Down and Out in Bugtussle (17 page)

“Hey!” I yell. “I don’t believe anyone in this room is deaf! Ms. Becker has asked you nicely to stop talking and since y’all obviously don’t respond to kindness, let me put it to you like this: Get yourself in a seat! Face the front! Shut your mouth! And get out something to do!” I look at Ms. Becker. “Do you have any idea what they’re supposed to be doing?” She points to the board. “As you all can see, today’s assignment is on the board, so get on it! Right now! And when you finish that, you can find something else to work on quietly, or”—I glance down at Lilly’s desk—“Ms. Becker will provide you with a sheet of verbs to conjugate in French. Any questions?” No one says a word. I pick up the stack of dreaded worksheets and make a show of handing them to Ms. Becker. “Write down who you have to give these worksheets to so Lilly will know who gets a zero in the grade book should someone decide not to turn it back in.” I point to the intercom button. “Ms. Becker,” I tell her, “Mr. Byer
is in his office if you need him. I’ll let him know you might be buzzing him.”

“Ms. Jones, I assure you that we will be on our best behavior from here on out,” a student says from somewhere in the middle of the classroom.

“Thank you so much,” I say with a sweet smile as I search out the would-be diplomat. An entire week of boisterous students plus this especially god-awful day has worn my nerves down to a raw nub, so I’m not in the mood to be patronized. “But I’m still telling Mr. Byer to be on alert for a buzz from Ms. Becker.” He picks up his pencil and gets to work.

“Thank you,” Cameron Becker says, looking relieved.

“No problem.” I take a step closer to her and whisper, “You’ve got to put the fear of God in them right off the bat and then make sure they’ve got plenty of relevant work to keep them busy. That’s the secret. They’re just normal teenagers; they’re not bad kids, but you have to let them know up front that you are in control. Not them.”
You can do that when you’re a “real” teacher,
I think, feeling miserable. She smiles and I am amazed at how beautiful she is. “Have a good weekend, Ms. Becker.”

“You, too, Ms. Jones. Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it.” I walk out of Lilly’s classroom, close the door behind me, and stand there for a minute to make sure the students don’t go crazy again. Fortunately, they don’t. I feel bad for snapping on them, but that situation had to be dealt with or the next step would’ve been to call in the Mississippi National Guard. Kids get so carried away when their normal teacher doesn’t show up, and if the pandemonium isn’t reined in immediately, the mob
mentality takes over and it’s all downhill from there. I walk down the hallway and wonder whose mommy will be the first to call Mr. Byer and report my failure to pussyfoot around an out-of-control situation. Substitute teachers can’t talk to students that way. Probably that really loud kid in the back who started yelling about wanting to go home.

When I finally get back to my assigned classroom, Chloe is sitting at Mr. Bridgeton’s desk like a prison warden and there is a sentence on the board that reads, “I will not talk in class unless I raise my hand and am recognized by the person in charge of maintaining order within the four walls of this classroom.” When I walk in, some of the students look up, obviously relieved to see the sub coming to replace the guidance counselor. It’s sixth period, so I’m sure their friends had given them a heads-up on Mr. Bridgeton’s absence. I smile when I think about how shocked and disappointed they must’ve been when Chloe walked into the classroom instead of “the sub.”

“Lilly’s on her way home,” I whisper to Chloe.

“Great,” she says, and a few students start to whisper. She turns on them and says, “Don’t make me make your sentences longer again.” Silence. She smiles at me. “See you tomorrow night.”

“See you then,” I say.

When she’s safely out of the classroom, one brave student raises his hand.

“Yes?” I say.

“Do we really have to write this sentence a thousand times?”

I suppress a smile while I look back at the clock. We have twenty minutes until the bell.

“Would you guys rather do today’s assignment?” The question
produces a collective nod and sighs of relief all around. It’s amazing how easy it is to maintain order as opposed to establishing it.

“Please, ma’am,” the student says. I pick up a stack of papers.

“Mr. Bridgeton left you guys a pretty cool assignment,” I say, counting out enough for the first row.

“A crossword puzzle!” the student on the receiving end of the first stack says. Then she looks up in horror and regret. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t make me write anymore.”

“It’s Friday,” I say. “Who wants to write extra-long sentences on Friday? Raise your hand.” Sure enough, one clown raises his hand. “Well, you’re more than welcome to do that,” I tell him, smiling. “I bet you guys won’t test Mrs. Stacks anymore, will ya?” I can tell from their expressions that they won’t.

“Can we work in pairs? Mr. Bridgeton lets us work in pairs.”

“Only if you can stay quiet,” I say. “As you all know, there are classes all around us, so keep it down, please.”

Toward the end of the period, the students start turning in their crossword puzzles and whispering amongst themselves. One student raises his hand and says, “Ms. Jones, I’m going to a concert tonight.”

“Really?” I reply, thinking nothing of it.

“Yeah, I’m going to see Poison and Def Leppard with my dad.”

Holy effin’ shit, I want to scream. No! Then I see an opportunity. “Well, as luck would have it,” I say with smugness he can’t even begin to grasp, “I’m going to that concert, too. With Ms. Dewberry.”

Several kids snicker at that. “Seriously?” another student asks. “Don’t you think she’s a little weird?”

“Not at all.” I think about the conversation Stacey and I had earlier
in the week. “Ms. Dewberry is a nonconformist, wouldn’t you say? Surely you guys can relate to not bending to what everyone expects of you.” I look around. “You have to admit that it takes guts to be so unique.” Some students nod; some are oblivious; others are texting inside their backpacks. No one takes the conversational bait.

“Where are you sitting?” the guy going with his dad asks.

“What is your name again?”

“Ben,” he says. “Ben Evans.”

“Third row, Ben Evans,” I say, and I’m proud of it because I’ve never been anywhere close to the third row at a concert. I try to bait them again. “Ms. Dewberry won the tickets by calling in to the
Big Nasty Show
.”

“That is so cool!” Ben bellows, and I have to shush him. In a quieter voice, he says, “Maybe we’ll see y’all there.”

“Maybe so,” I say. Maybe not!

“Will y’all be drinking?” the kid sitting in front of Ben wants to know.

“Don’t get yourself sent to the office three minutes before the bell,” I tell him. “Of course we won’t be drinking. We’re teachers. Everybody knows teachers don’t drink.”

“Coach Hatter does!” someone yells from the back of the room. “My sister works at Ethan Allen’s, and she says he comes in there all the time drinking those big mugs of beer and eating like a pig!”

“I assure you, it’s near beer, and I hear he’s quite fond of half-price appetizers,” I say, wishing the bell would hurry up and ring. That gets a laugh out of them while they try to act like they know all about beer, near or otherwise.

“I don’t see how teachers don’t drink,” another student says. “Having to put up with us all day.”

“Oh, but y’all are great,” I say. “It’s a privilege to spend our days with you.”

“You don’t really believe that,” she says.

“Actually, I do,” I tell her. “I’m not going to stand up here and say it’s easy, especially for a sub, but despite how difficult it is at times, teaching school is a very rewarding career. You guys are great.” I stop and wonder if I’m trying to convince her or myself. Then I wonder if I really and truly want to get my old job back. I dismiss that thought, chalking it up to a hard week in the trenches. I used to love my job. Or at least I think I liked it. “Let’s move this conversation along, please.”

“Are you dating anyone?” the girl says as the bell rings. “You and Coach Hatter should go out!”

“Get out of here,” I say. “Have a good weekend, everyone, and be safe! Remember: Don’t text and walk into oncoming traffic!” I follow them out into the hallway, feeling guilty for being so relieved that the bell finally rang. I don’t ever remember feeling so put out by my students back when I had my own classroom. Now I feel that way every single period of every single day.

T
hank the good merciful heavens, Mr. Bridgeton has seventh period off and I am done in every sense of the word. I collect my things, lock the door, and head to the lounge for some refreshment. Walking down the hallway, I think about Lilly and wonder how she’s making it. I know Dax is taking her out on a hot date tonight, so I try to stop worrying. Then I think about Chloe keeping J.J. in the dark about her pregnancy and feel terrible for causing her extra grief by running my mouth to him in Walmart yesterday. I think she’s crazy for not telling him, but that’s not my decision to make. And then there’s this job. Oh goodness! This job. I don’t know what I was thinking when I signed up to be a permanent substitute teacher. I certainly never expected it to be what, unfortunately for me, it’s turned out to be. I shake my head and sigh. All of this crap is like a big tangled ball of string that keeps getting more twisted and knotted by the day. I walk into the lounge and see
Freddie Dublin sitting smack-dab in the center of the room with his feet propped on the table.

“Hey, Freddie,” I say.

“You off this period?”

“Thank my lucky stars, yes.” I look at him. “And you?”

“Thank your lucky stars, yes,” he says. I put my gigant-o-bag on the table and start digging for change. “So, is the party still on for tomorrow night?” he asks.

“It is,” I say, turning my attention to the vending machine.

“Can I bring Cameron?”

“Freddie, I don’t know about that,” I tell him as I drop quarters into the slot. “She and I aren’t exactly friends and we don’t need any—” I pause, then for lack of a better word, say, “Drama.” This draws a wide smile from Freddie Dublin.

“She said y’all had a moment at the beginning of sixth period.” He stops talking. I don’t say a word. “Ace, she really wants to come. Cameron has no friends here. None. Except for me, of course, and her fans in the athletic department. We both know a girl can’t survive on that.” I turn around and look at him. He pats the chair to his right. “Come, sit.”

“What are you, her popularity agent?” I ask, sitting down beside him.

“No,” he says, not acknowledging my humor. “I’m her only friend in this galaxy and she’s high maintenance, if you know what I mean. I’m getting tired.”

Freddie tells me another sob story about how poor Cameron used to be the ugly duckling and never had any friends and then she turned into a swan and was equally despised by her peers. I watch him as he speaks, looking for the smallest hint of dishonesty.
It’s a sad situation. Just not sad enough. Because if Cameron Becker came to that party and tried to hit on Dax, then I would have to beat the shit out of her, and I’m fairly certain that would lead to a hostile work environment on at least seventeen different levels.

“So what do you think?”

“I don’t think so, Freddie.” I stop short of adding,
I’m sorry
.

“C’mon, Ace,” he puts his arm around me and his sweet-smelling cologne casts a wicked spell on my senses. “Consider it a small favor from you to me, which I assure you I will repay at some point when you really need it.”

“Freddie,” I say, pulling away from him, “you’re impossible.” With one hand, he starts to rub my back. He smiles and I revel in his aroma and attention.

“Pretty please. You’re nice to Dewberry and we both know it’s not because the two of you have anything in common.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Just give a girl a chance to make a friend. That’s all I’m asking.”

I take a sip of Diet Mountain Dew and consider his request. I know how it feels to be stuck somewhere with no friends and must admit that it sucks. “Okay, Freddie, but under one condition.” He moves his hand up to my neck and I close my eyes. “Will you be personally responsible for her?”

“Of course,” he says, massaging. “You can count on me.”

“Okay,” I say, then open my eyes and look at him. “But if she screws up, I promise you that I will make your life at this school a living hell for the rest of this year.”

“Oh, feistiness,” he says, patting me on the back. “I like it!”

“I’m not joking,” I say, and he stops smiling. “If she really wants to come, you can bring her. But she can’t flirt with Dax or J.J. or
anybody who is there with their wife and/or girlfriend. Women around here will straight punch a girl in the face for gettin’ too friendly with their man.”

“That’s brutal,” Freddie says.

“That’s the truth,” I say. “Which is why it’s so important that no one comes to this party and does something stupid or uncalled for.” I look at him. “Got it?”

“Got it!” he says, but I’m not sure he does. “Hey, I’m glad you’re off this period, Ms. Jones, because there’s one more teeny-tiny thing on my mind.”