“F*ck you, you fat bitch!”
I hate Mondays, I thought to myself, entering the hall near my classroom. In two years, I still hadn’t figured out how to open my door while holding my lunch, newspaper, and coffee mug. I always had to sit my coffee on the floor. I fumbled around the ring until I found the silver key with “210” scribbled on it. I stuck it in the lock, jiggled the knob, and opened the door.
“Your mom’s a fat bitch!”
“Bitch, I’ll slap the sh*t outta you.”
“Yeah right, ho. F*ck you!”
I should have intervened at the first “F*ck you,” but these kids had to learn how to settle this kind of drama on their own. Still, most of them were at best a work in progress. I raised my face toward the ceiling, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. With my lunch and newspaper still in hand, I headed down the hallway to help the two young combatants.
“Whoa, whoa, what seems to be the problem?”
“You hear him down here callin’ me out my name, don’t you, Mr. Winston?”
Within these kids there existed a dichotomy. When it came to one another, Clinton had some of the most hateful, rude, and insensitive students west of Philly. But if they had any respect for you, they didn’t hesitate to show it.
“Yes I do. What’s good with that, Calvin?”
I allowed myself to use the vernacular of the students sometimes. It distracted them and it made me feel younger than my thirty-five years.
“She told Mr. Talbot I took a sausage off her breakfast tray. Now I got after-school detention.”
“Well…did you take the sausage,” I asked.
“Yeah! Wit his greedy ass!”
“Chill, Tysheima,” I cautioned, “I got it.” A small crowd of kids was starting to gather now.
“Well, Calvin.”
“Yeah, I took it.”
“So why all the threats and name-calling, if you did it,” I asked him.
“Cause she shouldn’t have snitched,” Calvin sputtered.
I told Calvin that he should be glad Mr. Talbot only issued him detention and not a day of out-of-school suspension because technically, he stole something; even if it was only a Little Smokie. I asked both parties if everything was cool. I warned them that the next time I heard language like that, they’d both be written up for suspension by me. They nodded their understanding.
“Besides, Calvin, she would have whipped your ass anyway.”
That drew snickers and jeers from the small crowd of teenagers. My choice of words would be considered unprofessional by some, but a little humor helped diffuse these kinds of tense situations.
Glancing at the wall clock, it was now 8:33. Damn! First period started in 12 minutes and after that mediation, I wouldn’t have enough time to read my paper and drink my coffee. “MY COFFEE,” I said loud enough to startle Mrs. Campbell, who was exiting the staircase. I hustled back to my classroom to find my “Teachers Need Hugs Too” mug kicked over on the floor, my dark roast seeping out onto the tile.
I hate Mondays.
William Jefferson Clinton High School was situated in the uptown section of Harrisburg. It was a beautiful neighborhood in the past. Single family homes with spacious backyards overlooked a wooded area with a man-made pond that the residents called, Concrete Lake.
What had been a largely white, Jewish neighborhood, the last 15 years had seen many black families, often buying their first homes, migrate into the area. As this trend occurred, so did “white flight,” which changed the complexion of the neighborhood, the politics, and the student body of the nearby school.
In 2001, the school formerly known as City High was renamed for a U.S. president who was as much revered for his economic policies as he was for having an intern fellate him inside the White House. Thought to be a gesture of respect and renewal, I look at the renaming of the school as the beginning of the problems that would befall my alma mater, the school where I now work, affectionately known as “The Clint.”
“We don’t get paid for overtime Señor Winston,” a sweet voice called through the door, soothing me out of my trance. I’d been staring out of that window for at least 20 minutes.
“I know Miss Garcia. Somebody’s got to do the work though,” I responded with a smile. “I’ll try not to stay too much longer.”
“Okay, you have a good evening,” she said, her smile brightening my dimly lit classroom.
Déliz Garcia, the Basic Spanish teacher, was in her mid twenties. She had the figure of a dancer or a runner, with beautiful olive skin, full lips, and raven colored hair. We began teaching at the same time, her right out of college – I, after a few other career stops. There was an attraction between us, but neither one had acted on it. We usually kept our conversations to how bad our third period classes were or why the photocopier always needed toner. Though she was hardly inside my room, the sugary scent of her fragrance lingered in the air, telling me I needed to call my girlfriend.
I decided to call her when I got to the car. I packed up my things and headed for the exit. When I got to the parking lot, I almost walked past the white Oldsmobile because the envelope stuffed under the wiper made me question whether that was my vehicle. My name was on the front of the envelope. I tore it open and found an unsigned note scribbled in pencil. It read:
Meet me at The Tavern @ 6 p.m. U know my table. Very important. We need ur help!
This meant trouble, because I knew who left the note. First, I recognized the chicken scratch penmanship. Also, only one person called me by the nickname, “Laney.”
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