Where You Are (21 page)

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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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Chapter 27
Andrew
 
Why did I take up that stupid note?
They say, don't ask a question if you don't want to hear the answer. Same thing goes for notes in a classroom. You never know what a note is going to say. Kids reveal all kinds of personal stuff to other kids. They tell tales on each other. And sometimes they take jabs at adults. But the problem is, once you take up a note, you own that information. You can choose to address it or not, but you own it, and they know you own it.
I choose not to address the cartoon. What am I going to do anyway, take it to Mr. Redmon? I don't think so. The only thing I can do is forget about it and reassert my authority in the classroom, which might have been easy enough if they weren't all picturing me with a giant penis in my mouth.
Suffice it to say that my first-period class is out of control this morning. I can't turn my back on them without a flurry of giggles and sucking noises. So finally I resort to using my document camera and working problems on a sheet of paper. That way I can face them while I instruct.
It helps. Some.
The test on this chapter is next Tuesday. It's the most difficult chapter in the book, and I want to give them two full days of review.
“All right,” I say, writing a problem on the sheet of paper:
13x
2
+22
“When it comes to solving quadratic equations, we know we have some choices here. Can someone list them for me?”
Stephen Newman raises his hand. I know better than to call on him, but no other hands go up.
Thanks a lot, guys.
“I think you should just go straight to factor by grouping. You know, like with like. Grouped.” He punctuates his suggestion with a big self-satisfied smile. In fact, smiles erupt all around.
Do not react. Do not react. Do not react.
I jot down
factor
in the margin. “That's one way. Can anyone list the other three?” I scan my audience and watch the smiles dissolve on their faces. Not a soul raises their hand.
“Okay. I'll just write them down for you. You can use the quadratic formula, you can complete the square, you can take the square root, or you can factor using one of several methods, including grouping as Stephen has already mentioned. Stephen, stop talking or I'm going to kick you, then I'm going to kick your dog.”
“I don't have a dog,” he spouts off.
“Then I guess I'm just going to kick you.”
“Right.” He slouches back in his seat. It's a dare.
I turn back to the problem and manage to get through it and a few more before the bell rings. “Complete the chapter review over the weekend,” I say as they shuffle out. “Mr. Newman.”
He stops and sneers at me defiantly.
“I've had enough. I'm calling your father.”
“Go ahead. My dad doesn't like fags.” He gives me a smug smile and strides out of my classroom, tossing a wadded-up piece of paper in the general direction of the trashcan.
I feel like I'm drowning.
I want to talk it out with Jennifer, but that's completely out of the question. She's not talking to me. In fact, this morning in the teachers' lounge, she poured a cup of coffee while I waited and tried to engage her in small talk, and then she emptied the carafe into the sink and told me, in no uncertain terms, to go fuck myself.
Yesterday when I sat down at her table at lunch, she got up and moved. I'm not sure what the half-life is on a woman scorned, but I'm pretty sure she plans to school me on that.
I pick up the paper Stephen tossed and then check my e-mail as my second-period class starts to file in and take their seats. An e-mail from Mr. Redmon catches my attention.
Mr. McNelis—
The committee has denied your application for the admin training program. Please feel free to reapply next year.
Mr. Redmon
I am pissed. No, I'm more than pissed. I am furious. Outside Mr. Redmon's office, Mrs. Stovall tries to intercept me. “Is he expecting you?”
He damn well ought to be.
“I only need to see him for a moment.”
I stride past her desk before she can react and stick my head in his doorway. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
“I was just about to e-mail you. Have a seat.” He picks up a pencil and taps it on his desk as I settle across from him. “I got a call from Stephen Newman's dad a few minutes ago. He wants Stephen moved out of your class.”
Well, that would be a godsend, but I already know that kind of thing rarely happens. If it did, kids would be shuffling classes all year long.
I assume a concerned look. “Did he say why?” Like I don't know.
He takes a deep breath and blows it out loudly. “Well, he feels like you're picking on Stephen.”
“That's ridiculous. I don't treat Stephen any differently than I treat any other student. If anything, I've given him more latitude than most. He's immature and he's disruptive, but I feel like I'm handling it. Are you going to move him?”
“No. But let me just caution you, if you
are
singling out Stephen, this is not going to go away. We dealt with this when his older sister was a student here. She was a good kid, but we walked a fine line. Mr. Newman is very involved in his kids' lives and in their education. Just remember that. You might need to cut Stephen some more slack. His grades in your class are pretty low. I expect you to find a way to remedy that. Maybe some tutoring after school. Or maybe you need to adjust your teaching methods. Quite a few of your kids have low grades.”
I'm aghast. And I'm livid all over again. But I hold my tongue.
“I assume you stopped by to ask about the admin training program?”
It takes me a moment to redirect my thoughts. “Yes. I don't understand. Why was I denied?”
“I don't know. I assume it's because the committee feels like you're not quite ready.”
Bullshit.
They take on second-year teachers all the time.
“Apply again next year,” Mr. Redmon says, turning back to his computer. “I'm sure you'll get in.”
I know a dismissal when I hear one.
 
I'm still seething when sixth period rolls around. I'm worried about battling with Robert again (I don't want that), but he walks in and quietly lays three days' worth of homework on my desk, then takes his seat. When I work at the board, he watches, listens as I explain and work through problems. He doesn't raise his hand, but other than that, he's like every other student in the classroom—focused, well behaved.
As I watch him get started on his homework the last ten minutes of class, it's hard to believe that the hand that holds his pencil and the one that anchors his notebook are the same hands that just a week ago were eagerly exploring every inch of my body. That the lip that he's biting is the same lip that pressed so firmly against mine. That I know exactly what's under that
I'm too saxy for my band
T-shirt, and that I know that underneath those jeans he's probably wearing boxer briefs, gray, and filling them out quite nicely.
He glances up and catches my eye. I look away, and then beat a slow track around the room, checking to see that my students understand what they're doing, and at the same time, wondering what I'm doing.
What did I lie to you about, Robert? What?
Chapter 28
Robert
 
There are dents in the carpet where the fish cabinet stood. I know Aunt Whitney sees them; her eyes are smoldering with anger. I'm considering inviting her to tour the bathroom as well, but at that moment, Mom emerges from the closet. She removes the heavy flight jacket from the hanger and hands it to Aunt Whitney.
The jacket belonged to my dad's father, my grandfather, an Air Force physician before he retired and took up a highly lucrative private practice in Louisiana. I hardly knew him. He died a few years after Dad's diagnosis, after it became clear Dad wouldn't live to see his own son grow to be a man. A car crash, I think. The fur collar looks like it's been chewed by rats, and there are white lines in the leather from years of creasing. Dad wore the jacket a lot when I was younger. I assumed it would be handed down to me one day.
But Aunt Whitney wants to keep it in the family.
It's not the jacket. I don't care about the jacket. It's the slight.
I
carry the Westfall name. My cousins are Blooms and Abbotts. And yet, through some twisted logic, they are more family than I am.
Aunt Whitney folds the jacket and smoothes the leather before laying it on top of the owl throw and the few trinkets that she's also reclaiming. She scans the room, then runs her hand along the foot rail of the bed. “I'd like to have the bed frame back, too, when you're finished with it, of course. It belonged to my grandmother.”
Mom steadies her gaze, and I suddenly understand the phrase
stare daggers.
“You know what, Whitney?” she says, “I'm finished with it now.”
She yanks the spread off the bed, scattering Aunt Whitney's stack, and discards it on the chaise. Then she lifts the corners of the sheets and gathers them up in a big wad. Before Aunt Whitney can close her jaw, Mom has completely stripped the bed and is wrestling the mattress off the box springs.
There's only one thing to do—I grab the other end.
“This is hardly necessary, Kathryn.”
“You want the bed, you got the bed.”
She watches us in stunned silence as we remove the box springs, then dismantle the frame.
“I can't just stick a bed in my car,” she gasps when she realizes we're serious. “Michael will have to borrow a truck and come get it.”
“Well,” Mom says as we feed the headboard through the bedroom door, “it'll be out on the front lawn. Tell him to help himself.”
When we come back in, Aunt Whitney is on her phone, pacing in the living room. As Mom and I remove the footboard and then collapse the rest of the frame, we catch little snippets of her conversation, things like
absurd
and
vindictive
and
ungrateful
. As we gather the frame up, Mom busts a laugh, and I can't help but join her.
When it's all laying in a heap on the lawn, there's one other thing I'd like to toss on top if I could—my last name. I'm sure as soon as she thinks of it, Aunt Whitney will ask for that back too.
As she backs out of the driveway, I pray her wheel will slip off the drive and into the ditch. But it doesn't. She drives off with a glance that screams,
You're crazy.
And maybe she's right.
The bed is still there when the sun goes down. It's gone when I wake up. Whether Uncle Michael picked it up or some flea market troller, I don't know. And I don't care.
 
Andrew
 
“I get to pick out the book tonight,” I tell my daughter. “Let's see what we've got here.” I prop Kiki up on her bed and choose some books, then climb over the guardrail and settle next to her. Maya appears in the doorway.
“Okay, how about . . . oh, this is a good one—
Math Curse.
”
“No!” She pushes the book out of my hand.
“Okay, then, um,
The Greedy Triangle.
This is one of my favorites.”
Kiki doesn't even bother with a no. She just shoves the book out of my hands. “I want Wobert!”
Me too, baby girl.
Then,
What?
My mind has to be playing tricks on me now. I shake it off and shuffle through the next couple of books. “How about this one—
Ten Apples Up On Top
, or
365 Penguins.
”
This time Kiki swivels around on her butt and kicks the offending books off the bed.
“I want Wobert!” She pushes out her bottom lip.
“She means
Robert the Rose Horse,
” Maya says, clearly amused at the little scene. “Her teacher told me it's her favorite book right now. We picked it up at the library on the way home. It's in the basket. You probably deep-sixed it when you shuffled through to find all those math books.”
“What? Me?” I smile at her and roll onto my side and locate the book.
“Wobert!” Kiki squeals like she just got a new pony for real. She snuggles up to me in her striped Carter's with the pink heart embroidered on the front and pops her thumb in her mouth. I gently remove it.
“I'll leave you two to your story,” Maya says. “When you're done, we can watch a movie. Night, sweetheart.”
“Night, Mommy.” Kiki throws out her arms, and Maya comes in for a quick kiss.
“Okay.
Robert the Rose Horse.
”
The book turns out to be about this little horse with a big allergy—roses. Every time Robert gets near a rose . . .
KERCHOO!
Kiki knows when the sneezes are coming. Her eyes get big, and she waits in breathless anticipation as I dangle the moment just enough beats and then let loose with a big sneeze. She giggles and then delivers her own line: “Bess you, Wobert.” I smile each time she says it.
It's an old book with illustrations by P. D. Eastman. The robbers have guns. Oh, well.
On our third read, the fun starts to wear a little thin. By the end of the book, Kiki has her thumb in her mouth again, and nobody is blessing Robert anymore. I find that sad.
“Okay, baby girl,” I say, closing the book at the end. “It's time to go to sleep.” I ease past the guardrail and she snuggles under the covers and sighs. I tug her thumb from her mouth again and lay her tiny hand on the pillow. “Night, baby.”
“I love Wobert,” she says softly.
“Me too.”
 
“Asleep?” Maya asks when I return to the living room.
“Down for the count. So, what are we watching?” I settle on the other end of the couch.
She names some movie and I say, “Great,” but I'm not really paying attention. She curls up next to me, which I find both comfortable and not, like putting on a cashmere sweater on a hot summer day. We've been here before. I can't help feeling like I've made a huge mistake already.
Maya has set a bowl of popcorn on the table in front of us. I stare at it for a long moment, remembering. Then the movie starts, and I have to force my eyes to the screen, but I'm not watching. The truth is, I just want to be alone. I force myself to sit for as long as I can, and then I pat her on the knee and get up.
“I'm going to bed.”
“Aaah, come on. The movie's only half over.”
“Sorry. It's been a long day.”
She pouts. She looks so much like Kiki when she does it. But it doesn't melt my heart in the same way. I stretch, yawn, and make my exit. I actually think about locking my door behind me, but dismiss the thought as silly. Maya wouldn't invade my privacy.
Before I turn out my light, I unblock Robert's number.
I'm so sorry. I want to start over.
I stare at the text so long that seven times the screen goes black, and seven times I have to press a button to light it up again. I want to press Send, but I don't. I press Discard instead and turn out the light.

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