Jamie bristled, panic stirring. She willed herself for the third time that day to feign ignorance. “I haven’t,” she said, her voice reasonably neutral.
“You’re mentioned there as someone who, though young, would write decent letters of recommendation for college.”
She studied the posts? “I hope LHHS kids understand that there are lots of colleges that can help them achieve their goals,” Jamie said, grateful for the out. “It’s not just about the Ivys. And I’d be happy to write in support of my students.”
“Have you heard of any other young teachers talking about a Facebook group?” Tracy asked. “It seems like the moderator of the Inside Liston group—she doesn’t use a real name—it seems like, from what she posts, like she works here.”
Oh shit. Jamie blinked at her jade plant. “Interesting,” she said. “I haven’t.” And then she laughed again, incongruously. How could she allow herself to get rattled by a fourteen-year-old? “Are you planning to write about the Facebook group in your Instagram post? Because I don’t really know anything about it.”
Tracy squinted at her, her lips closed and her expression quizzical. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Like I mentioned, my main idea was to talk about what younger teachers have to offer. Social media seems to fit, right? Since you haven’t heard of it, do you have any guesses about which other newer teachers might decide to moderate an online group like Inside Liston?”
“Maybe Miss LaMere in the science department? Are you going to interview her?” Jamie thought back to Paige LaMere’s chilly response to Jamie’s invitation to happy hour that past August.
Tracy made a note. “Just one more question.” She pointed at the postcard on the bulletin board. “Aren’t you kind of rereading your last chapter in a way? Your sign says, ‘You can’t start reading the next chapter if you keep rereading the last one.’ I mean, you’re working at the high school where you were so recently a student. Do you ever feel that you haven’t, like, broken out of the bubble?”
Jamie rolled her desk chair farther away from Tracy. Peter’s Humans of LHHS piece had included his love of bluegrass music and a recommendation for deep-dish from McGregors’. It seemed like Tracy had a different tone in mind for her post on Jamie. “I’m really happy in my job,” Jamie said. “And this conversation hasn’t been exactly what I expected. Could I see your profile before you post?”
“Sure.” Tracy stood and pulled her phone out of her backpack. “Ready for your picture?”
WAYNE WALLACE
Do you get a sense that Ms. Johnson prefers any one set of ideas over another?” Wayne glanced through the mini-blind slats at the snow-blanketed lacrosse field. He’d checked off thirty-two of his required thirty-five parent phone calls.
“Do I sense that she prefers ideas?” the father asked. “I’ve never been in the room during her class.” Wayne could hear computer keys clicking in the background. Clearly, Mr. Stewart had other priorities.
Wayne felt saliva pooling in his cheek. He swallowed. “Does Daniel?”
“Daniel has never mentioned that his English teacher shows bias,” the man said. “In fact, he doesn’t seem to care one way or another about English.”
Wayne wrote a zero with a slash through it. He was about to offer the dreaded “anything else?” when Mr. Stewart forged ahead. “Actually, it’s incredibly frustrating. Daniel doesn’t seem to be engaged in any academic subject. He gets B’s. Whatever. I got B’s and C’s, and now I’m running my own company. It’s not like I really care that much about grades.”
“Yes,” Wayne said, “so—”
Mr. Stewart cut him off. “But shouldn’t he like something at that school?”
“It would be wonderful if Daniel could discover his academic passion at Liston Heights.” Wayne sounded wooden. These calls reminded him that he’d gone into education because he liked kids, not parents.
“Maybe it is the teachers,” Mr. Stewart said. “Maybe if they were more dynamic, Daniel would take off that ridiculous video-gaming headset. You’re asking about Ms. Johnson?” he confirmed. “English?”
“Yep.” Wayne slumped now, eyes on the grainy dregs of his Odwalla.
“Write this down,” Mr. Stewart commanded. “I wish my child liked her more.”
Wayne clicked into his e-mail as he ended the call. Isobel’s message sat there in his in-box, a request to meet. New ideas, she’d said. I’ve had a realization, and I know I need to compromise.
He’d seen the message earlier in the morning and avoided it, thinking of his final four—now three—phone calls. He’d rather have all of the data, and time to think through every scenario, before he heard her case again. Plus, he couldn’t dismiss her total lapse in judgment on Facebook, commenting on that video. The school’s digital citizenship curriculum, a good chunk of it housed in the English department, dealt so specifically with situations just like this—kids accidentally texting one another, taking screenshots of Snapchats, “inside” jokes gone viral. How did it look for a trusted adult in the school to make such a juvenile mistake?
“Wayne?” He turned, jerking his head up to find Isobel in the doorway, lightly knocking.
Not now, he thought.
“Did you see my e-mail?” Isobel asked. “I wanted to stop by. I know about the Inside Liston Facebook page—you may have heard about my father? Anyway . . .” She grabbed at her fingers as she spoke, clearly nervous. “I’ve had some realizations, and I wanted to know if we could check in for a few minutes.” She paused, her face suddenly white, her freckles more prominent beneath her green eyes.
“Now’s not a great time, Isobel,” Wayne said. He turned his body back toward his monitor. “I think we’ll be ready to talk next week.”
“But you said one week.” Isobel’s voice had gone higher. “One week for the investigation?”
Wayne didn’t look at her. “The Channel Six thing set us back,” he said.
“Oh.”
He could feel her standing there, her disappointment filling the room. Still, he couldn’t give her any reassurance. Amanda from HR would insist on protocol, and besides, he wasn’t sure what he’d decide to do. “We’ll talk next week,” Wayne said. “I’ll send an invite via e-mail.” He waited a few seconds and then looked up as he heard her turn to go.
JULIA ABBOTT
Julia had said good-bye to the trainer on Friday morning and was cracking a shimmering can of Diet Dew when her phone buzzed. She grabbed it from the counter next to the refrigerator. A text from Robin Bergstrom.
Curious, Julia slid her thumb across the screen to unlock it. Sorry about Andrew’s part, Robin had written. Hope all is well.
Andrew’s part? What did that mean? Julia took a swig of soda and typed a response. What about Andrew’s part?
She waited. The three reply dots materialized and then disappeared. Well? Robin, no matter how tenuous their current connection, couldn’t drop in with a bomb like that and then disappear.
The dots returned. Sorry, Robin wrote. I assumed you’d know. Anika told me Andrew exchanged parts with Tryg Ogilvie. So Tryg is now Inspector. And then another text repeating, Hope you’re well.
Julia clenched her teeth. This is not happening. She abandoned her Diet Dew on the kitchen counter and grabbed her down coat and handbag from their hook in the mudroom. John Dittmer had better have answers. She got in the car.
Five minutes later, Julia used her pilfered ID once again to gain access through the performing arts wing, as she had two weeks ago on cast-list day. She marched purposefully toward the theater office and rapped on the director’s door. “Mr. Dittmer?” she called. It was nine thirty a.m. She had no idea what time the theater classes met, but surely someone was in there. After a few seconds, Alice Thompson answered.
“Oh!” said Alice. “Mrs. Abbott.” The young woman looked concerned. “What can I do for you?”
“As if you d
on’t know,” Julia said.
“Um?” Alice squinted. “Well, I know you aren’t working on Booster business for this show—”
Julia broke in. “I’m here,” she said, her voice louder than she’d meant it to be. She tried to adjust. “I’m here”—that was better—“because I’ve just heard that Andrew has been stripped of his role.”
“Stripped?” Alice repeated.
“Yes!” Julia raised her arms to shoulder height, a show of disbelief. “I heard via text from Robin Bergstrom—she is involved in Booster business—that Andrew is no longer the inspector. Is this the case?”
Alice turned back toward the office and half closed the door to create a barrier between herself and Julia. “Let me see if John is available.”
Julia put her foot between the door and its frame, preventing Alice from shutting it. She could see John moving from his office into the common area.
“Oh good,” Julia called out, peeking her head around. “Mr. Dittmer, it seems there’s been a terrible mistake, and I need to speak with you immediately.” She could see from her limited vantage point that John and Alice exchanged a look. The door opened wider.
“Mrs. Abbott,” John all but sighed as she entered, “come in.”
Julia sat emphatically at the small conference table in his office. She’d been here before, of course, to go over prop lists and logistics for carpools and parties. It smelled of cardboard and Fritos.
“Tell me,” Julia said, peering up at the director as he slowly made his way to a chair of his own, “what could Andrew have done already that was so egregious?” She banged the table with her fist. “Why couldn’t you just give him a chance?”
John folded his hands, maddeningly slowly. He stared at his thumbs. “Your son has a great deal of self-awareness. He also cares deeply about the success of the musical.”
“Of course he does!” Julia blurted. “He worked all summer on his voice and his acting. He could hardly wait to audition.” Her right arm flailed, pointing in the direction of the drama bulletin board in the hallway.
John blinked. “One of my favorite things about Andrew is his commitment to the program.”
“So?” Julia’s voice went up a few degrees in pitch. “Why in the world couldn’t you let him have this opportunity?”
“I’m trying to tell you,” John said. “He came to me himself. The switch with Tryg Ogilvie was Andrew’s idea.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Julia could hear Alice Thompson rummaging outside the door, listening, no doubt. “Andrew would never just give up like that. He must have felt pressure.” She looked toward the ceiling, thinking. “Was the Young girl bullying him? Was it retaliation?”
“Mrs. Abbott, I’ve told you everything you need to know. Andrew came to me. I thought he was here to talk about extra coaching, and instead he suggested that we switch the roles. I was quite surprised.”
Julia felt shot through with rage. “You’re expecting me to believe,” she said, her voice a little shaky, “that Andrew just gave away his role? Just calmly suggested that Tryg Ogilvie—a ninth grader—take on the part?”
John started to nod, but Julia pushed back from the table and stood up. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just can’t accept this. I need to talk to Wayne Wallace.” She shoved her chair back to allow herself room to exit. “Immediately.” She pulled the door open and avoided Alice’s stare as she left.
Julia headed toward the main office. As she walked, she willed her breathing to slow. The air was cleaner than in the cramped theater office, traces of the antiseptic floor solvent detectable on each breath in the empty hallways. I need to seem calm and rational, she told herself. Her sneakers squeaked on the linoleum. In the administrative wing, Julia could see through the narrow sheet of glass on Wayne’s closed door that he was on the phone. She knocked anyway, waving at him, forcing a smile, and taking a step back.
Wayne startled, his reading glasses halfway down his nose. Come on, Wayne, Julia thought. This is critical. The principal held up a finger at her, indicating that she should wait. Okay, she mouthed.
She pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket and glanced at the screen. Nothing. She opened the texting app and punched Andrew into the TO: field. Anything you neglected to share about play rehearsal??? SEND. She watched for the three dots, but none appeared. Wayne’s door opened in front of her.
“Wayne,” Julia said, walking in, “so sorry to bother you without an appointment.” She followed his gaze to the clock above his conference table.
“I have just a few minutes, Mrs. Abbott,” he said.
Julia sat. “Fine.” She put her cell phone facedown on the table next to her and launched in. “You’re not going to believe this, but it seems that John Dittmer has taken Andrew’s role in the musical away from him.” She felt tears threatening. Those definitely won’t help.
Wayne lowered his chin to his hand. “What?” he asked rather lazily.
“John Dittmer!” Julia said, her back rigid. “He took Andrew’s role, the inspector part we discussed, and gave it to Tryg Ogilvie. Andrew is now a luggage handler.” She emphasized each syllable in “luggage handler,” breaking the latter word into three.
Wayne curled two fingers between his nose and his top lip.
“Are you hearing me? You and I discussed the role of inspector. Then Andrew was cast as the inspector. And now I’ve gotten a text from the stage manager’s mother—not even from John Dittmer himself!—that Andrew is no longer in that role. He’s a luggage handler.” She sat back in her chair, winded.
“I didn’t know about the switch,” Wayne said.
“You didn’t know?” Julia’s phone buzzed, and she flipped it over.
A text from Andrew: Are you at school?
How would he know? She put her phone down.
Wayne studied her. “Once a project is in motion at Liston Heights High,” he said, “I pretty much just let it run.”
“I’m surprised that details like this, especially concerning my family, unfold without your oversight.”
“John is a capable director. Now, I don’t know the particulars of this situation, but I’m sure he has the best interest of the program in mind.”
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough.” Her statement rang true, but she wasn’t sure what to say next. She surveyed the room, her eyes landing on a box of custom water bottles in the corner labeled LISTON LIGHTS. Through her distress, she felt a touch of pride that Tracy would be bringing one home.
Just then Julia jumped as she heard loud knocking. Andrew’s silhouette filled the plate glass window, his knuckles pressed against it. “Mom,” she could hear him shout. “Mom!” Julia turned back toward Wayne, unsure. How did Andrew even know I was here?
Wayne stood and gestured at Andrew to come in.
“No,” Julia said reflexively, and immediately knew it was the wrong impulse. Wayne waved Andrew into the office.
Andrew stood in the doorway, holding the handle. Sweat gathered on his brow.
“Mom, what are you doing here?” Andrew’s eyes focused on her forehead, his mouth slightly open.
Julia turned back to Wayne, who stared at each of them alternately. An awkward pause expanded, and Julia could hear Andrew breathing. Did he run here?
“Andrew,” said Wayne finally, “why don’t you join us?” He pointed to the chair next to Julia. “We were just talking about your role in the spring musical. Has there been a change?”
Julia suddenly felt as if she were moving through molasses, her body turning slowly toward her son’s as he followed Wayne’s direction to sit.
“Yes.” Andrew’s voice echoed in the small office. He faced Wayne as he said, “I asked Mr. Dittmer for a change. I don’t want to be the kid who got his part because of the costume shop.” He practically yelled this last bit. Julia scooted her chair away.
Wayne loo
ked back at Julia, waiting for her to respond. “Andrew,” she began, although she, too, looked at the principal, “you have your role because you’ve paid your dues. It’s your turn.”
“No!” Andrew shouted. Julia’s eyes widened, and she saw him pound his fists on his thighs in her peripheral vision.
She looked toward the open door and saw Sue Montague walk by, making wondering eye contact with Wayne, who raised a hand, signaling he had things handled. “Should I?” Julia said, and she stood up to close the door.
“That’s fine,” Wayne agreed. “So,” he said, looking at Andrew and then again at the clock, “it seems like you decided what you wanted, and you asked Mr. Dittmer for it.”
“Yes,” Andrew said. “I want to be the luggage handler. I don’t want to be known as the kid whose mother bought his part and then punched his friend.”
Julia winced. Wayne didn’t correct Andrew’s characterization. She opened her mouth to do so herself, but Wayne started speaking before she could. “Then I think we don’t have anything to talk about. You’ve gone about this in a very adult way,” Wayne told Andrew. “You recognized a set of circumstances that didn’t sit well with you, and you found a mature way to rectify them.” He looked at Julia and smiled. Smugly, she thought. “So, now that we’re on the same page, I think we’re done here.”
“Thank you.” Andrew’s words came out in a whisper, and Julia watched his arms go slack. He was relieved.
She, meanwhile, felt a hollowness opening in her chest, as if something were being scraped out. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. No, she thought, not in front of Andrew.
“You’re right,” she said to the room. “I think we’re done.” She slipped her cell phone off the edge of the table and stood. “I guess I’ll see you at home,” she said to her son. She felt the cool metal of the door handle against her skin and turned into the hallway.
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 26