Where You Are. J.H. Trumble

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      I was disappointed that Robert chose to work by himself yesterday, but I think I understand it. At least he was engaged. I’d even caught him watching me during class a few times. I found his attention curious, and both a little uncomfortable and a little flattering.

      I’ve grown accustomed to being stared at by the girls; after all, I’m only six or seven years older than the seniors and nine or ten years older than the freshmen. And male teachers my age are uncommon enough in high school that we stand out.

      I think the girls get from me what they want from the boys in their classes, what the boys haven’t yet figured out that the girls need—attention. Just that simple. Only, the attention I’m giving them is just part of the job. If they see it as something else, if it makes them feel just a little better about themselves, then great.

      I don’t mention the fact that they are barking up the wrong proverbial tree.

      But today Robert seems distracted, less engaged, angry even. He’s doing the work, but his mind seems millions of miles away. I’d welcome one of those looks, if just to give him an encouraging smile, to let him know I understand.

      But he doesn’t look. He spreads his hands and the larger ring snaps.

      I scan the room. Some of the kids are just starting on the paperclip magic where you loop a strip of paper into a zigzag and use two paper clips to hold its shape. When you give the two ends of the paper a sharp tug, the paperclips link together. Another cool party trick. I notice that Robert has skipped over that one, as if he already knows what will happen, and has moved on to the maze.

      The next thought comes to me completely unbidden: I wonder if Robert and Whore-Hay are sleeping together?

      I try to wipe my mind of that inappropriate thought, but it is as permanent as Sharpie on a dry erase board.

      When the bell rings, Robert stays behind to straighten the desks the other kids have left willy-nilly and pick up scraps of paper from the floor. This is not unusual.

      When the room is empty and it’s only the two of us, I ask the same question I’ve asked the last two days in a row. “How are you holding up?”

      He balls up the paper in his hands and takes a shot at the trashcan next to my desk. The paper bounces off the rim and onto the floor. I pick it up and drop it in.

      “Did you know that some Christmas trees are evil?” he asks.

      “No. I didn’t know that.”

      He chews on his bottom lip, then says, “They are.”

      He picks up his things and leaves me wondering what the heck he was talking about.

      In seventh-period Algebra, the kids are watching the second half of Stand and Deliver. Jennifer e-mails: Choir practice tonight?

      Three date requests in one week. A new record.

      Choir practice is not literally choir practice. It’s code for beer and wings and nachos at Bubba’s—a big open-air barn with a bar at one end and a stage at the other. About half the tables are between the bar and the stage and the other half spill out onto a brick patio under an extension of the metal roof. It’s a place where teachers, admins, and other school staff go to let their hair down on Fridays, especially after test week or just before a holiday break or the last day of school. I’ve been once or twice.

      It’s a dangerous place. When teachers drink, they start behaving in some pretty unprofessional ways. Secrets are revealed, unhealthy alliances are formed, and gossip flows in direct proportion to the beer.

      I learned quickly to limit my visits there. But it’s Christmas break, and I don’t pick up Kiki until morning, so what the L-M-NO-P.

      I e-mail an affirmative.

      When the last bell rings at two fifteen, the kids rush the classroom door. I wrapped up things during the movie, so I’m planning to leave almost as quickly. I’m shutting down my computer when Robert sticks his head in.

      “Hey,” he says. “Hope you have a nice Christmas.”

      I want to say, “You too,” but that seems all kinds of wrong. Instead I nudge the chair next to my desk with my foot and say, “Come on in. Talk to me for a minute.”

      He pulls the chair out a bit and drops into it, letting his backpack slide to the floor.

      “A rough holiday ahead, huh?” I say.

      “Yeah. Can’t say I’m looking forward to going home. Maybe I could just hang out with you for the next two weeks.”

      I smile and he smiles back. “It’s going to be okay, Robert. I know it’s hard, but . . .” I stop and shrug.

      “Hey, do you have a pencil and a piece of paper?”

      “Um, sure.”

      I scrounge around in my desk drawer for a Post-it pad and hand it over. He takes a pencil from the school mug on my desk and neatly writes a phone number on the Post-it and hands it to me. Then he says something that takes me by complete surprise:

      “That’s my cell number. You can call me if you want.”

      He gets up. I stand too. “Robert . . .” I’m not sure what I’m going to say, I just know that teachers don’t call students. Not this teacher. “I can’t call you. I’m sorry.” I hold the note out to him.

      “Mr. Gorman calls me all the time,” he says. “It’s no big deal.”

      I feel a little pang of something that I suspect might be jealousy. Stupid, really. Mr. Gorman is the band director. His relationship with kids is on an entirely different level. They spend long hours together on the practice field. I know he even drives the van to area and state solo and ensemble contests in Austin or Dallas or San Antonio. But still, I’m sure those calls are strictly band business.

      “I’m sorry,” I say again.

      He takes the note and shoves it in his pocket. He bites his lip again, the way I saw him do when he talked about the Christmas tree that I still don’t understand, and I think he looks embarrassed.

      “It’s okay,” he says softly. He turns and leaves.

      Shit.

      If someone were to ask me what it’s like to be a high school teacher, I’d have to say it’s like having one foot on a banana peel. The potential is always there for a slip . . . or a push. Part of that slippery nature is knowing where to draw the line sometimes, the one between student and teacher, the one that delineates mentor from friend. The one that says, I can go this far for you, but no more. Since I started teaching, I’ve drawn that line repeatedly. And I’ve moved it, a little this way, a little that, more times than I can count.

      But this is one of those immovable lines—teachers don’t call students to chat. They just don’t.

      Still, I can’t help feeling like I’ve just cut him loose and he’s going under, maybe for the first time, maybe the second, maybe the third. I just don’t know. I only know that the look on his face when I said no was one СКАЧАТЬ