Would Eleanor be recounting Isobel’s story about the voice mail? She watched Mary catch sight of her. “Good morning!” sang Isobel as she rummaged in her tote for her lanyard. The bag’s straps slipped from her shoulder, and she braced against the weight of it as it fell to her elbow.
“Do you need help?” Mary said, squinting at her.
“Oh, no.” Isobel shook her head. “I’ve got it.” She felt the key turn in the lock, blew stray hairs from her left cheek, and pushed inside. The fluorescent lights, set on a sensor installed the previous spring by members of the Environmental Club, began their familiar flicker, and Isobel lurched toward her desk.
No sooner had she kicked off her right boot than Mary peered through the tempered glass rectangle on the door.
“Knock, knock!” she called.
Isobel waved her boss in. “Hey,” she said, dipping her head down below the lip of her desk and flicking off her second boot. A ring of road salt, tracked in from the parking lot, outlined the spot where she always left them. “How’s it going?” She straightened, smoothing her hair again as Mary walked toward her.
“I was really wondering how things were going with you.” She slid into a student desk.
Isobel raised an eyebrow. “Fine,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Eleanor was just mentioning your discussion at the faculty meeting yesterday.”
Isobel reached down again, this time pulling her laptop from its sleeve. “It’s nothing,” she said. She flipped the MacBook open and impatiently typed her credentials. Isobel hoped that if she avoided eye contact, Mary would just leave.
“I’m actually wondering . . .” Mary trailed off. Isobel peeked over the silver frame of her computer screen. “I’m wondering, Isobel, if that voice mail that you mentioned to Eleanor is actually part of a larger pattern.”
Isobel sucked in an openmouthed breath. “A pattern?” she echoed. Mary had mentioned parent complaints just twenty-four hours ago, and then Isobel had been stupid enough to confess the voice mail at the faculty meeting.
“The rumblings I’ve been hearing,” Mary said, “some concerns shared by your colleagues, and a voice mail at home from a parent . . .”
Isobel bristled; a spark of fear and anger ignited her lungs. She’d seen what happened when parents homed in on a teacher with their complaints. They snowballed. Peter Harrington was just the most recent example. “Concerns shared by my colleagues?” Isobel repeated. “You mean, Eleanor’s concerns?”
“Eleanor is concerned,” Mary confirmed. “She shared with me this morning that you received a disturbing message on your home phone.” Isobel opened her mouth to explain, but Mary carried on. “And Eleanor and I have both noticed the discrepancies between your syllabus and hers when you’re supposedly teaching the same course.”
“Since when does Eleanor Woodsley have sole ownership and decision-making power over the Liston Heights American Literature curriculum?” She forced herself to take a deep breath. Calm down, she thought. Yelling at Mary would only set her back—provide another example of perceived instability.
“Of course she doesn’t,” Mary said. “But, as you know, at Liston Heights, we say that kids are taking a course with standards—”
“I address all of the standards!” Isobel felt panicky; her rigid fingers hovered over her keyboard. She looked to her right, where she actually had the curricular standards for eleventh-grade American Literature taped to the cinder block, checkmarks in various colors of ink indicating that she’d assessed them.
“I’m here to support you,” Mary said, raising both hands, a finger on her left catching the filmy end of her scarf.
It didn’t feel supportive, this drop-in conversation. It felt more like an ambush. Isobel looked down and clicked the attachment for the queer theory activity she needed to copy. “Mary,” she said, “I really have to get something copied before the bell.”
“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Mary said, standing. “I’m going to spend a few hours in here today during your American Lit classes. That way, I’ll have context for addressing the inquiries I’ve received.”
Isobel’s chest felt hot. Inquiries? Plural? She’d been holding out hope that it was just one. And now this impromptu meeting followed immediately by an hours-long observation with no warning? Usually, Mary scheduled her visits at least a week in advance. Drop-ins were for teachers who struggled. Everyone knew that. Peter Harrington had endured several in the weeks before he went on fall break and never came back. “You’re going to spend hours in here?” Isobel asked.
“It’s for your benefit. And,” Mary added, facing away, “it’s my job.”
Isobel ducked her head behind her computer again and clicked PRINT. “I have to print something,” she said. She felt tears threatening and clicked on her e-mail to buy herself another few moments. After pretending to read something, she looked up, more composed.
“Where would you like me to sit?” Mary surveyed the room. A trio of spider plants sat atop the bookshelves near the windows, Isobel’s lame attempt at something green.
“Why don’t you sit right here?” Isobel indicated her own chair as she stood. “First hour is crowded.”
“Oh, no,” Mary began. She glanced toward a spot in the back corner, beneath the healthiest of the plants.
“No,” said Isobel. “If I have perfect attendance, there won’t be space.” She paused, tears catching again. She reached under the frames of her glasses to wipe her lower eyelid. “You’ll be comfortable in my chair. I’ll be right back,” she mumbled.
While she was on her way to the office, Lyle stuck his head into the hallway as Isobel passed. “What did Mary want?” he whispered, conspiratorial.
Isobel slowed for a second. “Can you walk with me?”
“Sure.” His oxfords slapped the linoleum as he caught up to her.
“Mary plans to spend several hours in my room today,” Isobel blurted. “She didn’t schedule in advance. She says it’s for my own good.” She glanced up at her friend. He took a deep breath and kept his eyes on the floor, his silence stretching uncomfortably. “What?” she demanded. “Isn’t that ridiculous?”
Lyle took several more steps before answering. “Are you still doing those lessons about Marxism and feminism? The multiple-perspectives stuff with Gatsby?”
Isobel swallowed. Of course she was doing the “multiple-perspectives stuff,” as he called it. That was her primary purpose—to get kids to see literature and the world in new ways. “Of course I am,” she said.
“That’s your problem,” Lyle said. “Give it a rest for a while. This community isn’t ready for it. You’ve got to dole out your liberalism in small increments.”
“Lyle!” Isobel exclaimed. “It’s not liberalism; it’s the truth! The kids need to know!”
He put a hand on her shoulder, and she resisted the urge to shrug it off. “I’m on your team,” Lyle said. “Always! But you don’t need to go wholesale.” Isobel looked at the floor. “Incremental is good, too. Follow Eleanor’s or my syllabus for a couple of weeks, and this will all calm down.”
“Okay,” Isobel said, walking away from Lyle as he slowed.
“Hey, I’ve got to return a couple of e-mails before the bell.”
She waved over her shoulder. “See you later.”
In front of the Xerox machine, she considered tossing the queer theory follow-up discussion questions in the recycling bin. She could take Lyle’s advice and improvise a lesson on subject-verb agreement for the department chair’s benefit instead.
But she shook her head. Courage, she told herself. She wasn’t at Liston Heights to teach about grammar. She came here to make a tangible difference in the trajectories of these kids’ lives. She came here to show students that when people think only of themselves, they make terrible and dangerous decisions.
She put her handout on
the glass of the copy machine and hit the start button.
* * *
• • •
Back in her classroom with ninety seconds to spare and kids arriving, Isobel watched as each of the students noticed Mary Delgado at the teacher desk. She herself stood near the door, greeting the teenagers. Despite the awkwardness of Mary’s presence, Isobel valiantly peppered her hellos with questions about the kids’ activities, hoping her boss would notice the personal connections she’d forged with them. “How was hockey last night?” she asked one girl. “How was the first crew meeting for the musical?” she queried another.
The bell rang, and she called for attention. A sourness rose in the back of her throat. She could still change her mind—give kids time for journaling and use the seven minutes of their silence to dream up an alternative plan. Cowardly, she thought to herself. “Let me tell you what we’re up to today,” she began, chatter still rising from the crowd.
“Shhhhhhh,” the rule follower in the first row blasted. The girl whipped her hair around to target her loudest classmates in the back.
“Thank you, Susan.” Isobel smiled. “Okay.” She tugged her skirt down with her free hand, as she gripped her fresh copies. “Last night I asked you to read and annotate a handout.” She smiled playfully at the class. After all these years, she had been an expert at faking a cheerful teaching persona even when things went sideways in her own life. “Today,” Isobel continued, “I want to go back a little ways in the novel and look at some events through that new lens. Do you remember when we talked last week about chapter two?” She stepped toward the whiteboard and could see Mary in her peripheral vision, her boss typing madly.
The trusty front-row pet’s arm shot up. “Susan.” Isobel called on her.
“You mean, when we talked about feminism?”
“Exactly. What about feminism did we discuss?” She waited. Students flipped through their notebooks, and within seven or eight seconds, a few tentative arms cleared their desktops. She pointed at Charles.
“Uh,” he began, “we talked about how the men, especially Tom, have the power in the scene. And, uh . . .” Isobel willed him to continue. She sensed he’d have an answer that Mary would appreciate, despite her criticisms. “And it especially showed when Tom actually broke Myrtle’s nose,” he finished.
“Yes,” Isobel said, noting with pleasure that Mary nodded at her computer screen. “Okay,” she continued, “and this next part may require you to take a look in your books or take out that primer I gave you in class yesterday.”
“You mean the queer theory thing?” blurted Clayton, a stocky kid with hat hair, his emphasis on the “queer.” At this, she detected a twitch from Mary.
“That’s right.” Isobel glanced at the three spider plants behind Clayton and felt suddenly calmer. Why shouldn’t she ask kids to think about Nick’s sexuality? The whole book hinged on sexual attraction. She’d just had a positive Grow and Glow with Mary. Even if her boss questioned this particular tactic, no one could claim she wasn’t in good standing. “So,” she continued, “do you have your books turned to chapter two? What’s Nick doing at the end of that scene? What motivates Nick to be there at all?”
She waited. She could see a realization forming behind Clayton’s eyes. “Wait a second,” he said, staring at his book and then back at the definition of “queer.” “Wait a second, Ms. Johnson.” Other kids in his row turned toward him, and Isobel held still. She could feel his idea congealing. “Ms. Johnson,” he said, “are you saying that Nick is gay?”
Isobel smiled and began distributing the set of analysis questions. “I’m saying”—she punctuated her sentence by putting a sheet firmly on Clayton’s desk—“let’s talk about it.”
Mary’s eyebrows shot up. Isobel gave her an unreciprocated half smile, and the boss adamantly resumed typing.
When the bell rang to signal the end of first period and the kids walked out the door, some thanking Isobel for the lesson, Mary finally closed her laptop.
“Well?” Isobel said.
“How do you think that went?” quizzed Mary.
Isobel looked at the bright white snow on the track beyond the window, its icy surface reflecting the sunlight. The anger and frustration she’d experienced that morning had dissipated during the discussion, during which every child had participated. Isobel knew for sure, with the benefit of experience behind her—eight years in this very classroom at Liston Heights High—that the lesson had been solid.
“Mary,” Isobel said with a smile, “it went great.”
“How so?” she said, stony.
The first of next period’s ninth graders, Tracy Abbott, appeared at the door. Isobel smiled at her through the window and raised a finger. One minute, she mouthed. She turned back to Mary. “You saw it,” Isobel insisted. “Every kid, Mary—all thirty-four in this class—spoke! Everyone was engaged! Their books were open. They read passages with care and for deeper meaning.” Isobel gestured, rather too passionately, at the empty student desks before her.
Mary sighed. “So you’re going to teach that lesson all day, then?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Mary glanced at the growing gaggle of first years—Isobel herself had led the charge at Liston Heights to formally discontinue use of the sexist term “freshmen”—and then back at Isobel. “I’ll be back for your fifth-period class,” she said.
Isobel headed for the door; her students would be blocking the flow of traffic in the hall.
“If I were you,” Mary said, zipping her laptop sleeve and sliding out from behind the teacher desk, “I’d consider toning it down this afternoon. For your own sake.”
TRACY ABBOTT
Tracy raced to English 9 that morning, anxious to see Ms. Johnson, and she ended up having to wait for a moment in the hallway. There wasn’t anything in particular she wanted to discuss with her. Rather, she just liked being in her room. Unlike her mother, Ms. Johnson never scanned her outfits, assessing fit or flattery, and she never reached out to fix her hair. Not that teachers generally did that sort of thing, but still . . . Tracy felt accepted.
During discussions, Tracy found herself gazing at the “Interrogate Multiple Perspectives” sign that Ms. Johnson had taped above the bulletin board, the one to which her teacher so frequently referred. “What’s missing?” she’d ask the class as they talked through a short story or poem. Tracy thought extra hard in these moments, yearning to be the one to raise her hand, to provide the answer that provoked Ms. Johnson’s obvious pride.
What is missing? She’d repeat to herself as she reread the texts. At first, she hadn’t been able to identify anything, but as the trimester went on, as they discussed “The Yellow Wallpaper” and “The Story of an Hour,” she’d seen it.
“It’s women,” she’d said in response to Ms. Johnson’s familiar query one morning. Women’s voices! The realization came like a firework behind Tracy’s eyes. Women were missing everywhere, and when they weren’t missing, they were focused only on children and family. She kept seeing it in television shows and hearing it on the news her parents watched while they washed dishes. And now, for her “mini-research paper,” as Ms. Johnson called their current project, Tracy had chosen the topic of the motherhood penalty.
“What’s the motherhood penalty?” Tracy’s own mother had asked defensively when she’d leaned over her shoulder and seen the all-caps heading in her notebook.
Tracy had bit her lip and paused. She didn’t think Julia would like hearing about the wage gap. She might once again describe her prestigious summer internship in New York City after her junior year in college and recap her short-lived job at that local magazine that still arrived in the Abbott family mailbox each month. She’d say for the zillionth time, “When I looked into your beautiful little eyes, I knew I couldn’t let someone else—a stranger in a day care center—raise my children. I had to quit. And I was happy to
do it.”
Tracy had looked down at her notes. “The motherhood penalty means that women’s wages don’t recover after taking maternity leaves,” she had said quickly. “I’m reading about it for English.”
Julia had turned away, and Tracy could tell she was doing that thing where she tried not to say what she was thinking. Tracy could hear the words building up in her throat, little grunts and puffs from her nostrils.
“I’m finished with English now, anyway,” Tracy had blurted before Julia could speak. “I’m going to work on geometry for a bit before dinner.” She could smell the enchiladas in the oven, her favorite. “It smells awesome.”
“Thanks,” Julia had said tightly. Tracy had kept her eyes down, hoping the moment had passed, and switched the books in front of her.
Keeping her eyes down was something she didn’t bother with in Ms. Johnson’s room. Ms. Johnson stood at the board, her green skirt shifting as she pointed at the question she’d written there: What is your essential understanding?
“It’s the boiled-down one-sentence version of what you really want to tell your readers,” she said. “It’s clear, reasonable, and arguable.” Tracy scribbled those words in her notebook. “Can we say it together?”
“Clear, reasonable, and arguable,” Tracy said along with about half the class.
“Oh, no.” Ms. Johnson smiled. “Everybody’s going to say it.” And the next time, they did.
As Ms. Johnson circulated, checking on students’ thesis attempts, Tracy watched her reactions as she tweaked her own, crossing out and adding words. Occasionally, the teacher laughed or smiled. Tracy longed to be one of those students with the perfect thesis statement that thrilled Ms. Johnson. By the time she arrived at Tracy’s desk, she’d written, Women who forsake careers in favor of taking care of children close the door on a lifetime of professional opportunities.
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 11