The science teacher had moved here from a different state, one with big lakes and factories. He was new at the school too. We were the two new teachers. Apparently science teachers were equally hard to find-he was the son of the boss’s college roommate, and he’d assembled all the factory items he could stand, and then drove out of his city in a truck. His name was Mr. Smith, but he didn’t look like a Mr. Smith-it was an interesting name for him since his features were un-Smithlike, large and drooping, the features of harsh winters and heavy-duty politics.
He got in trouble right away, because he did an experiment where he split his groups of students and told half the class to talk to their house plants kindly and the other half to talk to them abusively, cussing and insulting the plant, to see if tone and content made any difference in levels of growth. The kids assigned to cuss were thrilled beyond belief until Mimi Lunelle’s mother found her daughter telling the bathroom fern it was a shame on the family’s name and to fucking go to bed thirsty.
Where did you learn to speak like that?! she demanded, horrified, and Mimi shrugged and then flicked the feathery leaves of the fern hard
with her fingernails. Bitch, she said to the roots. She was sent straight to bed. Mrs. Lunelle called up the big boss. The science teacher was talked to, at length-first by boss, then by parents-and the experiment was halted. He was relegated to simpler projects involving salt crystals and build — your-own- atom kits.
I figured he was the school’s problem teacher. I myself had had an excellent first week of teaching. I had it down. I was queen and countess. I was turning twenty in a week, and at nineteen felt I was the winner of the worldwide teaching contest, secretly judged behind closet doors and one-way mirrors.
The beginning of my unraveling started with that science teacher, on a Friday afternoon. Earlier in the day had been the first tricky Numbers and Materials we’d had so far, beginning with Elmer Gravlaki crawling out from under the table right before the bell rang with a 12 made of wood sitting atop the palm of his hand. It was cut perfectly to shape.
When do I go? he asked.
End of class, I told him. Hang on.
After drills and workbooks, I called Elmer to the front. He was fidgety, but held his wooden 12 up high, running his hand over the slope of the!2.
My dad is the address maker here, he said. He makes addresses.
Elmer brought the 12 down to chest level. Nobody lives at this address, he said.
The class watched. 12 — 0 = 12, he said. 1 2 — 1 11.
Danny shot a rubber band at Elmer.
Stop, Danny, I said.
What? he said, eyes dewy brown at me. Danny had a big-time pushover mother.
Up front, Elmer’s eyes were watering. 12 — 3 = 9, he quivered.
Danny threw a button at his head. I was about to put Danny’s name up on the board when Elmer, voice wavering like a teakettle, said: Danny, stop. I know where you live.
Danny’s forehead raised. You do not, he said. Elmer, clutching his 12, swallowed and came out with 144 Main Street. The wood 12 was tottering in his palm, but Danny, who had a paper clip all set to throw, suddenly put it down, hearing those numbers (apparently the right ones) that marked where he slept every night. I was impressed. This was a fine armor for Elmer.
Well, where do YOU live? Ann DiLanno asked Elmer.
We’re unlisted, he said, rubbing his palm over the 1. Squirming up at the chalkboard, he did a few more and then sat, standing the number on his desk so it looked like he lived there. I knocked on it when I walked by, and Elmer smiled happily, as if I were knocking on the door to his unlisted house.
Little did he know.
His presentation went very fast. Lisa said good job. He blushed, and then Ann DiLanno said she had one too.
Okay, I said, well, I guess we can have two today since Elmer’s was so quick.
Ann stood up, smiling kind of meanly, and walked to the chalkboard.
Here, she said, throwing out her hands. A 3.
The class was looking around, at her fingers, at the floor. I see no 3, said Lisa.
4 It’s a 3 made of nothing, Ann said.
Oh that doesn’t COUNT, said Elmer. I can do more with my 12, he said, suddenly brave now that he was done.
8 Nothing is a material, Ann said.
gm Of Sort of, I said. Try again. You can go next week, Ann. Look around your house for something that looks like a number. Be creative! I said.
I’m going next week, said Mimi Lunelle. Hey Elmer, said Lisa, where do I live?
Look, Ann said, 3 — 3 = o. Ta da! It’s magic. She twirled her ponytail with her index finger.
Lisa and Danny said, There’s nothing there! and Ann was nodding smugly, and then they were out of their desks, ready to go feel her 3 of air or break it, and someone shoved someone and I had to write three names on the board. Waited to put check marks. Two check marks meant you would have to sit out at recess, on a bench, for fifteen minutes. Ann sat, and keeping her voice flat said it counted, it was a number and a material. She told Lisa to stop staring at her. I’m staring at nothing, Lisa said.
The bell rang and most of the class ran out.
Elmer lovingly packed up his 12. He turned to Lisa. You live at the hospital, he said.
I cleaned up my room during recess and taught my next classes, head full of thoughts about how to get Ann interested in Numbers and Materials. I stayed later than usual, stacking workbooks, but when I stepped out of my classroom to leave, I nearly tripped over John Beeze, in a ball on the hall floor, rolling back and forth and moaning.
Ooohh, he said.
John, I said, hey, are you all right? He made a groaning sound.
I knelt down. What’s wrong? I asked. Oh, you don’t look too good. Is your mom at the butcher shop? Let me go call her right now.
He groaned again and then whimpered in a reedy voice, No don’t, he said, I’m fine, he said.
I put a hand on his forehead; he felt warm. John Beeze was rarely sick and was the kind of kid who fell ten feet from a swinging swing onto cement, stood up after one second, and ran across grass to Rip over the slide.
I’m calling your mom, I said.
He clung to my sleeve. Don’t, he said. It’s scurvy, he said.
I blinked. What?
Scurvy, he whispered again. His eyes were half-shut and his cheeks were reddening.
You don’t have scurvy, I said. I took my hand off his forehead.
Only sailors get scurvy, I said. Who told you scurvy?
He watched me with big wet eyes and I saw a tear slide sideways down his cheek, cutting a line lighter than his skin tone down to his ear.
I stood. I’ll be right back, I said, I’ll just get her on the phone and she can take you to the doctor today.
He clung to my leg but I unpicked myself and headed to the kitchen area where the phone was. I’d never seen John like this and was thinking wash your hands, wash your hands, when I tripped over Ann DiLanno.
She was curled up in a ball too, on her side, breathing in shallow gasps.
Epidemic. Ann, I said, what is going on? Are you okay?
Oh Ms. Gray, she said, oooohhh.
I felt her forehead too. She, in contrast, felt all too cool.
Stay here, I said, don’t move, I’ll call your mother too. Go ask the art teacher for some water; drink water. Drink fluids.
I have croup, she said, rasping low. You’re delirious, I said.
Don’t move.
I wondered now if Ann had done that 3of — nothing in a fit of fever, and I was feeling bad for criticizing her, and I was almost at the kitchen when I spotted two more: Elmer and Danny, flapping their bodies back and forth, heads lolling, necks too loose.