Whether I was ready or not, the time for me to do great things was upon me.

  With letters to put together,

  Jessica

  P.S. Luke spoke at the meeting, and so did Lexie’s mom. Their words didn’t make me hot with anger; they warmed my heart. Because of them I left that meeting with hope—and with my hand itching to write.

  I never thought I had it in me. My parents took me on that trip to our nation’s capital, and I spent the week reading all those famous quotes and speeches by our founding fathers and legendary presidents and other great leaders from the past, and I was convinced that wasn’t something I could ever do—but I was wrong.

  Mr. Brobur had asked us back in the beginning of the year to tell him what determined an organism’s phenotype. I knew the answer then, but I understood it now. Other than one’s genetic makeup (your genotype), it is the environment that contributes to what characteristics you ultimately express (your phenotype). You see, hydrangea flowers with identical genotypes can range from blue-violet to pink, depending on the acidity of the soil they’re growing in. I was like a pink hydrangea waiting to become blue. I had the genes to be a dynamic leader, but I didn’t know it because the environment had never been right to bring that out in me—that is, until now. I only needed a topic that I was truly passionate about. When Mr. Murphy got done explaining the school board’s plan, and that Mr. Terupt would be out of a job if the newest proposal didn’t pass, I became that leader.

  “My name is Luke Bennett,” I said, standing before all those people. “Mr. William Terupt was my fifth- and sixth-grade teacher. I was lucky enough to have him for two years.

  “They haven’t made a test yet that I can’t ace. I like tests. I like how you get a definite score, a percentage, and an answer. I like numbers, how you can use them to calculate perimeters and areas—and test scores. We live in a world today in which a school’s report card is based on student test scores, so you should like me.

  “But try as you might, you’ll never be able to measure the impact Mr. Terupt has had on us.” All at once the gang rose from the floor and stood beside me. “His influence will be with us for the rest of our lives, helping us to make a difference in all that we set out to do. No test will ever reflect that.

  “Mr. Terupt’s one of the teachers who will be cut if you don’t pass the budget. He’s someone we should be bending over backwards to keep, not holding over a cliff. I hope all of you will remember that before casting your vote.”

  I walked to the front of the room and placed the money from our Budget Bake Sale on the table in front of all the school board members. “My friends and I have worked hard to raise funds for your budget,” I said. “We’d like to give you this money to help. You should know, we’re prepared to do whatever it takes to save Mr. Terupt.”

  LUKE’S SEVENTH-GRADE SURVIVAL GUIDE

  TIP #18: What it is that motivates you to greater lengths than you’ve ever known, that brings qualities out in you that you never knew you had, might just show up unexpectedly, so be ready, for that thing is your passion, and you must pursue it.

  There wasn’t anything I was more passionate about than saving Mr. Terupt.

  Luke got to his feet and like, told that room full of people some of the nicest and truest things I could ever think to say about Teach. I was so proud of him. He spoke for all of us. I wished that Teach was there to hear him, but he was at home with Mrs. Teach.

  After Luke got done with what he had to say, things got really quiet. It was the sort of quiet that you could hear. That was when my mother got to her feet. I’d tried telling her to stay home, that being around all those people and germs wasn’t a good idea for someone in her condition, but she wouldn’t listen.

  “Alexia, you do these things when it’s about someone who means something to you. And besides, these people need a good strong woman to tell them a thing or two. I’m going.”

  Danielle’s grandma was more woman than that stupid Harold man could handle, but my mother still decided to stand up and say a little something too. She wore one of the knit hats I’d made her, and she looked tired, but somehow, somewhere, she found the strength. And when she did get up, she commanded attention like I’d never seen before. I thought I was good, but I had a long ways to go before I matched her.

  “Someone who inspires our children to lead, like we just saw from Luke, is a person I want to keep around here as long as possible. Our children are destined to do great things in this world after having teachers like Mr. Terupt.

  “These kids are here because they understand compassion and what it means to care for one another. What it means to put someone else before yourself. Mr. Terupt taught them that.

  “Trust me, there will come a time for each of you when you’ll want and need others to be there for you. I hope you do not find yourself alone when that time comes, because hating the world and everyone on the school board because your taxes are going up isn’t going to make you feel better in the end. We need to be there for our teachers now.”

  The quiet that followed Mom’s words wasn’t just one you could hear, but one that you felt. I was proud of Luke, and beyond proud of my mother. She didn’t just come to the meeting for Teach, but for all our teachers, and for me and the rest of my friends. And for all the kids coming after us who should have Teach.

  The funny thing was, after Mom said her thing or two, I wasn’t as scared of her cancer anymore, ’cause like, I knew she had too much love and fight mixed together inside her for it to win.

  Dear God,

  There’s a whole lot going on down here, and I know you know that, but I’ve got to tell you about it. First of all, thank you for taking care of Mrs. Terupt and her baby, and not letting anything real bad happen. Please stay with them. They still have a ways to go.

  Now, for that meeting tonight. The only place I’ve ever been with that many people all lined up, sitting in rows and facing the front, was in church, when we were gathered there for you. It wasn’t like that. People weren’t showing any signs of peace or passing smiles to one another. People were on their feet and ready to fight—including Grandma. After that old man, Harold, got done blowing his top, Grandma sprang to her feet and let him have it. I was feeling shaky during all that, and it wasn’t because my sugars were low. Of course, after Grandma got done, I’m pretty sure Harold was shaking more than me.

  I’m shaking again now, God. The money we raised wasn’t enough to change anything. Please make that vote turn out the way we need it to. I honestly don’t think we could ever recover from losing Mr. Terupt. Please.

  Amen.

  Mr. Terupt was in trouble. There was no time to waste. If the budget didn’t pass, the best teacher in the entire world wasn’t going to be our teacher anymore. He would be taken from us. Having him taken alive almost seemed worse than what we had feared as fifth graders. I wasn’t letting him go without a fight, and the rest of the gang was right there with me.

  “We can’t just sit
and wait, not this time,” I said.

  We were gathered around a table, whispering during silent study hall. I had recently managed to get my seventh and eighth periods switched. This was possible because it didn’t involve any of my major classes. I only had to flip-flop my initial study hall block with computers, which was just starting since we were at the beginning of the final trimester, so it all worked out.

  LUKE’S SEVENTH-GRADE SURVIVAL GUIDE

  TIP #19: Know your schedule, but also know when and how to go about changing it, because that can make a huge difference in your life.

  “This can’t be one of those instances where we mean to do something, but then time gets away from us. We have to act—now!” I said.

  “Shh!” Mrs. Cross, the meanest proctor who’d ever lived, hissed. The old woman was cross. She handed detentions out like candy on Halloween, but we didn’t let her stop us.

  “I’m ready,” Peter said. “What’re we going to do?”

  “We need to do everything we can to get people to vote yes. We’ve got to get the word out about Mr. Terupt,” I said.

  “I’ll write letters for the town paper,” Jessica said.

  I smiled at her. That was perfect.

  “I can make posters,” Danielle whispered.

  “We’ll help,” Jeffrey and Anna said, keeping their voices low.

  “What can I do?!” Peter asked a bit too loudly. Like the rest of us, he was eager to help. He just wasn’t as good at keeping his volume down.

  “Shh!” Mrs. Cross hissed again, this time staring at us.

  “We’ll need your place to be campaign headquarters,” I said.

  Everyone tensed. The last time we got together at Peter’s house things didn’t go so well.

  “We’ll need to meet almost daily, and we can’t use Mr. Terupt’s classroom for this project. We couldn’t anyway, with Mrs. Terupt on bed rest,” I explained. “So, Peter’s place is our best option.”