Agorafabulous! (20 page)

Being a teacher was difficult because of all the lying that was required of me on a daily basis. I had to pretend I actually cared if my students came into the room smelling of pot smoke, or if they cursed aloud in class. Mostly, I just wanted them to have a good time, learn how to write a complete sentence, and avoid shooting heroin between their toes while inside my classroom. I had an idealistic streak when I started. I wanted to show them the poetry and novels and art and music that inspired me, in the hope that it would inspire them. But a lot of times it seemed the stuff that inspired me wasn’t considered appropriate for the classroom. And then I got in trouble for using
Sandman
. Thus,
Romeo and Juliet
.

On the day that Billy’s boner hijacked my classroom, we were supposed to talk about Mercutio. We were supposed to talk about his friendship with Romeo, and what it means to be a good friend, and whether your friends are always obligated to take your side in arguments. I had a lesson plan. I had designed it to conform with Texas State Board of Education standards and benchmarks. I had a short, interactive lecture. I had a quiz game. I had small-group assignments. I had discussion questions. On paper, it looked like the perfect lesson. If you’d read it, you would almost think I had actually graduated from college. You might even think I was a real teacher with some actual training, maybe a license. You might believe I had the right to stand in that classroom and wield authority. When I strode into that classroom that day, even I believed it.

And then Billy’s boner proved me wrong.

Terribly, terribly wrong.

The class was a giggly, squirming mess. I stood in front of them and cocked an eyebrow.

“All right, guys,” I said in a booming voice. “Settle down.” This was my I Mean Business Voice—louder, deeper, and more confident than my natural voice. I thought it gave me an added air of authority, but I actually just sounded like a chain-smoking drag queen.

The kids obeyed briefly, if only because they liked me most of the time and I liked them most of the time. I was easy on them, grading more for effort than for excellence. I laughed at their jokes. I let them write whatever they wanted in their required class journals, so long as they wrote a full page for me each day. I’d given them a speech about not writing anything incriminating that would force me to contact their parents, but my version of “incriminating” seemed to exclude tales of smoking weed, drinking beer, and fucking their significant others. They picked up on that quickly. One day Octavio Gomez asked me about it in class.

“Miss, I wrote about what I did this weekend,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I broke, like, six laws.”

“Did you put anyone in the hospital or the morgue?” I asked. This made the whole class crack up.

“Naw, miss, I didn’t kill nobody,” he said, laughing.

“Then I hope you had a good weekend,” I said, and went back to drawing Freytag’s Pyramid on the board. They laughed when I explained the concepts of rising action and climax to them (“Yo miss, I always climax after my rising action!”) but they got what I was saying. They even understood
denouement
. That day felt like a victory.

Today, though, the victory would go to someone else. Well, some
thing
else. Something that was stuck somewhere between rising action and climax.

We got into
Romeo and Juliet,
and the Mercutio discussion evoked a few intelligent comments from the usual suspects who always had smart things to say. Everybody else seemed to be struggling to contain smirks. Even the do-gooder kids stifled snorts of laughter when they weren’t answering my questions. I followed their eyes across the room, and that’s when I realized they were laughing at Billy.

Billy was different from the rest of the students. Most of my students were either Mexican (which meant they had some drop of Mexican blood) or Anglo (which meant they didn’t). When it comes to categorizing local human specimens, southwest Texans are not unlike the Amish in their charmingly quaint simplicity. The Amish refer to all non–Amish Americans as “the English,” even if the folks in question are, say, American-born with Russian or Italian ancestry. You’re either one of the bonnet-and-beard set or you’re English. Southwest Texans use three categories: Mexican, Anglo, and Indian. Blacks or Asians are Anglos, because they’re not Indian and they’re certainly not Mexican. This does not come up often, because there aren’t a lot of blacks or Asians in southwest Texas.

It was universally agreed that blue-eyed, blond Pablo, who sat next to Billy, was Mexican. His mother was Anglo, but his father was Mexican. Pablo had a Mexican name, knew Spanglish, and had recently been jumped into a gang. Pablo had done time in juvenile detention for stabbing a kid at his old high school with a switchblade. Pablo drove a low-rider and only hung around with Mexican kids. Pablo was rumored to possess a gun. Pablo was Mexican.

But dark-haired, dark-eyed Billy was harder to pinpoint. First of all, his name was Billy, which clearly wasn’t a Mexican name. His mother was most definitely Anglo. But his father was Spanish, from Spain. Billy spoke fluent Castilian Spanish, an entirely different dialect than what the other kids heard at home. Did that maybe make him kind of Mexican?

It wasn’t just about racial stuff, either. Billy wasn’t in a gang, so he wasn’t a thug. But he hadn’t been homeschooled, so he wasn’t one of those bright-eyed innocents newly released into the wild. He had been known to buy some of his clothes at Hot Topic, but he wasn’t one of the mall goths who thought shopping at a corporate chain made them rebels. He didn’t wear dark makeup around his eyes or write songs about death. He wasn’t one of the gay artsy refugees from the other big schools. He skated around the parking lots in town with some friends after school. He listened to rock music and he had an eyebrow piercing. Sometimes he clowned around in school and got in trouble, but usually he was pretty obedient.

You couldn’t put Billy into a category. And that was his biggest problem, really. In high school, you’ve got to pick a category and stick with it. In certain cases, you can make lateral moves across categories, or even jump up to a whole new level if you get your braces off or lose a bunch of weight one summer. But the one thing you cannot do is stay undefined. Billy was an undefined entity. He upset the natural order of things. And because no one knew what to do with him, they made fun of him sometimes. Typically, the kids seized on his appearance: he was slightly doughy, and his hair was often wild and unkempt. He took the teasing well, and knew how to be self-deprecating, so he didn’t get beaten up. You might even say he was well-liked. But he didn’t
belong
anywhere.

When I saw that the kids were laughing at Billy, a sense of righteous indignation rose up within me. I hated bullies.

“You guys!” I snapped in my own voice. “What the hell are you doing? Focus unless you want vocabulary quizzes all period. With
no extra credit
.” This was met with groans, and I smiled with satisfaction. Extra credit was the only thing that kept most of these kids’ grades above water. My extra-credit questions were always adorable queries like, “Who is the most inspiring person you know?” and “What emotions does your favorite song evoke in you?”

They quieted down, and I looked more closely at Billy. He sat in his usual chair, but his books were on his lap instead of on the table. He was slightly hunched over, and his face was pale. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and his eyes were closed in what looked like pain.

“Billy, are you okay?” I asked gently.

At this, the class roared. I turned on them with a fury.

“Cut the shit!” I used profanity in the classroom on rare occasions, and it generally shocked the students into silence. “You guys are acting like jerks! How can you laugh when someone obviously doesn’t feel well?”

They were silent, but I could tell they were struggling to contain themselves. I rolled my eyes and walked over to Billy.

“Hey, do you need to go down to the director’s office, maybe call your parents?” I asked. We didn’t have a nurse’s office. We also didn’t have a full-time guidance counselor, which was unfortunate since half the kids and most of the teachers were out of their fucking minds.

Billy shook his head, and whispered, “No. No, I’m fine.”

I looked at him doubtfully. He looked as if he were about to throw up.

“Are you sure? You look really pale.”

Pablo the gangsta blond could no longer contain himself. “That’s because all the blood in his head rushed to his—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, PABLO!” Billy shouted. We all jumped a little. Billy never showed anger, certainly not toward one of the toughest kids in school. But Pablo shut his mouth and didn’t seem offended in the least.

“Billy, you gotta calm down,” I said. “And try not to actually yell ‘fuck’ in my classroom. I’m not mad, I’m just saying another teacher would probably throw you out.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in a pained whisper. “I’m seriously sorry, miss. I’ll be fine if I just . . . wait it out.”

“You sure you don’t wanna get up and—”

“No, no, I don’t want to get up! I don’t want to get up, okay?” He was nervous and irritable. He clutched his books protectively.

“Okay, no worries, I won’t make you get up.”

As I turned and slowly walked away, everyone heard Billy mutter to Pablo, “I’m gonna go to the bathroom and just deal with this.” The other students burst into laughter once again.

I didn’t lose my temper often, but I had actually put some effort into this lesson plan. They were going to learn some Shakespeare if I had to fucking kill them. And I was getting to the point where I might actually consider doing that in order to shut them up.

“That’s it!” I shouted, much louder than before. “What the hell is happening right now? Somebody tell me so we can just deal with it and move on. Write me a note or some shit. I don’t care. Just do it now.”

Pablo looked pleadingly at Billy. A glance passed between them in which permission was conferred.

“Miss, don’t you know?” Pablo demanded excitedly, bouncing up and down. “Everybody in the school knows Billy took Viagra!” The students fell immediately into what I can only describe as a joyful silence.

I paused and took a moment to let the information sink in. Meanwhile, twenty pairs of eyes watched eagerly for my reaction. Once I was fairly certain I’d actually heard what I thought I’d heard, I looked at Billy.

“Billy,” I said slowly, enunciating each syllable perfectly. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” he groaned, cringing.

“And why . . . exactly . . . did you take Viagra?”

“It was a bet, miss. It was a bet.”

Pablo jumped in. “Jorge Jimenez had it in his
abuelito
’s medicine cabinet, and Jorge dared him to try it, and Billy said it only works on old guys, and Jorge bet him fifty dollars it would work on young guys too.”

“Jorge was right,” Billy moaned. “It wasn’t worth the money.”

Slowly and deliberately, I placed my copy of
Romeo and Juliet
on the table. I tried to make it to my chair, but couldn’t. My legs were about to give out. I sat down on the floor and burst out laughing.

“That—that is—” I sputtered, trying to get the words out. “That is seriously—I mean, seriously—the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard.” Then Billy was laughing, and then the whole class was laughing. We nearly rattled the windows.

“Holy shit, miss, don’t make me laugh,” Billy groaned in between giggles. “It hurts when I laugh.”

“Billy,” I said, trying to regain my composure. “Dude. You’re so much smarter than this. You’re probably the smartest person in this class. Sorry, you guys, but he is.” I had lost the ability to feign that they were all unique and special flowers.

“Yo, that’s true, though,” Pablo said reflectively. “You are, bro. I’m sorry about your dick, yo. Like, it’s funny? But I bet it hurts.”

“Thanks, man,” Billy wheezed. “Ouch. Shit.”

“How could—why would—okay. Okay. Okay.” I took several deep breaths in a row, and the class quieted down. I think they were afraid I was actually going to pass out.

“I—I have no idea what to do,” I said, standing up and dusting myself off. “Can you guys just, like, talk amongst yourselves for a minute quietly? Don’t laugh too loud or the director will come in here and get on my ass about it.”

“Shit, miss, we don’t want her up here neither,” Pablo said. “We’ll talk quiet.”

“Thank you, Pablo,” I said.

I sat down in my chair and thought. On the one hand, the rules dictated that if any child in the school was found to be under the influence of an illegal drug, it must be immediately reported to the school director. On the other hand, Viagra wasn’t an illegal drug, although it was certainly illegal for Billy and Jorge to steal someone else’s prescription medication. On the third hand, no one in this school followed the rules—not the kids, not the teachers, and certainly not the ever-rotating cast of administrators. On the fourth and most important hand, I had a pretty good idea of what Billy’s Old World father would do if he found out that his son had ingested Viagra on a dare, and it would probably involve the use of a belt. The kid had enough to deal with at school on a daily basis. And I sincerely doubted there was any chance at all that he’d repeat this particular episode in future.

So with that, I made a decision. It had taken me approximately sixty seconds to arrive at it, but once I made it, I knew I would stick to it.

“Billy,” I said. “I need you to come into the hallway for a talk.”

“Miss, he can’t get up!” Pablo protested. “For reals, miss, you’re a girl, you don’t know what it’s like. It’s mad awkward and shit.” I squatted down beside him and lowered my voice.

“Pablo,” I said. “You are in charge while I’m outside. I gotta take care of this situation so nobody gets in trouble, you understand?” He nodded sagely. Pablo was well-versed in the art of dodging The Man.

“I got this, miss,” he said.

“I want everybody to write a full page for me—don’t worry about paragraphs or proper punctuation—on what makes a good friend versus what makes a bad friend. Can you get them to do that?”