by Nōnen Títi
I take Jerome’s hand when she looks at me, and he tells her who I am. “I know; the other writer in the family. He was fond of you both,” she says.
I can’t respond to that. I can hardly tell her it isn’t true. All I can think about is that she’s talking in the past tense, that she’s accepted it, but she shouldn’t. It’s wrong, mortality is wrong; it hurts people.
During the ride home I keep thinking about that poem Jerome read. How can his words be so gentle and yet touch so deeply?
“If they still decide to fire you tomorrow they’ll have a hard time convincing outsiders that Palmer agreed with that,” Mrs Fokker tells her husband.
“What use is there in firing you if you’ve already resigned?” the younger of the boys asks.
“He’d lose his benefits and teaching licence,” Mrs Fokker answers.
I look out the window. They’ve postponed the hearing until tomorrow; same time, same place, I guess.
“That isn’t an invitation, Mariette,” Mr Fokker says, looking at me through the rear-view mirror.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t you play innocent with me.”
“Well, I won’t let you lose your chance to get another job because of me.”
“Causing trouble won’t help and it isn’t because of you.”
But it is. That can’t be denied in any way. Would he have told his family? He must have… how embarrassing!
“Stop pouting. You have to promise me that you won’t interfere.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“Look at me.”
I do and I repeat my words, hopefully not as red-faced as I feel.
“Stay home tomorrow,” he repeats when he drops us off.
Mum and Dad do everything they can to be nice and supportive all evening, but I can’t get myself to sit around so I retreat to my room like Jerome. I take the phone along and call Kathleen.
“I heard,” she says. “And he was the one helping us.”
“I saw your dad there. How’s Sean?”
“He’s good. Mum’s arranging for us to leave the country because otherwise we’ll never be given a fair chance, nor will Dad. People are telling him to go back where he belongs – the same people who talk about their queen when it suits them – so we’re leaving.”
“It stinks, you know, Kathleen. I only started asking for some rights and suddenly people are getting arrested, accused, kicked out and dying.”
Next I call Granannie, because I know she’s been told everything and she’d want to know. “I’ve arranged for all of you to come here for the weekend. Charl and Nikos are coming as well,” she says.
She asks for Jerome. A long while later, he comes to my room. “I called Fred,” he says.
“How is he?”
“He’s fine. He hates the new school. Listen, Mariette, he told me that the school council meetings have to be officially announced so parents can attend if they want. Most never do, but Fred’s dad is the type who likes to complain. Anyway, I overheard some of the council people earlier. They talked about tomorrow lunchtime. I’m pretty sure it was about Mr Fokker. Then I asked Kathleen’s dad, but he thinks the meeting is at night.”
“What are you saying – they’re trying to keep it quiet?”
“I didn’t want to tell you at first, but then I started thinking. This is wrong, Mariette. They were changing the time at his funeral. I bet Mr Fokker doesn’t even know about it yet.”
“So will you come with me if I invade?”
“We’re not parents, though.”
“I don’t care anymore, Jerome. I’ll probably be expelled anyway and if not I don’t think I want to be there next year with the only two good teachers missing, and Fred and Kathleen gone. You didn’t plan on being back, did you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I need you, Jerome. I need you to be there to stop me from going too far. Can you do that?”
He doesn’t say yes, but then again, he doesn’t say no either.
JEROME
“I thought I told you to stay home today,” Mr Fokker says when we arrive at school.
“I thought you meant tonight,” Mariette replies.
“I meant both.”
Mariette nods at me: he doesn’t know yet. She stays in his room, but I have to go to classes and I don’t feel comfortable. The truce is at an end and I can feel all the looks. They all know we went to the funeral. I’m supposed to have English after lunch – what will happen then? The moment first period starts, so do the questions: What was I doing there? “According to my dad you made the whole assembly cry,” Charlotte says.
In escape them by joining Peter.
At recess Mariette comes to me. “He knows. The secretary came in just now and handed him a note. Then they whispered, making sure I couldn’t hear.”
I have physics next, which gives me a good view of the car park, and indeed, during fourth period a lot of strange cars arrive. One of them belongs to Charlotte’s father. I excuse myself to go to the toilet and follow the last two people as they pass by the library. Through the office windows I can see them shaking hands with PM before going into the conference room. I debate about whether this guarantees that it’s a council meeting. Suppose it’s something else? I’m drawn between worrying about us getting it wrong and being angry at their deception. I get my bag and go to the history room just in time to meet Mr Fokker as he comes out. “Are you coping today?” he asks.
I say yes. I haven’t had much time to think, after all.
“He told me to stay here,” Mariette says. I tell her what I saw and that we need to distract the secretaries. Mariette does it by sending a group of year sevens to the office to say that a girl got locked inside one of the gym bathrooms. We watch from outside the lobby until the secretary goes to get her colleague, which gives us just enough time to get in and around the corner to PM’s office. So far I haven’t had time to worry, but now I start feeling sick. There are voices in the conference room but they aren’t loud enough to make out the words.
Mariette takes my hand for a moment, which is her way of saying she’s nervous too. “Last act; I’ll take all the blame,” she says and opens the door without knocking.
There are about fifteen people around the table, including Mr Fokker. They don’t notice us until I close the door behind me. PM jumps up, turning bright red. “You were not invited.”
“Neither were a lot of other people who should have been,” Mariette replies.
PM, as before, loses his composure rather fast. “Get out! I thought you’d learned your lesson by now. How many people need to die before you back down?”
Mariette steps toward him, leaving me alone at the door. “That depends on how long it takes to convince the sheep that they’re following the wrong leader.”
Mr Fokker stands up at the other end of the table. “I thought I told you to stay in the room.”
“You did. I just thought that, since you’ve already resigned, I’d let them know this is only an ego-boosting exercise to uphold their moralistic, pathetic, narrow-minded, self-important positions, in which you are playing along,” Mariette answers.
“And you are playing with fire.”
“I am, but just so you all know, whatever it is you think you’re doing here, you haven’t had an official complaint, so this is based on gossip and rumour.”
“We have witnesses,” one man replies.
“Gossip and rumour. You have no plaintiff.”
“This is a college hearing, not a court case.”
“But just as corrupt, right? Let me tell you something; whatever went on was between Mr Fokker and me and entirely my doing.”
“This isn’t about that incident. This is about a teacher having favourites and holding lectures that are undemocratic, whereas schools should be teaching objective facts only,” Mr Sanders tells her.
It’s a very logical response that would have caught me out, but Mariette nods at him. “Right, like those totally
objective school books you people promote and which cost a fortune for the garbage they contain. Have you ever read those things?”
She’s spitting out words, taking over the room, as she does, and in doing so she has most of the adults listening and even defending themselves to her. Most are sitting half-turned in their seats. I can’t help but admire her fury and her strength. Apart from PM and Mr Sanders only one other person orders us to leave, “Or else…”
“Or else what? Will you tell all the parents about this meeting that they didn’t get told about, or should we do that? What about the local news? They might be interested in a bit of gossip and a public quarrel. Make a good name for your school.”
“That’s enough, Mariette,” Mr Fokker says, walking around the table the long way. I shrug my shoulders when he looks at me. I can’t stop her. She isn’t even upset; she’s loving it.
Mr Fokker stops in front of her but addresses the table. “Only yesterday have I buried a very close friend of mine and I am not prepared to let this be the start of another dispute, so let’s put an end to the excuses and the ‘yes-or-no did he hit her’ right now.”
Too fast for me to comprehend, his hand flicks back and forth to slap her face twice; not hard, but enough to stun the council as well as Mariette into a gaping silence. “So there; now get on with it,” he tells them and for a moment he looks just as defiant as Mariette.
She recovers first. “You are no help,” she sputters, but her eyes are sparkling.
“I’m tired of this charade, Mariette.”
“So am I, but this isn’t fair.”
“How much more history do you need to learn that it’s never about fair?”
“In that case I’m willing to take a chance at changing history.” As if nothing happened she turns to the others once. Her words come so easily when she’s on a rant like this. “You pride yourselves on having a progressive school and a true school council? Prove it! If you want to prevent another neighbourhood scandal, you cancel this so-called fair hearing and make this a democratic decision like you preach about in civics. If you want a fair ruling about his position you include the entire school community in this vote; all parents and all students as well. That would be fair, and if you want revenge after that you can kick me out.” She looks at Mr Fokker. “I guess I haven’t heard the end of it yet anyway?”
He slowly shakes his head. I’m not sure if it’s in answer to her question or because of the situation. I’m as impressed with his mettle as I am with her performance. Even if nothing comes of it, this will never be forgotten.
“Come on, Mariette, enough is enough. You’ve made your point,” I tell her.
She turns to me, triumph in her eyes. “Come on, they’ll need time to discuss this.” She relaxes then, and walks through the door in front of me without any more words.
“Now what?” I ask when we’re outside.
“I’d like to wait and see, but I’ve got the feeling it might be safer to go home. I’m not so sure about his reaction yet.”
“Who? Mr Fokker? What will he do? He already hit you.”
“I’d hate to be the centre of some embarrassing public display and I wouldn’t put it past him.”
So we pick up our bags and leave the school grounds with the intention to walk all the way home. “You like him taking charge, don’t you? You like him having power over you.”
“Don’t get any ideas, Jerome. I would never… It isn’t…” She blushes. “Nothing, just don’t listen to Charlotte, okay?”
Her insecurity touches me, since it’s such a contrast to earlier and it’s me she’s being timid to. “I know what it is, Mariette. Uncle Gerard is too soft for you. You need a stronger father, like I did before Nikos came back.”
“Yeah, I know… your poem…”
We walk in silence for a bit, but it’s a comfortable silence. “Sorry, it’s just that most people see wrongs everywhere,” she says. “Do you think they’ll buy it?”
“I don’t think there’s any need for us to go back to school tomorrow.”
“I know, but since I’m challenging them anyway, I’ll wait for them to make it official. I won’t give them the chance to say I left of my own accord. Besides, it might be better if Mum and Dad haven’t been officially notified yet when we go to the farm this weekend, if you know what I mean.”
I know what she means, only I’m not sure she really means it. We don’t say why we’re back early and Aunt Karen doesn’t ask.
Mariette doesn’t wear her uniform in the morning; she wears her black tracksuit again. “Just so they don’t think I’m trying to make up for what I did.”
I go with her to Mr Fokker’s room. “Will you peek in first?” she asks.
“It’s empty.”
“Damn bastards; they fired him anyway.”
With nothing better to do, I take out my diary and sit down at a desk to do a bit of writing. Mariette pulls a writing pad from the desk drawer and does the same. It’s strangely peaceful, sitting like this without anybody disturbing our thoughts. I have a strong feeling that this is my last day here and I feel relieved. My thoughts travel back to the English classes.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you have the nerve to show up here today,” Mr Fokker says, dropping his bag on the desk.
He doesn’t look as angry as his words imply, but Mariette jumps up anyway. “They didn’t fire you? Does that mean they’ll have a vote or did they withdraw their accusation altogether?”
“What do you think?
“The latter?”
He shakes his head and explains that the school is short of teachers as it is and now they’ve lost their English teacher three weeks before the start of the year twelve exams. It is difficult to find substitutes this close to the holidays. “They’ll want to postpone me leaving as long as possible, but they still want the last word.”
“I don’t understand why you keep coming then, if you know what they’re doing. They’re using you; doesn’t that piss you off?”
“No more than you do when you deliberately use that kind of language to provoke a response. Don’t you have class, Jerome?”
“I used to go to Mr Shriver.”
“I have a year seven group coming here soon, but you can stay if you want.”
“What about period three?”
“Mr Moralis is taking that class today.”
“Shit. Can we stay here?” Mariette asks. “I think that might be a good idea.”
Relieved, I take a seat at the back of the room. The year seven class isn’t given a chance to comment and I don’t really care anymore about them looking at me. I won’t be back. I’m not even sure why we’re here today.
The teaching period involves very little history. Mr Fokker starts a debate about the issues of the last few terms. “Should schools be allowing students a say in how they’re run, and can students handle that?”
A similar exchange takes place in the next class, only this time it starts with the question of whether students should obey teachers or should discussion be possible. I wonder if anybody is doing any more actual schoolwork, whatever that is.
Period four brings our own history class, but only a few of the danglers show up. “You can go or stay, read or write, or I can give you a copy of the practice exam,” Mr Fokker says.
We all opt for that last one, but Mariette doesn’t get one. “You won’t make it that long anyway and you have a more important question to answer,” he tells her.
At lunchtime, like at recess, I stay inside and join Mr Fokker and Mariette for sandwiches. “Don’t you want to go to the staff room?” I ask him.
“No, and for the same reason that you don’t want to meet your classmates right now.”
“What, do they call you names?” Mariette asks.
“Did you think adults were above that?”
“No, I’ve had my eyes opened recently.”
“You won’t be back on Monday, will you?” I ask.
“Actually, I have o
ne more week. The replacement isn’t available until then.”
“So you agreed to baby-sit for them, just like that. Did they even ask?” Mariette wants to know.
“I didn’t have the impression you were babies.”
She ignores that. “Did they ask? I mean, did they shamelessly ask you to help them out, after what they’re doing, and you’re accommodating them. Isn’t that ever hypocritical?”
“Yes, they were that impudent and I said yes, hypocritical as you may find it, because I figured I’ll give them all the credit and the need for reports and explanations while taking the opportunity to make the students think critically about their place here, which is exactly what they used as their excuse to kick me out. Besides, I need to keep an eye on certain people who might otherwise get in serious trouble.”
“Does that mean I can start summer holidays after next week?” Mariette asks, never giving up.
Lunch ends; civics is next, but those who skipped history don’t show up now either, which makes Lindsey demand where Charlotte is.
“She’s taken the afternoon off. I guess she forgot to tell you,” Mariette says.
“She can’t have. We’ve got assembly last and you’re gonna get kicked out. That’s what Charlotte says.”
“How would she know?”
“’Cause her dad talked to Mr Moralis; because you’re a traitor and a teacher whore.”
Mariette makes a move to get up, but I saw that coming and was faster. “Leave it be, Mariette. Your friends are probably waiting at the milk bar, Lindsey, why don’t you go look?”
“I don’t have to take orders from a sissy.”
Mariette pushes between us, ignoring my arm and Mr Fokker’s voice. “If you’re so brave and so straight and so clever, how about you do what you wanted to do last Friday when you had all your friends with you? Come on, Lindsey, you were so eager to beat us up, why don’t you do it now? Or could it be that you’re scared when you’re alone too?”
Lindsey looks about her for support, but most of Charlotte’s followers aren’t here.