A Terrible Beauty: What Teachers Know but Seldom Tell outside the Staff Room (4 page)

“I want to make sure I understand you. This quarter,
you’re going to give Vincent an F and there’s no way we can bring
it up?” He raised his hands in appeal to heaven. “Yes, Mrs.
Sandoval, you’ve got it right.”

“Well, that’s just not acceptable. You have to give
parents a chance to help their children improve. You can’t just
fail them.”

“Vincent isn’t a third grader. He’s in 8
^th
grade, thirteen years old. We talk a lot about responsibility.
Well, this is it. He’s blown it for this quarter. No, Vincent’s
about to learn something very valuable—that lack of effort leads to
failure, and that not even Mama can save him. You want Vincent to
improve, I say that’s great. Next quarter he can earn an A; all he
has to do is earn it.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said, all
veneer of courtesy stripped away. “Have you been teaching
long?”

“Yes, Mrs. Sandoval.” He looked up at Solange. “Some
might say too long.”

“Well, Mr. O’Connel, I can tell you that I’ll be
speaking to Mrs. Lovejoy about this.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sandoval, I’m sure you will.” He
stabbed the button to disconnect and got up. “And that is, I hope,
my parental contact for the day.” She followed him out into the
office where Celia asked him if he got her.

“Yes indeed, another satisfied customer.” She made a
face. “That bad, huh?”

“Well,” he paused in the office doorway, “just don’t
put any big money on me for teacher of the year, huh?” Celia shook
her head, smiling as she sorted a stack of notes a foot high.

Solange followed him out, irritated despite the
material she’d gained.

“You certainly handled her with finesse.” He kept
walking. “So write it up. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I’ve
given in to these spoiled brats’ mamas for twenty years. Pat them
on the kenneypopo, and send them home happy with an A for the
little darling. No more.” He strode down the hall, making her skip
every fifth pace to keep abreast. “Everybody talks about making the
kids responsible, but when it comes right down to it, it’s all
talk. If a kid fails today, it’s the teacher’s fault. Write a pass
to the library, and when the kid ends up smoking out under the
water tower, it’s your fault—you wrote the pass. We’re doing a
great job of teaching responsibility, aren’t we?” Solange watched
him, amazed. He was really worked up. It didn’t make sense. Today
nothing did. She’d expected a burned out cynic, not this.

Did she know anything about him, really? He
shouldered open a swinging door into the locker room with a bang,
barring her way with an arm. “I told you I’d give you what you
needed. That was it. Enjoy it.” He knocked back his glasses, ran a
hand through his hair, took a long breath. When he met her eye, he
looked tired. “You’d better go on around and up the stairs. I’ll
see you in the wrestling room in a minute.” He went in, letting the
door swing shut after him.

• • •

Alone, still confused by what she felt, she crossed
the ancient gym one slow step at a time, heels echoing across
polished maple.

She loved this place. Silent, empty, it always
reminded her of a church. So many voices raised in ecstasy, in
despair, over so many years, perhaps in a way it was.

if he was a loose cannon, then why did she agree with
him? Okay, too brash, too truthful maybe, but did that make him a
bad teacher? She found the door around the side of the bleachers,
and went inside.

The reek of unwashed sweat clothes hung heavy in the
air. In the shadow of the bleachers, back against the cold wall,
she stood where she could see without being seen. Out on the big
mat, ten boys and three girls sat cross legged.

Sixteen years ago she’d been here. A different
school, but the same. A small, dark thirteen-year-old speaking
little English among big-boned blonds, she’d tried in vain to blend
in. Wrong size, wrong color, wrong language—she’d been a poor
chameleon. Was that why she hid here in the dark? The schedule said
the class was self-defense. O’Connel came in the other door wearing
gray sweats, arms cut off at the shoulder, and she could see why it
was he moved with such evident ease. He held a pair of foam-padded
gloves and a face shield.

He nodded, and one of the older boys led them in
finger pushups, stretches, and crunchies. O’Connel did the
exercises effortlessly in back where he caught one boy getting
lazy, and called for an extra ten from everyone. Several boys
shouted threats at the loafers, and this time they did it
right.

As they formed a circle on the edge of the mat, she
saw him spot her. He’d seen, but given no sign. She was glad of
that. If she stayed where she was they wouldn’t need to show
off—and she wanted to observe, not influence what she saw.

When they quieted he began. “Okay, last quarter, we
went over strikes and throws. Today we’ll put them together in a
take-down.” He called Moses onto the mat, and tossed him the face
protector, pulling on the gloves. “I’ve told this guy I don’t want
to fight, I tried to walk away, now I’m cornered and he throws a
punch.” Moses struck out with a slow right.

“I block with both hands, double open palm strikes
downward into his forearms, the pressure points here and here. Then
I grab whatever clothing I can. Don’t forget your yells, I want to
hear them.” He demonstrated, shouting as he struck, pulling his
strikes. “If he’s wearing long sleeves, I grab above the elbows, if
not, I get him by anything I can get hold of keeping my elbows up
to block. He can’t punch me now, I’ve got him tied up. I kick him
fast in the shins and stomp his instep.” He showed them, yelling
with each kick. “I’m still hanging on so he can’t punch. Now I spin
him around like this, and kick the back of his right knee with my
right foot and lay him down.” He lowered Moses gently to the mat by
his sweatshirt. “Remember, kick his left knee and you’ll be under
him when he goes down.

In real life put him down hard and fast. Here I want
you to lay your partner down easy; don’t drop him. We don’t want
anybody hurt.” He stood. “Any questions?” A hand went up.

“Why do we have to kick him in the shins? That’s like
what a little kid would do,” Frank said. “Why not punch him
out?”

“Ever been kicked in the shin, Frank?”

“Hoo, yeah, sure have. My sister’s real good at
that.”

“How’d it feel?” He reached down to rub his leg. “I
thought I was going to die!” He laughed. So did the others in the
circle.

O’Connel cocked a finger. “That’s why we kick him in
the shin.

Now, get with a partner, and go through it. In twenty
minutes, you’ll use it on me for a grade.” They paired off and went
through the moves, as he moved among them, watching, correcting. A
couple guys clowned. He warned them once, and when he turned his
back they started in again.

“You’re done, hit the showers.” One began to protest,
but he pointed at the door, and they went out. Twenty minutes
later, he called the circle back. Frank was first.

All went well until the take-down, when he hesitated,
scratching his head, ears crimson against white hair. “Aw, now what
knee was I supposed to kick?” On the second try he got it, and
O’Connel went down slapping the mat.

The circle cheered, and Frank swaggered back to the
circle, skinny arms held wide. “Ah, I guess I made you eat some mat
all right, huh, Mr. O’Connel?” O’Connel got up stiffly. “Yeah,
Frank, I guess you did.” From her place in the shadows Solange
smiled. She liked Frank.

One by one they took turns. Chelsea was last. When it
came to kick she faltered.

The circle groaned. She tried again and it was the
same.

The shower bell rang. No one moved.

“Come on, kiddo, you’re not going to hurt me.” She
looked as if she might cry. “1 cant!” she said, covering her
face.

He stooped, hands on knees, to look in her eyes.
“Chelsea, look at me, come on, look at me, now.” She hung her head,
hiding her eyes with her hands. “No, I cant! I just cant!”
Solange’s eyes filled. She knew what Chelsea felt. The same things
stayed the same. The wheel turned and you were older inside you
were the same. A pair of wrestlers from the next period slammed in
the door roughhousing, making her jump. O’Connel barked and they
slid on their seats to sit quietly against the wall. He looked at
his watch, made a decision.

Laying an arm gently on Chelsea’s shoulder, he bent
to look her close in the face. “Okay, we’ve got time for one last
try. I want you to do the best you can. Will you do that?” Wiping
her eyes, she nodded.

Under the bleachers, Solange pressed a fist to her
mouth. What kind of man was he that he saw so much, cared so much?
He slapped the padded foam on his head. “You see this? You can’t
hurt a hardhead like me in here. It’s okay. You can do it. This
time, I want you to yell as loud as you can on every move, and I
want you guys to yell with her, okay?” He clapped his hands. “All
right, this is it. Here we go.” Fists clenched, Solange wanted her
to succeed, needed her to. A tear coursed down her cheek and
irritably, she wiped it away with an open hand.

Coming to the kick, Chelsea hesitated, and Solange
squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to see her fail. A slap on the
mat, and a cheer told her it was over. Solange looked up to see
O’Connel flat on his back and Chelsea, a grinning, teary-eyed
sprite kneeling on his chest.

O’Connel smiled, reaching up to touch her forehead
gently with a finger. “Not bad, now get out of here and get a
shower. You’re late.” When they had gone, Solange came around the
front of the bleachers to sit on the bottom bench.

O’Connel lay where he was, arms wide, palms up. “I am
too old for this.” She couldn’t help smiling. “She did it.” He
shrugged. “Oh, yeah. I knew she could. She’s just a little
hesitant. I can’t blame her.”

“What do you mean?” He looked over his shoulder at
the locker room doors. They were closed.

“When she was six, her mother was strangled by a
boyfriend.” Solange shivered, suddenly cold.

“She was there. She saw it. She’s been in foster care
ever since, but Chelsea— “ He nodded. “She’ll make it, she’s a
fighter. She waits tables at Bette’s five nights a week, and she’s
still got a 3.8. What a sweetheart, huh?” The rain picked up again,
peppering the roof high overhead, a gray, desolate sound.

He lay, head flat on the mat, watching her. Suddenly
self-conscious, she looked away. There was no way he could know
what he did to her, how he made her feel—she would make sure he
never did.

“Your stupid idea.” She crossed her legs under her
case. “I’d like to hear it. You said you want to be observed, but I
do that anyway, I always do that.” He nodded, setting back his
glasses. “You must be pretty anxious to get back to that cushy
office.” She squirmed uncomfortably on the hard bench, ran her
tongue along the inside of her teeth. So he was right, he couldn’t
know for sure. She wouldn’t get sucked in that easily. She smiled
sweetly, eyes diamond hard.

“So you’ve said.”

“Hey, don’t give me that look, I don’t blame you.
I’ve thought about it myself Nice office downtown— Nice secretary—
Twice the money for half, or a tenth, the work, depending on your
inclination—Meetings— Conferences— Suit— Tie— Just see kids when
it’s time to give out awards— Shake a few hands— Pass out a diploma
or two— Seventy-five grand a year.” He planted a noisy kiss on the
ends of gathered fingers. “Sweet set up, a real gravy train.” She
swung her foot impatiently, high heel dangling loose on a toe.
“Does my job look easy to you?” He turned his head to look at her,
ear to the mat, thinking it over. “I wouldn’t trade you.” He sat up
with a groan, his hands braced behind him on the mat. “What’s nuts,
what’s really nuts is without the kids, there wouldn’t be any
reason to be here. Why not just work in an insurance office, hang
out with the gals at the water cooler? No, the kids are what it’s
about. They make it a great job on the good days, and a rotten job
on the bad ones.” She had never met anyone quite like him. She
couldn’t deny it—she was intrigued.

“So are you going to tell me?” He looked at her
doubtfully.

“You want to hear it.” She said she did.

“Okay, if you’re going to take my scalp, at least
stick around long enough to find out whose you’ve got.” He did the
thing with his glasses, and she bit her lip to keep from smiling.
It was a prim, almost effeminate habit. She liked to see him do it.
It made him less frightening.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you spend a week as my Siamese twin.”

She let go of the breath she’d been holding. What was
this? “A beguiling image, I’ve got three days.” He gave up, slapped
the mat. “Okay, three days, then.” Her eyes narrowed. What could he
want? “And in return you offer— “

“I told you—you see me the way I am, warts and
all.”

She shook her head. “Uh, uh, not enough.” He leaned
forward, elbows on knees, feet spread. “What else do you want, my
still-beating heart?”

“I want your resignation.” She shrugged. “As
insurance.”

• • •

Slowly, he got to his feet, rubbing the small of his
back. It was good to see her sitting there on the bleachers. He’d
missed her since she’d been moved to district. Oh, they’d never
really talked much, but he missed watching her brush that mane out
of her face. Like a kid would do it. Not for show, but only to get
the damned stuff out of her eyes. He liked the way she looked at
people in a way that said, ready or not here I come. He liked the
smell of her, for Christ’s sake—even that.

Small. Slender. He could see over the top of her head
in his bare feet. Yet there was something in her eyes—a fierceness.
Years ago he’d seen a cougar gone to tree with her yearling. The
big cat’s eyes were like the hazel ones he saw before him now.
There was something hard in them—a look that said if she were
pushed, if she were made to stand and fight, she would come back
with every atom of her being. It scared him—it was what he liked
most about her.