“Don’t click on that.” Julia’s reaction was slow as her panic waned, and she realized too late that Tracy would see the secret group. Her daughter wouldn’t like it. She’d always seemed as indifferent to gossip and girl drama as she was to mascara and heels.
“Wait. Is this something from Ms. Johnson’s class?” Tracy leaned toward the screen and read the caption of the image at the top. “‘Ms. Johnson claims Jay Gatsby is gay’? What the heck?” She clicked the image of the handout and immediately scrolled down to the comments. Julia could see that the first of them said, This is malpractice. Is no one supervising this teacher? The second read, I’m a Yale English major, and I’ve never heard anything so outlandish. Where did this teacher go to college? Does she even have a degree?
“Ms. Johnson went to Madison,” Tracy blurted.
Julia found her voice. “This is just a place parents complain about things,” she said, trying to minimize it.
Tracy studied other posts, including pictures of teachers’ cars and even the assistant principal’s shoes with the caption, Don’t they pay Sue Montague enough to buy new kicks? “Mom,” Tracy said, her voice thick with emotion, as Julia’s had so recently been, “this is just mean.” She scrolled further. “It’s bullying. Why are you a member of this group?”
“I’m not really in it,” said Julia lamely. “I just like to know what’s happening at school.”
“Who is Lisa Lions?” Tracy asked. Julia tried to turn the computer away, but Tracy grabbed the edge of the screen. She clicked on Lisa Lions’s profile. “This is a fake account,” she said, announcing the obvious truth. “Mom, this person posted the video of you. She’s making you miserable. She has to take it down.” Before Julia could protest, Tracy had clicked on Messenger and begun to type.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
When Isobel walked in to school the next morning, she saw Jamie standing outside her classroom, flipping through a stack of papers.
“Hi, kiddo,” Isobel called from the entryway, her tote bag in the crook of her arm as she stomped her boots on the mat. “What’s up?”
She unlocked and opened her door and led Jamie in. As the sun was still rising, Isobel could see the two of them reflected in the windows overlooking the track. She unwrapped the scarf from her neck. Jamie held a paper in her outstretched hand. “Can you look at this?” she asked. “I’m not sure if I should score it ‘exceptional’ or ‘proficient,’ and Lyle and Eleanor always seem kind of annoyed when I double-check with them.”
Isobel shrugged out of her coat and reached for the paper, sliding it onto her desk as she got situated. “Sure.” Lyle and Eleanor could take their turns, she thought, rather than leaving all of the mentoring to me. Still, she grabbed a black Dixon Ticonderoga from the top desk drawer and had started to skim the paper when a knock on the door startled them both. Isobel glanced up at the window and made eye contact with a grim-looking Mary Delgado. Enough already, she thought. Between the voice mail, the impromptu observations, and Wayne’s unprecedented visit to her classroom, she already felt she was under attack. And now here was Mary hovering first thing in the morning again.
With no choice, however, Isobel waved her in. “Good morning.” Isobel kept her voice even.
“I’m sorry to bother you so early.”
Mary’s weak smile stoked Isobel’s anger. “What can I do for you?” Isobel asked.
“Do you have a moment to talk?” Mary looked pointedly at Jamie.
“Oh,” Jamie said, “sure.” She took the paper back from Isobel’s desk.
Isobel smiled at her. “I’ll come and see you in a few minutes, okay?”
“Sure,” Jamie said again. “No hurry.” She looked sidelong at the department chair as she rushed into the hall, and Isobel stared at Mary expectantly.
“I’m here,” Mary said, her weight shifting from foot to foot, “to tell you that Wayne and I need to meet with you right after school today in his office.”
Isobel looked down at her blouse, sure she’d be able to see her heart beating through the material. Another meeting in the wake of Wayne’s warning? “Why?” Isobel asked.
Mary squared her shoulders. “We’re going to address some curricular complaints,” she said, turning back toward the door before “complaints” was fully uttered.
“Wait,” Isobel said, standing. “This is serious?”
“It is,” Mary said. “I’m sorry.” She paused and half turned back around. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, seeing as I’m an administrator.” Her eyes landed on the F. Scott Fitzgerald poster at the back of the room. “But you and I have known each other for a long time.” Isobel swallowed. “You might want to bring a union rep,” Mary said, looking back at her. “Ask Lyle Greenwood to come with you to this meeting.”
Isobel’s sharp inhale made an “ah” sound. “Mary!” she said when she was able. “A union rep?” Union reps were for criminal accusations and termination papers. “What is going on? Wayne was in here yesterday telling me to stick to the books. I’ll do it, but I haven’t even had time to adjust yet.”
“Things have gotten more complicated.” She grabbed the doorknob. “I’m sorry.” She disappeared into the hall.
Isobel wilted into her chair, her chest pounding. She looked down at the ring of road salt beneath her desk and tried to breathe deeply. “Things have gotten more complicated,” Mary had said. That could mean only that they’d gotten more complaints about Isobel’s teaching. Was there some kind of campaign? She thought back to the voice mail, her first sign all year that something was different and wrong. “Anti-American” and “blatant liberal agenda,” the caller had said.
She still wasn’t certain that Julia Abbott had left that message. She’d been comfortable enough to tell her in person at the dance that everyone disapproved of her, so why would she need to leave an anonymous message? And Sheila Warner, the parent Wayne had mentioned the other day—the one who worked for Senator McGuire—had sidestepped Isobel entirely and gone straight to the big boss. Certainly she wouldn’t also leave a message? It occurred to her to call Mark, but the classroom clock read eight ten. She had to get to Jamie’s room to deal with that paper and then to Lyle, all before the bell at eight thirty. She could skip Jamie’s, but she didn’t want her to think anything was amiss. Not only did Jamie rely on Isobel for advice and stability, but she also seemed to be among the few who still admired her.
Isobel quickly swapped her boots for her wedges. She stood and checked for hat hair in the little square mirror she’d pasted inside her cabinet—not too bad—and then walked down to Jamie’s room. “Hey,” she said, swinging the door open. She aimed for nonchalance. “Want me to take a look at that paper?”
“That would be great,” Jamie said, holding it out. Jamie’s classroom had a spare look. It lacked the piles of clutter Isobel knew to be standard in most veterans’ spaces. Instead, Jamie’s bulletin boards all had fresh backings, unsullied borders, and shiny posters with inspirational quotes. Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you have imagined, read one, memorializing American Lit standby Henry David Thoreau.
“What did Mary want?” Jamie asked eagerly as Isobel scanned the essay.
“Based on the intro,” Isobel said, ignoring her, “I’d go with proficient, but I can see how you’d get tripped up.” She stepped back toward the door.
“Even if the conclusion is great?” Jamie asked.
“For exceptional, it’s got to check all the boxes.”
Jamie nodded. “Wait, but what did Mary want?” she asked again.
Isobel bit her lip, annoyed. She’d have to say something. “She scheduled a meeting for this afternoon.”
“About what?” Jamie’s eyebrows knit. “Is it about the voice mail?”
“Curriculum,” Isobel said. “Hey, I’ve got to go. I need to catch Lyle before the bell.” She tried to keep her voice li
ght. “See you at lunch?”
TRACY ABBOTT
Tracy had been looking forward to going over her concluding paragraph with Ms. Johnson that morning in English 9, but the teacher seemed distracted. She sat at her desk, flipping through a thick file of papers. Tracy had wanted to share her realization that if women decided to have children (and Tracy didn’t think everyone should—the cost to the planet in greenhouse gases per capita was enough reason to abstain), they owed it to their kids to ensure their financial stability by working steadily.
Of course, she also wanted to warn her favorite teacher about the Facebook group she’d seen, the handout from American Lit and all those mean comments from her mother’s friends, but she wasn’t sure how to bring that up. Lisa Lions was probably some mother, Tracy thought, who’d given up her job and her responsibilities. For all Tracy knew, her own mother had written bitchy comments in that group, along with all the others.
She wanted to tell Ms. Johnson all of this, but the teacher hardly looked up from her file all period. In fact, at one point, she put her head into her hand and wiped at the lower lids of her eyes. Could Ms. Johnson be crying? Maybe she already knew about the Facebook page?
Tracy scribbled a note to Anika Bergstrom in her notebook and flashed it across the aisle. Have you seen the Inside Liston FB group? Anika shook her head subtly and glanced up at Ms. Johnson, verifying that they wouldn’t be caught.
“What is it?” Anika mouthed.
Tracy went back to writing. A gossip page for our moms. Stuff about teachers. Very Fahrenheit 451. Tracy wasn’t sure if that comparison was particularly apt, but she felt pleased that the title had occurred to her. They’d read the novel in middle school, and she’d mentioned it once before this trimester when the class had discussed an article on biased policing, eliciting Ms. Johnson’s particular proud smile.
An idea occurred to Tracy then, as she tilted her paper again toward Anika. Maybe she could also join the Facebook group? Lisa Lions wasn’t the only one who knew how to make a fake account. Tracy wasn’t sure what she’d post, but something to push Ms. Johnson’s Gatsby handout— and her mother’s video, to be fair—down the page?
Just before the bell rang, Ms. Johnson stood and gave reminders about due dates. Tracy considered staying after class, but the teacher looked so distracted and her face so pale that she left with all the others.
ISOBEL JOHNSON
When Isobel walked into the principal’s office that afternoon, her legs felt weak. She worried she wouldn’t make it to a chair. Wayne sat at the conference table, next to a small-featured woman Isobel vaguely remembered as Amanda from human resources. The last time Isobel had seen her, she’d been running seminars during new-teacher orientation eight years before. Mary Delgado hunkered behind her laptop next to Amanda. She brought her eyes up to Isobel’s forehead when she walked in, but wouldn’t meet her gaze.
Lyle Greenwood put a brotherly hand on Isobel’s shoulder and pulled out a chair for her. She sank into it as he flipped his legal pad to a fresh page and dropped his ballpoint on top. “What’s this about, Wayne?” Lyle asked. His voice had weight to it. In his soft-sided briefcase, Isobel knew he had a copy of her personnel file.
When she’d walked to Lyle’s classroom before first period that morning, her hands shaking, he’d pointed at the nearest desk, handed her a peppermint Life Saver from the bulk bag he kept next to his computer, and given her a to-do list. The first item was to walk over to the district office, request her file from the superintendent’s assistant, and make two copies. She’d wondered if he’d also tell her “I told you so,” but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d hugged her and promised to try to help.
When she got the copies, she’d turned to the last page of her most recent performance review first. An innovative and effective teacher, it read, and Wayne’s scrawling signature monopolized the bottom two inches of the page.
She’d always taught her values, and while she knew not everyone approved of her methods, she’d still been a respected and successful member of the faculty. How could the parents have turned on her so completely between last spring and now?
Wayne looked at Lyle, whom Isobel knew he respected, and then at Isobel herself. The “Good things come to those who hustle” poster glittered on the wall behind him, level with his head. “I’m going to be frank with you,” Wayne began. He cleared his throat lightly. “We’re dealing with some pretty serious concerns about misconduct.”
“On Isobel’s part?” Lyle asked. She felt grateful for the incredulity in his tone. She willed herself to match Lyle’s impeccable posture, shoulders back, neck straight.
“Indeed,” Wayne said. He opened a folder on his desk and took out copies of what Isobel could see were a series of bullet points.
Isobel’s tongue felt oddly thick, and she was glad that she and Lyle had decided before the meeting that he would do as much of the talking as possible. “What’s the nature of the complaint?” he asked.
“Isobel,” Wayne said gravely, looking at his paper, “when you were hired at Liston Heights High School, you completed the new-faculty orientation, correct?”
“Of course,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded normal. “I did the orientation in twenty twelve.”
“And at that training and at several department meetings since, you’ve been made aware of the Liston Heights curriculum requirements?” Wayne looked at Mary to confirm, and the department chair bobbed her chin in assent.
Isobel stiffened. “Wayne,” she said, “I follow curricular guidelines. I’ve never deviated from the list of approved texts.”
Wayne exchanged a glance with Mary. “The nature of the complaint against you, Isobel, is not about following the letter of the curricular requirements, but rather the spirit of them.” Isobel folded her hands and squeezed her knuckles together. Wayne’s cologne, thick and woody, wafted across the table. The principal held the bullet points out to her. “This is a list of curricular aberrations we’ve cataloged from students, parents, and some of your supervisors.” Isobel reached for the page. In the top-left corner, she saw her name, last name first, and Liston Heights employee number.
Lyle reached confidently for a copy that Wayne held out for him, as well. It occurred to Isobel that Lyle must have been at meetings like this before, and yet even though they were close friends, he hadn’t divulged any details of other people’s professional problems. When she looked down at the bullet points, she could hardly make sense of the words before her. Insinuation that Atticus Finch represents white supremacy, read a bullet near the top.
“I didn’t say this,” she blurted. She didn’t look up. The next bullet said, Introduction of queer theory as a critical lens although it’s not approved by the district office. “Wait a second!” Her eyes found Mary. “I’m not allowed to offer perspectives on the texts?”
Mary looked at Amanda and Wayne before she answered. Anger washed over Isobel, seizing her arms and hands. She stared at an athletic trophy sitting behind Mary on Wayne’s desk. Boys’ State Swimming and Diving, the inscription read. Of course she was allowed to offer additional perspectives, Isobel thought. Every teacher in the department did it, even Lyle.
Mary said, “All of our materials need to be developmentally appropriate and sufficiently contextualized for students.”
“But you watched me teach about queer theory.” Isobel leaned toward Mary. “You saw how engaged the students were.”
Mary sat up straight. “Not all of them were engaged,” she said pointedly. “Not all of them felt safe.”
Isobel turned to Lyle, whose face remained remarkably placid. “Isobel,” Lyle said, “it’s customary in cases like this to offer a written rebuttal to the complaint.” He looked at Amanda for confirmation, and she nodded. “You’ll be able to submit your response to the allegations in writing as soon as tomorrow.”
“That’s correct,” said Wayne. “And as you begin
working on that document, we will begin a full investigation of your compliance with school policy.”
“Investigation?” Isobel heard a faint buzzing in her ears.
Lyle broke in. “Isobel told me you asked her just yesterday to adhere more closely to the assigned texts. What’s happened since then?”
Amanda spoke slowly. “A formal complaint has been brought against you,” she said. “And we’ve had six additional calls from concerned parents in the last twenty-four hours. Members of the community feel you’re applying undue influence on students and overpoliticizing classic works of literature.” Six additional calls? Isobel’s jaw dropped. That had to be some kind of coordinated effort. There was no way six parents randomly decided to complain on the same day.
Lyle scribbled formal complaint; overpoliticized on his legal pad. Isobel had no idea what to say. Although the queer theory arc was new, in general, she wasn’t doing anything remarkably different from any other year.
Lyle looked at Wayne. “What course of action will you be taking in this matter?”
Wayne flicked his eyes toward his manila folder. “Ms. Johnson will be relieved of her duties for one week while we review her lesson plans and course materials, and interview students and families.”
“What?” Isobel recoiled so violently that the front legs of her chair lifted from the floor. Lyle reached a hand over to steady her.
“Who will be conducting the investigation?” he asked, still calm.
“That’ll be Mary and me,” Wayne said. “We’ll report our results to Amanda, and then to you.” He pointed at Isobel.
Even in her shock, she had to quell the urge to correct his pronoun usage. “I,” Wayne, she thought, “Mary and I.”
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 15