by Nōnen Títi
“Go on, Lindsey. It’s my fault that you can’t learn and that you can’t get the teachers under your skirt, so do it already.”
“Leave her alone, Mariette. Go, Lindsey, go to Charlotte,” I repeat. “Come on, Lindsey, I’ll come with you,” Pat says.
Lindsey agrees and picks up her bag.
That could have been the end of it and the rest of the period would have been peaceful, but Mariette has other ideas. “I’ll kill her, stupid bitch!” she says, following it with a string of curses.
“She isn’t clever enough to get upset over,” I tell my cousin.
Of course, no matter what I say, Mariette refuses to be calm. In fact, now that Lindsey is gone she hypes herself up. She also ignores Mr Fokker’s order to sit down. She stands opposite him, taunting him as she did Lindsey, pushing the limits. “Make me, then. Maybe it will release you from baby-sitting a week early.”
“Stop it, Mariette, you’re going too far,” I try. She’s been going too far for weeks already. I should take over from Mr Fokker and take her away. “Come on, Mariette. You’ve had your fun; we should go home, for good.”
“No, damn it, Jerome, no!”
So I do what she asked me to and try to take her arm, but she spits at me.
“Go!” Mr Fokker says. “Leave the room. You can go to the assembly and sit with your class and stand up for the anthem just like everybody else. I’m tired.”
He hasn’t raised his voice; on the contrary, he kept it very quiet, but this one line stops Mariette’s anger altogether.
“Go. Get out. I don’t want you here anymore,” he repeats.
Despite the tingling in my fingertips that’s left from her hurting me, I almost feel like holding her. She suddenly looks so lost. But I can’t blame Mr Fokker either, so I stay where I am.
“Go on. Wait out in the corridor,” Mr Fokker says when Mariette still doesn’t move.
Nobody goes with her the way Pat did for Lindsey. Mr Fokker dismisses the rest of the class. He, too, looks hurt and lonely. I hate this school.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why she does these things. She likes you, honestly.”
“Why she’s doing it, is because she feels guilty, Jerome. She feels responsible for Mr Shriver’s death. No amount of words will be enough to convince her otherwise and I’m not in a position to do more than I already have. She’s trying to make me, because of that first time, but I can’t. I’ll need to talk to her parents.”
I know what he’s saying, and it makes sense in a way, but… “Does she know that?”
“I’m not sure. It might be subconscious, but even if it isn’t, she won’t admit it easily.”
“No, of course… Her parents can’t help, though; they’d never… Maybe Grandpa Will or Granannie… they’d understand.”
Mr Fokker studies me as if to work out if I really get it. “Do you think you could get them to contact me, if that’s the case, without alerting anyone else for now?”
“Sure.”
He writes his home number on a piece of paper. “She needs you, Jerome. Much more than she’ll ever be able to say.”
This is the third time someone’s told me that.
“We’d better get to that damned assembly,” he says next, though the bell hasn’t gone yet.
Mariette is waiting like he told her to. She’s sitting on the floor against the wall, playing with her bag. I offer my hand to help her up. “I’m sorry for doing that,” she says.
“It’s better than worms, I’m sure.”
“You’re too good, you know that, Jerome?” She stops to look at Mr Fokker and then shrugs as if to say, ‘I have no idea where to start’.
“I always regretted not having a daughter, but I’m starting to be grateful for only having to deal with teenage girls at work. I don’t know what I’d do if I had you for a child.”
He’s teasing Mariette now, and she glances at me and blushes. Maybe she does know.
“Now, all year the two of you have been talking about what starts wars and what keeps them going,” he says on the way to the gym. “Do you also know what ends them?”
“Cease-fires and peace treaties,” Mariette answers.
“Yes, that’s one way.”
Inside the gym some students are busy putting a table and six chairs at the front near the microphone. I leave Mariette and Mr Fokker at the side wall together and sit down next to Pat.
“Good afternoon, boys and girls,” PM starts and carries on talking about the importance of the exam weeks and the need for being calm. To avoid irregularities, he says, “The joint parent-teacher council has agreed to extend the question of Mr Fokker’s position to the whole school community in the hope that acceptance of a majority vote will restore the peace. Every student and every family will get one vote.
We expect you all to vote according to your conscience and to decide right from wrong considering that the issue is a teaching position in a public school.”
To help the voters make up their mind, he says he will allow a debate between the opposing parties to be held right now in the manner that Mr Shriver taught. He calls for three members from each side to come forward. “For obvious reasons, Mr Fokker cannot speak on his own behalf.”
Leaning against the wall, his arms folded, Mr Fokker raises his eyebrows with a slight look of derision.
Charlotte steps forward, accompanied by the two school captains, while Mariette scans the room, looking for people left on Mr Fokker’s side. Josh must be, but I don’t see him. Mariette eventually convinces Pat, who is no keener than I am, to come up front with us.
Charlotte’s father, as a representative of the council, sits in the front row next to PM.
Charlotte makes her opening statement, which she reads from a piece of paper. She starts with giving a bit of information about the history of the school and its name, which seems irrelevant. She follows it by saying that many of the parents who are now in the council were students here themselves when this suburb was young and the school stood on a bare piece of land. “They planted the garden and brought it to life,” she says and explains that this is the reason that they’re deeply involved and concerned about the future of the school. “When our parents were young there were also worries about student rights. In their case it had to do with abolishing the teachers’ right to use corporal punishment. Today we are still grateful that teachers lost that right, and now the council has cordially decided to grant us a vote in the decision of whether a teacher who hits students should have his licence terminated.” She explains that he’s leaving the school anyway, “but with a yes vote, no other school children will be in danger of abuse at his hands.”
Mr Fokker does not seem moved one way or the other by the strength of Charlotte’s words. Mariette rolls her eyes at me, but then Charlotte mentions her name.
“I know that we started our quest for student rights together, but Mariette is turning it into a personal journey to support those who threaten the safety of the students with violence or abuse. Now we’ve been given the say we asked for last term. Instead of just a place for one student representative in the council; we now find that every student in the school has been given a voice.” She finishes by saying that all students and their parents should exercise that right and vote yes.
“Charlotte’s right,” Mariette begins her speech. “We stood together last term. It was about rights then; not only the right to a voice, but the right to be an individual; the right to form our own opinions and express our concerns, which the prospectus promised us and-”
“The concerns we’re expressing here are about the risk of abuse,” Charlotte interrupts her, “and that same risk interferes with our right to feel safe and secure,”
“Before the prospectus was changed without our legitimate voice, it also said that we have the right to be well taught. The definition of teaching is imparting information so others may learn and you can’t learn from state-censored, one-sided information without the chance to discuss the su
bjects.”
“The prospectus also says that we have the right to be treated fairly and equally,” Charlotte replies. “Fair means being taught impartial and objective information, not anti-government lectures meant to send the students into rebellion.”
“Until last week, Charlotte, you were only too happy to join the rebellion.”
“No, Mariette; until last week you were with the students, but then you suddenly ran over to the other side.”
“I agreed to try and make peace.”
“Traitor!” somebody in the audience yells.
“Yes, Mariette. That’s called treason. You’re supposed to stay with your own team.”
Mariette tries to explain the proposal. She insists that what happened between her and Mr Fokker isn’t anybody’s business. “There never was, nor will there ever be, a risk of abuse and the rest is based on rumours.”
“No, it’s based on eye-witness reports. You were there, right, Pat? You witnessed the abuse, didn’t you?” Charlotte asks.
“Together we must stand!” somebody else shouts, while Pat moves uneasily in her seat.
Charlotte turns to the assembly and asks how many have witnessed the abuse. The response is louder than could be made by just the few people who were present in that classroom.
“You are trying to judge the situation by what you heard and saw, but you weren’t involved. You can’t go by prejudice,” Mariette tells the audience rather than sticking with the debate.
They respond by yelling things about Mr Fokker and about safety. They shout personal insults at her, things that have little to do with Mr Fokker’s position or the politics of the school and so Mariette can’t use her general logic. Now would be a good time to get angry. She’s best when furious.
Charlotte silences the audience by insisting that Pat answer her.
“I made a mistake,” Pat says without looking at either Charlotte or me.
“What are you doing, Pat?”
She answers with an apologetic shrug. “I let Mariette talk me into it, but I just want to stay with what’s right. I saw what Mr Fokker did, same as you, I was there.”
“So you’re deserting us?”
Pat looks away without answering. Mariette keeps trying, but the audience has other ideas than continuing with the debate. Every time she says a word, they start again, all together and their voices dissolve into laughter. “Loser!” they shout at her, and, “Traitor!”
PM sits in the front row, smiling, no doubt remembering the time he was at the receiving end of this, and he makes no attempt to stop it. When I look at him, Mr Fokker indicates that I should speak up, but I have no idea what to say.
Mariette still sits, silent now, staring into the distance, her face plastered and every muscle under control… for the moment, struggling like she did earlier in the room. She won’t hold it together like this and it isn’t fair.
I hesitate too long. When the audience turns to hooting and making some suggestions about Mariette losing it, she gets up to leave, knocking over her chair. I jump over it and reach her at the same time Mr Fokker does. “I couldn’t,” she whispers, all her desperation in those two words.
“No, you couldn’t. They won, Mariette. You should tell Mr Moralis that. Tell him you’ll be leaving school,” Mr Fokker says.
“I can’t do that. That would be giving in.”
“Yes, it would. That’s the other way wars can end; if one side gives up. That’s called capitulation.”
“But that isn’t fair.”
“It isn’t about fair. It’s about submitting to the power of the victor. That’s what it’s always about: winning and losing. It’s part of the war game.”
“I’m not going on my knees for him.”
“Yes, you will. It’s the only way to stop this war. You’re going to turn around and tell Mr Moralis you’re sorry for starting it.”
There’s disbelief in Mariette’s eyes; they say what her mouth doesn’t, but the word is “traitor”. I’m not sure what to make of this either. He might be right that we have to give up, but it’s pretty obvious who’s won. We don’t have to openly admit it.
“Yes, you do,” Mr Fokker says. “Let them have their victory, so it’s official and that way we avoid any more retaliation. They need to be able to celebrate their win.”
“You’re crazy,” Mariette says. “You can’t make me and I won’t say it.”
“Yes, you will, and yes, I can. You will either go to him yourself or I will force you.”
“I was on your side, you know. I was trying to help you!” Mariette hisses, but her voice trembles.
“I could do it, I guess,” I suggest, aware that the crowd is suddenly very silent, trying to hear what is being said.
“No, Jerome. Mariette will do it. She’s the head of state. It’s her job.”
“I can’t!” She stamps her foot.
“I know it’s painful, but you have no choice. You will capitulate to Mr Moralis, not to Charlotte, and I will tell you what to say.”
“No, you can’t make me!” She suddenly kicks his shin and turns to leave, but he grabs her arm.
“Yes, I can, or you can have that proper spanking I promised you, right here in front of the entire assembly.”
I glance at Mr Moralis to see if he can hear what they’re saying and then try to help Mr Fokker. “Please Mariette, they’re only words. Just say them. That’s all they’re asking.”
“No. I won’t respond to blackmail and I won’t do-”
Mr Fokker smacks her before the last words has left her mouth. “There, I’ve removed the blackmail.” He pulls her close to his face. “And now you will do as I tell you.”
Right or wrong, this puts an end to Mariette’s resolve. She surrenders and lets him take her to the front row. Aware that I’m letting it all happen once again, I follow them. She says the words Mr Fokker feeds her without looking at PM, struggling to contain her despair, but PM doesn’t seem chuffed at all.
“I don’t understand you people,” he says when she finishes, looking at Mr Fokker. “You hit her and she does what you say. I do everything right and nobody listens.”
Suddenly I feel almost sorry for him.
In the meantime Charlotte has taken the microphone and starts addressing the restless and noisy audience. “I think this proves that he has no remorse for his actions. We should thank Mariette for supplying the evidence. I think it’s clear that our safety is at risk and that we have won this vote. Don’t you think so, Jerome? You were closest. You have to admit that this is no longer an objective and impartial teacher-student relationship. He’s doing everything a teacher shouldn’t. You still have a chance to do the right thing and join us, but if you stick with them you’ll become part of the abuse.”
Charlotte is putting it on thick because she needs this win to be hers completely. Behind me, the mob sings victory, shouting “Abuser!” at Mr Fokker while Mariette seeks protection in his arms.
Torn between the memory and envy, I leave my cousin with her saviour and join Charlotte at the front. She gives me the microphone.
“You’re right, Charlotte, I was closest and I didn’t witness any abuse. What I witnessed was somebody taking charge when it was needed in spite of the risk to his job. You may be here because your father is in the council and planted the garden, and that privilege gave you the advantage of being pre-informed about this debate. After all, tall poppies still grow best in the gardens that claim to have eradicated them. But as far as I know, Mr Moralis is officially in charge of the school and the only one who should be ordering the execution. Besides, a teacher shouldn’t be a machine that spits out dry data in the name of impartiality: a good teacher is a human being who shares information because he’s partial to it. Mr Fokker is a history teacher. It makes no difference whether he’ll be doing that in a classroom or in the real world. Nobody listens anyway.
“Remember when he asked where we would have been if we’d lived in the time of the crucifixion? Well, here’
s your answer: Every one of you would have run with the masses. You might sit in his churches crying over his fate on Sundays now, but had you lived back then, you would have been the loudest voices shouting to have him crucified.”
I can’t think of anything else to say. I expect to be jeered at, but nobody says anything, so I go back to Mariette and Mr Fokker.
“That was the best speech I ever heard,” he says.
Mariette nods, smudges from her tears still visible on her face.
“Come on, I’ll give you a last ride home.”
“You don’t have to,” I tell him.
“Yes I do, or did you want to take her in the bus like this?”
So we step into Mr Fokker’s car one more time. No wonder people are talking. But they don’t just talk; they draw conclusions, unlike Mariette, who makes up her own mind. Of course, once somebody’s blown it for her, they’ve blown it for good. She might need me to stop her from jumping into hot lava, but she helped me to see that lava can be fertile as well. I scribble the first words on the ride home: Song for Mariette. I don’t feel stupid anymore for doing it; not in front of these people.
Mariette breaks the silence. “I’m sorry I kicked you.”
“And I’m sorry I had to make you do this,” Mr Fokker replies. “I waited too long. I failed to see that being an independent observer didn’t release me from my duty to stop you, and that was after having discussed it with you. I stood back, so I’m as much to blame as you are. Now do I need to come in with you?”
“We’ll be all right. What about you?”
“This performance didn’t take me by surprise, Jerome. Like you said, I’ll always be a history teacher. Don’t forget what I asked you.”
“I won’t.”
Mariette walks in the door and straight upstairs to avoid questions. I go into the living room to say hello.
“How was school?”
“It was okay.”
“Oh, good, no problems then?”
“What’s wrong, Aunt Karen?”
“I was told that my daughter is disrespectful of authority and of the parent council and that my place in that of Miranda’s school has been given to somebody else. That’s all. No big deal, Miranda’s leaving anyway.”