Fat School Confidential (10 page)

    “
Fifteen.”

   
Ellie flashed a grin.

    “
What would you have done if she were eighteen?”

    “
Nothing. She’s a student.”

    “
Uh huh.”

   
Internally, I began to squirm. Outwardly, I gave Ellie the impression of collective cool—my own pathetic, half-assed version of it, anyway. I knew where she was going, but I didn’t like it one bit.

    “
Is she cute?”

    “
Doesn’t matter.”

   
Still smiling through gritted teeth, she raised her voice. “Answer my question!”

   
I embraced her, brushing her long brown hair to the side.

    “
Now will you just stop?”

   
Kissing her, I was all too aware that no amount of reassurance was enough to convince her. She had a hard time trusting me. I never did tell her about that young teacher I fooled around with a couple years back, but no matter. I knew better than to engage in such a pointless discussion, especially when it concerned an under-aged, impressionable teenager.

   
With wardrobe and student malfunctions behind me, I focused on two things pertaining to the play: rehearsals and set-work. There were, not surprisingly, two drawbacks: Interruptions kept us from learning more than a few key songs, and budget constraints kept the set design to a cardboard minimum. Besides the usual B.C. appointments and doctor visits, interruptions included students behaving badly and thus getting themselves stumbled to Gumby-status. Once that happened, they couldn’t be involved with the production until they made it back to Boulderer. If they made it back, that is. 

   
Case in point: Johnny Giacomo. Johnny got along swimmingly from the time he signed on to perform as the Dentist. He learned his lines well, and knew his solo number backwards and forwards. Unfortunately, Johnny, the under-aged bad boy, had a preoccupation doing nasty little things with his eighteen-year-old girlfriend—and getting caught on his own camera-equipped cell phone. In no time, Johnny was out of the picture.

   
Halloween arrived, and Bobby’s costume was completed. I wasn’t about to miss out taking my boy trick or treating, so I left school with Veronica in charge of rehearsals. Getting home, I found Ellie struggling to zip up Bobby’s costume. She made it just a bit too snug for him to wear comfortably. I was itching to tell her “I told you so,” but I held my tongue. Undaunted, she took his costume off and slipped on a pair of brown thermals for him to stay all warm and cozy in. She then slipped on the handmade, faux-fur-covered booties. She topped him off with the matching, faux-fur pointy hat. Draping a jacket over him, we walked him from to house.

    “
And what might you be?” asked an elderly gentleman.

    “
He’s a gnome,” replied Ellie, holding up Bobby’s costume for closer scrutiny. The old man laughed and dropped a handful of candy into the boy’s faux-fur goodie bag—which, by the way, matched the rest of the ensemble. Despite this particular wardrobe malfunction, Ellie took it in stride.

   
With Halloween behind me, I again focused on Little Shop. The cast and crew were in a state of flux. The production was woefully behind schedule. I was at my wit’s end. I was about to shelve the entire project, when Daniel Abrams, making a rare appearance, came summoning to my door.

    “
How’s the play coming along?”

   
I lied.

    “
Great!”

    “
I’m going to have a special guest flying in for a meeting with all the directors, and he’ll be able to make it to the show.”

    “
Anybody I know?”

    “
Doctor Rosenberg himself.”

   
Doctor Ira Rosenberg, President of A.O.S.’s parent company, Healthy Living Academies, a tenured, University of Chicago professor and author of numerous books on the subject of childhood obesity, was the unseen but ever present grand pappy of the whole kit and caboodle.

    “
I look forward to meeting him.”

   
But I wasn’t looking forward to meeting him. He was yet another person in charge who had the power to make or break my career. I didn’t have the support of a union here in the badlands of Central Cali. I was on my own, and I had to make a good impression on Dr. Rosenberg.

   
There was something else: Daniel failed to explain his own absence from the Academy. I wanted to ask but refrained from doing so. The climate at the school was noticeably different without him, but I knew I had to persevere. Daniel was my go-to guy, and despite Frank Mills’s position as my supervisor, I deferred instead to Daniel. But by the time staff members read the email from Daniel, it wasn’t a surprise to most of us. Bill Moses was the new Executive Director of Academy of the Sierras. Daniel, in turn, moved up to the far loftier position as

Vice President of Healthy Living Academies. In the email, Daniel listed Bill’s accomplishments pre-A.O.S., from earning his undergraduate degree in history at Yale, to his latest stint as a manager at Slim-Fast Foods, which I found somewhat fitting.

   
I hoped nothing would change for me. I would keep teaching and doing what was in front of me. I would report to Frank and Frank alone. He was the Academic Director, right? If anything needed a more “executive” approach, then I would talk to Bill.

   
Damn. I missed Daniel already.

   
With Little Shop’s premiere all but imminent, I had to make changes to the presentation, and make them fast. To the chagrin of cast and crew, I decided to scrap everything but a few key songs. At this point, only three cast members knew the entire play by heart. Because of Johnny’s elimination from the cast, and without an available understudy, I removed everything associated with his part. To make matters worse, Elijah wanted to do his own production, and thus, dropped out of playing Audrey-Two.

   
The set—as it was—consisted of a raised platform, props and furniture to give a vague impression of the play’s flower shop.

   
Nothing else was done.

   
For the past two and a half months, the crew devoted a few pitiful hours to the task of construction. Set backings were poorly built, only to end up left out in the rain to weather and rot.

   
The premiere was to take place in what was affectionately called the “Emu Shed,” a large, empty, steel warehouse next to the emu corral. After Veronica and I organized one make-it-or-break-it dress rehearsal, we were as ready as we would ever be for Dr. Rosenberg and company.

   
Dr. Rosenberg arrived, just before lunch. In jeans and a hooded jacket, he introduced himself to me in the cafeteria.

    “
You must be Joe.”

    “
Mr. Rourke, to the kids. Nice to meet you.”

   
Not satisfied with the standard-issue, mano y mano handshake, Dr. Rosenberg gave me the two-handed variety.

    “
Call me Doc. Everyone else does.”

   
We all sat down at the staff table. Doc continued with, “Daniel’s told me so much about you.”

    “
All good, I hope!” I exclaimed, a bit nervous.

   
Doc wasn’t as tall as I pictured he would be. He was short and skinny, with long, gray hair pulled back into an über-cool ponytail. Sporting a goatee, he was the epitome of health and intellect. We ate and chitchatted about the school, and of our respective projects. He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, something similar to what I found in Daniel. I hoped Bill was going to be similarly wired before I got to know him, but he was an altogether different animal. If he was interested or intrigued in anything I had to say, he never expressed it.

   
After dinner, I gathered cast and crew and made a beeline for the Emu Shed. We weren’t going to have enough time for another dress rehearsal, but we were going to be ready for our audience—somehow. Unfortunately, it was too late in the evening for my son to check out the show. More than that, at his age he was much too squirrelly to sit still for a play, let alone deal with some of the mature subject matter. He and Mama would have to sit this production out.

   
I powered up the spotlight, which was a disaster unto itself. It could only stay on for a few short minutes, and if it needed charging, it could not be used as a spot while plugged in.

   
Students, family members, and staff trickled into the makeshift auditorium. I greeted them in between bouts of panic and directing Veronica to direct the crew. Doc, Daniel, Bill, and Sheila sat front and center. Taking a deep breath, I bolted to the rear of the room to man the spot and turn on the karaoke-ready background music.

   
The lights dimmed, the spotlight beamed, and the show began. Starting with the title song, a trio of well-heeled, well-upholstered songstresses left the spectators in awe. The rest of the cast then performed “Skid Row.” It was here Veronica stepped in to do double duty. As the disheveled Old Woman, she opened the number with a powerfully belted solo. Then, David Messing sang “Grow For Me.” He nailed it. Danni followed with a passable “Somewhere That’s Green.” David joined Danni in the show-closing duet, “Suddenly Seymour.”

   
Despite her own limited singing range—not to mention my misgivings—Danni pulled it off.

   
Other than the spotlight quitting out on me more than once, the play was a resounding success. I felt especially proud of Mr. Messing. Here was a young man, whose weight loss was matched by a substantial growth in self-esteem, blossom as a natural talent. I was reminded of my own blossoming when I lost weight, decades before. With Danni—dress alterations and snarky wife comparisons aside—I found a young woman blossoming as well. To see these young people, losing weight and in turn, gaining confidence in themselves, moved me. I was still on the fence about the program’s methodology, but I couldn’t deny the results.

   
The long hours I had put in paid off. Doc was impressed with our production. When he left the next day, he shared a few thoughts and gave me an autographed copy of his NY Times’ bestselling book on weight loss. Daniel and Bill seemed satisfied with the show, though Bill was a bit more reserved.

   
Whom was I kidding? Bill was the new boss, and there was nothing on Earth I could do to change that. Whether he liked the play, thought I was an awesome teacher, judged me by my weight, or fought the Taliban on his spare time was none of my business.

   
With the drama of the Little Shop drama behind me, I focused on completing that first semester by doing what I did best—teaching. I set up new rules in my classroom, which Frank Mills adopted school-wide. We collaborated and came up with a way to address individual student needs. Each teacher was given the added title of Academic Advisor and assigned a group of students to mentor—much like the B.C.s were given a group of students to counsel. I was consulted on any students requiring Special Education services.

   
To sum it up: I did whatever I could to bolster my job security.

   
But as I would soon learn, no good deed goes unpunished.

Chapter 8

S.A.P.

   
If the summer and fall in Central California were unbearably hot and sticky (and stinky), winter was bitter cold and veiled in fog. On any given morning, the drive to work was something I faced with a measure of dread. Unlike the local drivers, who seemed to throw caution to the wind as they careened in all directions at high speed, I made my way to Reedley as slowly and as cautiously as possible. When I neared campus, I made sure I wasn’t going to hit any of my students. With my headlights on and a hand hovering over my car horn, I inched my way towards the school’s parking lot. I was thankful rain wasn’t a normal addition to the winter mix. At the end of the day, if I waited too long into the evening to come home, I’d again find myself in fog.

   
That damned Tule fog.

   
With classes out for the holidays, I spent most of my time preparing end-of-the-semester final exams and extra credit assignments.

   
About a week before Christmas, my mother decided to take the train up from Los Angeles to visit us. Mom and I were rarely on the best of terms, but since I decided to pursue teaching as a career—not to mention the addition of an awesome grandson—Mom had made a concerted effort to keep the peace. I, on the other hand, did much to disappoint her—from not getting along with my younger, more affluent siblings, to my lifelong love of the arts, to not holding down a job.

   
I was on track and on schedule to becoming the official black sheep of the family.

   
We picked Mom up at the Amtrak station in Fresno. She was slow in getting off the train. And the shock of gray hair on her head took me aback. I knew she had been dying her hair for some time now, but seeing her like this made me feel a little sad we moved so far away. Bundled up in a lined overcoat over a thinner jacket, she shivered in the cold. Hugs and kisses helped a little in raising the temperature, but Mom still needed something to complain about.