Cackle(14)

This shuts a few of them up. They roll their eyes, slump in their chairs.

Several continue to chirp. It becomes more sporadic.

Finally, a girl wearing an oversized T-shirt and Doc Martens yells, “Will you shut the fuck up? God!”

This only encourages them more.

She looks at me. Her eyes are such a pale blue they’re almost transparent. She’s got on smudged dark eyeliner, lip gloss and a scowl.

“No homework tonight,” I say. “You’ll get your first reading assignment tomorrow. You’ll have the weekend to do it. All right, I’m just going to take the rest of the class to go around for names again. I want to make sure I know who’s who.”

This successfully stifles them. I walk desk to desk, asking for names. The first chirper is, naturally, reluctant to tell me who he is. I say, “I’m going to find out eventually.”

A classmate rats him out.

“Chris Bersten!”

I put a tiny checkmark next to his name on my attendance sheet. Somehow, this process feels more humiliating for me. The kids are quiet, but they don’t seem particularly stressed about potential consequences. The bell rings, and they stomp out into the hall.

The girl in the T-shirt and Doc Martens, Madison Thorpe, hangs back. She says, “They’re all animals. I hate this school.”

“All schools are like this,” I say. “It’s fine.”

“Did you really live in the city?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“I’m dying to go there for college. My top choices are Columbia, NYU and Sarah Lawrence.”

“Sarah Lawrence is in Westchester.”

She blinks at me.

“It’s a good school,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says. She hoists her backpack higher on her shoulder. It’s white, dirty, covered in pins. One reads FEMINISM. I see another that reads SYLVIA PLATH.

“Well,” I say, “made it through the first day. Bye, Madison. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Miss Crane.”

When she’s gone, I close the door to the classroom and lock it. I gather my papers and shove them into my bag. All I want to do is get out of here. All I want to do is go home.

Home to Manhattan, home to my apartment. Home to Sam.

He used to make me an ice cream sundae on the first day of school. Hot fudge, sprinkles, whipped cream from a can, those maraschino cherries that dye everything red. If the day was hard, if the kids were assholes, I knew I had something to look forward to. Someone to look forward to.

I miss him so much I could scream.



* * *



—

The next day is better, but only slightly. There are no fart noises, but there is a lot of texting and side conversation during class. I say, “I’m not going to take your phones away, but I will fail you.”

I’m not inspiring respect, but I’m not inspiring resentment, either. They’re mainly indifferent to me.

During the final period, there are a few random chirps, but for the most part the class behaves. I assign The Scarlet Letter.

Madison lingers after the bell again. She’s also in my ASL class. She’s more advanced than the other kids in the class, probably because her best friend is Beth, a fellow sophomore who is hard of hearing and signs. Beth wears baby doll dresses and loafers with shiny pennies inside. She has big eyes and a button nose and wears glittery hot pink lipstick. The two of them together look like they’re the stars of a network teen drama.

“I’ve already read The Scarlet Letter,” Madison says.

“What did you think?”

She shrugs. “It was fine. What else should I read? Any recommendations?”

“Whatever you want—just make sure you can participate in class and pass the tests.”

“I will. Bye, Miss Crane. Have a good weekend.”

“Bye, Madison.”

I can’t tell if she’s sucking up for a good grade or if she’s the kind of fifteen-year-old who fancies themselves too mature for everyone else their own age. I wonder if she calls her parents by their first names. I wonder if she drinks her coffee black.

Definitely. She definitely drinks her coffee black.

I know it’s wrong for me to make snap judgments about students, especially the only one who has gone out of their way to be nice and treat me like a human being. It’s a lousy coping mechanism I default to. Being a teacher is hard in ways I can’t explain. Being around teenagers is a particular form of torture. I have so many sets of critical young eyes on me. It’s a constant barrage of judgment. Sometimes it’s too difficult to rise above it.

After school, I stop at the supermarket to buy cartons of ice cream, sugary cereal, a few bags of tortilla chips, hard caramels and a sack of shredded cheese. I go to the self-checkout to avoid the shame of having someone bear witness.

Mr. Frog greets me when I get home.

“Sir,” I say.

This is where I’m at: greeting a ceramic frog.

I climb the stairs up to my apartment. It’s remarkably humid, and when I get to the landing, I have to pause to wipe a bead of sweat before it drips into my eye. I let my head back so the rest of the sweat will recede.

There’s something hanging from the ceiling. It dangles just beyond the lightbulb, over the door.

It’s some kind of plant. Branches. Green leaves. Little white buds.