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Torches

Amelia Holden

    Teacher pushes the alarm snooze button, rolls over, remembers parent teacher conferences tonight. Teacher throws cover off and trudges to the shower.
    In the shower, Teacher thinks about Jamie and all the help he needs in class, the cloud that follows him. Teacher thinks of Kyle and the recent drug arrest. Little Carly comes to mind—will her parents be there? Carly struggles daily with just keeping notes, but always tries—always smiles. Kayley’s pregnancy. Jeff’s attitude. Teacher turns the shower off, reaches for the towel, and dries off while staring in the mirror.
    Bleary eyes, wrinkles—are they deeper? I’m old, Teacher thinks. Who cares what I look like? Silent dressing. Button-down shirt with the dark blue tie and brown slacks. Yes, perfect. A pasted smile in the mirror. Two cups of coffee. Alone at the table. A brief glimpse at the photo of Jane. Three months, six days, four hours, Edmonds glances at his watch and the tiny hands...and eight minutes...last breath. Cancer. He whispers a good-bye. A tear brushed away by sunglasses. Teacher leaves home for the sixteen hour day.
    Teacher teaches. Wry humor. Some get it and others—get it later. But some never do. Like the real world. Lunch in the lounge. Others bitch. Teacher eats. Teacher reads student work and writes and grades. Teacher smiles and encourages and pats on the back and counsels and disciplines and disciplines some more because Cody doesn’t get enough attention from his parents at home. Teacher comforts cheerleader about rumors. Teacher never stops...teaching.
    Teacher enters grades, double-checks grades, and then prints them. Some parents care enough to see them. Most don’t come. Teacher walks to the Commons area with briefcase and grades and all of the answers.
    Noise. Congregating adults socializing. Where are the ones I need to see the most? Teacher asks.
    Table set up with sign-in sheet and pens and papers. First parents. Smiles and nods and thank-yous for coming. Yes, Jill is great and turns in her work on time. Yes, she’s a model student. Of course, I’m glad to have her in class.
    Wait. Grade. Breathe. Try to rid the stale pizza breath with spearmint gum and lukewarm water.
    Wait. Walk. Stretch. Exchange waves with Mr. Principal.
    Sit. Think. What the Hell am I doing here?
    Next parents. John could do better, but he doesn’t apply himself. Yes, we’ve told him that at home. Looks to John by all present adults. Rolling eyes. John! Thank-yous for coming.
    Where is Jamie’s mom? He needs attention and love and a father because Teacher knows Dad died two years ago. Where’s his mom? Does she know about the drug rumors? Teacher worries.
    Lisa’s parents. Lisa is addicted to her cell phone and finds that more important than literature. We know and heads nod as Lisa continues texting without looking up. Maybe she did—yes, she did. Sheepish, knowing smile on her face. Teacher starts to offer solution, but Mom decides taking the cell phone away makes the parents more miserable than Lisa. Idiots! Teacher doesn’t really say that. Thank you.
    Sit. Wait. Retire. Retire? But these kids need you—right?
    No.
    Who else will love them and discipline them and teach them that getting high or having sex or drinking and driving or committing suicide are not going to solve their problems? Who else will teach them about Holden Caulfield and why life is important and why they matter? Who else will show them that technology can’t possibly replace a book and characters and themes and lessons that live forever? Shit.
    Student teacher from down the hall smiles at Teacher and Teacher politely waves. Student teacher pronounces Steinbeck “Steen-beck” and fucks up great literature. How else will these students get an education if Teacher abandons them?
    Wait. Drink water. Look around. Grade. Kyle’s parents. Good!
    Crying. Drugs. Rehab. Kyle’s failing your class. Yes, Teacher says. But I want to help. I want to work with him—if he’s willing to work. When will he return? At least two months. Crying. Teacher cries, too. We’ll do what we can and they all nod. Thank-yous.
    Mr. Principal appears out of nowhere. Kyle will fail. Teacher opens mouth, but Mr. Principal assures him that Kyle is a lost cause and won’t make up the missing work or actually come back to school. Do what you can. Well, shit—why? Teacher doesn’t really say that.
    Why are you here? No child left behind. No teacher moving forward. No child being saved or helped. What the hell are adults for anymore? What’s an adult? Hell—these kids have kids.
    Sit. Stand. Look busy. Grade some more and stay busy. Butt sleeps, hands freeze. Fake smiles and some more nice people.
    Mr. Principal mingles. He’s younger and smiles a lot and knows the lingo. Same stuff Teacher’s heard for two decades. Same stuff, different labels. Politically correct crap.
    Cold handshake with Kayley’s mom. Red eyes, dark circles, tired smiles. Dad refused to show up because he’s pissed at Kayley. Mom cries during the explanation. Dad’s embarrassed. Teacher nods and sympathizes. Homebound? When? Of course, I’ll send her work, but she’ll need help to complete it and be ready for the skills exam at the end of the semester. Me, volunteer? Uh. Um. I’ll speak with our social worker and administration about coordinating something. Mom lashes out—the baby’s daddy’s reputation hasn’t been tarnished! The star running back—Teacher gulps and reaches to pat her hand and calm the explosion as the voice shrapnel penetrates the conferences surrounding them. No privacy. Pain and humiliation. Chairs screech backwards and Mom and Kayley hurry away with whispered apologies.
    Oh my God. Teacher frowns. Mom’s right. Life sucks. But Teacher’s known that for years. How long have I been at this?
    Sip water. Adjust tie. Redirect lost parent to Math department. Parent apologizes too much.
    Mr. Principal schmoozes. Teacher scowls on the inside at Mr. Principal—and his kind. Scores instead of scholars. Numbers on tests instead of knowledge. Leave no child behind? Look at the adult population...Do they think? Do they analyze? Teacher muses: Grab someone off the street and ask them about the universal theme, character development, and artistic imagery with words found in a contemporary literature piece and ask them to contemplate the artistic reflection of our postmodern world—and forget about it. People don’t read. Yet every single child must or else...Teacher fails? Everyone else in their lives can fail them—but Teacher? Consequences. Accountability.
    Teacher needs fresh air, but survives on stale. Teacher tries the coffee, but it’s too weak to stand up to the evening’s mess.
    Former student surprises Teacher. Thank you, she says. For what? You made my junior year matter. You cared about, you know, what I said and you, like, loved that one essay I wrote and I totally kept it—yeah, for like, all these years. Teacher smiles at student. Teacher’s memory of student stays fuzzy, but “all these years” equals four. Teacher smiles. She gives awkward hug and ‘bye and disappears.
    A ripple in the pond?
    Brock’s parents interrupt now-forming-memory of former student. Brock grins. Ass. Mom and Dad steer him to the outside chair at the table and smile. They know Brock’s an ass. Nope, no—check that. Earnest smiles of delight, not knowing. Geez. Brock offers plenty of input during class, yes. Teacher is tactful. Brock fist bumps a passing friend. No brain, but he’s a popular shit. Future leader of this godforsaken country. Teacher summarizes, quips, and parents chuckle. Idiots. Just let us know if we ever need to ground him for that smart-ass mouth of his, parents offer with mock-serious eyebrow—but don’t mean it. Thank you so much.
    Clock ticks and finally hits the right number. No Jeff parents. No sign of Carly’s. None of the other dozens of parents needed.
    Teacher drives home. Teacher unwinds with a beer and Hemingway.
    Teacher arrives at school the next morning with a new student teacher assigned to him. Mr. Principal assures Teacher that Allison will be terrific. Yea, Allison.
    Student teacher arrives early the following morning. Allison smiles and observes and Teacher teaches. Allison is literate. Allison demonstrates knowledge and knows Goethe is pronounced “Ger-ta.” Allison learns students’ names by second day. Allison talks and laughs with them. Teacher smiles and observes Allison learning—and teaching. Allison leans over shoulders, corrects writing with love, and smiles.
    Teacher conferences privately at the end of the second day. Teacher smiles at Allison’s eager questions, answers them with ease and experience. Reality. Not ivory tower. Close-up answers, not distant legislator-ese ignorance. Allison listens, writes, smiles. Teacher sighs, smiles. Allison says, “Thank you—this is the best stuff, this experience. See you tomorrow.” Teacher says, “I’ll be here.”
    Teacher reflects on the drive home. Teacher arrives to utter silence, drops the keys on the hook by the door, and looks again at Jane. Teacher whispers, “No retirement yet, hon. I know you’re not surprised after today. Some of them need me.”

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