Fat School Confidential (7 page)

   
The few students who paid attention to me turned their heads to check out the books. The rest of them seemed just as dazed as they were during their morning walk. Jimmy kept staring at me—as if he were readying himself for a comeback. I ignored him.

    “
Mr. Rourke?”

    “
Yes?” I replied, turning to face a beaming, freckle-faced girl, who, despite her considerable girth, seemed genuinely happy to be in class.

    “
What are we doing today?”

    “
We’re not going to have homework to do today, if that’s what you’re asking.”

   
I paused, thinking this would be a good time to get the class off on the right foot.

    “
I want to tell you all a little about myself, what we’re going to cover in this class, and what I expect from you.”

    “
Great!” The young lady’s unbridled enthusiasm caught me off-guard. If only the rest of the class could develop such positive energy, maybe, just maybe, I’d have a great first semester.

        “
I’m from L.A. I’ve taught high school for several years, mostly public school. I have an art degree, but I minored in writing. I jumped at the chance to teach here, and I hope to make an educational impact in each of your lives.”

   
In other words, I gave them an idealized version of Mr. Rourke, teacher. The morning consisted of going over syllabi, rules, and expectations. Other than Jimmy Dyer that first period, the students were respectful, and some were disarmingly friendly. I had to keep my guard up, though. I

didn’t want any of them to see me as anything but their teacher.

   
When we broke for lunch, I sat with the other teachers. Joanie Tepper was there, as was her husband, Sam. Strumm and Frank Mills joined us as well. Strumm did a visual sweep, eyeballing a young couple pressing against each other at a table next to ours. Noticing his disapproval, they slid a few inches apart. Public displays of affection—platonic and otherwise—were frowned upon. Brief hugs were okay, but anything beyond that was verboten. Something about it affecting their “program.”

   
After lunch, Frank joined me in the workout room/ performing arts “studio” adjacent to the cafeteria.

    “
You sure I won’t be in the way?” he asked.

    “
Sure, I’m sure. I never taught drama before.”

   
Frank slapped his hands together. “That makes two of us.”

   
It was true I never taught drama before. Heck, I never set foot in a drama class before. But having Frank around eased my anxiety.

    “
If the class is going to be as big as you said it might be, I’m going to need all the help I can get,” I said, half-jokingly.

   
Stacking aside aerobic steps, Frank adjusted his glasses.

    “
It may get bigger.”

    “
Bigger than twenty-two?”

    “
I’m thinking of late enrollees.”

    “
Great.”

    “
Don’t worry, Joe. That’s why I’m here. Worse comes to worst, we’ll break it into two classes.”

   
I wasn’t entirely convinced Frank was going to be into the whole drama scene. I mean, here was a guy who’d be more at home reading legal briefs than coaching wannabe-actors.

   
Within minutes, all twenty-two students filed into the room. The workout room seemed inadequate for a class this size—especially a super-sized class.

   
I read off the class roster. Glancing back and forth, Frank just stood there. Was he going to going to be proactive or was he going to be the class sentry? Maybe I was more nervous than I should have been. But then, I was used to teaching a mere handful at a time.

   
After finishing with attendance, I announced, “Let me just say that although I was never a drama student myself, I did go to a very famous school of the arts.”

   
All heads turned to Elijah Coleman. “Oh yeah? Which one?”

    “
Cal Arts,” I said, matter-of-factly.

   
Elijah smiled, nodding his approval.

   
While most of these students seemed new to the performing arts, one student had verifiable street cred. Fifteen-year-old Elijah transferred in from the prestigious Boston Arts Academy. At nearly five hundred pounds, though, we knew he wasn’t here to give us acting lessons. Black and openly gay, Elijah was alone among his peers at the Academy.

   
Facing my class, I got the ball rolling—with a little help from Mr. Mills.

    “
All rightee then. Let’s begin with a simple exercise. Some of you may think it’s dumb. Some of you may even think it’s beneath you. But for now, for no other reason than to humor Mr. Mills and me, let’s do this.”

   
Frank and I began with a round of “Freeze Tag.” Improvising a scene for a couple minutes, we were interrupted by a girl yelling, “Freeze!” Taking my place, the girl picked up where I left off. A minute later, another student sounded off, replacing Frank. But when Elijah stepped in, he took the game in a whole new direction. Gesticulating wildly, Elijah emoted how as a young boy he had to take care of himself and his drug-addicted father. Furrowing his brow, Frank gave me a disapproving glance. The students were enjoying the show, and as I didn’t want to interrupt anything, I couldn’t help but smile back. The girl playing opposite Elijah had a bit of a performing arts background; Veronica Harrison made a perfect match. After several minutes of some truly intense acting, Elijah’s psychodrama was over. The rest of us were left slack-jawed. I didn’t know whether to applaud or call Elijah’s B.C. I found out afterward that his B.C. was Sheila.

   
Figures.

   
After surviving my first school day at A.O.S., I stayed for dinner. Theresa Brooke was the only teacher in the cafeteria. Poring over a science textbook, she looked out of sorts.

    “
You okay?”

    “
Trying to be.”

    “
What happened?”

   
Theresa kept staring at her open textbook.

    “
I understand the concepts. I can’t teach them. I just can’t teach them.”

    “
Sure, you can.”

   
Putting my tray down, I sat next to her.

    “
Besides, it’s only the first day.”

   
Her eyes began to well up.

    “
It’s going to get worse.”

   
I said what I could to placate her, mentioning the subjects I had to teach back home in L.A., the tougher students I dealt with in L.A., the lack of support I got from administration in L.A. But she was unconvinced. She was new to teaching, and therefore, she didn’t know how or why to keep her guard up. When she stumbled over her words introducing the course, a student snickered. One snicker led to another. Then another. Theresa did her best to compose herself. But it was too late. For her, anyway.

   
I left Theresa to her misery. I figured I could do only so much. It was only a matter of time before Theresa either got with the proverbial program and shaped up—or resigned. I had a feeling she was going to be opting for the latter.

   
I thought about the times back at Franklin where students laughed at me, and I never gave up. I thought about times when they provoked or antagonized me, and I never gave in. To be honest, they never saw me give in. But it was only a matter of time.

   
Then I thought to myself, how long could I keep my guard up here?

   
The rest of the first week went by without a hitch, and except for the confusing hump-day event known as “Summit,” I thought this was shaping to be the best school year ever.   

   
Summit, as the name suggested, was a school-wide meeting celebrating student achievement. Held in a vast common area inside the girls’ dorm, the weekly proceedings were hosted by Tom Eccleston. Eligible Gumbies were advanced to Boulderers. Boulderers were moved up to Ascenders. Speeches were made. Pep talks were given. Tom ran the show—with a little help from Sheila.

   
And, as the last class on that first Friday broke for the weekend, so did I. I hopped into my Beetle, and zipped home as quickly as I legally could. But the weekend was too short. The time spent with my family too fleeting. It was Sunday afternoon when Ellie and Bobby dropped me off at the Amtrak station downtown. It was almost too much for me—seeing my little boy waving a sad goodbye with his little hand.

   
I needed to find a place for us. And fast.

   
My train pulled into Fresno just after dawn Monday. Frank was nice enough to pick me up to take me back to Reedley.  For an almost-but-not-quite attorney, let alone a Yale grad, a

beat-up Ford Fiesta didn’t seem quite right. But I wasn’t complaining. I was his passenger.

   
Halfway through that second week, I found an apartment. Costing half as much as our one-bedroom cottage in Burbank, the new place was spacious. Sporting two bedrooms, it had more than enough room for us. It was in Kingsburg, the bucolic little town I drove through on the day I met Daniel Abrams.

   
Daniel gave me the advance I needed for the new apartment, including enough extra for the moving van. Knowing I was about to yet again take the train to see El and Bobby, he gave me the keys to his Honda Hybrid.

    “
I’m not saying take it to Mexico. Just put a little gas in it when you get back.”

    “
Don’t you need to get back home?” I asked, in awe of his generosity.

    “
I do. But I’m needed here. Besides, my wife could always drive up.”

    “
Thank you.”

   
Daniel, the fat school head honcho, lent me his car.

   
His car.

   
That moment, I thought of Daniel as more than just a boss. The gesture of lending me his car was one of friendship. But as I drove his car, I kept thinking to myself: “What have I done to earn this?”

   
That was to be the last solo trip I took to L.A. The following Saturday—the first of October, we moved. It was shortly after dawn when we left our old place in Burbank. By the time we arrived in Kingsburg, it was close to midnight. Thankfully, because of our perpetually lower-middle-class status, we didn’t have much to haul. Daniel’s friendship notwithstanding, no one helped my family with the move.

   
Years ago, relocating was a matter of loading a few pieces of furniture into a van, driving to our destination, and unloading. More than that, moves were a matter of a precious few miles. But that was when it involved just the two of us. With the addition of Bobby, it had become a major production.

   
But as I soon would learn, the move wouldn’t be the only major production I’d be a part of. 

Chapter 6

Little Shop

    “
How was the trip?” Daniel asked, walking with me to our Monday staff meeting.

    “
It was great.”

    “
Are you all moved in?”

    “
Yes, we are.”

    “
Good. I’m looking forward to meeting your family.”

   
Ever the generous host, Daniel encouraged me to bring my family and use the facilities—which included accessing the cafeteria for any of our meals. Given that I took a pay cut to come here (if I still had a teaching job in L.A.), and the small matter of the advance reducing my pay, we welcomed the chance to eat for free.

   
The plan was to bring the family in later in the week, most likely on Wednesday—Summit Day. In the meantime, while all my English classes were easy to manage, my drama class was something else. Frank Mills bailed out after the first week in September to attend to his full time job as administrator. I was stuck with twenty-seven students, most of whom had neither the desire nor the latent talent to achieve even mediocre status as actors. As promised, Frank split my class in half. Undeterred by the number of students and their abilities (or lack thereof), I felt performing a play was in order. Scouring through the Internet for school-friendly productions, I found something to satisfy both my own eclectic tastes and that of my student body—Little Shop of Horrors. I set up auditions to take place that day and Tuesday.