thirty-six

Yeah, I probably should have trained.

I mean, it’s one thing to put on the grand theatrics, but it’s another thing entirely to actually do the work. Which, apparently, I never thought of.

Mr. Dushane is standing above me. As is Shelli, Jenny Schnittgrund, and Charlie Russell. There is grave concern.

“Anika, Anika, can you hear me . . . ?”

“Anika, don’t go into the light!”

(That’s gotta be Shelli.)

Suddenly, the blurry circles around me turn into heads and Mr. Dushane is stooped over me like a terrified turtle.

“Anika. Are you okay? What day is this?”

Oh, this is gonna be fun. . . .

“Wha? What . . . ? Apple.”

Mr. Dushane panics. He turns the kids away. This is too important for Charlie, Shelli, or the Oompa-Loompa. He can’t have witnesses.

“Anika. What month is it? Do you know what month it is . . . ?”

I wait. I look at him.

“Taco?”

Mr. Dushane is officially losing his shit.

“Anika, I want you to think. I want you to really think. Where are we? What state do we live in . . . Can you remember what state . . . ?”

Pause.

“Cleveland.”

Now Mr. Dushane is practically crying. I am not kidding. He is seeing his bank account shrink, his house full of moving boxes, and his wife leaving him for the realtor. Okay, I can’t take it. The guy’s a dick, but even I am not that diabolical.

“It’s Nebraska. We’re in Nebraska.”

“That’s right! We’re in Nebraska!”

Never has anyone been that excited to say that sentence in American history.

“And you’re Mr. Dushane. And there’s Shelli . . . and Charlie . . . and Jenny . . .”

I’m just copying the end of The Wizard of Oz, here, by the way. Just straight up plagiarizing.

“That’s right, Anika. We’re all here. We’re all here for you, okay?”

I can see Shelli over Mr. Dushane’s shoulders and she knows exactly what I’m up to. She knows me. She knows and she is doing everything in her power to keep from laughing.

“Mr. Dushane, did I finish . . . ? Did I finish the six-hundred-yard dash?!”

I might as well be asking if I saved the world. If I thwarted the Nazis. If we won State.

“Please, Mr. Dushane. Please . . . tell me the truth . . .”

“Um. Anika. I’m afraid you didn’t finish. You passed out.”

“I can do it! Out of my way!”

And with this, I attempt a measly, totally pathetic attempt to rise to my feet.

“No, Anika, NO!”

Mr. Dushane thwarts my noble plan and sets me back down, gently.

“Anika. You don’t have to. You’ve done enough.”

And now it’s speech time. Now he’s playing to the class.

“I think we’ve all learned something here today.”

Oh my God, you should see Shelli’s face.

“I think Anika has proved to all of us that you never give up, no matter what . . . No. Matter. What.”

The class is looking on, completely apathetic.

“And you know what, Anika. I’m gonna remember this. I’m gonna remember that today . . . today, you were the teacher.”

It’s really hard for me to keep a straight face at this particular moment.

Mr. Dushane helps me to my feet and walks me over to the bleachers.

I did it. Not exactly the way I had it planned but . . . I did it.

I made him feel important.

And walking back to the locker room with Shelli by my side, I can’t help but wonder . . . if it’s such a big deal for a middle-aged white guy to feel important . . .

What happens when he doesn’t?