In the next
morning, when I walked back and forth, carrying the cardboard boxes containing
my books and clothes from Strummer to my room, Mom said, “Come with me to
school.”
I was stupefied to hear what she
just said.
“Huh?” I said.
Mom took her reading glasses off and
stared at me with her piercing blue eyes that resembled mine, a sign that I was
her son after all.
“Well, there are some files you need
to read, this and that. Don’t worry about your teaching permit, though, because
I’ve taken care of your emergency teaching permit. You can try to get the real
thing next year, if you’re interested, but this emergency teaching permit will
be sufficient as of now. And the whole school board can’t wait for you to
teach. You know they all love you.”
I laughed mirthlessly. The school
board wouldn’t mind me teaching, absolutely, because Mom could be persuasive to convince the other people if needed. And most of the school board members
had known Mom longer than I did. Sometimes she just needed to wave her wand and
everything would be done, just like magic.
“It’s not like you have anything to
do today.”
Way to go, Mom. She always had a
reason to make me do everything she wanted, unable to reject anything she asked
for.
“Yeah, whatever,” I mumbled,
carrying my last box that contained my frivolous and unwanted plays that I had
ever written, putting them in the attic, and letting dust and bookworm nibble
them.
*
* *
Rosefield High was
less than 10-minute drive from my house, located in the eastern part of the
town, near the border of Bursville, a township with a population of around 800.
It didn’t only serve Rosefield and Bursville, but also three other townships
around Rosefield, and there were 900 students attending the school, all with
their tempestuous teenage hormones.
When I parked Mom’s car—she despised
the idea of riding Strummer which, she said, smelled like a mixture of
cigarette and alcohol. Sorry, Mom, I was never your golden boy—in faculty’s
parking lot, I felt out of place. It wasn’t my first time being in faculty’s
parking lot, actually. Back when I was in high school, Mom and Dad dropped
Patricia and me in the same parking spot, looking exactly like an ideal
American family. My mother had been a principal of the school as far as I could
remember. She loved this school so much that she had delayed her retirement age
over and over. And the faculty and school board members all had mutual feeling
for her.
The school’s building was really
uninspiring, to be honest. It was made of red bricks, really typical for an
American high school building, which were arranged orderly until the second
floor. Vines of ivies crawled to the roof. Its window trims and main entrance
were painted white. Rose shrubs were planted around the building primeter,
sometimes they grew really tall and reached the windows. The school’s front
yard were a wide grassy area where school sign made of slate with ROSEFIELD
HIGH SCHOOL—HOME OF THE WOLVES written on it. A pair of fir trees stood
sturdily in the most front part of the yard, guarding the path leading to the
main entrance, like two giant sentries. The spot beneath the trees was usually
used as lunch spot for popular kids and their cliques back then. I used to
spend my lunchtime there, another thing that I could rub in Phil’s face. The
sports facilities, football field, and gym were all located in the behind of
the students’ parking lot. For a school in small town like Rosefield, Rosefield
High was actually kind of flashy.
I followed Mom, with her gray blazer
and her high heels that made intimidating click-clacking sound, to her office
in which I had already spent so much time, especially because I had to wait for
her after school in my freshman year or because I had skipped Calculus class
too often in my senior year.
A familiar face greeted me when I
entered Mom’s office. Linda Johnson, our school’s secretary, a middle-aged
black woman who had been Mom’s secretary long before I went to high school stood
up, smiling from ear to ear, flashing her pearly white teeth. My mind flew back
to James from Tim Hortons in Sylvania.
“Good morning, Mrs. Tucker,” said
Mrs. Johnson. Mom replied in hum before disappearing to her room. “Patrick,
it’s been a long time!”
She stepped out of her desk,
approaching me. She tried hard to hug me, and I stooped so that she could reach
and pat my shoulders.
“Hi, Mrs. J!” I grinned. She was my
partner in crime when I must spend boring hours to wait for Mom after school,
or when I must sneak in some girls from Twin Lake to Homecoming dance.
“Cut the crap, Patrick. You’re going
to teach here, we’re in same level now. Just call me Linda. It’s really great
to see you again here,” she said. Her face bloomed. “Look at you! Still as hot
as ever.”
A sheepish grin escaped from my
lips. Only Mrs. Johnson would only say ‘hot’ like teenagers. I guessed she had
too much exposure to these juveniles.
“Well, you look hot as well, Mrs. J.
You haven’t changed a bit,” I said.
She blushed then went back to her
desk and I came in Mom’s room. Its decoration was still the same as the last
time I went here in my senior. It had become my favorite hangout due to the
amount of time I had spent here. Mrs. Hoffman, my Algebra and Calculus teacher,
was my nemesis since freshman year because my gray matters wouldn’t work every
time I faced nonsense numbers combined with words. She always compared me with
Phil and said, “Phil always got a hundred percent in my class. I know you have
the potential.” Feeling sick of the comparison, I decided not to care anymore
and skipped most of her class during my senior. She didn’t hesitate to send me
to Mom who gladly cut my allowance every time she saw my face in her office. By
the time I finished high school, I only got ten bucks a week. She then lectured
me about the importance of attending class and Calculus in real life. As if
finding limit could help me find cure for AIDS. Luckily, Mrs. Hoffman was
retired three years ago and she enjoyed her retirement with her husband in
Bursville now. Mom told me this three Christmases ago and I remembered letting
out a relief sigh.
Mom sat in her big swivel chair. Her
blond hair—which she gave me to me, winning from Dad’s brown hair in gene
pool—looked messy as her eyeballs moved frantically, looking for something from
her drawers. She opened and closed the drawers, rummaging their contents,
sometimes blurting out frustrated sigh.
I
looked around Mom’s office. It was all in brown, including the carpet beneath
my feet, except for a pot of schefflera in the corner of the room whose leaves
were green. A wooden bookshelf stood on the opposite corner mostly containing
dull books, such as school district’s rules or Michigan history. Plethora of
framed certificates for Mom or this school were hung on the walls. Mom hung our
family picture behind her back. It was taken ten years ago on my graduation
day, when Dad was still as healthy as I could remember. It pierced my heart,
though, to see she hung that picture as if she still believed that her husband
was still fit and let other people who came to the office believe the same
thing.
When Mom finally found what she had
been searching, pile of paper towered in front of us and a briefcase lay on the
table. Wearing her reading glasses, she read each paper briefly.
“This is this year’s handbook,” she
said, handing me the briefcase and a thin book with gray wolf on its cover. I
skimmed it and recalled my own handbook. There was no major change, except for
the year. “This is the faculty and staff directory, and then this is state’s
teaching guide and rule, Rosefield’s rule as well, and a copy of emergency
teaching permit. There’s no name on it because it’s issued to the school, but
in case you need it. This is the list of requirements to get provision
certificate in Michigan if you want to teach permanently. Just ask if you need
anything.”
I was overwhelmed with all these
papers, trying to skim them one by one. Giving up, I slipped them hastily in
the briefcase. She talked with so much fervor, as if I had decided to teach
permanently here. To be honest I hadn’t given it a thought at all. I just knew
I would teach for a year, to substitute Ms. Trayton who had to move to Florida.
I had no idea what I was about to do beyond this year. If I didn’t want to do
it, they probably would cancel Drama class. There was no Drama ten years ago
until Ms. Trayton came five years ago.
“Jessica will give you her
curriculum guide,” she said, resting her chin on her hands, her face beaming
light, looking elated because her son finally had a stable job. “Want to look
around with me?”
“Mom, I had lived in this school for
four years. I don’t need your company,” I blurted, but she was as obstinate as
ever. After closing and locking her drawers in, she stood up and pushed me out
of her office. Mrs. Johnson winked at me.
Walking in the school hall where
gray lockers stood on its either side gave me nostalgic feeling. Man, people
said that high school was the best time of your life, and I wouldn’t deny it.
Looking at the graduation banner that hadn’t been put down made my chest ache.
I had such a great time in high school, spending all my success tokens, and now
I ran out of them.
Few students who attended the summer
school walked in the hall and looked at us amusingly. They probably wondered
what an old man like me did in the school with the principal.
Mom took me to the faculty office
which I had visited a few times. The air conditioner was set too cold, giving
me chilling sensation. The TV was turned on, showing day-time soap opera. There
were only four people in the room, all sat in the couch with red cup on their
hands. They all gazed intently into the screen, including Mr. Bradbury.
A young woman whom I had never seen
before finally took notice of us. She rose and came up to us. “Hi, Principal.
Is it the famous Patrick?”
She had wavy brown hair and she wore
a school-board-approved summer dress. She extended her hand, and I gave her a
gentle handshake.
“Samantha Madison, but call me Sam.
I’m teaching social studies. I’ve been teaching here for five years.”
“Patrick Tucker. Drama,” I replied,
suddenly feeling so stupid.
“Hey, Tucker! Good to have you back
here!” Mr. Bradbury shouted, lifting his red cup, as if he toasted to me. He
glanced at Mom and said, “No, I’m not talking to you, Melissa.”
Mom smiled wryly and Mr. Bradbury
stood up. He was a tall man, probably six-feet two, but now I had a good two
inches on him. He had more wrinkles because he had read many stupid essays too
often. He might be long in the tooth, but his enthusiasm was still there.
“What’s up, Mr. Bradbury?” I asked.
“I’m good, Tucker, very good,” he
chuckled, nodding his head. “When Melissa said that you will teach here, I am
really happy. Finally there’s someone who deserves to replace me.”
“Um, Sir, I only will teach Drama.”
“Yeah, that’s what you know,” he
whispered.
Mrs. Tannous, my home economics
teacher, also shook my hand. I had never taken her class before, but I’d seen
her quite often. Mrs. Thomas, my Chemistry teacher, smiled at me. I’d never
screwed up in her class, but I wasn’t someone who you called bright in
Chemistry either, so each of us didn’t leave such an impression.
“I thought Jessica would be here,”
said Mom.
“Nah, I haven’t seen her all day.
Have you tried her office?” replied Mr. Bradbury, filling his cup from water
dispenser.
“Patrick and I just arrived,” Mom
answered. “Edward, I need to talk to you. You know Jessica’s office, Pat? It’s
in the auditorium’s back room.”
I almost said, “The room where
people make out?”, but kept silent.
“Yeah, I know.” I shrugged then
reached for the exit door, hearing Mr. Bradbury—who was also principal
assistant—groaning as Mom told him something. “See you later, everyone.”
School auditorium was in the left
wing of the building, near the English department, where medals and trophies
were flaunted inside huge glass displays. Pictures of sports and choir teams
from sixty years of this school’s age were hung in the auditorium’s wall like a
necklace.
There was nobody when I stepped in
the auditorium. The sound of my shoes hitting the varnished wooden floors
echoed in the empty room, as if I had been the lone survivor of zombie
apocalypse that took place outside there. I traced each pictures on the wall,
trying to imagine how they felt when they won. Some were still in black and
white. They looked ancient, but their smiles were timeless. I passed pictures
from 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s until I reached my last three years of high
school. I joined the varsity football team in my sophomore year, and Dad always
stood among us in three pictures I had been on. In my senior year, wearing my
jersey number twelve, I grinned widely and felt really proud. That’s when we
were runner-up division in state championship. That was the best experience in
my life, you know, standing in the middle of Ford Field, presumptuously feeling
that nothing would get in my way, feeling I could conquer the world. Even if we
just came in second place, that was our best placement since being champion in
our division more than thirty years ago. Since then, we only played in state playoff—sometimes
we even couldn’t get past local conference. Coming in second place was our best
placement, and that’s why Dad looked so blithe on the picture, moreover when I
was shortlisted as one of the best players in the division, hence I could get
that sports scholarship. But, ten years had passed, my Friday night lights had
been turned out, and life had moved on. Look at me now.
The room where people used to make
out sneakily was located behind the stage, which was only used by choir team
for their spring performance before Ms. Trayton came. I guessed the stage was
now used to perform their drama as well.
There was no answer when I knocked
the door. It looked empty.
Because I didn’t want to see Mom in
her office, I decided to get out of auditorium and walked through the back door
to football field. Training session usually began in August, so it was not
surprising to see only three students running in the track encircling the
field. I sat in the bleachers, gawking distantly at the green field, imagining
Dad standing in the middle of the field, blowing his whistle, cursing each of
us who drenched in sweat.
Ten years were such a long time, and
no one knew what was going to happen in the next ten years. I mean if someone
came up to me ten years ago and he said that Dad would spend most of his time
in bed and would never be able to scream at us, I will tell him to fuck off.
A chime from my phone interrupted my
woolgathering. It was from Mom who wanted me to take her to grocery store. Sighing,
I rose up and walked to the parking lot.
