by Jerry Cole
"This isn't a small school any more, Mr. Walker. It's growing. And the kids are coming from underprivileged backgrounds, and need help," she explained. "The district is pouring money in to making more rooms here, making more places for these kids, buying more books and supplies for them. But you will struggle next year alone, and by the time the school has nearly a thousand students divided into thirty-two classes it will be physically impossible for you to do it alone."
Victor nodded. "I understand. I feel like a bit of an idiot, to be honest."
"Which is a shame, considering you're supposed to be the one training the new staff and organizing them," she said with a faint smile.
"I am?" he asked.
"You are the head of the math department, after all. There will be a pay raise to correspond to the extra work and new duties, of course. If you decide to stay and not convince everyone you are racist," Mrs. Heeley concluded.
"So I'm staying and getting paid more?" This was... kind of different to what he had believed.
"These kids need closer attention, some have been home schooled, some come from some of the worst public schools in the state," she said with a sigh. "You are, as I said, the best teacher for the job. We need more people to help them, some teaching assistants perhaps, a special needs educator is already set to come next year. It's a lot. And I think you can handle it."
Victor paused. For the first time in... forever, he wasn't sure. This sounded like a lot of work. Like a lot more than he had ever handled before. It was entirely new and, although he had already taken the title of head of department, he had never had to actually carry out the role.
"You do think you can handle it, right?" she asked. "If you don't want to stay, then we can always give you a good reference."
"Of course I want to stay!" he insisted. "Nothing would make me happier than helping these kids to do better. It's just... I feel this will be a lot."
"You have always risen to the challenge. However much you let your thoughts get the better of you sometimes, you even managed to introduce Mr. Thompson properly to teaching, with almost nothing else behind him. Of course he had natural talent, but he's only doing so well thanks to you," she explained.
"I help kids, not adults. I'm terrible with adults," Victor said. "I'm glad I did a bit, but I'm sure I can do so much more for the kids out there who are failed by other teachers."
"And your friend and coworker, Mr. Thompson, was one of those kids. If you will help them when they're ten, will you help him at twenty-five?" she asked.
"I'll try," Victor replied. " I guess if I'm doing well enough already, I just need to carry on with what I'm doing. I don't want him to fail. He deserves to do well. We all do, whatever our age, or wherever we come from."
"Then you're not a racist, Mr. Walker. You might be misguided, and have spoken poorly, but you're a good man," she explained. "You want to help people, that's why you became a teacher, right? You probably thought you could make a huge difference to how the world treats people like you. And, to be fair, so did I. And I learned a while ago that you cannot change the world. But as a teacher you can at least make sure the kids are ready for it."
Victor nodded. "I get that."
"Are you glad you came to speak with me?" she asked.
He nodded again. "Yeah. It's cleared a lot of stuff up."
"You said you feel like an idiot. Well, and this is only my professional opinion, Mr. Walker, but you acted like one too," she said, smiling softly. "But I would really like to get to my lunch now, while I still have ten minutes in which to eat it."
She stood up and began to make her way to the door, holding it open so he could leave before she locked it.
He hadn't noticed until then, but Mrs. Heeley was the closest thing he had to a mother away from home. He could have hugged her. Only she probably would have reprimanded him for acting unprofessionally. But he could have. He wanted her to know how much of a difference she made to his world, to his life.
She probably already knew, though. That was why she did this. That was why she put up with his idiocy, and gave him room to learn and grow. Because she wanted to make the world better for him... Or, better said, to make sure he was ready for the shit-show she already knew the world to be.
He made his way over to his desk, wondering where he had left his lunch, now he felt ready to finish it. He didn't even hear Nate was still in the room for the first few seconds, startling himself in the process of realizing he had been watched all along.
"You okay?" Nate asked, looking genuinely concerned for Victor, walking up and resting a hand on his shoulder. "You seem worried. Did it go okay?"
Victor shook his head. "It went well. I guess I've just been shown what a complete and utter moron I've acted like. It's a bit of a blow to the ego, but I needed it."
"I'm glad. I didn't mean to get mad at you for asking so many questions. It just gets exhausting," Nate said.
Victor nodded. "I understand that. I'm sorry to put so much of a burden on you. You're right, it's not your job."
Nate wrapped his arms around Victor, patting him gently on the back, holding him close, in an expression of genuine affection. "I'm glad you understand."
Victor wrapped both arms around Nate and held him close, enjoying the feeling of warmth. He heard footsteps as a couple of other teachers entered the room, but neither Victor nor Nate released one another. It was just too perfect. Why ruin it because someone thought they were not being professional enough?
Nate patted Victor on the back again and drew back a little. "If you're looking for your lunch, you left it on my desk. Just take it to class."
"It'd make a mess," Victor said, still making his way toward Nate's desk.
"Uh, you're showing the kids the importance of good nutrition? What even is that, it smells amazing," Nate carried on, handing Victor his lunch bowl.
"Homemade jambalaya," he replied. "I just wanted something a bit spicier because the days are going to be warm this week."
Nate seemed to be a bit in awe. "I've never met a guy who can cook. And I've never had jambalaya."
"I'll make you one. Want to have some tonight?" Victor asked, feeling his heart thumping hard.
Nate paused. "Sure thing." Nate leaned in and lightly kissed Victor.
The other teachers were staring at them, but Victor didn't care. It felt nice. He was happy. He felt better than he had felt in ages.
Chapter Sixteen
That Saturday, at home with his mother, Nate still felt uncertain about what had happened. Although he knew they were sort of dating again, and last night he had enjoyed an amazing meal at Victor's house, it was still a bit odd to think that this was a guy who had been accused of being an all-out racist.
His mother noticed, of course. She always noticed these things. She watched as Nate pushed his eggs around on his plate with the point of his knife. No matter how sad he was, no matter how well he ate the night before, Nate never turned down his mother's food. She knew it had to be serious.
"Veronica, take Janet and Jack to the sitting room, I need to have a grown-up discussion with your brother. Come on now," she said.
The kids spent at least five minutes complaining about having to leave their dishes, another five minutes negotiating whether they could have their brunch in the front room in front of the TV, and a further five minutes dragging their feet as they left the room with a plate of toast. Toast was the only food which would not stain the couch and which, seeing as Mrs. Thompson herself had an evening slice of toast in the front room every day, could not technically be forbidden without breaking her own rules, something she never did under any circumstance.
Although his siblings had finally left the room, Nate knew they would be listening in. So did Mrs. Thompson. She looked at the door, still open by a thin crack, and coughed. The thin crack clicked shut. They were probably still on the other side, but they would get "caught" doing it and punished later. Nate knew from experience that the kitchen door was almost impossible
to hear through, so they would just have to strain and try and listen and hope.
Nate turned back to his mother, whose eyes seemed to be staring into his very soul. He had seen that look a few times before, and every time he had been stuck in a rut, and every time her advice had been invaluable.
"What is the matter, Nathan?" She sounded like she was worried as usual. He always made her worry so much. He didn't mean to, but he did. He wondered if perhaps that was where he got his worrying from.
"I'm just having a hard time with... well, friendships, relationships, everything," he said, shaking his head.
She nodded. "You always have. Is it things to do with work again?"
"In a way," he said.
"Please, don't keep it from me," she said.
"I don't know if you can do anything, if you need to be worried with it," he replied.
"If it's nothing too personal, I'd love to help you," she said. "You know I'd go to the ends of the earth to help any of you kids."
"Well, you know the guy they thought might have been a bit... odd?" Nate asked, not wanting to say the word for some reason he couldn't understand. "The one who was sent for a review, so I took over all his work."
"Are you having any trouble with the workload?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I was actually doing pretty great. I know I've been panicking about it, like, continually. But I've surprised myself and actually did pretty well with everything."
"That's very good to know," she replied, beaming with pride.
"But that guy... he's back from review already. As in, he's just going to some sort of awareness course and he's taking back half his lessons. They say I'm keeping the other half for now, until I'm ready to be a full-time teacher but... he shouldn't be back already, should he?" Nate asked.
"I'm not surprised," Mrs. Thompson said. And she didn't look it. "These things happen all the time. People get away with things they shouldn't. A lot. Especially if they are rich white men. Especially if they can pull strings or pay their way out of it."
"How do reviews even work, then?" Nate asked.
Mrs. Thompson shrugged. "They get rid of poor people for even the smallest infraction and the rich people keep their jobs however much of a jerk they are."
"So how can you tell when a rich person is a jerk and when they're not?" Nate said, more or less rhetorically.
"You don't."
"Do you think he is?" Nate asked, still pushing his eggs around the plate half-heartedly. "I don't, but I might be wrong."
"I don't know him. I couldn't tell you," she said. "I wish I could, and I am always wary of people like him, who've come from a position of so much wealth and so much power over common people like us. But I'm not going to judge him pre-emptively. Rich white boys can be nice people too."
Nate sighed heavily and, pushing his plate aside, rested his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, staring at the tablecloth. "I like him. I get along with him. But I can never know if he literally hates me until it's too late?"
"You have to trust your gut when it comes to these things, Nate," his mother said with a warm smile. "You can't go through life paranoid. I know so many people who have and it does nobody any good."
For a moment Nate didn't even hear what she was saying. It just felt so empty and futile. He felt so powerless, like whatever he did was going to be completely and utterly pointless. "So I have to trust what he says unless he says otherwise?" Nate finally asked. "I just believe him unless I see evidence against it, or unless he literally tells me that he hates me? That sounds like I'm just putting myself in an even weaker position than before."
"I didn't say to believe him. Racism is out there. People out there would happily see us all dead, Nathan," she said. "You shouldn't blindly trust anyone or stop watching your back just because you think you're safe."
"But I'm not supposed to be paranoid?" he asked.
"It's a hard thing to explain," Mrs. Thompson replied. "You don't want to give up on life because you think it's not going to work out for you. But you don't want to trust people too much either. You have to hope for the best, and try and see the best in everything, but plan for the worst."
"That sounds exhausting," Nate said, feeling his heart almost sink.
"It is, but what else can we do? Be paranoid? Give up? Be what the bad guys of this world want us to be?" she replied. "If we don't fight back and try and just be happy, then they will ruin us anyway."
Nate nodded. "Sounds like kind of a raw deal, to be fair."
"It is. But it's what we have to deal with until this country changes," she said.
"Can it all change?" Nate asked, finally looking up into her eyes.
"That's what we're working toward every day. It can be a while before you notice the difference you've made, but you will make one," she replied. She seemed to mean it.
Nate paused a moment. "But does it actually change? Or does it just get a little bit better? Can people... can a whole country actually change?"
"Of course it can change. And it will. It had changed so much from when I was born to when you were. It will change again," she said. "I mean, I remember a day when people would spit at me at work on a nearly daily basis, and they would never get punished or criticized for it. I'm not even that old, and I'm only just seeing it slowly getting better."
"Or maybe this is as good as it gets? Maybe people think this is good enough and we're stuck with this, where people sort of assume we're fine and racism doesn't need fixing anymore?" he said dejectedly.
"Nonsense, it gets better," she said. "Everyone assumes it doesn't need changing, it's our job to remind them it does need changing."
"And if they don't listen?" he asked.
"Nate, honey, your great-great-grandparents were slaves. People didn't want to listen when we asked for freedom, fought for freedom. When your grandmother was born her parents were running from the KKK because nobody would protect them," she said sternly. "Throughout all of history we've been told that we have it good enough, that we're too demanding. And throughout all of history, when we complained, nobody listened. So we shouted, we fought, we wrote books, we spoke speeches, we kicked up a fuss, we raised hell. And eventually, they have to start listening again. It isn't like a switch that goes on. It's a damn slow process, like the world stops and says 'Is this good enough yet?' and we say 'No!'”
"Even in the eighties and nineties, I could not imagine attending college, because poor black girls with babies didn't go to college," she carried on. "Even if she is still with the man, the daddy, waiting to marry him. Even if she gets a scholarship. Poor black girls with babies don't have the time, or the energy, to handle their family, and studies, and work, and all the bull that people throw at them. But that is changing now too. Enough people shouted and wrote books and now there are ways that girls like me, girls who would have not even bothered twenty years ago, are going to college and getting their degrees. The world is changing, it always is."
"What if all I'm doing ends up as nothing, because of this, or because I do badly, or because some other racist claim stops me?" he asked.
"Then you would have at least tried. You can't give up. Because what if everyone else is stopped and you're the only guy to do something? And you don't even know what that something is until you get there," she insisted.
He held her hand softly. "Do you feel you did enough? Are you just saying this because you regret not doing more?"
"Nate, I brought you into the world. I brought your siblings into the world. I raised you. I am so proud of all you are achieving, and I do not regret a second of your happy life," she said.
Nate could see a tear in his mother's eye, but it didn't spill. "Have I done enough?" he asked quietly, his voice fading back in a combination of fear and emotion.
"Your life is a miracle compared to all that our family has gone through in the last two, three hundred years," she insisted. "And yet you are pushing much further than most kids from our sort of background. How many o
f those other boys have already died, or been lost to drugs, or are trapped in prison? How many dropped out of school or college, are young fathers, or just stuck in a rut? It's not their fault, of course, but you pushed past all those challenges. Like every ancestor before you, you are overcoming. You are doing us all proud."
Nate couldn't help himself. He felt tears flowing. He hated crying. He hadn't cried in so long. He had to be strong. He had to always look bold and brave and unemotional. Especially as a gay man. Especially as the adult son of a single mother. Especially as a young black man from a poor upbringing. He had to hold it in. Until he couldn't.
He withdrew his hand from hers, buried his face in his folded arms on the table, and sobbed. He was so overcome with emotion at all he came from, at the generations of warriors that backed him, at the life he had so narrowly avoided, at the pain he had been through, and at all his mother had done to protect him. He was glad for himself and his family, he was proud of his ancestors, and yet he was so saddened at all of the pain in their shared past.
His mother sat silently for a moment before moving in.
Reaching out across the table, she held her son's hand gently. Her hand felt so warm, but was so rough from work. She didn't say anything. She didn't ask him not to cry, or ask him why he was crying. She didn't tell him to look up. She didn't try and comfort him. She just sat there, her hand lightly clasping his, basically draped over his long fingers, waiting for him to finish, letting him know she was there.
However much she struggled to understand him at times, he knew she loved him unconditionally. That just made the tears stream even faster. His mother loved him so much. She suffered so much for all her children, but she did not regret a second of it. She hadn't gone to college. She had lost her second partner. She had worked endless jobs, countless hours, tirelessly to bring money home to feed them. And she did not regret or resent a second of it. She did not even expect them to achieve anything or bring her anything for it. She had done her best and she was already proud of all of them.