“I know. Wahr has a fit.”
Salas said, “I heard she ignores the curriculum and just lectures. That doesn’t sound good.”
“You haven’t observed her, have you? Don’t do a drive by. Give her a half hour.”
“Can you send me your notes on her for this year? I need to get up to speed.”
“Sure. Check your e-mail later.” Leanny rubbed her forehead, as if she had a headache. “Theodore Remmick is waiting outside. Is he for you? His family lives on my street. They’re a piece of work.”
Salas sighed. “Yeah, send him in.”
“By the way, I heard you’re Wahr’s hit man now.”
“What?” He glanced guiltily at the folders the principal had given him.
“Wahr hands that duty off. He’s never fired anyone. The last time the school lost teachers, he gave it to the head counselor. Sorry it’s you. The counselor quit the next year. He worried he’d be asked to do it again.”
Salas shrugged. “What are you going to do? Send Remmick in, would you?”
Theodore Remmick has to be the smallest boy in the freshman class, thought Salas. The boy’s feet hovered above the floor as he sat in the chair by the round table where Salas talked to the discipline problems. Remmick’s nose was narrow, and his hair hung over his eyes as he looked down.
“Why a propane torch?” said Salas. “What were you going to do with it?”
Remmick said, “Did you know a cow didn’t kick over a lantern in the O’Leary’s barn to start the Chicago fire in 1871? Some newspaper guy invented the story to sell papers.” Remmick smiled without looking up. “Like a fire that killed 300 people needed a fabrication to be more interesting.”
Salas paused. Sometimes a kid would deny the accusation. Sometimes he rationalized or defended, or he wouldn’t speak at all. Talking nonsense introduced a new tactic.
“You know, a propane torch is a safety issue.”
“The fire burned so hot the roofs blocks away caught fire before the flames reached them. The fire jumped the Chicago River. That’s a big river. And it kept going. Started on Sunday morning and didn’t stop until Monday evening when the wind died and it rained.”
“What does this have to do with a propane torch? Were you going to burn something?”
Remmick brushed the hair off his forehead. His eyes were brown and clear. “From Lake Michigan’s shore, the sky above the city turned orange. Thousands of people fled to the lake. I saw flame tornadoes rising through the smoke, and it roared like a train.” He closed his eyes as if feeling heat on his face.
“Son, why’d you bring a propane torch to school?” Salas put the torch on his desk. It was tiny, a hobbiest’s tool, not much larger than a cigarette lighter.
“Project for class. Can I go now? I’m missing band.” He squirmed in his seat.
Salas looked at the boy thoughtfully. “They don’t have torches in the shop?”
“I’m not in shop. History. It’s a group assignment. I volunteered it.”
The discipline guide for the district didn’t list a propane torch in any category, so Salas decided to lump it under “item inappropriate for a school setting” on the action sheet. “A week lunch detention, and any project in the future that involves flame or explosions, assume you can’t do it.”
Remmick hopped from the chair, and then offered Salas his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Salas. I’ll keep it in mind.”
When the boy left, Salas shook his head. I could write a book, he thought for the umpteenth time in his education career.
The History department head, Mr. Young, really was young. The wall posters still hadn’t yellowed, and he flinched when he saw Salas at the door: a classic, inexperienced reaction. He had become the department head by arriving late at the meeting last spring, when the history teachers voted on who would attend the extra meetings and take charge of the departmental paperwork.
“According to the district pacing guidelines, the American History classes should be looking at the causes of WWI. If she’s only to 1871, she’s almost a half century behind.” Young ran his finger down the teaching objectives for the class. “They should know mutual defense alliances, nationalism, militarism and imperialism, and from the unit they will be able to discuss America’s emergence as a military and industrial power. They only get a week. We have to be to the Cold War by April’s end or the first week in May.” He thumbed open a section in the notebook. “We have two required benchmarks for the unit: a multiple choice test and a short essay question. I have the rubric for the essay if you’d like to see it.”
Salas tried to look interested. He remembered being 15 himself and his own tour through American History. He recalled biplanes from WWI, but nothing else, which made him think about Snoopy vs. the Red Baron. Of the classes he’d hated, history bored him the most. If it weren’t for sports eligibility, he’d never be motivated to pass.
Salas almost asked Young what he thought of Mrs. Hatcher, but he didn’t want to start rumors.
From the back, Hatcher’s classroom looked like most social studies rooms. She’d covered one wall in maps. Presidents and historical scenes covered the other wall. A long whiteboard stretched across the front. Book-filled cabinets stood behind him. He smelled dry erase markers and carpet cleaner as he leveraged himself into a student desk the right size for a 6th grader, maybe, but not comfortable for an adult.
Mrs. Hatcher stood beside her desk at the front, straightening papers—she’d waved when he walked in. Salas filled in the preliminary observations on the evaluation check list. Although Hatcher did have writing on her white board, Salas didn’t understand it. In one column were names: “DeKoven, Meagher, Catherine, Barber.” Then some presidents: “Harrison, Jackson, Adams, Monroe” Then some states: “Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Ontario.” Salas was pretty sure Ontario was in Canada. She’d written one sentence on the board: “It ends at Fullerton Ave.”
What Hatcher had not written were the class learning targets, which were required. Somewhere she should have posted what teaching standards the students were addressing for the day, and what they should be expected to do when the lesson ended. Salas had the WWI standards Young had given him, including, “I will be able to explain why America became involved in the First World War.”
Students trickled into the room, taking desks around Salas. Theodore Remmick came in, nodded in Salas’s direction, then found his place. A dark-haired girl who clearly didn’t know the dress code, dressed showing too much skin, sat in the desk in front of him. “You look pretty mature to be a freshman,” she said.
“Just a visit,” said Salas.
The tardy bell rang. Salas waited for tardy students so he could record Hatcher’s procedure with them, but students filled all the desks, and there were no tardies. Conversation buzzed in the room.
Hatcher started speaking without asking for the students to quit talking. Salas gave her a low mark in the “Commands student attention before beginning instruction” category.
“We’ve moved the Chicago Fire project to Saturday.” By the time she said “Saturday,” the room had grown quiet. “Can somebody bring a big box fan? I’ll provide the extension cord.”
A boy sitting underneath the covered wagons poster raised his hand.
“Thank you, Sean. Remember it’s at 10:00 in the back parking lot.” She stepped behind her podium. “We’re going to jump four years to 1876 today and talk about the Battle of the Greasy Grass, which some might recognize as the Indian name for the battle better known as Custer’s Last Stand.”