Five Boroughs 01 - Sutphin Boulevard (26 page)

It would have been nice for someone on my team to have checked on the substitute.

“How does it feel to be back?”

I turned on my laptop to give the impression that I was going to do something productive.

“There’re no kids, so it isn’t that big of a deal. I’m just trying to get my shit together for next Tuesday.”

“Ugh. I keep forgetting we have a PD on Monday. I’d rather teach.”

“Yeah.” Teaching was better than nonstop meetings, especially since I never felt more developed professionally when it was over. PD day often turned into catch-up-on-blogs-and-Twitter-feed day.

I watched my computer inch along to a full start-up and avoided David’s fervid stare. He seemed to be checking for signs of self-harm and mental deterioration.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t look normal.”

“How do you figure?”

“You’re just….” David waved his hand to indicate my appearance. “Pale and it looks like you’ve lost weight. Are you sleeping okay?”

“Just fine.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem that way. You look tired. And sad.”

I snorted, casting him a derisive glare. “I’ve lost both parents in less than a year. Obviously I’m sad. It’s not breaking news, okay? I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

“Jesus, kid. What do you want me to say? I don’t want to talk about it.”

David winced. I thought he would scamper off like he did any time I got sharp with him, but he just opened my binder. He extracted a reading on Otto von Bismarck and wrinkled his nose. “Who the hell is that?”

“A German nationalist.” When he gave me a vacant stare, I snatched the paper. “Didn’t you pay attention in world history?”

“I guess not.” Having the decency to look chagrined, David glanced at my binder again. He couldn’t stand the idea of not knowing something. “Did the sub do anything useful? She was having a hard time with the kids. Apparently Mac terrorized her every day.”

I wasn’t surprised. Mac got off on bullying everyone around him. He had the sassy, judgmental queen routine down pat.

“I’m trying to figure out if I should just reteach Latin America or move on to nationalism and unification in Europe.”

“Do you have time to reteach?”

If I took out the end-of-year project, I would, but it was one of my darlings, and I hated to see it go.

I clicked randomly at my laptop, wondering if it had always been so slow or if it was deliberately trying to make me look worthless in front of Captain Grade Team. He raised a brow, opening his palm and gesturing, and I realized that I had not answered his question.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re an awesome teacher.”

I could not resist an eye roll. “Oh God.”

“What!”

“Please don’t give me weird compliments.”

David scowled. “How is that a weird compliment? We’re in a classroom discussing pedagogy. It’s not like I complimented you on your angling.”

“Angling?”

“Fishing.”

“You’re so white.”

David smirked. “Actually I got that from Sims.”

The corners of my mouth twitched. I tried to stifle a bubble of laughter but failed when David’s face lit up with apparent pleasure at having caused me to smile. He may have started out as a royal pain in the ass, but the kid could be endearing when he wasn’t trying to supervise me.

I shoved his shoulder. “You’re such a nerd.”

“That’s the first thing you ever said to me.”

“And it’s been proved time and time again since that night.”

David shrugged and poked around my desk. Several ungraded and unsorted stacks of student work had accumulated over the past three weeks. I hadn’t bothered looking at any of it because I knew it would make me cringe. I’d already spied a few essays that stated Simón Bolívar had liberated South Africa, and it had led to me wanting to bash my face into a wall. I had no idea how things could go so wrong when I wasn’t in the classroom.

Seeming to sense my frustration, David patted my shoulder. “I wasn’t kidding about you being a good teacher, you know. The kids missed you. Shawn asked about you every day. Mac too.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said, meaning it. I’d thought about my students a lot in the rare moments of being wide-awake and lucid.

My laptop finished loading, and I opened my data cloud to go through a number of slideshow presentations. If I was going to do a two-day recap on Latin America to fix whatever inaccuracies they’d developed over the past couple of weeks, those two days would have to be notes and lecture heavy. It wasn’t my usual style of teaching, but there was no time to do anything else.

What bothered me the most about that unit being nixed was that most history teachers at McCleary skipped or glossed over Latin America entirely to focus solely on Europe, even though 85 percent of the student population was from Mexico, South America, or the Caribbean.

I flipped between two different presentations, so critical of my own notes that I didn’t notice David had stilled beside me. When he continued to hover at my side like a stealth helicopter, I looked up. His expression was pinched, eyes trained on a point just beyond my laptop. He was staring into my open backpack. And the bottle of vodka I’d stashed inside.

I grabbed the bag and shoved it under my desk.

“Michael….”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then what it is it? What the hell are you thinking bringing a bottle to school!”

Fuck. Fuck everything. I was such an idiot.

“I haven’t drunk anything.”

“Then why did you bring it?”

I slammed the laptop shut, and the precious moments it had taken to boot up were flushed down the drain. I stood, pushing the chair back. David was still crowding me, so I jerked my chin at him.

“You want to give me some room?”

David backed away. “Michael, I don’t know what to say. I’m so worried about you.”

“I advise against that. I’m fine.”

“It’s obvious that you’re not fine. Don’t give me that bullshit! Fine is what people say when they feel like shit but don’t want anyone to know. And in your case, it’s so false that I would be a pathetic excuse for a friend if I left you alone. I can’t just not say anything when I see what’s happening.”

“Nothing is happening, David. Please stop.”

I sounded more defeated than forceful, and sank into a student desk.

I stared at the pockmarked floor, and he stood there with a bowed head and fidgeting hands. I was making him nervous. I could practically hear his internal struggle: leave me in peace and remain a bystander or do something constructive to guide me through my drama? He was so idealistic and helpful, never knowing when to leave well enough alone.

Although at this point, I wasn’t a good judge of what
well enough
entailed.

I buried my face in my hands. What a disaster. What a goddamned embarrassment. I could say nothing to change what he’d seen. I wished I could rewind time—go back ten minutes and prevent it from happening.

The silence was more awkward the longer it lingered, and I was desperate for him to go the hell away so I could flambé myself in peace.

“I appreciate your concern, but unless you saw me drinking, there’s nothing to say.”

“I just want to help.”

I spread my hands, laughing humorlessly. “How could you help me? Just think about it, really think about it, and then explain how the hell you could possibly improve this situation at all. You and I have nothing in common. We don’t think the same, we don’t feel the same, and we have totally different lives. Nothing that would work for you is going to work for me. So please. Please stop trying to make the world a better place starting with me.”

My words had the desired effect.

David shrank away, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked smaller and younger, innocent and crushed by the reality of what I was saying. Or maybe just by the harshness. I didn’t regret saying it, but I still felt like a monster at the sight of his scrunched-up face.

“The last thing I want,” I said quietly, “is to hurt anyone else that I know, but right now I can’t handle trying to make you feel better about not knowing how to help me. Especially since it isn’t your responsibility.”

“I understand,” he said, head still bowed. “I get it.”

I didn’t think he did.

“Can we just pretend this didn’t happen? Can you do that for me? Please?”

David shrugged, not saying whether he would or wouldn’t, which essentially meant there was no way that was going to happen.

P
ARANOIA
IS
a funny thing.

For two hours after my conversation with David, I alternated between considering seeking him out to ensure he kept his mouth shut and wanting to stay locked in my room to avoid the situation. By the time the end of the day rolled around, I was in full-on panic mode and had drunk two thirds of a bottle of orange juice in order to fill the rest with vodka.

I didn’t take a sip, but I felt better having it close. From time to time I picked it up, shook it and then pushed it aside. Just in case I slid over the edge, it was good to know I had myself a convenient grappling hook in a bottle.

At three o’clock, I’d already packed my stuff—not that I’d used my laptop or planner for anything productive—and finally sampled my screwdriver. The vodka was overpowering. I had never been too good with ratios.

I took another swig and screwed on the top to shake it again. Before I could give it another try, the door opened.

“What’s up, Mr. R?”

Shawn barged in without knocking and walked right up to me without hesitation. I immediately replaced the lid on the bottle but fumbled and nearly dropped it before managing to get it shut.

Shawn’s eyes dropped to the bottle and lingered. My paranoia inched up one distressing notch at a time.

“What are you still doing here?”

“I had a test this morning, and I get extended time or whatever.”

“How do you think you did?”

Shawn quit eyeballing the bottle, but I still thought he was looking at me funny. I took a step back, overly conscious of the smell of liquor on my breath. Wanting a nice buzz for my commute home was starting to look like a bad idea even if I was officially off teacher time in twenty minutes.

Aggravated by yet another unfortunate turn of events, I ran a shaky hand through my hair.

“Mr. Rodriguez, are you good?”

I tried to smile but only managed a faint twitch of the muscles around my mouth, likely passing more for a grimace than anything else.

“I’m fine, Shawn.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. A measure of discomfort crept into his posture in the way of hunched shoulders and shuffling feet.

“You know, I ain’t like the other kids here. I understand things. I respect you a lot, and I know something’s up. I think something bad happened, and that’s why you weren’t around for a couple weeks.”

“I know you’re more mature than a lot of kids your age, but I’m fine. Don’t worry about some old-ass man.”

“Oh please, you’re not even old.”

“If I was old enough to vote when you were born, that’s old.”

Shawn rocked on the balls of his feet. His fidgeting drew my eyes downward, and I noticed his sneakers were looking a little beat-up. There was a rip in the side of the canvas.

“Mr. R, you’re trying to change the subject.”

“No, I’m not. But I’m your teacher, and it’s not my job to talk about my personal stuff.”

“But I asked.”

I started checking out the rest of his clothes with a more critical eye. He looked clean, but he was wearing the same thing he always wore. I wracked my brain to remember whether he ever came to school in anything else, but couldn’t recall noticing a pattern before. My paranoia was making me jumpy about everything, including whether he had proper winter attire.

“How was your test?” I asked, changing the subject without even an ounce of grace.

“I bet I failed.”

“What was it, Algebra?”

“Yeah. I can’t do math for shit. I’m basically retarded. That’s why I get extended time.”

“Don’t come out like that. A lot of kids get extended time and a lot of kids have IEPs. It just means you need more help in some areas than others.” I snorted. “And you’d do better on a math test than me, so I must be nonfunctional if we go by that as a standard of intelligence.”

“You be saying big words for no reason.”

I walked to the door, subtly nudging him in that direction. “And you be getting down on yourself for no reason. If you always think you’re going to fail, you’re not going to get anywhere in life, because eventually you’ll just quit trying to do anything at all.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.” Shawn’s voice was flat, but he grinned and zipped up his hoodie. The coat he wore looked pretty solid, despite the state of his footwear, and that took the edge off my worry. “Take care of yourself, Mister. You’re the only real motherfucker working up in here. And if something bad is going on, maybe you should just stay home for longer. Global ain’t going nowhere.”

The kid was throwing subliminals like a pro. I hoped he was just intuitive and my angst wasn’t actually this transparent.

“Look, Shawn, my dad passed, okay?”

Shawn’s head jerked back, brows shooting up. “Damn, I’m sorry. I had no idea or I wouldn’t have pressed you so hard.”

I looked down the hall, wanting to avoid his intense stare. He wasn’t asking a million oblivious-kid questions, the kind that were way too personal and way too intrusive, which made me think he knew a thing or two about losing someone close. I wondered if I’d inadvertently triggered bad memories for him. This was why I hated discussing anything personal with the kids.

“Don’t apologize. He was sick, and I should have seen it coming. Sometimes we think we and the people we love are invincible despite all evidence to the contrary.”

“Yeah.” Shawn bopped his head, dark eyes too old in his young face. “You’re right about that. Shit.”

“Stop cursing so much.”

He sneered. “You suck at changing the subject.”

“Indeed.” I tugged at his jacket, pulling the zipper up all the way and ignoring the smart-ass smirk on his face. “Now go home. It’s freezing outside, and it’s supposed to snow later.”