“I took a train to D.C. for a few days,” she says. She stirs her coffee and tilts her head to the side.
“Nice,” I say, unable to remember the last time I went. “I love it there.”
“Me too. I never get to enjoy it when I chaperone trips, but I sure do miss the mountain air.”
Marge, like most of my other co-workers, has never lived outside of Tennessee. She has an attachment to home I’ve never felt. I could change locations tomorrow, and my outlook on life wouldn’t change.
“I’d chat longer, but I’ve got copies to make,” I say, gathering my papers and balancing the coffee mug in my hand. “I didn’t do near enough prep before break.”
She nods. “This close to summer, the admins ought to be thankful we even show up.”
“It’s not like the students do,” I say, walking out the door.
After making copies in the workroom, I enter my classroom and begin setting out the day’s materials. This is my fifth year at Victory Hills, which means I’m finally eligible for tenure. I teach American literature to 11th graders. We read Poe and Steinbeck and Hemingway until my students are blue in the face, and yet it never gets old to me. I expect a sliver of optimism from my classes this week, knowing we’ve all enjoyed a needed break. I know the closer we get to summer, the further away they’ll get from me, their minds already fixed on sunny days by the pool and later curfews.
The morning bell rings. A whoosh of voices and feet transform the quiet hallways into a mob. I’m at my desk before the first student arrives. They drip in, one by one, each consumed by their own distracted daze. Some are sunburnt, others are not fully awake.
“Welcome back,” I say after the last bell rings. “Let the countdown to summer begin.”
Darcy, who always sits in the back, lets out a woo and everyone laughs. Adam, her boyfriend, leans in and squeezes her shoulder. So, they are alive.
Melanie on the front row raises her hand. “Are we starting The Crucible this week?” she asks. She’s memorized the syllabus and knows that’s the final text we’ll study this semester.
“No, we’ll start that next week,” I say.
“What are we doing?” asks Ben, probably still blazed from his pre-school joint. He’s a smart kid, one of the ones that doesn’t really want to show it because he thinks it will cramp his style. But he always nods along and hardly needs any revision after a second draft.
“We have some short stories to read,” I say. “Grab the blue books in the back and turn to page three hundred and sixty.”
They groan, but reluctantly obey. We read Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily”. I wait patiently for that chilling last paragraph to thoroughly disgust and entertain them. It’s one of the simple pleasures of being a teacher, watching each year as new minds devour the twisted stories that shaped our world.
When we finish, I give them a few minutes to vent and ask questions. I’m standing at my podium in the center of the room when I hear a knock. I walk to the front and open the door, which always remains locked.
“Good morning, Della.” It’s Principal Bowles, a name I’ve always considered unfortunate for a disciplinarian. The only hair on his head or face rests about four inches wide above his top lip. He’s standing beside a girl I’ve never seen. “We’ve got a new student for you. This is Zoey Peterson and she’s in your first block.”
“All right,” I say, masking the annoyance that I’ll have to redeliver all my introductory class materials with so little time left in the semester. Not the kid’s fault. I smile. “Zoey, I’m Mrs. Mayfair.”
“Nice to meet you.” Zoey stares at me, taking me in. She’s short and slim. Her dark hair falls halfway down her back, her bangs partially covering her wide-set eyes. She’s wearing skinny jeans and a pastel cardigan, which screams not from around here. Her hand extends to shake mine. Another clue she’s not necessarily the type of student I’m used to encountering at Victory Hills. Usually I get a shrug until I’ve really proven myself.
“Class is about halfway over. Go ahead and grab a seat,” I tell her.
Zoey walks into the classroom and sits down confidently. She puts her notebook and pen on the shelf under her chair and straightens her posture. Half of my current students stopped bringing writing tools back in February.
I step into the hallway to make sure the other students can’t hear.
“Military?” I ask Principal Bowles. There’re only two reasons why a kid shows up this late in the year. A traveling military family is one of them.
“Nope,” he says, shaking his head. “Just trouble.” He walks away.
Families rooted in stability wouldn’t dream of transferring their child this late into the year. Just about anything can wait five weeks. Getting a new student now means her folks either don’t care at all or there’s a reason she left where she was.
“Oh, boy,” I say, before walking back in the classroom.
The students’ voices have turned from murmurs to yelps. Each cluster is carrying on a different conversation. Any brief distraction beckons them to socialize.
“Let’s get back to the story,” I say, after pausing until the room is silent. “Part of the reason the ending is so gripping is because of the story’s disjointed structure. Faulkner creates ambiguity by steering away from a linear timeline.”
The students, except for Melanie, barely listen. Ben nods. Devon, in the third row, is obviously doing something with her phone under her desk. Darcy and Adam, first block’s designated lovebirds, angle their bodies toward one another. I walk behind their desks and clear my throat, prompting them to sit properly and listen.
“I want you to get in your learning groups and create a timeline. I’ll give you specific
