I said, “So what can you do to keep it together?”
“We can eat golden apples,” said Wayne. (Golden apples are restorative in Minecraft.)
“Elastic bands!” said Marshall. “Glue? Staples?”
“Staple yourself together,” said Wayne. “Make all kinds of butts on you. Butt, butt, butt, butt, butt, butt.”
I said, “Your mission, and you don’t have a choice about whether or not to accept it, is to stand up, go over there, get a book, and read three pages in it, right this second.”
Colleen brought another piece of work up. She’d read a story about the Mayflower and drawn a picture of two of the people who died on the ship.
“Excellent. You’ve really been working hard this afternoon. Do you work this hard every day at school?”
Colleen nodded.
“Good.”
I looked at a book with Marshall and we found a picture of a large land animal. “So what is this thing?” I said.
“A bison?” said Marshall.
“A musk ox, for god’s sake. Can you believe it?”
“Have you ever seen a shaved yak?” asked Wayne. “I want to see a shaved yak. Shaved yak, shaved yak, shaved yak, shaved yak.”
I shushed him. “I haven’t seen you read a single page,” I said.
“Shaved yak, shaved yak,” echoed Marshall, more slowly.
“What are we supposed to be doing?” asked Porter.
“We’re supposed to be enriching our minds with education,” I said.
“I read three pages,” said Wayne.
I looked at him dubiously.
“What?” said Wayne. “I read fast.” He danced around, talking baby talk.
“Wayne, you’re off the chain,” I said.
Ms. Lamarche stood up. “OKAY, LET’S START PUTTING IPADS AWAY, PLEASE, AND START PICKING UP. FLOOR PEOPLE, PLEASE START PICKING UP. TECHNOLOGY PEOPLE, PLEASE MAKE SURE IPADS ARE PLUGGED IN.”
I put on Lennon’s “Imagine.”
“That’s so beautiful,” said Rianna.
“MAKE SURE YOUR ROW IS STRAIGHT,” said Ms. Lamarche. “CHARLIE! STUFF OFF THE FLOOR, PLEASE.”
I stopped the song.
“The day’s almost over,” I said to Imogen, who was looking sicker than ever.
“Good,” said Imogen.
“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” I said.
Ms. Lamarche was in motion. “HOW’S THE LIBRARY LOOK OVER THERE? CLAYTON!”
I went around with Clayton picking things up off the floor. “Who straightens up the rows, guys, let’s straighten up the rows,” I said.
Ms. Lamarche said, “IMOGEN, YOUR SEAT IS OVER THERE. WHY ARE YOU BACK HERE?”
Colleen brought up her Picture of the Day, a drawing of a happy swimmer. Her description said, She’s swimming. The girl is wet. There’s waves. There’s splashes. Brown hair. Mouth open. Blue bathing suit. Red cheeks. Blue water. Daytime.
“That’s a really beautiful thing,” I said.
“Can I use the bathroom?” said Colleen. She could speak!
“Of course you can use the bathroom,” I said.
Clayton showed me the ideal way to straighten a desk. “Keep them a little separate, but not too separate,” he said.
“You’ve done good work today,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. “I want to tell you a fantasy joke. What does the iPad say to the other iPad?”
“What?”
“Go to the app store and you’ll get some more iPads!”
I laughed. “Do you make these up?”
Clayton nodded.
“What kind of music do you like?” I asked him.
“WHO IS IPAD FOUR?” said Ms. Lamarche. “ALL RIGHT, EVERYBODY, VOICES ARE OFF, PLEASE. IF I SEE YOU TALKING, YOUR NAME GOES ON THE BOARD, AND WE’LL START WITH RECESS TOMORROW. Marshall, you want to be the first one?”
“No.”
“THEN GO SIT DOWN. Whose iPad is number four?”
“Myra,” said the class.
“And she’s not here, right?”
I put on Lennon again and sang along.
“LET’S PACK AND STACK, PLEASE!” said Ms. Lamarche. “Elijah, can you stack Colleen’s chair, please. Philip, can you stack your chair, please? Devin, come clean off your desk! Devin! VOICES ARE OFF AND LISTENING, PLEASE. WHO’S TALKING?”
The secretary came on the PA system to read off an endless list of dismissals.
“All right, guys,” I said. “WHAT’S NINE TIMES SEVEN?”
“SIXTY-THREE?”
“I love it,” I said. They lined up. “Thank you very much for being in this class.”
“Are you going to be here tomorrow?” Porter asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Take it easy, guys.”
“You have to go with them to the bus,” said Ms. Lamarche.
“No, he doesn’t,” said Cecil.
“Yeah, he does,” said Ms. Lamarche.
I walked down the hallways, humming “God Bless America” for some reason, and I watched the children leap onto the buses like reverse paratroopers. I waved at the faces in the bus windows and went inside, drank greedily at the water fountain, and said, to the empty classroom, “That just about does it.” I put on “Imagine” and picked up stray scraps from the floor.
Day Twenty-seven was a wrap.
DAY TWENTY-EIGHT. Wednesday, June 11, 2014
LASSWELL HIGH SCHOOL, NINTH-GRADE ENGLISH
PLUTONIC LOVE
ON WEDNESDAY, Beth said she needed a ninth-grade English teacher at Lasswell High. At seven-fifteen a.m. I parked at the far end of the cemetery, where there were no headstones yet, and no flags, and plenty of room for new graves, and waited for it to be time to go to school. It was a perfect, windless, cloudless morning. I thought about life and death. The day before, in Oregon, about the time my third-graders were writing their madcap endings to Lulu and the Brontosaurus, an angry ninth-grade student had brought two of his father’s guns to school. He shot one boy in a locker room, wounded a coach, and then killed himself in the bathroom. Pills? Rage? Why?
In the office, while I waited for Paulette to make copies of my schedule, one of the other secretaries told me what was happening at the high school. “We’re about to have graduation,” she said. “Getting those seniors through. Marching practice yesterday. Then, tomorrow night, graduation.”
I set off for the North Building. In the hall, a male teacher looked suspiciously at me. “Can I just ask who you are? Are you a sub? It’s just that you’re not wearing a tag.”
I told him I was supposed to get my tag in the North Building.
“All right, cool,” he said. Everyone was watchful the day after a school shooting.
Mrs. Marsh’s room was pale blue and still and the walls held many words and their definitions, some from the dark science of rhetorical analysis: ethos, logos, and pathos. A poster offered a quote from C. S. Lewis: “WE READ TO KNOW THAT WE ARE NOT ALONE.”
A kid named Cobie came in with a dead iPhone and a cord. He’d forgotten his wall charger. “Just put it in my computer,” I said. He hooked his phone up to my computer and left. I read more vocabulary words posted by Mrs. Marsh’s desk: placid, nuance, noxious, covert, abhor, allege, and appalled. Minutes passed.
Six bongs. Nobody was in the room with me for block one. The secretary came on the PA system. “Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance,” she said. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. And to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. Please pause for a moment of silence. Thank you, and have a great day.” Since I had no students, I sat at Mrs. Marsh’s desk and read some of the papers she’d been grading. They had errors of tense and number, but they were honest and thoughtful, and they were not
about dinosaur poop. One was a study of Pentatonix, a formidable music group that makes interesting arrangements. One was about the history of hairstyles. Once originality runs out, what do you have left? Old ideas. Stylists are usually just bringing back old trends. For example, the 1950s simple curled ponytail is coming back, but people are adding color and accessories to it. Rockabilly bangs had recently come back, too—not a very appealing design. One essay dealt with the effect of music on the brain. Music benefits the brain in mental, physical, and emotional ways, the writer said. x + y = 154 − 89x + 9x = ? Do you know what it is? Are you doing this math problem with your headphones in? If you do, you’re more concentrated than you would be even if the room was silent. One was about video games: Grand Theft Auto is a series of games where you are a character that fights for what you want. For example if you wanted to be Vice City’s biggest criminal, you would be. You have to do different missions so you can get to be the biggest criminal, by violence, blood, sexual content, nudity, and never any good things. In an essay about social media, a boy had written, Young people’s social time is mostly shrinking. In the margin, Mrs. Marsh had corrected shrinking to dimishing—not much of an improvement, even if you added in the missing syllable. Cobie returned to get his phone.
The sub plans were brief. Block 2: “Take attendance. All students must work silently.” Block 3: “All students must work silently and independently on final project for Romeo and Juliet. Please check off that they have accomplished at least one page of work.” Activity block: “Take attendance. All students must work silently.” Block 4: “Take attendance. Same as Block 3.” Block 5: “Same as Block 3.” The instruction packet for the Romeo and Juliet project said that the students were supposed to determine the theme of the play, and then (a) come up with a music playlist that was redolent of the theme they’d identified, accompanied by 1,000 words of annotation, or (b) retell in 1,000 words the story of the play in a fresh setting while evoking their chosen theme, or (c) write a 750-word critical essay analyzing their chosen theme. To get students going in the right direction, there was a worksheet offering some possible themes they could pick from. These were Youth, Avoiding Fate/Destiny, and The Power of Love. The theme of love in Romeo and Juliet supposedly had five subtypes, listed on a separate worksheet page: Divine Love, Romantic Love, Familial Love, Superficial Love, and Plutonic Love. Mrs. Marsh, unsure of the difference between the god of the underworld and the Greek philosopher, had invented a new and wonderful form of love.
The students in blocks 2, 3, 4, and 5 did not work silently or independently, needless to say. Most were fractious and snarky and full of an extreme end-of-the-year impatience to be done with school. Very few produced anything close to a page of writing. Shakespeare was not a hit; they all disliked Romeo and Juliet to varying degrees. Jill said she absolutely hated it. Brendan said, “I thought that it was the stupidest play I’ve ever read. You’re fighting for no reason. You’re falling in love with a thirteen-year-old. You’re gay.” He flat-out refused to work on the project. Marcia, although she hadn’t liked the play, had finished the assignment. She’d chosen love and violence as her themes. “Basically I said that Verona’s in Italy, and Italy is known for romance,” she said. “But Italians are also stereotypically known as being hotheaded. That explains why the Capulets and the Montagues have the rivalry.” A kid named Myles wrote a good first sentence: Shakespeare wrote a suspenseful tragedy about a forbidden love. Another student, Malcolm, wrote two sentences: Italy, the country of love and violence. Verona is full of hot-headed people with funky outfits. Joel’s dramatic retelling began: This baffling story of a cannibal and a sadistic, crazed butt-stabber starts in a German slave dungeon on a cold, stormy, normal German day. Lionel’s version replaced the people with animals, and it began: “You slimy muck, you. You filthy scumbucket,” yelled Tibalt. “Be parted, tools,” commanded Denvolio. As the fray continued, the many animals involved were scratching, clawing, and biting each other, until through the streets gallops a donkey, and on its back lies a wee man, with a regal oversized hat in uniform. Stefan had come up with an excellent title and nothing more: “A Heartwarming Cold Steel Love.”
But the big and little things that happened that day had nothing to do with Shakespeare. Myles was yelled at for dumping a water bottle onto the pavement outside. Vince got suspended for harassing somebody. A kid named Titus Brown, in a Harley-Davidson sweatshirt and a Foreign Legion hat, had the idea of starting a fishing team at Lasswell, and Mr. Bartlett, Lasswell’s director of athletics, approved of the plan—it was going to be called the Lasswell Bass Masters.
And everyone had to turn in their iPads. Mrs. Moran, the science teacher who’d assigned the project on the layers of the Earth’s atmosphere, came into my classroom and said, “What we’re going to do is you need to get your iPad, gray case, black case, little wall pluggy-in thingy, and the long cord. So that’s five things. You need to get them out right now. I’m going to get my kids, they’re going to stand at the door, and you’re going to get all your crap together. You’re going to go with me.”
“What if we lost our iPad?” said Bernard.
“Then you’re going to get a six-hundred-and-fifty-dollar bill,” said Mrs. Moran. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. SHUT YOUR MOUTH. There’s going to be three lines. One line for people that have everything that they need. One line for people that are missing things. And one line for people with broken iPads. Say you have a restricted iPad. Obviously if you have a restricted iPad, you’ve not been able to delete anything. Tell them that when you hand it over to them. So you’re all going to wait here, with our wonderful substitute—”
“Mr. Baker!” said Tucker.
“Our wonderful substitute. And I’m going to bring my kids up here, and then we’re all going to go together to the east gym.”
They went off to the east gym, handed in their iPads, and returned, talking wistfully about lost apps and lost personal information. “I deleted everything,” said Daisy. “I deleted my contacts, everything.”
“No more iPad, no more iPad!” wailed Diana.
Soon Mrs. Moran came back in to say we had to attend freshman class elections. Two hundred ninth-graders and their teachers packed themselves into the cafeteria. There was no need for voting, though, because all the candidates were running unopposed. “Are you guys excited for your sophomore year?” said the current class president.
Cheering happened, followed by four echoing speeches from four girls—candidates for treasurer, secretary, vice president, and president—in which fund-raising successes and the word awesome figured prominently. The president-to-be closed by singing “We’re All in This Together.” Then she said, “What time is it? SOPHOMORE TIME!”
Yay! said the soon-to-be sophomores.
Back in class, April showed me the notes she’d made in the library for her Shakespeare paper. Her theme was love. “I just don’t want to be behind anymore,” said April, piling up overdue papers. “I’m trying to get ahead.”
At the end of the day, Lionel held out his fist for me to bump it. “I’m sorry, man, I love you,” he said.
“Knuckle it up,” I said. I also bumped knuckles with Dixon and Stefan and Joel. “Take care, guys. Good times.”
“Can I go to the band room?” asked Mira.
“Are you in tomorrow?” asked a silver-haired ed tech named Mrs. Ball.
“No, I’m not in tomorrow.”
“See you later!” said Daisy. Bye! Bye!
The room was empty, but I didn’t want to leave. I read some student poems that Mrs. Marsh had pinned to a corkboard. They all began with “I’m from.” A dirt-biker wrote: I’m from adrenaline rushes because of sports, snowmobiles and dirt bikes. / I’m from high land, mud bogs, and homegrown meat. A girl wrote: I’m from a town where we know each other’s names. / Where we don’t have to lock our doors at night. Another girl, from a family who made maple syrup, said: I’m from the trees that pr
oduce the sap / To the buckets that collect it all.
I loved these poems, these children, these six brick schools that made up Regional School Unit 66—I loved them with a Plutonic love. I loved the element cubes, and the rhombuses, and the glue guns, and the Mother’s Day bags, and the playgrounds, and the three-hole punchers, and the Tennsmith metal benders, and the hairy elbows, and the Pajama Days, and the Superhero Days, and the taxonomy-of-learning posters, and the antonym eggs, and the whining robots, and the stink bugs, and the Sharpies, and the SMILE folders, and the book buckets, and the lunch counts, and the whole broken, beautiful, wasteful, totally crazy educational system I’d been a part of. I hadn’t been a good teacher, but I’d passed out a lot of worksheets, and I’d learned a universe of things I hadn’t known. I packed away my computer, squirted a last squirt of hand sanitizer on my hands, and wrote a note for Mrs. Marsh, saying that the students were alert, funny, and good-natured, as always.
Boop. “Please excuse this interruption. Field hockey camp paperwork needs to be turned in to Mrs. Murphy ASAP. Thank you.”
I took a drink at the drinking fountain. “Hi, Mr. Baker,” called Tucker, waving.
I stood in the hall, watching the last kids leave. I saw April at her locker. “How did it go today?” I asked her.
“Good,” she said. “I got a whole page done.”
“Fantastic,” I said. “Great job.”
Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong.
Outside, a wind was coming up, and the second-wave buses were idling, waiting to begin their rural wanderings. My Scrabble mug clanked against something in my briefcase. I noticed that I still had the substitute badge hanging around my neck and went back to the office to return it. “Awesome,” said Paulette.
I got in the car and turned on the engine. I thought, There are no key terms. There are no themes, no thesis sentences. There are no main ideas. Life’s curriculum is infinite. Most of the interesting things we know we can’t explain. Most of what we need to know we were not taught. Stay classy, Lasswell. I drove home. Day Twenty-eight was over.