A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (13 page)

Solange leaned forward over the board, whispering.
“Is he as good as he thinks he is?” O’Connel regarded the pair.
“It’ll be close.” Several cheerleaders in short uniform skirts came
in to find seats around the two champions and both boys looked up
in stunned surprise.

“Mr. O’Connel,” Armando said, “Why are they
here?”

“I guess they want to know who’s the smartest man at
Elk River. Don’t let it make you nervous, Mondo. They’re just here
to see a good contest, right girls?” The girls looked on, bare legs
crossed tightly, ankles bobbing.

A small, dark girl with a turned up nose and a mane
of walnut curls smiled, blew a bubble, popped it. “Yeah,” she
said.

Still puzzled, the boys went back to their game.

O’Connel laid out a waxed paper-wrapped sandwich and
a Thermos of milk for Solange and himself “What’s this?” she
asked.

“Albacore, mayo, and dill pickle on whole wheat—good
home cookin’. No strychnine, I promise.” She gave him a dubious
look.

He smiled. “Oh, don’t trust me?” He slid both
sandwiches between them. “Okay, here, you choose.”

She claimed one. “Thanks, smells good, I forgot my
lunch. There aren’t many girls in your club.”

“Only Lorena and her friends. Girls don’t seem too
interested. Kind of a male thing, isn’t it?”

“Oh, is it?” Aware he may have offended her, he held
up a hand in surrender, “Hey, I didn’t mean it that way.”

She nodded at the pep squad. “What about them?”

He took a bite of sandwich and nodded as he chewed.
“Offered them extra credit to come.”

She leaned close, whispering. “You bribed them?”

“Yeah, you scandalized? Sure I did, why not? Why
should sweaty oafs be the only ones fawned over? Why shouldn’t
brains get some adoration, too?”

She took his pawn, sweeping it effortlessly from the
board and nearly reached to slap a timer, catching herself.

He frowned, wondering if he’d been had. “How good are
you, anyway?”

She smiled back, eyes wide. “Not as good as I
was.”

He pressed back his wire rims and settling down to
it. “Oh, boy.”

Her mouth curved into a tight-lipped smile. “You’re
not one of those men that have to win at everything, are you?”

He couldn’t help laughing. “No, and it’s a good
thing. Your move.”

Players whispered. Radiators prattled. Outside the
big windows, snow sifted down. He took a bite of sandwich, washed
it down with milk. It was nice. Nice just being there, sharing a
tuna sandwich, a game of chess. Nice. He felt the irony of
that.

That hair, those eyes, how the hell was he supposed
to come up with a strategy? Already feeling the pressure from her
advance down the middle, he warned himself to pay attention to the
board. Lorena called him to settle a dispute, and when he returned
he was again called away. He held his own until the end game, when
freshly back from peacemaking, he stumbled. Having set his queen
where it and the king could be forked by her knight, he groaned,
tipping his king. “You’re good. I was lucky to last that long.”

“You were distracted.”

He was that. She had no idea. He slid the pieces off
the edge of the table into the box. “Okay, I’ll blame it on
that.”

The speaker on the wall over the door crackled.
“Teachers, please excuse the interruption—” It was Celia. “School
will be releasing after lunch because of snow.”

Over the roar of rapture, he heard Celia ask if he
could cover bus duty. He said he could.

Paul, book set aside, grappled with Armando in a
closely fought end game as other players gathered quietly round to
watch. As each sought advantage, the cheerleaders looked on.
Solange saw a move which would give Armando the game. But would he
see it? She concentrated on the nape of his neck.

Reaching out slowly, Armando replaced Paul’s queen
with his own, and she took a much needed breath, relieved.

Ignoring Armando’s offered hand, Paul bolted. The
girls gave Armando a short cheer, clapping their hands in time, and
his face flushed crimson as they went out eying him with what
Solange thought might be newfound interest.

Armando came to O’Connel, smiling in a way that
struck Solange as both humble and egotistical. “Did you expect him
to win?”

O’Connel slapped him on the shoulder. “Two weeks ago,
I would have.”

Armando nodded. “He’s too sure of himself. He thought
no one could beat him.”

O’Connel shrugged. “He let arrogance get in the way.
Now you’re top dog, you going to get arrogant?”

Armando shook his blond head, smiling over his
shoulder as he went out. “Not me. I’m too smart for that.”

O’Connel motioned after the boy. “Father works in the
winery, five kids, everyone of them a good student. The parents
can’t speak a word of English, I doubt they can read. Three of the
kids are in college already. He’ll be next.” He grabbed a leather
jacket off his chair. “School works for kids like him, always has.
School programs aren’t the reason Armando’s what he is—his family’s
the reason.” He held the door for her. “Come on, Ms. Assistant
Superintendent, we’ve got bus duty. Remember what that is?”

• • •

Dense as angel food, snow fell.

They stood in it ankle-deep as kids threw snowballs
and skidded on the sidewalk in their sneakers.

“It’s against school rules to throw snowballs,”
O’Connel said, “but it only snows here once in maybe ten years, so
what the heck.

Don’t count this one against me, huh?” Solange
huddled in her thin wool coat next to him, hands thrust deep in her
pockets. A thin boy in a dirty tee shirt came running up to throw
one of the powdery snowballs at O’Connel. He ducked, and Solange
caught it in the face.

The boy froze, smile gone.

O’Connel called him over. “Oh boy, Arturo, you’re in
big trouble, now, big big trouble. Muy malo! Do you know who you
hit with that? You hit a very very important lady. She’s the boss
of the whole district. What do you say to Miss Gonsalvas, now,
huh?”

Arturo looked down, frowning with thought. “I’m sorry
I missed, Lady.” He looked up at her timidly, worry clouding his
narrow face. “Are you gonna get me in trouble, huh?”

Wiping powder from her eyes, she said she wasn’t, and
he smiled, showing crooked teeth.

“Ha, ha, I knew you were kidding, Mr. O’Connel. I’m
not in trouble, see?”

“Okay, so I was wrong.” Arturo bent to scoop up a
double handful of powder. “Ha, ha!”

“Hey, where’s your coat today, Arturo?”

“Couldn’t find it.” He stuffed the snowball down
another boy’s back, and careened away, chattering with
laughter.

O’Connel looked her over. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just cold.” She shook what she could out
of her collar before it melted, nodding across the yard. “He seems
like a nice kid.”

“Arturo? Yeah. We’re buddies.”

“Isn’t he cold in just a tee shirt?”

He shook his head. “Well, I would be. The thing is,
he can’t seem to hang on to a jacket. I gave him one a couple of
weeks ago, and Monday I saw a guy wearing it down the street at the
tavern. Maybe it was his dad, I don’t know.” He shrugged. “What do
you do? Whoever’s the biggest is the one that gets the coat.” They
watched him race madly around the sidewalk as the buses filled.

“Have you called Child Protective Services?”

He flinched. “You kidding?”

“It’s your legal responsibility to inform CPS if you
even suspect abuse.”

“Oh, don’t start. I know what the law says. If I
thought that would help him, I’d be on the phone in a heartbeat.
What are they going to do, huh, tell me? What?”

“Whatever needs to be done. Sweet Christ, to be
without a coat in this weather—it’s insane!”

“Okay, okay, so it’s cold, what’s CPS going to do
about it, put him in a home? You think that’s what he wants, to be
taken away? He’s had it a little rough, but he doesn’t want that.”
He nodded at Arturo as he went sliding across the snowy blacktop in
his high tops. “Look at him. Does he look like he’s suffering to
you? Hey, just because his parents are a little ignorant doesn’t
mean he doesn’t love them. You know, you’ve got to get over the
idea that we can fix everything—we can’t.”

She looked appalled. “So, what, we’re not supposed to
try? We’re just supposed to forget about the kids, is that it?”

“Calm down. I didn’t say that. Arturo’s twelve; in
two more years he’s going back down to Mexico. He’s got a
grandfather down there. He’ll find himself a little Senorita and
have a dozen kids of his own. We’ll probably have them in class
here, wait and see. He’ll make a good worker, too. He’s not one of
the great minds of the western world, but he’s a good guy, old
Arturo. Oh, yeah, he’ll get along all right.”

“How do you know all this?”

The kids were on the buses, and O’Connel waved to the
drivers to say there were no more coming. “He told me.”

With a great billowing of exhaust, they pulled out,
chains clanking. The engines quieted to a distant grumble, then
silence. Flakes as big as silver dollars floated down on the still
air. They might well have been a hundred miles from school, abused
kids, letters of reprimand. He looked in her eyes and was a swimmer
caught in an undertow. Too strong to fight, it drew him
irresistibly deeper. He fought his way to the surface, with an
effort severing her gaze. He was too old, too smart to be suckered
in by a pair of eyes, a shock of hair, a taut figure. He could
imagine what she thought of him. He didn’t kid himself

“Where could I find a Mr. O’Connel?” A woman in
sweats and rubber boots had come up beside them.

Whoever she was, she didn’t look happy. “I’m
O’Connel.”

“I want to talk to you about my son’s test, the first
quarter final.”

The way she stood reminded him of a leghorn rooster.
“Who’s your son, then?”

“Aaron Reynolds. He says you failed him on his test
because he didn’t put some number on his paper.”

“Good to meet you, Mrs. Reynolds. May I introduce our
district assistant superintendent, Ms. Gonsalvas? I’m sure you’ll
want her to hear this, too.”

The woman’s eyes brightened. “You’re damned right I
do. It just ain’t right, failing kids because they forget to write
some stupid number on their paper!” She was talking to Solange now.
“My boy’s got a name. He ain’t some gall darned number!”

“I do ask my students to put a number on their papers
that corresponds to their class and number in my grade book. It
helps make sure they get credit for the work they turn in and
avoids a lot of confusion. It also allows me to read off grades
while allowing some degree of privacy for the students. I see over
one hundred fifty students every day.”

“Well, I think failing a kid because he forgets to
put a number on his paper is pure bull.”

He clenched his teeth. This was it. This woman was
the whole thing bundled up in one small package—everything that had
changed what it meant to teach.

“The question isn’t whether or not my numbering
system is a good idea. The question is, will your son choose to
make the effort to meet the requirements I set in my class? As it
happens, Aaron failed not because he forgot to put his number down,
but because he didn’t listen, didn’t do the work, didn’t study.” He
opened the grade book under his arm, dusting snow off the line he
wanted.

“Here he is. As you can see, he hasn’t been doing the
work.”

“Well, Aaron says he has been turning it in, and the
only reason he failed the test was because he forgot his number.”
She kept her pig eyes on his face. “My son wouldn’t lie about it.”
He smiled, opening his hands in surrender. “Well, then, I guess
we’ve got nothing else to talk about, do we? You’re welcome to look
through the papers from last quarter. I have them all.” Suddenly,
watching her, he was curious. “Mrs. Reynolds, let me ask you
this—is there any requirement I could set, anything I could ask of
your child that you would support? Anything at all?” She looked at
him, eyes narrowed.

“What are you asking?” She looked at Solange. “What’s
he asking me, Mrs. Gonzales?”

“No, no, really—” he said. “I’ve wanted to know this
for a long time. Is the only way to be a good teacher to ask
absolutely nothing?”

She looked up at him, shuffling rubber boots in the
snow. “I don’t have to listen to your smart mouth.”

He nodded. He might as well be talking to the oak
across the walk. “No, no, you’re right, you don’t. I’ll leave you
with Mrs. Gonzales, here, who I’m sure will want to hear everything
you have to say.” He turned and went up the snowy steps, waving
over his shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Reynolds.”

• • •

In the office he checked his box, finding Celia alone
at the counter.

“How’s it look out there?” she said.

Plowing through his stack of ads, he tossed them one
by one into recycle. “White.”

“Thanks a lot. Meeting in ten minutes.” He looked up
in frustration. “Why’d you tell me? I was hoping it was canceled.”
She licked an envelope, obviously intrigued. “I didn’t think you
went to them anyway.”

“Then why’d you tell me?”

“You’re a teacher. I’m supposed to tell teachers the
meeting’s in ten minutes.” She shrugged. “Whether they go or not’s
their business.

Does that mean you are?” He went back to his mail,
disappointed. “I said I’d go to this one.” She smiled. “So, now we
know how to keep you in line, huh?” O’Connel tossed the rest of his
mail away, gave her his best withering look.

She winced. “Hit a nerve, did I? Sorry. You’re not
going to get in trouble at the meeting, either, then, huh?” He went
for the door. “I’m really, really, going to try not to.”

“Oh,” she laughed, hurrying around the counter. “This
I’ve got to see.” In the cafeteria, he found a seat at the table
with Helvey, Calandra, and Lott, who passed him a sheet of math
problems for kids in East L.A. The first was a problem about how
many rounds would be left in a home boy’s AK-47 if he were to fire
so many rounds at each drive by. Another was about a pimp’s
finances, and a third covered the math of a dope deal. No matter
how true, this stuff just wasn’t something you talked about. That’s
what made it so irresistibly funny.