don’t see why you’d have to drop tennis. Just come to eighth period like a normal class, which is what it is, and then go on from there to rehearsal. You’ll miss the extra tennis practice and maybe a few tournaments, but that’s no big deal. Didn’t Coach Fred tell you that?”
“Yeah, he did. It’s Ms. Wales. She doesn’t want me showing up ten minutes late because I’ve taken a shower, but she also doesn’t want me coming on time but being sweaty. She says I’ll have to be putting on costumes.”
“But tennis is a class. You can’t just drop it.”
“I told her that, but she said I could take it in the spring or next year to get the gym credit. Or even better take something that practiced earlier.” McKenzie looked miserable.
I could feel my own temperature rising, and it had nothing to do with the heat in the hallways. That bitch, Nancy Wales. I could almost hear Laura’s voice in my head. Couldn’t wait to tell Laura this one.
Out loud, I said, “So what did Coach Fred tell you?”
“He said he’d talk to Ms. Wales and work it out. But now…” She trailed off.
The anxieties of a high school freshman. So intense, so painful, and in this case, so entirely justified. Nancy Wales was the worst teacher in the school, not because she didn’t know her subject but because she was a bully. Kids who had talent got parts, yes, but only if they were part of Nancy’s inner circle. And she only liked the kids she could control. Stand up to her or question her in any way, and you were out. Every year parents lined up outside Larry Gonzales office to complain, and every year he did absolutely nothing about it. From his point of view, the drama department was a well-oiled machine, consistently winning awards at the district competitions. And unlike other departments, they never had any infighting among the teachers, mostly because it was just Nancy and her toady Roland Wilding, who was a world-class ass-kisser.
I took another look at McKenzie. She must have an amazing voice to have been chosen for a role as a freshman. Even more unusual, she must also have her head on straight if she wanted to stay on the tennis team instead of just caving to Nancy’s ridiculous pressure. My respect for the girl rose a notch.
“I’ll go and talk with her,” I said. “She can’t expect you to give up tennis, especially since you won’t have to come to the after-school practices while you are rehearsing. I’ll work it out with her.”
She looked both relieved and anxious, and I could tell she didn’t entirely believe I could make good on that promise. Which was reasonable, because I didn’t entirely believe it myself. I’d never yet had a battle with Nancy, but I’d heard the war stories from the other teachers. Especially Laura, who butted heads with her every year over the use of the stage.
When the final bell rang, I returned to the tennis courts to meet the rest of the team and gave them a shortened version of the same speech, telling them that practice would begin for real the next day. They scattered like cockroaches, a few running to catch the buses, the rest rushing toward the student parking lot. I watched them go, wondering what I was getting myself into. If things had gone according to plan, I would already be home, stretched out on the couch in the air-conditioning, maybe going over the next day’s lesson plan, maybe just reading a good book. The tennis shed, with its closed door, was a grim reminder that I should be counting my blessings instead of my annoyances. I stared at it, wondering whom I should contact about the tape and seal. Detective Gallagher sprang to mind.
Like a salmon swimming up an exceptionally crowded stream, a big Crown Victoria inched its way up the school drive, braking every few seconds to avoid kids heedlessly streaming across its path. At last it turned into the side parking lot and rolled to a stop beside me. Detective Gallagher got out, reflective sunglasses hiding
“Yeah, he did. It’s Ms. Wales. She doesn’t want me showing up ten minutes late because I’ve taken a shower, but she also doesn’t want me coming on time but being sweaty. She says I’ll have to be putting on costumes.”
“But tennis is a class. You can’t just drop it.”
“I told her that, but she said I could take it in the spring or next year to get the gym credit. Or even better take something that practiced earlier.” McKenzie looked miserable.
I could feel my own temperature rising, and it had nothing to do with the heat in the hallways. That bitch, Nancy Wales. I could almost hear Laura’s voice in my head. Couldn’t wait to tell Laura this one.
Out loud, I said, “So what did Coach Fred tell you?”
“He said he’d talk to Ms. Wales and work it out. But now…” She trailed off.
The anxieties of a high school freshman. So intense, so painful, and in this case, so entirely justified. Nancy Wales was the worst teacher in the school, not because she didn’t know her subject but because she was a bully. Kids who had talent got parts, yes, but only if they were part of Nancy’s inner circle. And she only liked the kids she could control. Stand up to her or question her in any way, and you were out. Every year parents lined up outside Larry Gonzales office to complain, and every year he did absolutely nothing about it. From his point of view, the drama department was a well-oiled machine, consistently winning awards at the district competitions. And unlike other departments, they never had any infighting among the teachers, mostly because it was just Nancy and her toady Roland Wilding, who was a world-class ass-kisser.
I took another look at McKenzie. She must have an amazing voice to have been chosen for a role as a freshman. Even more unusual, she must also have her head on straight if she wanted to stay on the tennis team instead of just caving to Nancy’s ridiculous pressure. My respect for the girl rose a notch.
“I’ll go and talk with her,” I said. “She can’t expect you to give up tennis, especially since you won’t have to come to the after-school practices while you are rehearsing. I’ll work it out with her.”
She looked both relieved and anxious, and I could tell she didn’t entirely believe I could make good on that promise. Which was reasonable, because I didn’t entirely believe it myself. I’d never yet had a battle with Nancy, but I’d heard the war stories from the other teachers. Especially Laura, who butted heads with her every year over the use of the stage.
When the final bell rang, I returned to the tennis courts to meet the rest of the team and gave them a shortened version of the same speech, telling them that practice would begin for real the next day. They scattered like cockroaches, a few running to catch the buses, the rest rushing toward the student parking lot. I watched them go, wondering what I was getting myself into. If things had gone according to plan, I would already be home, stretched out on the couch in the air-conditioning, maybe going over the next day’s lesson plan, maybe just reading a good book. The tennis shed, with its closed door, was a grim reminder that I should be counting my blessings instead of my annoyances. I stared at it, wondering whom I should contact about the tape and seal. Detective Gallagher sprang to mind.
Like a salmon swimming up an exceptionally crowded stream, a big Crown Victoria inched its way up the school drive, braking every few seconds to avoid kids heedlessly streaming across its path. At last it turned into the side parking lot and rolled to a stop beside me. Detective Gallagher got out, reflective sunglasses hiding
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