Chapter 7
Anne
Nothing made me feel more like a grown-up than spending time with actual teenagers.
Most of my students had eight-second attention spans, honed on social media and video games.
It was literally my job, as the only adult in the room, to keep them engaged.
I’d been counting on Leonardo DiCaprio to hold their interest—or at least keep them quiet—on my first day back.
But apparently Friday’s substitute teacher had seized on the same idea.
Which meant that instead of showing a movie to my restless seventh-period class, I was stuck with explaining color symbolism in The Great Gatsby. “So, the green light on the dock obviously represents money. Gatsby’s dream. The American dream. Can you name another significant color?”
“Red?” Martina suggested from the third row.
“Very good. Can you give me an example?”
“Like your hair, Miss G.,” Lindsey said slyly.
Too late, I recognized the setup. “Thank you. An example from the book?”
“Did you use, like, henna?”
My students knew I could be distracted. I didn’t mind them trolling for a bite. Sometimes it led to good class discussion. But today I resisted the bait. “From the book, please.”
Addison, in front, had her hand up. Addison always had her hand up. I smiled encouragingly at Colin, slumped behind her. “What does red signify?”
“I guess…anger?”
“Sex,” Martina said, provoking smirks.
“Blood,” Addison said.
“My mother says henna damages your hair,” Lindsey said. “I always get my color done at the salon.”
I didn’t blame them for trying to derail the class discussion. My teachers complained I had trouble paying attention, too. Which meant that I, of all people, should be able to turn this lesson around.
I looked at the clock. Thirty-five minutes to kill, er, go. “Okay, take out your notebooks. New assignment.”
Groans erupted from the room.
“I want you to create an Instagram profile and at least five posts, including a reel, for a character from The Great Gatsby.” I turned my back on them to write on the whiteboard.
Like a lion tamer, showing no fear to the wild beasts in my charge.
“Use at least one quote and one scene or interaction from the book.” I circled bullet points on the board.
“Think about your characters. Who are they? How would they want to represent themselves on social media?”
“Can we use cast pictures? From the movie?”
“That’s the director’s vision. I want you to use your imaginations. What would be your character’s dominant color? Find your own photos. Or draw. Or…” My own imagination fired. “Dress up and take pictures.”
Doubtful looks peppered with a few flashes of interest.
“Let’s break into small groups,” I suggested, seized with inspiration. “You can help each other brainstorm. Maybe collaborate on posts.”
The volume rose as my students, seeing the opportunity to get out of work for the rest of the day, dragged chairs and desks into groups of two or four.
I wended among them, matching the social outcasts with resigned or grateful partners, separating troublemakers, dividing cliques, prodding and moderating discussions.
“Not everybody can be Daisy,” I told Lindsey and her friends. “What about the tennis player, Jordan? Or Myrtle?”
Martina pulled a face. “The side piece?”
“Perfect for you,” Lindsey said.
Snickers erupted.
“Sounds like a social media post to me,” I said.
Martina looked intrigued.
Chaos. But creative chaos. Until the closing bell shrilled. The students launched like birds from a field.
“Okay, you’ve all made a great start,” I said. “Please pull your desks—”
Furniture scraped and bumped. Students scrambled for the door. It opened, and Sarah stuck her head through.
I winced. “Sorry about the noise.”
She waved my apology away. “Jim wants to see you.” Jim Curtis, the principal.
“Oooh, Miss G., are you in trouble?” a student sang out.
I felt a burst of something almost like nostalgia. Because of course I had been called to the principal’s office before, years ago. For talking in class. For liberating the snake from the classroom terrarium. For bouncing a book off Tyler Kelly’s head after he made Daanis cry.
“Not recently,” I said cheerfully. I lowered my voice under the cacophony of students emptying into the hall. “Do you know why?” I asked Sarah.
“I’ve learned not to ask why the administration does anything.”
“Maybe Jim wants to offer his sympathies?” I said. “On behalf of the school.”
She pressed her lips together. “Maybe.”
Something wasn’t right. “I got your flowers,” I said. A bouquet of cellophane-wrapped kindness on my desk to welcome me back. “Thanks.”
“We took up a collection. The whole department.”
“Well, they’re beautiful. I…” Behind her, I saw Colin Quinn ducking for the door. “Colin!”
He stopped as if I’d shot him.
“Everything okay?” I asked gently.
He jerked one shoulder. Yes? No? “Yeah.” He raised his head, not quite meeting my eyes. “Sorry.”
I stared after him, troubled. Colin was one of the outcasts, a sweet, quiet boy with an overbearing father. He stayed after class sometimes, to wipe down the board or do his homework.
“I worry about him,” I confided to Sarah when he was gone.
Seeking her advice, craving her approval, as if I were still a rookie in her classroom.
Sarah, in her mid-thirties, sailed through the halls of Ravenscrest like a swan.
Maybe, underneath the surface, she was paddling as furiously as I was, but you would never guess it from her calm demeanor. I wanted to be her when I grew up.
“Which is why you are such a good teacher,” she said. “But right now, you should focus on yourself.”
“Why’s that?”
She looked down, inspecting her pale pink manicure.
“Sarah?”
“You’ll have to speak to Jim.” She paused, as if debating with herself how much more to say. “There might have been a question raised about a book you gave one of your students.”
“The manga book?”
“What?”
“I ordered a graphic novel for one of my kids. For my classroom library, actually, but a student requested it. I figure, anything to get them reading, right? But when it came in, I noticed one of the illustrations on the back was, um, kind of boob-forward.”
“Jim didn’t mention boobs,” she said dryly.
I exhaled in relief. “Good. I Sharpie’d out the nipples before I gave it to him, I swear. The student.”
She smiled. “Quick thinking.”
“Thanks.”
“Jim is waiting,” she reminded me.
“Right.” I rolled my eyes. “Can’t be late for the principal.”
—
The school secretary waved me through to the office.
“Come in, Anne,” Jim Curtis said. “Shut the door.”
The principal of Ravenscrest was a handsome man in his mid-fifties with the sleek silver hair and polished smile of a congressman. Better at fundraising than looking after his constituents, I thought. But he’d hired me during the pandemic, and I was grateful.
I wiped my palms on my skirt, suddenly conscious of the run in my tights, and sat. “Thanks.”
“There’s never a good time to have these conversations,” Mr. Curtis said. “Unfortunately, they can’t be put off.”
My shoulders relaxed. Now he would tell me he was sorry for my loss, and I would thank him for his sympathy.
I nodded, my attention already wandering.
When Chris finally got off his shift last night, I’d been sleeping.
Which was fine. We would connect tonight.
Maybe I’d even cook dinner. Mentally, I reviewed the contents of Chris’s refrigerator.
I was pretty sure I bought lettuce last week. Or I could go grocery shopping…
“…where this came from,” Mr. Curtis was saying. He slid a book across his desk.
I blinked at the well-worn paperback. Not the manga book. “Sorry, what?”
“It’s not a school library book. Do you recognize it?”
The Perks of Being a Wallflower. There was a stain on the cover, a crease in the back corner. “Yeah.” I’d loaned it to Colin a couple of weeks ago. “It’s from my readers’ corner. For my students to borrow?” My voice rose, like I was asking a question or seeking permission.
“I’ll need a list of those books.”
“I don’t have a list. It’s…They’re just books. Poetry, fantasy, YA, graphic novels. Things I think my students might like.”
Books they might not have access to otherwise. “Your underground library,” Sarah called it.
Mr. Curtis pursed his lips. “Not part of the course curriculum, then.”
“Not exactly. Some of them are on the AP reading list. Sometimes I buy stuff based on recommendations. I want all my students to see themselves, their stories, reflected in literature.” I smiled brightly. “And of course I want to encourage them to read.”
“Which is a laudable goal. However, there’s some concern you’re exposing your students to material that is educationally unsuitable for this age-group.”
I stifled an image of the Sharpie’d nipples. “Concern,” I repeated.
“A complaint, I should say.”
Crap on a cracker. “From a student?”
“From Mr. and Mrs. Quinn.” Colin’s parents.
I sat straighter in my chair, remembering how Colin had avoided my eyes today. “Sorry,” he’d mumbled. Sorry that my father died? Or sorry that his parents reported me to the principal?
My fingers were picking at the run in my tights. I clasped my hands together to control them. “Unsuitable, how?”
“This book…The main character of the book is gay.”
“Charlie—the narrator’s—best friend is gay,” I said carefully, channeling my inner Sarah. “Not that it matters. Not that it should be allowed to matter.”
“There’s other problematic content as well. Alcohol, sex, violence…”
I snorted. “The Odyssey is full of alcohol, sex, and violence. So is the Bible. And Shakespeare’s plays! Are you going to ban those, too?”
“Those works are classics,” Jim Curtis explained patiently. As if I were a particularly dim ninth grader.
“Well, The Perks of Being a Wallflower is a modern classic, a beautiful coming-of-age novel.”