And then I see the sign: VOTE HERE TODAY! SCHOOL BOARDOFFICERS ELECTION! POLLS OPEN 7 A.M. TO 9 P.M.
I push past a few more voters and dash down the hall likeI’m really, really excited to be here.
My mailbox contains nothing except a small, handwrittennote scribbled on our principal’s personalized stationery, reading: Please seeme.
Now, that can’t be good, I think, leaving throughthe nurses’ office door so as to avoid bumping into our fair leader, MarthaCarrington, before homeroom.
I should probably inform her that I’ll be leaving for thecounty courthouse as soon as my substitute shows up, but that will have to waituntil I’m on my way out the door in an hour’s time.
Usually, I would stop by Kat’s classroom to say goodmorning, but since I don’t want to be spotted and I’m running exceptionallylate, I head directly to the middle school wing, slip inside my own classroom,and close the door behind me. Safe, I think. At least for now.
A nanosecond later, the bell rings and my homeroomstudents start pouring in. I take a deep breath, put on my happy teacher face,and say, “Welcome!”
Let the games begin.
A few minutes into a one-on-one reading conference during firstperiod with a kid named Martin, it hits me: He has not read this book.
Problem is, neither have I.
It’s a novel called Ice Glory. While I read tonsand tons of young adult literature, this is one that I have missed. In fact,now that I think of it, when we were in the library last month and the kidswere taking out books, Martin kept asking me about titles. “That’s a good one;I think you’d like it!” I had said about The Westing Game, and, when heput it back on the shelf and picked up a Gary Paulsen novel instead, I hadsaid, “He’s my favorite author; I’ve read all of his books!” Finally, Martinfound one I hadn’t read. “It looks good,” was all I could muster. And that’sthe one he selected.
And now he’s bullshitting me with bizarre details thatjust wouldn’t make sense in a story about ice hockey.
“Then the dad, he’s the brain surgeon, gets into this caraccident and is paralyzed from the waist down,” Martin says.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s so…unexpected.”
“I know!” Martin says, like he just can’t believe ithimself.
“So, how does it end?”
“With this huge alien invasion.” He doesn’t miss a beat,this kid.
I take the book from his hands and flip it over to studythe blurb on the back. The story centers on a boy from a small town in Montanawho wants to skate his way to fame and fortune. It’s based on the true story ofan Olympic gold medalist.
“Extraterrestrials, huh?” I ask, my eyes locked on his.
Martin squirms in his seat.
“Did you really read it?”
Martin makes an I-don’t-know-don’t-ask-me-I’m-just-the-messengerface, but he will not speak.
I believe Martin is pleading the fifth.
I look past Martin to where my New York State MiddleSchool Association “Teacher of the Year 1998” plaque hangs forlornly on thewall, crooked and in need of a dusting. There had been a ceremony in Albany, anew dress, champagne filled with bubbles of hope. I shook hands with the governor,who suggested I come work for him, help overhaul the failing schools across thestate.
But I had just met Doug, and I didn’t want to move upstateand away from him and from the middle schoolers that I loved, for a job ineducational policy.
When I first started teaching, and for quite a while afterthat, education was a field full of promise and excitement. I spoke atconferences nationwide and planned on using my classroom research to writebooks on educational theory. I created a writing inventory checklist now usedby every teacher in my school district.
There was so much to do, to look forward to.
And now?
I still have that folder filled with research notes in thetop drawer of my desk, and occasionally I revisit it. When I do, I get inspiredall over again and promise myself that during the summer I’ll write up aproposal and send it to an educational journal for review. But then I never do.
I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. I mean, I recentlybought a small notebook to carry in my pocketbook and jot down ideas forclassroom research. But most of the pages are filled with lists of things Ineed to buy at CVS.
The fact is, I’m rooted in the great countdown of tenuredlife. In twenty-four years, I can retire at eighty percent of my salary andwith sixty-five percent of my sanity, with a gold watch and a gray head ofhair.
I turn away from the plaque to study the rest of the sixthgraders in my first-period class. They are quiet, hunched over their books, butare they reading? And how much do I care if they are or are not? Is everyonejust going through the motions and faking their way through, trying to coast?
Or is it just this one little asshole?
I look back at Martin, his eyes too big for his face, hishead too big for his body, his hair cut unevenly. At the open house last fall, hisfather insisted in front of one hundred other families that I should beteaching the composition of e-mails, not essays, because that’s a skill thesekids are going to need in the real world.
I decide, Nah, it’s just this asshole.
What is the appropriate sentence for Martin, book faker,in this particular case?
I’m thinking about one of three punishments. I could makehim reread Ice Glory and we could conference again in a week. Or,better, I could select another book, one that I know inside out, and make himread that one. In fact, I could take that one step further and say that for thelast three months of the school year I will handpick all of his readingmaterial and get written as well as oral reports from him each time he finishesa book.
I know what will happen here. Instead of reports I’ll getphone calls from Martin’s parents. I’ll have to defend my point of view to theguidance counselor. Next thing you know, I’ll be roped into spending more timewith Martin than I do already,
