Where You Are (5 page)

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Authors: J.H. Trumble

BOOK: Where You Are
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On Friday he passes out strips of paper and another packet of puzzles. His T-shirt today reads:
A
RE
YOU CRYING
?
THERE'S NO
CRYING IN
MATH CLASS!
But I do want to cry.
Unlike my classmates, I'm dreading the bell at two thirty. I don't want to spend two weeks on death watch. I don't want to open gifts under the fat, eight-foot noble fir Aunt Whitney had delivered yesterday. God, I hate that tree.
The noble is an upgrade. So are the shiny new beads and angels and snowflakes.
The Scotch pine Mom and I spent an hour decorating with the accumulated odds and ends of Christmases past just two nights ago is back in the garage, lying on its side on the concrete, still clinging to its humble adornments.
The noble is so tall that the delivery guy had to trim several inches off the tip of the tree so it could stand upright. Then last night, Aunt Whitney wheeled Dad into the living room and she and Aunt Olivia and all the cousins decorated the new tree themselves, the whole time pattering on about how beautiful the angels are, my aunts reminiscing for the kids about all the fun they had decorating Christmas trees together when they were younger. I can just picture it—Olivia and Whitney (six and eight years older than dad, respectively) doting on their baby brother, dressing him up in reindeer pajamas, guiding him through the gluttony of a Westfall Christmas.
Mom and I watched mutely from the kitchen as we threw together another prefab meal for the masses.
When they finally left, Mom disappeared into the garage and a moment later let loose a primal scream. I was sure she'd been cornered by a monstrous rat or a rabid raccoon that had slipped in unnoticed. I sprinted for the garage, but before I could get to her, she calmly walked back in and closed the door behind her.
“What?” she'd said to me. That was it. Just, “What?”
I pick up one of the strips of paper and read the first question.
Make a Möbius strip.
I give one end of the paper a half twist and secure it to the other end, using tape from one of the dispensers Mr. McNelis has placed around the room along with multiple pairs of scissors.
Question:
What do you think will happen if you cut all the way along the strip in the middle?
I don't bother to answer. I just cut the strip. The paper separates into one long strip, twice the length of the original.
I toss it aside and look at the next instruction.
Make another Möbius strip.
Done.
Question:
What do you think will happen if you cut all the way along the strip a third of the way from the edge?
Answer:
I don't give a flip.
I pick up the scissors and make the cut. What I'm left with are two interlocking rings.
Normally I'd try to understand how that one loop of paper had become two, but today I'm just thinking about the loops. I place my fingers on the inside of each loop and apply pressure outward. How much pressure will it take before one of the loops snaps? I increase the pressure.
As it turns out, not much.
 
Andrew
 
From the back of the room, I study Robert. He's playing with the second Möbius strip, now two interlocking loops. It's a cool party trick, and one that I still find fascinating even though I understand the principle behind it.
I was disappointed that Robert chose to work by himself yesterday, but I think I understand it. At least he was engaged. I'd even caught him watching me during class a few times. I found his attention curious, and both a little uncomfortable and a little flattering.
I've grown accustomed to being stared at by the girls; after all, I'm only six or seven years older than the seniors and nine or ten years older than the freshmen. And male teachers my age are uncommon enough in high school that we stand out.
I think the girls get from me what they want from the boys in their classes, what the boys haven't yet figured out that the girls need—attention. Just that simple. Only, the attention I'm giving them is just part of the job. If they see it as something else, if it makes them feel just a little better about themselves, then great.
I don't mention the fact that they are barking up the wrong proverbial tree.
But today Robert seems distracted, less engaged, angry even. He's doing the work, but his mind seems millions of miles away. I'd welcome one of those looks, if just to give him an encouraging smile, to let him know I understand.
But he doesn't look. He spreads his hands and the larger ring snaps.
I scan the room. Some of the kids are just starting on the paperclip magic where you loop a strip of paper into a zigzag and use two paper clips to hold its shape. When you give the two ends of the paper a sharp tug, the paperclips link together. Another cool party trick. I notice that Robert has skipped over that one, as if he already knows what will happen, and has moved on to the maze.
The next thought comes to me completely unbidden:
I wonder if Robert and Whore-Hay are sleeping together?
I try to wipe my mind of that inappropriate thought, but it is as permanent as Sharpie on a dry erase board.
When the bell rings, Robert stays behind to straighten the desks the other kids have left willy-nilly and pick up scraps of paper from the floor. This is not unusual.
When the room is empty and it's only the two of us, I ask the same question I've asked the last two days in a row. “How are you holding up?”
He balls up the paper in his hands and takes a shot at the trashcan next to my desk. The paper bounces off the rim and onto the floor. I pick it up and drop it in.
“Did you know that some Christmas trees are evil?” he asks.
“No. I didn't know that.”
He chews on his bottom lip, then says, “They are.”
He picks up his things and leaves me wondering what the heck he was talking about.
 
In seventh-period Algebra, the kids are watching the second half of
Stand and Deliver.
Jennifer e-mails:
Choir practice tonight?
Three date requests in one week. A new record.
Choir practice is not literally
choir
practice. It's code for beer and wings and nachos at Bubba's—a big open-air barn with a bar at one end and a stage at the other. About half the tables are between the bar and the stage and the other half spill out onto a brick patio under an extension of the metal roof. It's a place where teachers, admins, and other school staff go to let their hair down on Fridays, especially after test week or just before a holiday break or the last day of school. I've been once or twice.
It's a dangerous place. When teachers drink, they start behaving in some pretty unprofessional ways. Secrets are revealed, unhealthy alliances are formed, and gossip flows in direct proportion to the beer.
I learned quickly to limit my visits there. But it's Christmas break, and I don't pick up Kiki until morning, so what the L-M-NO-P.
I e-mail an affirmative.
 
When the last bell rings at two fifteen, the kids rush the classroom door. I wrapped up things during the movie, so I'm planning to leave almost as quickly. I'm shutting down my computer when Robert sticks his head in.
“Hey,” he says. “Hope you have a nice Christmas.”
I want to say, “You too,” but that seems all kinds of wrong. Instead I nudge the chair next to my desk with my foot and say, “Come on in. Talk to me for a minute.”
He pulls the chair out a bit and drops into it, letting his backpack slide to the floor.
“A rough holiday ahead, huh?” I say.
“Yeah. Can't say I'm looking forward to going home. Maybe I could just hang out with you for the next two weeks.”
I smile and he smiles back. “It's going to be okay, Robert. I know it's hard, but . . .” I stop and shrug.
“Hey, do you have a pencil and a piece of paper?”
“Um, sure.”
I scrounge around in my desk drawer for a Post-it pad and hand it over. He takes a pencil from the school mug on my desk and neatly writes a phone number on the Post-it and hands it to me. Then he says something that takes me by complete surprise:
“That's my cell number. You can call me if you want.”
He gets up. I stand too. “Robert . . .” I'm not sure what I'm going to say, I just know that teachers don't call students. Not this teacher. “I can't call you. I'm sorry.” I hold the note out to him.
“Mr. Gorman calls me all the time,” he says. “It's no big deal.”
I feel a little pang of something that I suspect might be jealousy. Stupid, really. Mr. Gorman is the band director. His relationship with kids is on an entirely different level. They spend long hours together on the practice field. I know he even drives the van to area and state solo and ensemble contests in Austin or Dallas or San Antonio. But still, I'm sure those calls are strictly band business.
“I'm sorry,” I say again.
He takes the note and shoves it in his pocket. He bites his lip again, the way I saw him do when he talked about the Christmas tree that I still don't understand, and I think he looks embarrassed.
“It's okay,” he says softly. He turns and leaves.
Shit.
If someone were to ask me what it's like to be a high school teacher, I'd have to say it's like having one foot on a banana peel. The potential is always there for a slip . . . or a push. Part of that slippery nature is knowing where to draw the line sometimes, the one between student and teacher, the one that delineates mentor from friend. The one that says,
I can go this far for you, but no more.
Since I started teaching, I've drawn that line repeatedly. And I've moved it, a little this way, a little that, more times than I can count.
But this is one of those immovable lines—teachers don't call students to chat. They just don't.
Still, I can't help feeling like I've just cut him loose and he's going under, maybe for the first time, maybe the second, maybe the third. I just don't know. I only know that the look on his face when I said no was one of lost hope and maybe even deep hurt.
I scribble my number on another Post-it and catch up with him in the hallway.
He looks down at his athletic shoes, and I know—I
know
—that I'm doing the right thing. “Look, I can't call you,” I say, “but if you need me, if you need to talk or just let off some steam, you can call me. Okay?”
I hand him the Post-it. He looks at my number for a moment, then meets my eyes with his. “Thanks, Mr. Mac.”
 
Robert
 
I enter Mr. Mac's number in my phone as I cross the parking lot. I don't know why he decided to give it to me, or whether or not I'll use it, but it feels good to have all the same.
Nic is leaning against my car when I get there. I shove my phone back in my pocket.
“Hey, what took you so long?” he says and gives me a brief hug, leaving enough distance between us to drive a school bus through. “I've been waiting for hours.”
Apparently I've been forgiven for my lack of clairvoyance. “I thought you had plans tonight,” I say, tossing my backpack in the front seat.
“I do, but I wanted to see my guy for a few minutes first.”
His guy. Hmph. Nic talks about all his friends like they're his personal possessions. My guy, my girls. Tonight he's hanging out with his girls—cheerleaders, all of them. And I'm not invited. I imagine they're going to do girly stuff like paint their faces and their nails and talk about boys.

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