Danny's Mom (5 page)

“That’s nonsense.”

“You may be right, but there’s nothing I can do. So go talk to Bob yourself if you want. Though I can’t see what good it would do.”

I had seen Bob earlier that day, when he’d come by to check on plans for the career fair. “Cool tie, huh kiddo?” Bob had said as he fingered the black, fake silk, a painted silver hammer in the center. His gesture obligated me to sing a bit of “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.”

“It’s always good to see you, Beth,” Bob had said with a smile. “You have a good day now.”

But later, when I raised the Ann Richardson situation, the principal’s eyebrows shot up. “We’re not going to talk about this. I told your chairperson I’m handling it.”

“What does that mean?”

“Peter and I are taking care of it. You don’t have to worry.”

“But shouldn’t we be doing something?”

“Beth, I’m sure you have enough on your plate right now without getting involved in Ann’s problem.”

My spine prickled. “This isn’t Ann’s problem. As far as I can see, the kids who posted that sign and the girls who want to transfer out of Ann’s classes are the ones with problems.” I glanced at Bob’s credenza. Twin boys in orange and white soccer uniforms stared from a photo. “We’ve got homophobic students and homophobic parents, and you’re telling us not to do anything?”

Bob nodded. “That’s right. I told you, I’m handling it.”

I started to leave, but a thought scratched my mind. “Sorry, Bob, but…”

“Yes?”

“What if one of your boys was gay?”

“That’s crazy.”

“But just suppose. Wouldn’t you want him to be able to go to school without being afraid? Isn’t school supposed to be safe for everyone?”

“Come on, Beth. You’re being ridiculous.”

“I don’t think so. I just want Meadow Brook to be a good place for everyone, including kids like Donna Walker. You remember her, don’t you?”

“Of course. But I already told you I’m handling this. Now, don’t you have work to do?”

I left the main office as the fifth period bell rang and dashed to the faculty room, despite the smell of microwaved broccoli that always hung in the air there. I craved Callie’s comfort and the camaraderie of our lunch group: Joanne, from social studies, and Denise, a biology teacher, whose pet white rat would snuggle on her shoulder while she ate.

As I entered the faculty room, I saw that Callie and Joanne hadn’t come in yet. But Mr. Rat was there, prancing on the lunch table. Every time I saw him now, I remembered my dream—a rat’s tail whacking glass on Danny’s eyes.

By the time Joanne arrived, Mr. Rat slept on Denise’s shoulder, his coarse tail snaking down her buxom chest. Callie came in even later. “Sorry, guys,” she said when she pushed open the door ten minutes into the period. “Got a little sidetracked. But look what I have.” She offered a plate of cookies from home ec.

“What’s the big deal?” Joanne asked. “You know what I say: People who bake are just too lazy to go to the bakery.”

That night, as Joe and I ate sandwiches from The Corner Deli, we ran out of small talk. I filled the silence by telling him about Ann Richardson.

“For Christ’s sake, Beth!” Joe took his knife out of the mustard and slammed the jar on the table. “You’re getting involved, aren’t you? Why can’t you just do your job like everyone else and not ask for more work and more problems?”

Hungry for a glimpse of the man I had married, I put down my sandwich and looked at Joe. “You know, sometimes I don’t even know who you are anymore. How can you tell me not to get involved? It’s my job to get involved.”

“No it’s not. Ann Whatever-Her-Name-Is can fight her own battles. You’re not responsible for the whole world.”

“But don’t you think schools should teach tolerance?”

“I don’t give a damn what schools should teach anymore. Why the hell should I?”

I put on the invisible armor I wore to guard myself from Joe’s anger. “But remember what you told Danny when he and Noah did that AIDS fundraiser last year?”

“Jesus, Beth! This isn’t about Danny!”

“Yes it is.” The insight stunned me. “It’s about doing what we always told Danny to do. When he signed up for the AIDS program, you said you were glad he wanted to make a difference, like his mom. That’s what you said. And then Danny wrote about the murder of Matthew Shepard. Remember?”

“Yeah, well guess what?” Joe spit his words. “Danny’s gone, and there’s not a thing we can do about it. So what good did that stupid assignment do, anyhow?”

It’s strange that I hadn’t remembered Danny’s words until I told Joe what was happening in Meadow Brook. I hadn’t thought about Matthew Shepard, brutally beaten because he was gay. But Danny had thought about him when his social studies teacher asked students to answer this question in one page or less: What should schools do to prevent hate crimes?

Every so often
, Danny wrote,
teachers and counselors should meet with students to talk about feelings. Teenagers need to share ideas with each other and with adults they trust. We should talk about issues like religious prejudice, racial injustice, and gay bashing
.

Maybe if teachers and counselors in Wyoming would have talked about these problems, the people who killed Matthew Shepard wouldn’t have grown up with such hatred. Maybe if students were taught to be sensitive to differences, then Matthew Shepard might not have been beaten to death. Maybe he wouldn’t have been left hanging from a fence just because he was gay
.

My mother is a guidance counselor. She always asks how I feel about things, even though I sometimes wish she wouldn’t. But if the people who killed Matthew Shepard had mothers like mine or guidance counselors like her, then they probably would never have committed such a horrible crime. Teachers and parents could prevent hate crimes by talking with us more.

A week after I told Joe what was happening in Meadow Brook, Callie drove me to school again. This time, I listened for the horn.

I opened the window in Callie’s Volvo to welcome the soft spring air and suburban morning sounds: squirrels racing up trees; breezes sweeping evergreens. At the entrance to the parkway, a motorcycle pulled ahead of us. The biker wore a black windbreaker with red lettering on the back: I
F YOU CAN READ THIS, THE BITCH FELL OFF
.

“That’s disgusting,” Callie said.

“The jacket? Or the way he cut in front of us?”

“Both.”

“Why would anyone wear that, Cal?”

“Beats me. Just no accounting for taste, I guess.”

“You’d have to be an idiot to wear something like that.”

Callie took her hand off the wheel and boxed my arm. “Well, maybe he’s a Meadow Brook graduate.”

The spring breeze didn’t penetrate Meadow Brook High School. Most of the windows couldn’t open. They were missing handles or glued shut with layers of paint. New windows had been installed only in the main office. But no one tried to open those: the office was air-conditioned. Yet, students and faculty sweltered, assaulted by odors which thickened the air—sweat, Lysol, and cheap aftershave.

I scanned my mail, then headed to the cafeteria for coffee. Liz Grant met me there. I noticed she had switched from orange juice to bottled water and that her jeans slid from her waist.

“Mrs. Maller, hi! I really want time with you today, okay? But I have to run now ’cause Mrs. Spinner told me to come in before homeroom if I want to go over my poetry project so I’ll know if I have to change anything to get an A. But I really need to talk to you, so I’ll come by later. I’ll try to get out of gym. Ms. Richardson’ll probably give me a pass.”

“Sure, sweetie. Anytime.” I smiled, my ease with students a pleasure I found I still enjoyed. Yet the forced lightness in Liz’s voice troubled me. I went to see Debra, as Liz was one of her sophomores.

Clamping a hand over the mouthpiece of her phone, Debra motioned me into her tiny office—even smaller than mine—and pointed to the one chair angled by the corner of her desk. “Just a sec,” she whispered as she pushed a catalog toward me. I looked at a bony model in a black, satin mini-dress. “Yes, that’s right. Black… yep, size small,” Debra said into the phone. “Uh-huh, same address.”

She hung up and shrugged off my concerns about Liz: the urgency in her voice; her gait like a speed walker’s. “Have you spoken with her lately?” I asked Debra.

“Nope. Not meeting with my tenth-graders till I’ve got program cards for next year.”

“But maybe you could call Liz down before that. I think something’s really bothering her.”

Debra popped a straw into a can of Diet Coke and slowly drew the soda through her teeth. “What good would it do if I called for her? You’re the only one she talks to.”

At the beginning of second period, I was in Steve’s office when Liz showed up with a pass from Ann Richardson.

“Listen, Beth,” Steve said, having asked Liz to wait and closing his door. “Liz Grant spends way too much time with you. I don’t want to see her in your office anymore. She’s not your student.”

“But something’s troubling her. She needs to talk.”

“Then send her to Debra.”

“But Liz doesn’t want to talk to Debra. She keeps coming to me, and she needs help.”

Steve picked up a pen and turned it slowly in his hand, clicking the point in and out, in and out.

“Okay, I didn’t want to tell you this, what with all you’re going through now. But you leave me no choice.” He put the pen down and met my eyes. “I was in the main office a few days ago when Mary Grant was running on about how much Liz likes talking to you. Peter heard her, and he said he didn’t know you’d taken over the sophomores A through L. And when Mary said no, of course you’re not Liz’s counselor, just her friend, Peter said something like he thought we were educators, not rock stars. ‘We don’t need groupies,’ he said. ‘And if Mrs. Maller does, then she ought to find a stage and a microphone and get the hell out of Meadow Brook.’ Peter’s on the warpath. So I’m telling you for your own good: Send Liz to Debra.” Steve played with the pen again, clicking faster. “You’ve been a terrific counselor, Beth. I just want you to keep up the good work and stay out of trouble. I’m sure you have enough to handle right now without looking for problems.”

My back stiffened, but I didn’t say anything to Steve. I pushed open the door to greet Liz. “Hi, sweetie. It’s good to see you.” I motioned to my office. “Go on in.”

Chapter Five

A
t the beginning of April, Ann's second period class ran track. Liz collapsed on the third lap.

“I don't get it,” Ann said as she slouched in one of my chairs, her legs stretched out as if she were at the beach. “Liz usually has so much energy. And you know what she said when she couldn't finish the run?”

I closed the door. “She wanted to do the whole thing again?”

“No. She asked if this would lower her gym grade. Said she's going for straight A's again this quarter, and gym counts.”

“I'm not surprised she said that. You know how driven she is.”

“Sure do.” Ann steepled her fingers and paused as if she wanted to tell me something else but wasn't sure what.

“You know, Beth, I'm really worried about her,” Ann finally said. “The girls in that gym class give Liz such a hard time. And I try my best to look out for her, but that's one tough group, that second period class.” Ann shook her head. “But Liz never complains. And she's getting really thin. Have you noticed?”

Before I could answer, Steve knocked as he opened my door. “Hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

“Well, actually,” Ann said, “Beth and I were just talking about—”

“Nothing important.” I cut her off. “What's up, Steve?”

He muttered something about next year's program cards, then turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

“What's going on?” Ann asked.

“Oh, nothing.” I waved my hand, but the truth tumbled out, or part of it, anyhow. “It's just that Steve doesn't want me involved with Debra's students. So I didn't want him to know we were talking about Liz. In fact, I hate to say this, but you really have to speak to Debra about her.”

“Yeah, right. That would be about as useful as talking to this chair.” Ann patted the brown seat as she stood.

When Ann left, I went to see Mary. “I don't know why Lizzie couldn't finish on the track,” she said, dusting her keyboard with a teeny brush, her red nails perfectly matched to her suit. “She never runs out of steam. Not my Lizzie. She's got more energy than ten people put together. In fact, when she got home from jazz class last night, I heard her working out in her room. She certainly wasn't tired then.”

“Is she eating?”

Mary put down the brush and blew on the keyboard. “You bet. Or at least I think she is. I mean, she says she is. I'm not home every night, so I don't know exactly what she eats. She's certainly old enough to be on her own. I've been dating a bit, you know.” Mary held out her left hand and smiled as if there were a diamond on her ring finger.

“Well, Mary Grant. Are you holding out on me?”

“No such luck. Not yet, anyhow. And I know Lizzie's not crazy about my going out, so I do stay home most of the time. But I must admit, she's not much dinner company lately. No time to linger at the table, she says. Too much homework, I guess. She just stresses so much over school. And all this teasing in the locker room about Ann Richardson has really gotten to her. The kids won't let it go. It has Lizzie so upset she even cried about it the other night.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, how the kids have turned on Ann. Hasn't Lizzie told you?”

“No. What's going on?”

“Well, for one thing, when they talk about her, they don't even call her Ms. Richardson anymore. They call her Mr. Richard's Son. Lizzie said the junior girls … well, actually it must've been Tina Roland and Jen Scotto who started it. Anyhow, they said Ann should've been a boy, somebody's son. That if her father's name was Richard, she'd be Richard's son.”

Minutes later, when I went to the cafeteria for a fresh cup of coffee, Danny's words filled my head:
Teachers and parents could prevent hate crimes by talking with us more.