I know what pity looks like. I’ve seen it enough to recognize it when it’s staring me in the face. Which is why I’m not smiling at the sad half-smile that my mom’s secretary is giving me while I’m waiting outside her office. I’m trying not to think about whether some part of breakfast is staining my school uniform. I want to smooth down the cowlick that inevitably pops up on the back of my head by the end of the day, but I resist the urge to act in the face of this sad woman with lipstick on her teeth and a misbuttoned cardigan.
Before I can really get going on my mental rampage, Mom buzzes through to ask if I’m still waiting.
“Sheila, will you ask him if he can find a ride?” the tinny voice scratches out on speaker phone. Sheila looks at me awkwardly. I enjoy her embarrassment as she buzzes back through and reminds my mother that I’m here for a meeting with her—for the not-so-dreaded teacher meeting with her and the rest of my teachers. “That’s today?” Mom asks rhetorically. “I had it down for next week.” No response is needed.
It’s ten of three, and slowly my teachers begin to drift in and make their way to the conference room just off the main office. Miss Simms, my biology teacher, Mr. Carroll is geometry, Mr. Kunitz from world history, and of course Ms. Tuttle, who smiles sympathetically as she walks past. Even Mr. Beech shows up, and phys. ed. is the one class I’m passing. Mrs. Byers, my guidance counselor, ruffles my hair as she walks by.
I like Mrs. Byers. She’s the only African American person on staff at St. Mary’s; she refers to all her students as “her babies”; and she’s unbelievably optimistic. When Mom expressed some concern earlier in the year about my grades, Mrs. Byers said, “Who, Andrew? My baby? Uh uh. I’m not worried about Andrew. He’s going to be just fine once he settles in and makes the transition. He’s going to be just fine.” Plus she always has chocolate, and she never questions you if you want to make an appointment to come see her. You can pretty much stop by anytime, which I’ve made an occasional practice of on test days. She knows I’m not doing that well, but she never pushes me or asks me why.
I already know how this is going to go. Mom will begin by making a little speech about how we can all agree that I’m not living up to my potential. Then there will be teacher reports where everyone says how surprised they are because I seem really smart but the quality of my work is pretty poor. Mr. Beech will be the only exception here when he announces that I’m passing gym with flying colors. He will punctuate this by giving me a dirty look for wasting his time. Then everyone will agree that overall I’m not making enough effort and I need to do better.
Next everyone will look at me, and someone, probably Ms. Tuttle, will ask if there’s anything that the teachers can do to help me be more successful. At which point I’ll shrug and say that I don’t think so. And if I’m feeling especially sanctimonious, I’ll add something about how I know my education is my responsibility. I’d probably be more likely to care if any one of them could demonstrate the usefulness of what they’re teaching for life after high school. Dad never bothered to finish his degree—he claims his thesis got held up in committee, but Mom says he wasn’t motivated enough to see it through—and he’s got a job and a pretty decent life, I guess.
Sometimes they’ll ask me for some kind of review or assessment of how my time at home is spent. Mom usually jumps in here and assures everyone that I do not have access to video games and my television time is strictly limited. Which of course makes everyone wonder if I have a life at all.
The truth is, I don’t have answers to their questions, and I don’t think they do either. I hate when adults look at you like you’re some kind of puzzle just waiting to be unlocked by the right question. I like to read—mostly biographies and survival stories. It’s cool when people are actually fighting for their survival. I bet no one ever asked Ernest Shackleton to write a five-paragraph essay on the individual versus society.
I rarely like the assigned readings. We read The Grapes of Wrath earlier this year, and I kind of liked that. It’s sort of like a survival story. I’m remembering it now because I’m thinking of this one scene where Tom Joad gets annoyed at this guy, who works at the gas station during the Great Depression when basically the whole country was going to hell, because he just keeps saying how he wants to know what the country is coming to. According to Tom, the guy is just talking to hear himself talk. That’s how it is with these meetings. Everyone sits down and wants to know what I’m coming to.
Then it’s time for solutions. Ms. Tuttle suggests that I keep a journal for extra credit in English. I’m not going to tell her that I’d rather have my fingernails removed by some Gestapo guy than spend any more time alone with my stupid thoughts. Instead I just nod, like this might be doable. Mr. Carroll suggests that I stay after school for extra help. I nod again, knowing that I’ll only have to do that once or twice before I can start blowing it off. Kunitz recommends some website with a bunch of study skills ideas, and Mom makes a show of writing it down. I’ve got to give Kunitz credit for that one. The guy’s got four kids, there’s no way he’s staying after to work with someone like me, and I don’t blame him. And then the meeting is pretty much over. I’m almost out the door when Mom asks me if I can still find a ride home at this hour because she needs to stay at school and get caught up. She never bothers to ask who I get these mysterious rides from, and I never bother to tell her that 99% of the time I walk. We wouldn’t want to shatter the illusion that I actually have friends at St. Mary’s.