Purely (almost) a Work of Fiction

Yesterday I went to a meeting in which we discussed the hazards of teacher expectations upon their students. Expectations based on race, religion, socio-economic background, etc. Lower expectations for some students, higher for others, with little regard for actual abilities. It was an interesting conversation. We were asked if we had ever seen this happen either as students ourselves or as teachers. Everyone had.

The story I told concerned my move from a Montessori school to a public school. I don't remember the details (I have a horrible memory) but the gist was that I was quiet and shy in class so my teacher thought I didn't know the answers and didn't read well. To my horror, I was placed in the "Foundations" reading group. I may not have been a genius (or maybe I was) but it wasn't difficult to figure out the difference between the "Foundations" readers and the "Skyscrapers". Apparently I went home every night and cried about this until my mother (who wasn't thrilled about my choice to switch schools) finally had a talk with the teacher. She had ot inform the woman that I could read. I was switched to the higher level reading group, but the fact remains that the children in the class were divided along such sharp and thinly-veiled lines. I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one to see through the ruse.

Anyway, the meeting (particularly some of the horror stories told by others) got me thinking about my first year in that new school and what a scary place it sometimes was. I wrote a short story as a result. I know you are supposed to say that any resemblance to people, places, or events is entirely coincidental, but that can never be true. At least, I cannot imagine coming up with a story that had no frame of reference from my own life. I debated about whether or not to post it. It seems extremely self-indulgent to do so. I had to remind myself that if this silly blog isn't self-indulgent enough, I don't know what could possibly make it more so.

With no further ado, here is the story. Mark Twain it is not, but maybe someone will enjoy it.

The Bully

Sara Morrow

The walls inside the little Elementary School were thick. It had been built in the 1920s and the sturdy brick and mortar had stood the test of nearly 70 years’ time. Those walls were thick, but they weren’t up to the task of shielding Mrs. Starr’s 3^rd grade class from the shouts coming from the room next door. One small girl was particularly sensitive to the sounds and she trembled in her seat at the front of the class willing it to stop.

It was only October, but the noise was already familiar. First the shouts, then the scraping of a chair on the linoleum and finally, the crescendo of, what sounded like, the entire contents of a desk: books, papers, pencils, and the desk itself crashing to the floor. Dead silence was observed in Mrs. Starr’s room during these frequent periods of unrest and continued until two sets of footsteps headed out to the hall.

From her seat at the front, the bespectacled girl could usually glimpse the actors in the drama before Mrs. Starr closed the door to continue her lesson. The two people were always the same: Mrs. Behr and the Jones boy. Mrs. Behr, contrary to what her name might suggest, did not strike an imposing physical figure. Squat and relatively rotund, those who didn’t know better would probably guess she was quite jolly and kind. She had photos of her grandchildren at the beach sitting on her desk. The Jones boy, on the other hand, was rumored to have been held back a grade. Braver kids would claim he was two years behind, but only when well out of his earshot. His height rivaled that of his teacher, yet she managed to get him out in the hallway slammed violently against the lockers.

Although Mrs. Starr raised her voice and continued with the business of class, the students could not ignore the commotion happening just outside the door. The timbre of Mrs. Behr’s voice was always lower in the hall, but that made it the more threatening. Her words were muffled to the ears of the students, but they could clearly hear her punctuate her statements with the loud clatter of something (her fist, her boot, his head) hitting the lockers.

Everyone knew the Jones boy was bad news. He swore, didn’t do his homework and didn’t have a bedtime. He lived in a big house a block from the school but it was in desperate need of new siding and a good cleaning. Old toys and broken lawn chairs littered the back yard and a couch sat, rotting, on the front porch. Sometimes he would sit on it with one or more of his older brothers, the boys shouting at passers by.

So yeah, the Jones boy was usually in trouble of some sort. The kids in Mrs. Starr’s class couldn’t wait for recess to find out what he had done this time. Except for the little girl, no one was scared. They were just curious. And why not be curious? The shouting, scraping and crashing happened with such regularity, they would have been surprised if a week passed without it. Besides, the Jones boy never looked the worse for wear afterwards. He would probably miss recess today and stay after for 15 minutes of detention, but that was about the worst of it.

“Diana, please pay attention. We are handing in our Phonics homework. Do you have yours?” asked Mrs. Starr, not unkindly.

Diana rummaged through her cluttered desk to find her workbook. In a voice all but inaudible she said, “I can’t find it.”

With a sigh, the teacher finished collecting the homework from the rest of the students and put a check next to Diana’s name on the chalkboard. It was the third check of the week, which meant she would stay after school to complete the work. She would also have to take a note home to her parents telling them the reason for the detention. Diana knew her mother would be amazed and disappointed. This was the second week in a row. Every night, mother and daughter sat down to do homework that the girl completed with ease, yet every day something seemed to be missing from her backpack.

The school day continued with no further excitement. The students from Mrs. Behr’s class claimed the desk-dumping of that morning had been over cheating. When faced with proof that all his answers matched Natalie Green’s, the Jones boy said, “maybe she cheated off me.” Since Natalie always did her homework and had the best penmanship in the class, everyone knew she would never cheat off of anyone, especially the Jones boy.

After school was over, Diana stayed at her desk and Mrs. Starr gave her a copy of the homework page. It was all about the long A sound. Underneath the picture of a plane, Diana wrote “plane” underneath the picture of a candy cane, Diana wrote “cane”. She did this for all 10 pictures and was finished in less than two minutes.

At 3:15 Mrs. Starr said, “please hand me your paper, and you may go.”

Diana did as she was told “good night, Mrs. Starr” she whispered. In the hallway, she heard her footsteps echo. There was no sign of the Jones boy. Diana let out a deep breath. She was not looking forward to walking home alone or giving the detention notice to her parents.

As she emerged from the school, he was standing there, leaning against the chain-link fence like he hadn’t a care in the world. When he saw the little girl he stood straight and lumbered toward her. “What are you doing around here so late, you little squirt?”

“I didn’t turn in my Phonics homework.” She replied with more confidence than she felt.

“Well that was stupid”

“Not as stupid as you!”

“You should have seen that old witch’s face! It was worth it.” The Jones boy laughed.

“Come on, Tommy Jones, I don’t wanna be any later getting home. You coming over for dinner?”

“Sure. Let’s get outta here.”

The fall leaves crunched underfoot as the big boy and little girl headed home in the brisk October air.