Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes

by Kathleen West

  “Shit,” Tracy said, and then reflexively looked up and down the hallway, checking for adults who might have overheard her. None, thank goodness. She pulled her phone out and loaded the page. “It’s long!” she exclaimed, scrolling through the multiple paragraphs Julia had written.

  “It’s going to take you a little bit of time,” Anika said nervously. “You might want to sit down.”

  “Thanks.” Tracy left Anika and hurried toward the library. Her friend was right: It was easier to assess her mother’s embarrassing behavior without witnesses.

  Walking through the fiction section, she clicked over to texts and, for the first time ever, lied to her ski coach. Feeling sick, she wrote. Heading home. Sorry. She felt slightly guilty for missing practice, but the Facebook thing seemed like an emergency. One practice, she reasoned, shouldn’t change the outcome of next week’s conference championship.

  Tracy looked up from her phone and headed for an armchair near the periodicals, far from the librarian at the circulation desk. She navigated back to Facebook. As the page reloaded, Tracy felt her breath quicken.

  Her mother’s post began with a bolded headline.

  Isobel Johnson’s father was convicted of multiple felony charges.

  What? Tracy started reading.

  In addition to the sentiments already posted here about Isobel Johnson’s lack of regard for American history and literature, I want to mention that Ms. Johnson further scorns Liston Heights parents, particularly mothers. After just a month in her class, my daughter began to express a disdain for motherhood, the fact of it and the work of it.

  Tracy winced. It wasn’t disdain, exactly. She read on.

  Imagine my shock when Tracy told me I’d “wasted my life” by caring for my children. It seems the heroines in the stories Ms. Johnson has chosen for our ninth graders share this sentiment. In fact, one of them killed herself rather than continue to face the tedium and hopelessness of motherhood. It’s no surprise, then, that Tracy decided she no longer wishes to become a mother herself.

  I find Ms. Johnson’s perception of high moral ground, especially her comments regarding respect and empathy, suspect for a couple of reasons, which I’ll detail here.

  Tracy’s cheeks burned. She glanced around the library. The room was empty, save for the librarian, engrossed in her own screen, and one romantic couple—juniors, Tracy thought—entangled beneath the 300S, SOCIAL SCIENCES sign. Tracy quickly looked away from them and blinked at her sneakers, thinking. Her mother’s essay—that was what it seemed like to Tracy, a persuasive essay in the format Ms. Johnson had taught them—made Ms. Johnson seem sinister, like she had tried to turn Tracy against her mother. But it wasn’t like that. Why didn’t her mother ever understand? Tracy kept reading.

  I began my research on Isobel Johnson with a desire to confirm her credentials—many members of this group have questioned in recent days her education and good standing—but I discovered something even more critical. Isobel Miller Johnson is indeed a licensed teacher. She has fourteen years’ experience and a degree from the University of Wisconsin–Madison. And she also has an interesting past.

  Many lifelong Minnesotans will remember the case of Robert John Miller, a financial adviser in Rochester, MN, who defrauded clients including the Rochester Area Charitable Foundation, which funds children’s cancer treatments, in addition to other lifesaving medical procedures at the Mayo Clinic. Miller was convicted of several felony charges and served eight years in a minimum-security prison in northern Minnesota.

  I’m linking here an article detailing the specifics of his parole. In it, the reporter lists members of Robert Miller’s family, including daughters Caroline and Isobel Miller—the same woman who now teaches so many of our kids at Liston Heights High School.

  Tracy wiped her brow, which had dampened as she read about the cancer treatments. Poor Ms. Johnson, Tracy thought. Her dad was a criminal? That might be worse than having a mom who punched Melissa Young.

  Now Tracy arrived at that bolded sentence her mother had cut and pasted to use as a title:

  Isobel Johnson’s father was convicted of multiple felony charges. Can she really maintain her holier-than-thou stance? Liston Heights parents, how comfortable are you now with this woman influencing your children?

  Tracy clenched her jaw. Ms. Johnson would never have allowed a student to end an essay with a question like that, she thought, although on Facebook, she guessed it made more sense. People would answer it in the comments. Vivian Song had done so. Stop being so petty, she’d written. This woman is not responsible for her father’s mistakes.

  Go, Vivian, Tracy thought. She scrolled. Many of the other parents were less positive. Sheila Warner had written, Makes sense that this vile woman would be the spawn of someone so morally bankrupt. Get her out.

  The librarian stood from her desk and headed toward the couple in nonfiction. She’d circle past the periodicals next. Tracy didn’t want to explain her presence there. She had to decide quickly whether to comment on her mother’s post. She had to, right? That had been the whole purpose of Kate Awakened—not just to bear witness, but to make a difference. Tracy smiled at the idea, at the phrase “bear witness.” Ms. Johnson, she thought, might have chosen the same words about her moral responsibility. Tracy watched the juniors, chastised, slink toward the exit. The librarian turned, arms folded, and walked toward Tracy.

  The small text beneath the Facebook post indicated that her mother’s essay had already been seen by 456 people. She checked the total number of members of the group—there were almost seven hundred. She clicked the comment icon and began furiously typing, deterring the librarian, she hoped, with her concentration. This exposé is written by someone whose most significant journalistic experience is a summer internship at YM. She quickly posted and then clicked LOG OUT, standing to leave just as the librarian opened her mouth to ask her what she was doing.

  WAYNE WALLACE

  The principal reached for his Odwalla on Tuesday morning and looked down at the roster of Isobel Johnson’s students. She’d certainly muddled things with the Channel 6 comment. Of the four parents he’d talked to yesterday, two had mentioned it. “Is it appropriate for a professional to be so judgmental?” one had said. He hadn’t answered definitively, but scribbled judgmental on his spreadsheet. Another strike against Isobel.

  As Wayne scanned the families he hadn’t yet called, the Songs stood out. He’d received that e-mail from Allen about suspending Mr. Danforth instead of Ms. Johnson. Danforth was a dinosaur, Wayne admitted, but he wasn’t polarizing. He kept his head down, and Wayne appreciated that.

  Now he was curious to know whether the Song parents had the same feelings about Isobel as their son. He dialed.

  “This is an atrocity,” Vivian said as soon as Wayne had identified himself. “I can’t believe you’d deprive my son of the educational experience he deserves to conduct this unwarranted investigation.”

  “I appreciate your opinion,” Wayne said robotically, his curiosity satisfied. “We’re trying to ensure that each student at Liston Heights High School is getting the experience they deserve.” He took a breath. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course,” Vivian snapped.

  Wayne looked at his script. “Do you have the sense that Allen feels safe in Ms. Johnson’s class?”

  “Safe?” Wayne held the phone away from his ear to buffer Vivian’s volume. “Ms. Johnson’s English class is a highlight of Allen’s day. She’s been his teacher for three trimesters. She’s been wonderful.”

  “Thank you,” Wayne said. He marked a zero with a line through it in the notes section of his roster to indicate that Vivian Song had no complaints. He looked at the next question on his list. “Has Allen perceived any bias in Ms. Johnson’s teaching?”

  “In what sense?” Vivian asked.

  “Are there particular ideas that Ms. Johnson prefers? Ideas that she vali
dates more than others?”

  Vivian laughed, a bitterness on the edges of it. “Is this about the white-savior thing? From To Kill a Mockingbird? Because I’ve got to be honest with you: It’s such a relief to encounter a white teacher in this school district who will actually acknowledge race.”

  “Oh?”

  “We are Korean, Mr. Wallace. Our culture is important to us.” Vivian spoke quickly.

  Dr. Wallace, Wayne thought to himself, glancing up at the framed diploma above his desk. “Of course,” he said aloud. “Mrs. Song—”

  “Dr. Song,” the woman interrupted.

  Wayne sighed and raised an exasperated arm. “Dr. Song.” He wished he could skip his last question, but he knew the importance of uniformity. “Do you have anything else to add? Anything that might help us understand Allen’s experiences in American Lit?”

  “This whole thing is ludicrous.” Wayne once again held the handset from his ear. “Allen finds Ms. Johnson to be supremely fair and completely qualified. In fact, if you want to conduct an investigation, may I suggest you begin with that Danforth fellow? Allen tells me he shows a movie twice a week in Advanced Placement American History! I don’t pay Liston Heights property taxes for that!”

  Wayne looked at his watch. “Thanks for the feedback, Dr. Song,” he said, his voice jovial again. “I’ve noted your concerns, and I’ll take these into account as we proceed. I appreciate your time.”

  “And I hope you’re not penalizing Ms. Johnson for her comment about Julia Abbott on last weekend’s news,” Vivian blurted. “Julia Abbott is crazy. You probably know that she’s now retaliated against Ms. Johnson, dredging up that story from her past and posting it on that horrible Facebook page. The woman is disturbed.”

  “Facebook page?” Wayne asked. “You mean the Liston Heights High School Facebook page?”

  “Of course not,” Vivian said. “I’m talking about that gossip page.”

  “Gossip page?” Wayne repeated.

  “You don’t know about it? The parents involved do call it secret, but there are so many. Hang on. I’ll give you the whole title.” Vivian paused. He could hear that she’d put him on speaker.

  “I appreciate that.” Wayne’s gaze settled on an open box in the corner of his office—custom water bottles for the Liston Lights—as he waited.

  “Okay,” Vivian said after a couple of seconds. “The group is called ‘Inside Liston: A Behind-the-Scenes Look for Concerned Parents Who Need to Know.’ Julia Abbott posted an article about Isobel Johnson’s past, as if her father’s criminal record is of any relevance to her current efficacy in the classroom.”

  “Inside Liston?” Wayne felt woozy as he wrote the phrase on his spreadsheet. “Isobel’s father has a criminal record?”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. Julia posted the story on Sunday night. She must have spent all day writing it, as if she’s some kind of investigative journalist. Ironic, since her only journalistic experience consists of a summer internship at a teen magazine.” Wayne could practically hear Dr. Song’s sneer.

  He leaned forward and pressed the space bar on his computer to wake it. “I’m sorry,” Wayne said, hating to ask. “Can you tell me again how to get to the Facebook group?”

  “You have to friend Lisa Lions,” Vivian said, impatient. “She’s who runs it. That’s obviously not a real name. Her group is how I first heard about Ms. Johnson’s suspension last week.”

  Wayne hurriedly typed Facebook into his Web browser. “Someone announced her suspension last week?” His own profile loaded in front of him.

  “I’ll find the post.” Vivian was quiet for a moment. “Here it is,” she said. “Last Thursday morning. ‘Parent success: Targeted complaints about curricular overreach result in suspension and investigation of English teacher Isobel Johnson.’”

  Wayne’s mouth felt dry. Thursday morning? They’d informed Isobel of the investigation only on Wednesday afternoon. “Could you repeat that?” he asked. Vivian read it again. How would parents have that level of information? “Who posted that?” Wayne demanded. “And what’s the group called again?”

  “Inside Liston, Wayne.” Vivian sounded smug now, and curt. “But you won’t be able to see it unless you’re friends with Lisa Lions. She moderates the group.”

  Wayne searched for Lisa Lions and perused the thumbnail of the athletics department’s logo. Certainly tech support could do something about this.

  “Mrs.—Dr.—Song, I want to thank you for your candor. You’ve been, uh, very helpful.”

  “Get Isobel Johnson back into the classroom,” Vivian said. “My Allen plans to go to an Ivy, and a washed-up substitute isn’t going to get him there.”

  “Okay,” Wayne said, standing. It occurred to him to defend Judith Youngstead, but that would take time. “I do appreciate it. Have a great day.” Without waiting for her reply, he put the phone back in its cradle and strode toward the door.

  ISOBEL JOHNSON

  Later that morning, Isobel killed her minivan’s engine in the parking lot of the Mills Park Core Power Yoga studio for the first time since winter break. She’d found it easier in the last couple of days just to stay away from Liston Heights entirely, especially with the added humiliation of the Channel 6 story.

  She desperately hoped Wayne and the district PR person could see that she hadn’t actually offered a comment about the video to a reporter, but neither had responded to her messages or e-mails since the story aired. To atone, she’d done as Lyle Greenwood suggested: suspended her Facebook account and deactivated her Twitter. Best that Wayne et al. not see her retweets about Democratic politics as they carried on their investigation, Lyle said. She agreed.

  Isobel’s top priority since Sunday had been avoiding anyone who knew of her work situation or of her connection to the news story. A midmorning weekday class in a dimly lit yoga studio in Mills Park ought to be the perfect escape.

  She signed in at the front desk. “Enjoy.” The chipper spandex-clad receptionist smiled as she pointed toward the women’s locker room. Isobel marched into a changing stall and yanked the curtain shut. She breathed in the lemongrass and eucalyptus, replacing her black Loft pants with Old Navy yoga crops. She turned sideways in front of the mirror to check things out. Not terrible, she thought, hiking the Lycra high enough to smooth out the ripple beneath her belly button.

  She was unhooking her well-worn bra, more grayish than white, when she heard a familiar voice outside the curtain.

  “No, Henry,” the woman was saying. “I just think the community has a right to know. It’s a public service announcement.”

  Isobel froze. No way, she thought. What would Julia Abbott be doing in Mills Park? Liston Heights had at least six boutique yoga studios of its own. Isobel inched toward the gap between the curtain and the wall, her bra hanging loose on her shoulders, and peeked. The woman faced away, but her blond ponytail looked familiar.

  “It’s her history, and it was public knowledge! It proves she’s a hypocrite.” The woman emitted a grim laugh. That spiteful tone matched Julia’s at the Sadie’s dance and the shouting Isobel had overheard in the LHHS parking lot. It had to be her. Isobel fought the urge to sit down on the floor. What are the fucking chances?

  “I found it in the Star Tribune, Henry. It’s not as if one has to be KGB to unearth news of a major white-collar crime.”

  White-collar crime? It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder what Julia was talking about, but now she had Isobel’s attention. Of course, that phrase always conjured up her father. She envisioned his sad hazel eyes, their color nearly matching her own. The last time she’d seen them, he’d stood on the stoop of the apartment she shared with Mark, rumpled and deflated, recently released from prison.

  Isobel looked down at her clothes now, puddled on the dark wood floor. The last thing she wanted to do was yoga with the most vicious of the Liston Heights mothers. Go
ne were her visions of escape and relaxation. And yet she’d made it here. She’d already used her punch card. Her bare skin prickled in the cool air. Don’t let stupid Julia Abbott run you out of here, Isobel told herself. Mills Park is your turf. She stifled a chuckle at the thought, but it was true. This was her yoga studio. She grabbed a sports bra from her bag and wriggled it over her head.

  “Of course I’m deflecting!” Julia was saying. “Do you think I want more attention? I want back on the Booster Board, and I want Tracy—” She stopped, her voice catching with emotion that surprised Isobel. “Henry, I have to go,” she said then, sharply. “No, I’m at yoga.” She paused. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. And I drove all the way to Mills Park to be sure to avoid everyone.”

  So they were both hiding. Isobel pulled a loose tank top over her belly and secured her bangs with a bobby pin. She shoved her street clothes into her bag. “Okay,” she whispered, and she pulled the curtain back.

  Julia’s ponytail flipped over the top of her head as she bent over her tote. Isobel paused for a moment, wondering if she should wait until she stood up. In a split second, she decided against it and stepped quickly past her into the hallway. Perhaps she could do the whole class and get out again without having to acknowledge Julia. Maybe she could just be extra Zen and do poses with her eyes closed?

  Isobel walked into the warm studio. The eucalyptus intensified, tinged with the sweat of the previous students. She unrolled a borrowed mat in the back corner, as far as possible from the four other women who’d already arrived. She watched the door while resting in child’s pose. In a few seconds, Julia breezed in, shoulders square in a formfitting top with crisscross straps across the back. Once settled in the front near the door, she raised her arms over her head, then folded her torso against her legs in an impressive display of flexibility.