Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
I know most teachers probably say that their first few days in the classroom are the worst, and once they get to know their students, things are relatively cool.
Those are the same teachers that teach lovely things like geometry and language arts. The teachers who pass out packets of papers stapled together with book titles and due dates. Of course their biggest hurdles are figuring out who the class clown is going to be, or finding the perfect desk layout.
Put me in coach , because I can handle that.
Three months into the school year, I’m well aware that I’m about to have a few trying weeks. Why? Because I’m the health teacher, and this month we start the reproduction unit.
Today? We’re going over the female reproductive system, then male, then what happens when those systems merge.
I’m ripping neon purple prophylactics apart when the door swings open. I’m ready to roll my eyes and banish a student because I have ten minutes damnit and those ten minutes pre-class are precious. That’s my sane time.
“Boner unit?” Leah asks, sauntering in wearing her typical principal garb—pressed slacks, a matching blazer, and a silky blouse with a statement necklace. Today? The suit is yellow, and the necklace is turquoise. Because I coach after school, my teacher style is more… blue jeans with Bluebell High’s classic polo, and boots—boots which I purchased and started breaking in after that farmers market months ago. No more staining my espadrilles. Later in the day when it’s time for cheerleading, I swap my boots for Nikes and I’m good to go.
I nod and toss her a purple condom. “Yep.”
She catches it against her chest with one hand, then holds it out in front of her, inspecting it. “They make these purple now?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Truth be told, I hate condoms.”
Leah tosses it back to me. “No one likes condoms, but as my grandmother always said, you’re a fucking moron if you don’t use them.”
I nearly choke on my first sip of Diet Coke, and jump back so the delicious drink doesn’t dribble down my polo. “Oh shit, I wasn’t expecting that.”
Leah drifts my way, nosing through my lesson plan. “ Neither was I. And the first time she said it, I was like, nine.” She waves her hand above her head. “She was just trying to help. She had twelve kids and I’m sure the last thing she wanted for her granddaughters was for them to blow their cooters out on childbirth, too.”
This time, the Diet Coke flies across the desk, splattering on my lunch bag and purse. I snag a tissue from the off-brand Kleenex box and wipe it up, laughing. “Ahh, the tradition a grandma passes to her granddaughters,” I say, making a marquee above my head with my hands. “ Don’t blow your cooter out, use a rubber. ”
Leah nods, still pursuing my plans. She looks up, no longer smiling. “You know you’re gonna hear about this, right?” She taps the paper with a french manicured nail.
I shrug. “It’s from the book. The state-approved book that Mr. Cunningham hasn’t taught a single page out of ever, from what I’ve seen from his perma-lesson plan.” When I was hired, Mr. Cunningham was given a few periods of shop, lessening his load as the solo health teacher. He shared his laminated lesson plan with me–and it was written twenty-two years ago. Not a lick of information in his plan comes from the actual lesson plan from the state. As it is, in Bluebell, we’re teaching 9th graders what most 8th graders are taught. And we’re not even doing a good job. Not until now, of course.
Leah places the lesson plan down, and levels a serious look my way. “No one thinks it’s their kid, you know? A teen vandalizes an old folks home, gets pregnant, steals a car, does drugs, whatever it is—no one ever wants to believe their kid is capable. So,” she says, tracing the rim on the bowl of condoms, “sending them home with condoms is going to make approximately half of the moms blow a gasket.”
I lean into my desk with my ass, and snatch the lesson plans up, holding them against my chest. I have five minutes until this room smells like drug store cologne and body odor. I need to be ready. If papers aren’t on their desk within the first minute of entry, phones are out and I spend most of my time battling them. The way to defeat the phones? Be ready.
I make a face at Leah. Well, toward her, but not at her. I make a face at the parents she’s talking about. “The condoms will get their interest. And the parents, they can live in a world of delusion or they can remember what they were like at fourteen and fifteen and realize, some of these kids are sexually active already. Maybe not the full shebang but–”
“Fingerbang at least,” Leah offers, and we can’t help but burst into immature laughter.
“Maybe I’m not old enough to teach this class,” I sigh when the laughter subsides. She peeks at her watch and walks backward toward the door, one palm out, feeling for it.
“I gotta go. Good luck with your lesson. And next time, get green.” She points at the condoms. “Because of the amount of eggplant jokes that are going to be made,” she warns, stacking her hand way above her head.
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Leah exits to the hall, getting absorbed in a sea of backpacks before the door clicks shut, sealing me into my empty room with nothing but thoughts and condoms.
I have forty-two minutes with these kids five days a week. Nothing about health class is listened to or taken seriously until this unit. The sex unit. And I hear Leah. I know I’ll probably field some unhappy emails, maybe a phone call or two. But this is the job. And just because the only other teacher at this school that has taught this class is a sixty year old man who refuses to identify anatomy as anything other than “ you know what this is ” and “ the thing right here ” only means I have even more work to do .
Remember, everything you’re embarking on is approved to teach. Every last bit, I remind myself as I begin tapping my boot against the linoleum floor, a bead of anxious sweat sliding down my neck beneath my polo. Quickly I set the papers down and twist my hair up, pinning it with a clip to get it off of my neck. If I’m nervous and sweaty, they’ll see it. Teenagers pick up the scent of fear and run with it.
I know this from coaching cheerleading for the last two years at my last school. Never let them see you sweat. Literally and figuratively.
The door opens, my heart catches, and my students begin their very slow filtering inside. Cell phones get shoved into bags, girls link arms as they settle into two-seater desks, and by the time everyone is seated and settled, the room is pretty divided by gender. In a couple of years, it won’t be that way. But freshmen are still basically junior highers, only junior highers that suddenly had to act cool and pretend they know everything.
A few of the freshmen cheerleading prospects–Jo Jo, Jasmine and Alexa–sit up front, with Jasmine and Alexa on either side of Jo Jo. As a teacher and a coach, formally and outwardly, I love all of my students and athletes. Internally or between me, Leah and a bottle of beer, I have favorites.
Jo Jo is an easy favorite.
She’s the type of girl that is nice when no one is watching, and I like that. If everyone was like that, we’d probably not have any bullies. Her friend, Alexa, got her period unexpectedly and Jo Jo put her embarrassment aside to come ask me discreetly–yet, whispering in front of the class–if I had a tampon. She never even said it wasn’t for her. But when she went back to her desk with one of my Tampax Pearl Lights, I saw her pass it under the desk to Alexa. The rest of class, the boys called her shark bait and she never even flinched .
She’s tough, but a good friend, and I like her.
She’s new to cheer this year, too. The freshman coach, Cadence Caine, has been extra hard on her. Telling her to sharpen her skills–straighter arms, bigger smile, work on her splits. No matter what Jo Jo puts out during practice, I always hear Cadence going hard on her, which makes the other girls pick on her. So, after each practice, I’ve managed to find a way to bump into Jo Jo and tell her that I think she’s doing really great, and that everyone starts somewhere.
She catches my gaze and we swap smiles. Alexa watches our exchange and elbows Jo Jo, a twisted smirk on her lips when she whispers, “teachers pet.”
Even though I once was one, I will never understand teenage girls. Jo Jo, even at cheer, is so good to Alexa and here she is, teasing her. I swallow down the knot of irritation bubbling in my throat, keeping my retort at bay. “Good morning,” I greet them, and receive yawns, one wave and a few head nods in return.
“Last week we ended our nutrition unit, where we learned which foods best fuel our bodies, and the impact of our food choices on our immediate and long term health,” I recap. “And today, we’re starting our–”
“Purple condoms!” A boy shouts.
“Oh shit!” Another joins.
Soft conversation rolls in, rising quickly, until I feel like I’m drowning in chatter in less than ten seconds.
“C’mon now,” I say, raising my voice a bit. “Everyone, let’s get quiet now. Alright? I don’t want to send anyone to see Ms. Mitchell.”
The room grows quiet, because the kids are scared of Ms. Mitchell and her propensity to give out lunchtime detentions. Nothing scares a fourteen year old more than the threat of losing their social time .
“Dude,” one kid says quietly, yet loud enough to be heard. “Tug that down and your dick is a real life eggplant emoji.”
The class erupts in laughter. My cheeks flame, and not because I’m uncomfortable with this unit. No way. I’m twenty-four. They’re fourteen. I have no reason to be embarrassed to teach the things I went to school to teach.
“Look,” Alexa chides as she wraps and rewraps a strand of blonde hair around her pencil. “Miss Rivers is embarrassed.”
Mentally, I give her the bird. I am not embarrassed, I’m annoyed, but I can’t tell them that because being annoyed with your students is kind of gauche. Instead, I plaster on one of my many smiles and say, “I’m not embarrassed in the slightest. I’m just waiting for everyone to calm down so I can teach. The sooner I can teach this lesson, the closer we get to discussing the bowl on the table.”
Alexa sinks into her chair a bit, her smug expression fading as the noise in the room tapers off. They want the purple condoms. I remember being their age. You’re still not 100% sure how everything works, but you’re also too cool to admit it so you just act like a genius about all the things human body related. Their quiet, attentive faces tell me that getting to the condom talk is important to them.
I thought it would be.
That bowl of purple condoms doesn’t come in handy until the end of the reproduction unit, but it’s a bargaining chip. I have purple condoms out because I am actually trying to be relatable while teaching about safe sex, and they keep their yappers zipped so I can do my damn job until we get there.
Moms bribe toddlers with M&Ms and I bribe teens with condoms and information about how sex works. It’s one and the same.
A boy in the back, wearing a faded Bluebell Bruiser jersey, timidly raises his hand. I point to him because I can’t remember his name, and I swear to god I think I’ve seen a carbon copy of him on campus.
“Yes?”
He scoots forward in his seat, chewing at the inside of his cheek. His golden hair sticks up everywhere, and his jersey and jeans are crumpled to all hell. He’s a high school freshman that looks like a college freshman who had a long night out. His pale skin flares with color as he speaks. “Can I go to the bathroom?”
I glance at the white and black plastic clock on the wall. Ten after. “Sure, go ahead.”
The boy gets to his feet, shuffling past me, the rest of the students taking the opportunity to tease him the moment the classroom door shuts.
“He got a boner.”
“Totally went to go tug one out.”
I clear my throat. “Before we get to the bowl,” I say, internally smirking at how well the bowl is working to draw their attention. “We are starting this unit on the female body and its reproductive gifts.”
I’m not sure why, but I look at Jo Jo, and catch her eyes tipped down to her desk, cheeks red as she finger combs her hair to curtain her face. Alexa and Jasmine are unphased, and I’m ninety percent sure Alexa has a phone under her paper and is swiping on social media. After passing out a packet with all relevant coursework and chapters listed for the entire unit, I move back to the front of the room and wait for everyone to finish reading.
In my experience, the boys don’t care about this part. Sure, I’m gonna talk about vaginas and stuff, but mostly it’s gonna be ovulation related and the only ‘o’ word they care about isn’t ovulation. It’s usually the girls that grow nervous, especially the late bloomers or social wallflowers. I wonder if Jo Jo is a late bloomer as I glance out over the room of faces, and discover she is the only one left looking visibly uncomfortable.
I get started on the unit, only having to stop to give resting bitch face four times, which all in all is pretty good. By the time the bell has rung, I have a good idea of how long this unit will realistically take, and jot down some notes in my day planner. When the door finally closes, I look up to find that Jo Jo hasn’t left for her next class yet.
“Avoiding second period?” I ask lightly, reaching into my bag to pull out another stack of papers for my next class.
She doesn’t respond as I’m organizing, which makes me pause. I reach back, unclipping my hair, letting it fall down my back and around my shoulders. I close my eyes, enjoying a little moan at how good it feels to have it down again. Running my hands over my head, I wink and quietly admit, “I was a little nervous before the lesson so I put my hair up so I wouldn’t get sweaty. I sweat when I’m nervous.”
Jo Jo smiles, but it doesn’t lift her eyes, so I know now that she stayed back for a reason. Talking to teenagers, especially girls, is kind of like trying to not scare away a stray animal you’re trying to rescue. Move too fast, they’re gone. Say the wrong thing, gone. Use the wrong tone, splitsville. Do something they deem cringe? Forget it.
She has her arms wrapped around herself, the sleeves of her hoodie pulled over her palms partially as she sways a little in her chair.
“How’s school going? How’s cheerleading going? Are you excited for tryouts? How are you?” I ask, snatching the roll of paper towels from behind my desk, and my spray bottle of cleaner. I give an array of questions, hoping whatever is bothering her can somehow be coaxed out with what I’ve provided. I start cleaning the desks while I talk, and not because they need it, but because if I sit next to her or in front of her, it will be too much pressure. Staying busy, being there without lingering or hovering, that’s the play with a girl like Jo Jo. I know because… I was a lot like her ten years ago.
The helpful friend. The quiet girl on the cheerleading squad. The one who wants to make everyone happy, but doesn’t know how to make herself happy.
“School’s good. Getting A’s. All A’s,” she says easily, and I don’t doubt it. In my class, Jo Jo is excellent.
“Good. That’s good, Jo Jo. I know parents always say that school is important and good grades are like, totally critical, and I’m here to tell you as a young person—” I stop swiping the desk and stand, resting my cleaning rag filled hand on one popped hip. “I’m twenty-four. That’s ancient to you but young still. Trust me.”
Jo Jo giggles.
“Anyway, I’m telling you as a young person that isn’t a parent—it’s true. Good grades are important. So good for you. I hope you’re proud of yourself, because you absolutely should be.”
Jo Jo sighs, releasing her hold on herself, a sign that some of her insecurity is falling away, too. She smooths her wrists along the edges of the desk, tracing it out, watching herself as she speaks. “I’m always good at school. I mean–that’s not the issue.”
Hesitant and quiet, she’s unsure but opening up, and I have to respect and honor that. It’s hard at this age. Complicated.
I spray some more lavender-scented disinfectant. “Is there an issue?”
She wobbles her head, still tracing out her desk.
“How are you enjoying cheering?” I swipe through what I sprayed, and move to the chairs. Her eyes slide to me for a moment before veering back to her desk.
“I like it.” She ceases her tracing. “I mean, I know I don’t quite fit in. Yet. But… I really hope I make it.” The tracing resumes and I think she even sits a little taller, too. “I’ll fit in once I make it. It takes time. I know that.”
I nod my head, cleaning places on this chair I’m pretty sure haven’t been touched since Nixon was president. Gross. “Yeah, but the frosh squad seems to get along well, all of you girls.” I say, without naming Alexa and Jasmine, the girls she’s been hanging out with more and more. I understand it, but I wish for Jo Jo’s sake she’d make time for the Brownstock girls. When school started, the three of them had lunch together every day. Sometimes Peyton would come watch cheerleading practices. But in the last few weeks, I’ve only seen Jo Jo with Alexa and Jasmine. And it’s nothing against cheerleaders because–duh–I am one. I mean, I’m not currently, but once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader.
But they haven’t proven to be loyal just yet. Alexa has that streak in her–the dangerous one, the streak that makes a girl do anything for attention, even harm her friends. She’ll regret it later, but the damage will be done. And there’s always damage with girls like Alexa.
Jo Jo nods her head, lifting a hand from her desk to tuck hair behind her ear. Twisting in her chair, she faces me only slightly, but it feels like moving mountains. I spray the chair next to the now clean one.
“My mom is dead,” she says suddenly, no emotion, just plain fact, like one plus one is two, and my mother is not alive.
“Oh my God,” I rush out, setting the bottle and wad of paper towels down onto the desk .
She lifts a palm, her eyes falling closed. “No, she didn’t like, just die.”
I halt my urgency and sink into the seat across the aisle from her. She lets her head fall into her hand, propped up on her elbow. “She died when I was four. But anyway, I mean, what I was going to say is that I found a picture of my mom, and she was wearing this cheerleading uniform. And she looked so beautiful. She was smiling, the sun was shining, she was glowing, her uniform fit so perfectly and at the bottom corner, she had, like, signed her name in really pretty cursive. She did a little heart on top of the i.”
I can’t hide my smile. “She sounds gorgeous.”
Jo Jo smiles, and this time, her eyes lift. “She was. And I didn’t even know she was a cheerleader. I didn’t know… I mean, I don’t know like, anything about her. But–” she pinches her eyes shut, shaking her head as if to physically reroute her thoughts. “I saw that picture last year and I just… I wanted to do cheerleading to like, I don’t know…” she looks down, dragging the side of her fingernail down a striation in the wooden desk. Her cheeks flood ruby. “I wanted to like, feel close to her or like, connected to her or something? I don’t know.” She shakes her head, and begins burying her face in her hair.
I make a bold move and stand up, but choose to crouch in front of her desk. With my chin stacked on my fists, I sigh. “I think that’s beautiful.” I close my eyes a second then open them, fighting to focus on Jo Jo and her mother, and trying not to think of my own. My chest aches from unrepaired fissures. “Truly Jo Jo. I love that. I’m proud of you.” I get to my feet, and collect the bottle and paper towels. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m proud of you.”
She stands up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. I watch her, waiting to see if she wants to make eye contact. When she does, I smile. She returns it.
“Keep working hard. If you need help catching up on any skills or dances, let me know.” I shrug casually. “I have no family in Bluebell and exactly one friend. So staying after practice a bit longer isn’t that big of a deal.” I smirk. “Netflix can wait.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling.
“Anytime, Jo Jo. Have a good day.” I get back to my desk as she leaves, holding the door open for the next class of students who start to come in.
I teach the next period without a single bead of sweat, because I can’t take my mind off of Jo Jo and the story about her mother.
After sixth period, I cut across campus–changed into my Nikes a few minutes early–and barge into Leah’s office like I’m reporting a murder.
I’m literally panting.
She jumps up from her desk, her eyes wide. “What?”
I smooth my hands down the front of my pants, catching my breath a second. “I hoofed it over here because one of my students told me the most beautiful but sad story today and I just… I wanted to know more about her but then as soon as I pulled open these doors,” I say, hooking a thumb behind me to the office doors. “I realized that’s kind of gross. I mean, this girl opened up to me. If she wants me to know more, she’ll tell me. I shouldn’t ask you, right?”
Leah falls back into her chair, and studies me carefully. Those tiny little lines form between her eyes, and she even tips her head to the side a bit. “Who’s the kid?”
My mouth is suddenly dry, but I lick my lips. “Jo Jo Turner.”
Leah lifts her head off the chair just to throw it back, slamming her eyes closed dramatically. “Uhhh, shiiiiit,” she groans, clutching the arms of her chair. She even stomps in one of her stilettos.
“What? What does that mean?” I edge closer to her desk, my nosy mind spinning out of control, my eager heart racing. I want something good for this kid. She’s sweet, and I don’t know why but I relate to her somehow. “I really like the girl.” I’m almost scared to know now.
Did her father murder her mother and he’s in prison and Jo Jo is being raised by an evil old woman who forces her to eat cold soup and scrub the floors? Or did Jo Jo’s mom die of some long, drawn out illness leaving her father permanently heartbroken, staring out a foggy window, never to speak again? Jo Jo, poor sweet Jo Jo. My mind runs way too wild with terrible possibilities.
Leah sits up, and places her hands palm-down on her desk, leveling an intense gaze at me.
“Leah, if you do not spit it out?—”
“Her dad is quite possibly the hottest cowboy in Bluebell.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head like she’s in a deep prayer. “Such a piece of ass.”
My jaw drops to the floor, I swear. I slap my hand to my chest in shock. And… Why am I slightly annoyed that Leah knows Jo Jo’s dad is hot and I don’t? One conversation doesn’t mean I should know more about Jo Jo’s life than Leah, who has seen Jo Jo grow up in Bluebell over the years. Still, a touch of annoyance slides down my spine.
“Leah!” I chide .
She shrugs. “What? It’s just us.” She lifts her brows, nodding silently for a moment. “He’s absolutely gorgeous.”
My heart is racing, but I remember what sparked my interest in Jo Jo in the first place. “What happened to her mom?” I ask.
Leah sits taller, and grows serious. “Janie Turner,” she sighs, “that was sad.”
I knead my neck, suddenly finding my skin hot.
“Jo Jo didn’t tell me anything except that her mom died when she was four,” I say, feeling like in this heavy moment I should say something, contribute somehow instead of just sitting there hungrily, lapping up the pieces of this sweet girl’s tragic life.
“She flipped her car on some black ice, and spun off-road. She… was pinned inside. No one found her until it was too late.” She gets lost in thought a moment, and my heart aches at the loss this family has endured. What they went through.
“Ten years ago we didn’t have tracking in everything the way we do now. There was some trouble finding her,” Leah adds, her voice softening, spreading thin, as if to make room for the heaviness to come. “Rescuers searched for her on foot for five days without a wink of sleep. Then… they found her.”
I bring my hands to my face, and cup them over my mouth to absorb the sharp tug of my breath. “My God,” I breathe, pulse racing, ears ringing. Poor Jo Jo.
Leah sighs, I think because she’s trying to put distance between today and the memory of what happened to Janie. “I taught her, you know, when I taught fifth grade, before this,” she says, pointing to her desk, alluding to her position as principal. “She was very smart. Quiet, sweet.” Leah falls back against her chair, her eyes on me. “And aside from knowing that Jake Turner is absolutely gorgeous, that’s all I got. ”
A student barges into Leah’s office, bumping me forward. “I’d better let you get to it,” I tell Leah, ducking out of her office to high tail it to the gym for practice.
The girls do good. They’ve clearly been practicing their routine, and after some much needed talk about attitude, things looked pretty good for just a handful of weeks into practice. Tryouts are in a few days now, and they’re ready.
I overheard Alexa teasing Jo Jo, and saw her clam up and shut down.
When I get in my car to go home, I know I am going to be thinking about Janie, Jake and Jo Jo Turner the entire night.
As much as I hate to say and as guilty as it makes me feel, thinking about them takes the focus off of my family, and all of our issues.
And I need that.
After all, if my family had any respect for me, I wouldn’t even be in Bluebell.