“Settle down, settle down.” The class quieted; a few excited voices still lingered.
“There are fifteen minutes left. If you haven’t completed your work, you’ll spend your lunch with me, organizing my stamp collection.” The eleventh-grade class groaned.
As the autumn sun beamed down from above, I watched the students lower their heads and scribble into their books. All except for one: Duwayne. This was expected. On the best of days, he was in class, sitting on a chair staring out of the window. With luck, he might answer a question. On the worst days, the whole school was put on notice, sometimes even the police. Duwayne sat at the back of the classroom, in the corner, sideways on the chair, head leaned back on the wall, eyes drifting to the world outside.
“Time to pack up.” They shuffled, packing their books into their bags. The beeping bell rang. Some fast ones tried to sprint out of the door, but I shouted, “The bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do!” stopping them. Then I added “You may go,” and the students spilled out of the class happy and cheering. Duwayne lagged behind, last to leave.
“See you later, Duwayne.” He nodded, not at me, but at least he nodded. I grabbed my phone from my jacket hung over my chair and texted Sandra.
Work-wife, where are you?
I’m on duty, in the football playground. I haven’t eaten today…, Sandra replied.
Is that your way of asking me for lunch?
My work-husband would already know the answer to that question.
“A tuna sandwich? Really? That’s all you brought me?” she said as I joined her in the school playground.
“Tuna and sweet corn, actually,” I replied to the background sound of roaring children. “With mayo,” I added. She snatched it out of my hands.
“Nothing… with some spices?”
“Look where we are. What kind of spices are you expecting from this place?”
“Umm you’re supposed to cook for me and bring it in.” She placed her open palm out as if to ask why I had not done so today, or ever.
“You know, like a dutiful work-husband does,” she continued.
“That’s your boyfriend’s job…”
“Oh, really?” She huffed.
“And anyway, I think you’ve got it the wrong way around.” I gave her a stretched, thin-lipped smile.
“I’m not sure this work-marriage thing is working out. I should divorce you. Take half your money…”
“You won’t get anything anyway ’cause I’m broke, babyyyyy…”
“Afternoon, sir.” A chirpy voice broke our conversation. It moved closer toward us from behind. I knew who it was. We both did. We both dreaded it too.
“I bet you she tells us to move apart,” Sandra quickly whispered.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Sundermeyer,” we both replied; one voice in bass, the other in tenor, harmonizing. Mrs. Sundermeyer was the head teacher. She powered around the school in a power suit, after powering up the ladder and powering through the glass ceiling. On casual dress days, she always wore her “Who Runs the World? Girls!” T-shirt, and never hesitated to remind everyone that her husband was “at home looking after the kids.”
“How’s it looking out there?” Mrs. Sundermeyer asked; a question she already knew the answer to. She only asked questions she already knew the answer to.
“All good,” Sandra replied, along with a few nods to fill the void of what else she did not know to say. I nodded along too.
“Brilliant,” Mrs. Sundermeyer replied, in the high-pitched tone her voice went into whenever she expressed contentment. She leaned in closer and said, “Would you mind moving to separate parts of the playground, just so the children know there is staff presence. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Sandra replied, and looked at me with glaring eyes that said, I told you so, as she walked to the opposite side of the playground. The bell rang.
“Our focus has to be on attainment; we are working to transform the lives of these young people. Giving them the life skills that will allow them to take control of their future…” Mrs. Sundermeyer spoke from the podium at the staff meeting after school. Her voice faded into the background as I looked around the room and watched everyone nod enthusiastically and take notes.
“We have the potential to be the best school in the borough, even the city. We are on our way to being an outstanding school, and with your passion and hard work, we will make it happen.” She had a ministerial quality about her, a hybrid of teacher, preacher, and politician. I sat, unconvinced, and wondered if there was something they were hearing that I wasn’t; something that I had not heard a thousand times before. Nonetheless, I remained hopeful that I was doing the right thing; that I was making a change, although it felt less and less so. Beside me was Mr. Barnes with the top button of his shirt undone and loosened tie, leaning forward, as if being pulled by an undeniable force. Mr. Barnes. I always called him Mr. Barnes, never by his first name. There’s a thin line between colleague and friend, and no one really knows when, where, and how that line is crossed. I preferred to keep this line clear and visible, so if in any case it started to wear and appear thin, I would redraw it: Mr. Barnes. When I would call him, he almost always replied, “That’s who I am, and that’s where I’m from.” The same line he used on his students. Nonetheless, I liked him, sort of. I admired his boldness, his ability to be himself, regardless of how mind-numbingly dull that might be.
I returned to my classroom after the meeting, watching the looming gray clouds pass. Light rain fell from the broken sky, forming streaks down the body of the glass window. London must be the only city in the world that can give you all the seasons in one day. So depressing. The wind blew the branches left and right, swaying them side to side as if in praise of an unseen god. I played classical music to match my mood and continued marking. I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders, which startled me, but slightly eased a tension I had not realized I had.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Six-thirty p.m., and you’re still here. Didn’t you see me come in?” replied Sandra.
“No.”
“You looked lost in your own world. What are you listening to?” She took the headphones from my head and put them on. Her face squeezed into itself, narrowing in a confused expression.
“It’s Frédéric Chopin.”
“You’re so weird. Can’t you listen to regular music, like regular people?”
“Chopin—Prelude in C-Minor, opus twenty-eight, number twenty is regular music… it’s a certified banger.”
“Ugh. How long are you staying for?”
“I’m ready to go when you are.”
It was calm and quiet, peaceful throughout the whole school. It felt as though the school had fallen asleep and was now dreaming quiet dreams of tomorrows, laid on its side, hands tucked under its cheek, with its legs curled into its chest. Waiting at the reception were the pub regulars; the teachers who would religiously venture to the local for drinks only to complain about a hangover the next day. If nothing else, it gave them something to talk about during the awkward staff-room-kitchen encounter where they waited for the long beep of the microwave.
Cameron, the PE teacher, who wore shorts everywhere, even to the job interview here, was the first one to spot us as we approached them at the reception. I looked at Sandra and could see her holding in a silent scream. We walked toward them, wishing to somehow shrink and disappear.
“Where are you two off to then?” Cameron added, suggestively. Everything was suggestive to him.
“Home,” I replied. Cameron raised his eyebrows. “I’m going to my home,” I added, erasing any insinuation. “See you guys later.”
“He’s so annoying,” Sandra whispered to me, as we walked off.
The setting sun brought a chilly wind into the bones. Lampposts stretched above, like giant wilting flowers, shining a dull light barely showing the path ahead. In a shared silence, we walked through the small park, with faded grass, red-brick arches, and metallic benches where the street wanderers, the homeless, and those seeking company gathered and emptied cans deep into the abyss of their bodies. We walked past the alleyway, where phantom figures with hoods up stood; past high-rise after high-rise, each a trap for a thousand broken dreams; past the bars that kept them in; past the pub where the chain-smoking man stared, dared you to enter; past the chicken shop, then next to the chicken shop, across the road from the chicken shop, next to the artisanal café, with a menu of avocado and pumpkin-spiced somethings; past the Bible-wielding preacher man on the corner searching for souls to be saved; past the bus stop where a congregation of tired bodies waited for their gods to take them home, where stood a man, who, every day, between 3:30 p.m. and 7:30 p.m., shouted “The best of luck! The best of luck!” to everyone and no one at the same time; past the junction traffic lights where cars rarely waited for the green light, to the mouth of the tube station, which quietly whispered a lullaby or a song, calling us home.
“So, it’s Friday night, where are you going? Out on the town?” Sandra asked. She looked up at me, her eyes widening, pupils dilating, as if seeing some bright light she wanted to take in.
“I’m going home,” I replied, knowing this was neither the answer she wanted nor the reason why she had even asked the question.
“Fine. Have a good weekend, then,” she said disappointedly, retreating into herself.
The tension between us grew thick like smoke from forest fire. I hugged her and left.