Catch Me When I Fall by Westerhof Patricia Page B

expressing glee at a fellow teacher’s embarrassment felt disloyal. They were all at peril.
    He hadn’t seen Eliza since the encounter in the staff room. She must be dreading Monday. It was hard enough going back to school after a weekend, like diving into a glacial lake.
    He wandered back into his bedroom. CNN had moved onto Pakistan now. Turmoil there. He should have signed up for active duty instead of the Reserves, or become a Canadian peacekeeper, guarding an orphanage in Sierra Leone as a friend of his was doing. Stan had discussed the idea with Ron after Lucy’s memorial service. “Probably easier than teaching history to teenagers,” Ron said.
    â€œMore heroic too,” Stan had added.
    â€œWell, you don’t go into teaching for the strokes.”
    No kidding. Occasionally, students grew animated when he recounted famous battles, and the keener ones asked about stratagems, or the impact of new technology on fighting. But most of them smacked their gum and doodled on their binders.
    He turned off the TV . Maybe he should change careers. Not so much give up as change tactics. Apply for that military training development position he and Lucy had talked about. Teach soldiers instead of civilians. He was only thirty-five: there were a lot of years left to fill.
    Back in the spare room he turned on his computer. Maybe he could download an application form online. His Google homepage appeared on the screen. He remembered he’d been meaning to Google himself, ever since Bill Downey in the art department said that students searched online for dirt on their teachers. Did Stan even exist in the virtual world? He typed his name.
    His fingers massaged his forehead as his eyes journeyed down the screen. An American millionaire. A best-selling author. An accountant. Finally, on the bottom of page three, he found himself: The Wolf Creek School Board—List of Teachers . Page four again contained information only about the flourishing Stanley Ellises, mostly the millionaire. But halfway down page five was a site called Rate Your Teacher . He clicked on it. A page appeared entitled Poplar Grove High School with an alphabetical list of teachers. His heart quickened. He hadn’t known such a thing existed. Would there be some confirmation of his efforts in the classroom? It might ease the despondency he was feeling lately. He scrolled down. Next to his name was a smiley face, except that its mouth was a straight line. An unsmiley face. He clicked again.
    â€œHas good lessons but cares more about famous dead generals than students.”
    â€œHe gave me a D on my essay. It was an opinion essay. How can an opinion get a D?”
    â€œGood class if you like history,” said the last entry.
    Stan blinked at the screen. He reread the last comment. It was really very positive. And after all, people used these sites to vent. For every student complaining about him online, there were probably a dozen who thought he was doing an excellent job. Students who had better things to do than rate their teachers.
    He returned to the main page and peered at his colleagues’ names. The face next to Eliza’s name sported sunglasses—and a smile. Goofy-looking. When he clicked, at least two dozen comments popped onto his screen.
    â€œMiss Zylstra is so cool. On a bad day u talk to her and u r fine again.”
    â€œShe really cares about you and your problems.”
    â€œShe’s a grate teacher.”
    â€œMiss Z. rox!!”
    Stan shook his head. An English teacher whose students couldn’t spell. He read the most recent addition. “I might have killed myself over the Christmas holidays if it wasn’t for Miss Z. Not kidding.”
    He left the computer on and walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, removed a can of Guinness, sat down at the table, and took a long swig. He righted the plastic soldier still lying on the table, then removed the rest of the soldiers from their