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The stretch of Highway 100 between Jeromeville and Nueces was called westbound on signs, but the road ran diagonally, almost at a 45 degree angle to the four cardinal directions. As I drove west on Highway 100 toward Nueces, where I would turn south to go to work on the outskirts of Fairview, I was actually heading southwest.
I was approaching the end of a two and half mile stretch with no exits or overpasses, just past Silvey, when I saw brake lights ahead. No, I thought. I did not want to deal with this today. I moved to the right lane and slowed to a crawl with the rest of the traffic, but the next off-ramp was coming up soon, and I had looked at enough maps of the area to know other ways to get where I needed to be. The way I had in mind was slightly longer, south for a few miles, then west for a few miles until I got to Jorgensen Road, where I would have turned off of 100 to begin with. But if 100 was as backed up as it looked, this way might be faster.
I headed south on this two-lane back road, through more of the same kind of agricultural land I saw from the freeway. This road ended in a T-intersection at a road whose name I recognized; this road intersected my usual route, so I was going the right way. I turned right. Pointed this direction, ahead of me rose the Nueces Mountains, a ridge about two thousand feet high along the west end of the large Capital Valley. The sun was just rising behind me, and the light hit the mountains at just the correct angle so that I could see the bushes and trees clearly against the brown grass that covered the mountains. I had never really noticed the mountains from this angle before. Often they just looked blue-gray in the distance, not being lit by direct sunlight. The radio station, the pop-rock station from Capital City, was playing “Smooth” by Santana, one of the biggest hits of the year and a great all-around song. This was a good drive. I would have to come this way again sometime when I was not in a hurry.
I turned left at the stoplight at Jorgensen Road and continued toward work. I arrived, went through my morning routine, and sat in the teacher lunch room working on lesson plans for next week until it was time to go to room E for period 2 Basic Math A. Mrs. Cervantes had a class in room E first period, which is why I usually spent that time in the lunch room. Most of the teachers at Jorgensen High School had classes in different rooms, so that every room would be used every period. I hated sharing rooms, not having a quiet space of my own to work when I did not have a class, but I was told that schools around here were so crowded that this had become the norm.
I got to room E just as Mrs. Cervantes was finishing her class, and after she left, during the passing period, I stood at the desk watching the students file into the classroom. TJ Phelps, a skater stoner kid, walked in the door noisily, shouting at someone outside the room. As he walked to his seat, I saw Jared Silva, who was not in this class, poke his head in the door. Jared shouted, “TJ’s gay!” and ran off. I walked across the room and looked outside, annoyed, but Jared was long gone. I knew him from when I taught summer school; he called me some horrible names during that time, so this behavior was not at all surprising coming from him.
I walked back to my desk and pulled out a referral form. As I was filling it out, Will Bentley, another student who had been talking loudly, asked, “Am I getting a referral?”
“No, but please go back to your seat.”
“What happened?”
“Jared Silva just opened the door and shouted something inappropriate, then ran off.”
TJ’s eyes grew wide. He looked at me with his mouth agape and said, “You know Jared?”
“Yes,” I replied, rolling my eyes. Was it really that surprising that a teacher would know the name of a student not in this class? Of course, Jorgensen was a large enough school that it was not a given that every teacher knew every student. But somehow it had never occurred to these students that teachers know other students, or that we talk about students.
Later that period, after I finished teaching the lesson, I gave the class time to start the assignment at the end of the period. “Man, why do we have to have so much homework?” Will whined.
“You really don’t,” I said. “You have a normal amount of homework. And you can get some of it done now, during class.”
“I heard in New Jersey, it’s illegal to give more than an hour of homework every day,” TJ shared. I somehow doubted that this was true.
“New Jersey? Where’s that?” Will asked. I had to restrain myself from smacking my head. Seriously? This kid had never heard of New Jersey?
“It’s, like, by New York,” TJ replied.
“Sounds good! I’m moving to New York!” Will announced. Good luck with that, I thought, since New Jersey state laws would not apply in New York.
A few of the students actually used this time to do the work, some of them sat there quietly doing nothing, and some of them were talking about things that were off topic. TJ and Will were in that last category. Each one of them had a paper on his desk with his name on it; TJ had done one problem, and Will had done none. I walked by, passing out homework that I had graded yesterday, just as TJ was telling Will, “Last night I got home and I had to take a shit–”
“Watch your language, TJ,” I snapped as I walked past.
“I had to take a poop,” TJ said. I continued walking around the classroom, trying to hold back laughter at the fact that this wanna-be tough guy just said “poop.”
“Why didn’t I get credit for this?” Will asked, holding up the paper I had just passed back to him.
“Because you copied the answers from the back of the book.”
“No I didn’t!”
“For one thing, you didn’t show any work. Also, all the even-numbered problems are missing, and the back of the book only has the answers for the odd-numbered problems for you to check. And here on number 21, you wrote ‘Answers May Vary.’”
“I did the problem.”
“Then why does it say ‘Answers May Vary?’”
“Because that’s what I got when I did the problem!”
“If you’re going to copy answers from the back of the book, at least make sure you know what the words mean,” I suggested sarcastically.
“I’m gonna tell the principal you’re being unfair,” Will threatened. “I can’t wait to drop out of this stupid school next year and get my GED so I don’t have to deal with stupid teachers!”
“Go ahead. And you can explain to Mr. Harbison how you got an answer of ‘Answers May Vary’ too.”
After the bell rang and most of the rest of the students left, Niki Wade, the girl whose friend had embarrassed her in front of me at the football game earlier in the year, walked up to me and said, “Don’t take it personally. Will gives all his teachers crap. He was like that in middle school too.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“I’ve known him since he moved here in third grade. He said once that he was hit by a police car, and his family sued, so he has all this money from that, and he’ll get the money as soon as he turns eighteen. So he knows he doesn’t have to do well in school.”
“Interesting. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Have a great day, Mr. Dennison!” Niki said as she left to go to her next class. Niki was a little unfocused, and math was not her strong point, but she was much kinder than Will, not mean-spirited like many others in that class. If what she said about Will was true, I felt sorry for him, because once he got control of that money, he would probably end up blowing it all on booze and hookers in a month, and then he would be left even worse off than he was before.
At lunch time, instead of going straight to the teacher lunch room, I stopped by the office and found Mr. Harbison. I handed him the referral I had filled out for Jared and told him what Jared had done. He said that they would call him in.
I then turned back to the lunch room. On the way, I passed by a large red-haired girl who looked at me and smiled. “Hi, Mr. Dennison!” she exclaimed, waving. I smiled awkwardly and said hi back, trying to hide my confusion over the fact that I had no idea who this girl was. Why was she saying hi to me? She definitely was not in any of my classes. It was not that unusual that she knew my name; she might have had friends who were in my class. When I was in school, I knew the names of most of the teachers at my school, even the ones I had never taken a class from. But even so, why was she saying hi to me? Had I met her before and forgotten? I was not sure.
My sixth and seventh period geometry classes met in room C-6. I was walking around the room in the middle of period 6 when a girl named Lily Ford raised her hand. I walked over, and she proclaimed, “I don’t get any of this.”
I can tell that you don’t, I thought. You have straight Fs on all the quizzes and tests so far, and you never do your work. Out loud, I simply said, “What’s the problem asking you to do?”
“Find x.”
“And what is x? Where do you see x?”
“This side right here is 3x + 1.” She pointed at this expression in her book.
“That’s not a side. That’s an angle.”
“Whatever.”
“What do you know about this triangle?”
“That’s 3 inches, and that’s also 3 inches,” Lily explained, pointing. “So is x also 3 inches?”
“That’s an angle. Angles aren’t measured in inches.”
“Huh?”
“What can you tell me about angles?”
“Nothing. That’s why I asked you.”
“I need to continue teaching. Can you come after school?”
“I’m already going to talk to Mr. Johnson after school today about science.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“I got basketball practice every night,” Lily explained. “Can I come ask for help after practice?”
“What time is that?”
“Like, about eight.”
“Eight o’clock at night?” I asked, incredulously.
“Yeah.”
“I’m not here that late! I’m only required to stay for half an hour after seventh period.”
“But you’re a teacher. It’s your job to help me.”
And it’s your job to pay attention in class, and take notes, and do your homework, I thought. How rude to ask me to give up at least five hours of my evening when you don’t even try. Out loud, I just said, “Start by looking up ‘angle’ in the glossary. Then read this example.” I pointed to a worked-out example similar to the problem she was asking about as I continued, “And talk to your coach and see if you can come after school to get help. I’m sure your coach wants you to keep your grades up so you’re eligible to play on the school team.”
“Coach won’t let me,” Lily said.
At this point I was too frustrated to let this conversation continue. “Let’s talk about this later,” I said. “I need to continue teaching. Take notes and pay attention; that’s the first step.” And the second step is coming after school to ask for help, I thought. And you’ll have plenty of time to do that once you get kicked off the basketball team for your grades. I was not a big fan of labor unions and their influence in politics, especially in this state, but I was sure that the teacher’s union that I was required to pay dues to would back me up on this if anyone tried to force me to work at eight o’clock at night.
I left school just before four o’clock, following a twenty-minute catnap at my desk and the grading and recording of the work I collected today. I got into the car, and the same radio station I had been listening to during the morning drive came on. The station was playing “Smooth” by Santana, again, and I sang along. After that, the station went to a commercial, so I reached over to the preset radio buttons to see what else was on. The next station I checked played classic rock, and when I flipped over to that station, they were also playing Smooth. This song was released in 1999, featuring vocals by Rob Thomas of Matchbox Twenty, a band that been popular in recent years. But Santana’s biggest hits came in the early 1970s, so this song had cross-generational appeal, and it got played both on classic rock stations and on stations that played contemporary popular music.
After being stuck at a long red light on Jorgensen Road, I eventually got back to Highway 100 and headed east. I passed the spot where traffic had slowed down this morning; traffic was moving smoothly by now, and I could not see anything that indicated what had been going on this morning. A song I did not recognize came on, so I flipped over to a different station, another pop-rock station, but this one was from Bay City. “One Week” by Barenaked Ladies was on. I sang along to the best of my ability, although the lyrics went so fast that I still did not know all the words. After this, I heard the unmistakable opening drums and guitar notes of Smooth. This song was everywhere these days. I liked the song, but whenever a song got played this much, it risked losing its appeal due to overplaying.
Traffic slowed down as I approached Jeromeville, but I was taking the first Jeromeville exit, Highway 117 north, and an additional exit-only lane began about a mile before the exit, so I moved into that lane, where traffic was moving at normal speed. Whatever caused this backup was on Highway 100, not 117. The radio station went to a commercial just as I turned onto the ramp to 117, so I started flipping around the preset stations again. My button number 6 was a top 40-style pop station from Capital City, and I laughed because this station was playing Smooth. This had to be some kind of record. I had never heard the same song four times on four different stations within half an hour before.
Later that night, I had Bible study at Darren and Katrina Ng’s house. As I walked in, Katrina was telling Tabitha Sasaki, “I sat in the waiting room for almost an hour today.” I walked to a chair in the living room and put my Bible down on it. “Hey, Greg,” she said. “Welcome.”
“Thanks,” I replied, sitting down to listen to the rest of Katrina’s story.
“Hi, Greg,” Tabitha said, waving at me. Then she turned to Katrina and asked, “So did you ever get called for your appointment?”
“I finally spoke up, and the receptionist went to find out what happened, and it turned out the dental assistant came to get me when it was time for my appointment, but she saw I was the only one in the waiting room, and she figured there was no way that this skinny blonde American girl could be ‘Katrina Ng.’ I mean, shouldn’t she at least check? It didn’t occur to her that I might be married and using my husband’s last name?”
“Right. That’s kind of rude,” Tabitha said. “Greg, how was your day?”
“Kind of stressful,” I said. I told the story about Will copying the answers.
“He actually put ‘Answers May Vary’ on his paper?” Tabitha asked, incredulously.
“Not only that,” I explained, “but he tried to defend it, to claim that he did the problem and that was his answer. He didn’t even know what ‘Answers May Vary’ meant.”
Shannon Dailey joined the circle with a bowl of some kind of round meatball-sized appetizers that looked like bread. “I made chicken balls,” she explained. “My grandma used to make these back home in Alabama, and I asked her for the recipe.”
She passed the bowl to me, and I took one, trying to figure out exactly where the chicken was. “What are these?” I asked.
“Chicken balls.”
“Where’s the chicken? What are chicken balls?”
“You see,” Darren explained sarcastically, “there are boy chickens and girl chickens.” The others laughed.
“I know that,” I replied. “Boy chickens have chicken balls, and girl chickens have chicken breasts. I was just wondering where the chicken was here.”
“Inside,” Shannon explained.
I took a bite of the chicken ball, and inside the round ball of bread was a small piece of chicken soaked in some kind of gravy. “Mmm,” I said. “This is good.”
“We were going to talk about having a Thanksgiving potluck two weeks from now,” Clint Ryland, who co-led the group with Tabitha, said. “I think Shannon is going to be bringing chicken balls for an appetizer.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
After we sang a few worship songs, I had another chicken ball as we took turns reading from the Epistle of James. This week we were reading from chapter 2, verses 14 through 26. “Any initial thoughts?” Clint asked after we finished reading.
“Verse 17, the really well known verse from this chapter,” Ajeet Tripathi, Shannon’s boyfriend whom I had known for a long time, said. “‘In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.’ I mean, I don’t disagree with that. It’s good to act on your faith. But it seems like it goes against what Paul said in Romans, where you are justified by faith.”
“Good point,” Clint said.
“I’ve thought about this before,” I explained. “Paul is trying to say that it was Jesus dying on the cross that saved us, not anything we can do. Not even following the Jewish customs. But James is saying that, if we truly are saved, if we truly have put our faith in Jesus and his death on the cross, then we are going to do good things in his name in response to that gift of salvation. The good works don’t get us into heaven, but doing good works makes our faith real, not just empty talk.”
“Exactly,” Tabitha agreed. “That’s what I always thought too.”
We continued discussing the finer points of James’ writing for about another half hour, then we spent some time praying for each other. I asked for prayer that I would be patient with students who misbehaved and did not care about their future.
After I left my job at Jorgensen High, I never heard from Will or TJ or Niki or Lily again. I do not know what happened to any of them. I really do hope that Will figured out how to live a productive life, and that he did not end up blowing his entire trust fund on pointless pursuits. In contrast, the red-haired girl who randomly said hi to me continued to do so throughout the year, and we have stayed in touch ever since, even though I never learned her name until the last day of that school year when she asked if she could sign my yearbook. She and I became good friends after she graduated, hanging out as friends a few times over the years. In 2012, she became the first person whom I had met as a student at a school where I worked to invite me to her wedding. She told me years later that she always said hi to teachers she had not had, because she liked seeing the confusion on our faces.
Smooth remains to this day the only song I have ever heard four times on the radio within half an hour. It was such a good song, though, that I never got to a point where it felt annoyingly overplayed.
Although today was a fairly difficult day, I just kept reminding myself that all of what I was going through was normal, and that things would get better. Many high school students generally did not respect new teachers, especially when we were only a few years older than them. I just had to be patient and remember that these students were not like me. They did not like learning new things. They were not motivated to do their best and go to a four-year university right after high school. Some of them did not have supportive parents or a comfortable living situation. All I could do was the best I could with what I had.
Readers: Now only 10 episodes left! (This number is subject to change, because while I have a broad outline of the rest of the story, some of my ideas may get edited out, and I may find a need to add or delete an episode or two.)
What was the dumbest way you ever heard someone try to explain themselves out of a lie? Tell me about it in the comments. Answers may vary.
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