Twisted River by Siobhan MacDonald

sleeves. He was reading the
Wall Street Journal
. As he scrolled through the pages on his tablet, a flashing ad caught her eye—a Discover Ireland tourist ad. She smiled. The collage of images might have been updated but it was the selfsame palette of photos over the decades—dusted off and recycled to show green fields, smiling faces, sheer cliff faces, and the ubiquitous pints of Guinness. “Come to Ireland for the craic,” it invited. No mention, of course, of the empty coffers or the IMF being in town.
    As the train swayed and shuddered, she shut her eyes, allowing the briefly glimpsed electronic images to take her on a journey back to Ireland. It was fifteen years since she’d left, not long after her mother’s funeral, her sense of family blown away, disintegrated. She felt as fragile now as she did then. She remembered walking down that pathway from the house on O’Callaghan Strand, realizing that she was an orphan. The river was full that day, threatening to breakits banks. She remembered getting into the taxi and looking over her shoulder one last time at the FOR SALE sign staked at the entrance. She had closed the door on one life and entered another.
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    â€œStand back, sir! I am asking you one more time to stand back. You there . . . get in line!”
    A zealous police officer was barking at the straggling line of students.
    â€œFace furniture off,” the squat officer shouted at Sabrina King. Nonplussed, Sabrina King stared straight ahead and tossed her outsize earrings into the plastic tray next to the metal detector. The plastic tray was already brimming with an assortment of potential classroom weaponry.
    Behind Sabrina was Beatrice Obande, earnest and compliant. Hazel admired Beatrice for withstanding the aggravation she had to put up with. Hazel seethed with the deep unfairness of it all. Her own kids were attending a private, well-run, safe school. Beatrice wanted to learn, to better herself. She didn’t want to end up in a penitentiary like her brothers. And this is how she got her education, going through a metal detector every day, treated like a criminal. There was no doubt about it. The regime at this Impact School was harsh, the penalties severe. Three strikes and you were out.
    As Hazel hurried past the metal detector, flashing her ID badge, the police officer gave her more than a cursory glance. Jay Mahoney stared at her as he lumbered past. Hazel’s pulse began to quicken. He stared at her in that sneering way he had, flint-eyed and fearless. She quickly ran through her timetable again in her head. She had Jay second period after lunch.
    â€œYour old man keeping you in line, then, Miss Harvey?” taunted Gumbo Hernandez as he passed her on the stairs.
    Oh, no!
    How was she going to get through this day?
    And yet Hazel had to remember why she did this. Why she taught in this school. Sure, she’d steadfastly ignored all the advice she’dreceived. But she had to have faith in herself, in her convictions. Gripping the handrail and taking the stairs more purposefully, she told herself again why she did it. For the kids like Beatrice Obande. And the kids like Tyler Black and Shauna Doherty, two more students she liked to think of as her protégées.
    At first, Hazel delighted in the degree of latitude she’d been given with her lesson plans. But her early attempts had failed.
The Great Gatsby
was a total failure. She’d been naïve. What possible resonance could these students have with a version of ancient society that was all white, college educated, and swanned about in mansions? She’d tried Shakespeare,
The Merchant of Venice
. Would the notion of a money lender wanting a pound of flesh strike a chord with them? “Man, they sure spoke like faggots back in the day” was the response she got. Next they did
The Pearl
by Steinbeck. Surely these kids would identify with Kino, the