On Thursday afternoon Théo stayed behind at the end of my class. He waited for all the others to leave. It was the last lesson of the day. I’d just finished the chapter on brain activity and how the nervous system works, which I usually spend two or three periods on. I saw he was taking his time putting his things away. Mathis left before him. I think he has singing or a piano lesson on Thursdays, so he never hangs around.
When we were alone, Théo came toward me. He was standing tall, jacket fastened, chin raised, his bag over his shoulder. I thought, he’s got something to tell me. I held my breath. I must not force things or try to rush them. I smiled at him and pretended to be straightening the papers scattered over my desk. After a moment, he asked, “Can you die if you take the wrong medicine?”
My pulse quickened. There was no room for error.
“You mean if you take medicine that’s not intended for you?”
“No, not that.”
“What then?”
“Well… if someone takes medicine that doesn’t work. You said that medicine works on the brain. On people’s moods. But I think that sometimes it doesn’t do anything. And people stay in bed. They hardly eat and they don’t get up and they stay like that all day.”
He said this very quickly. I needed to decipher it and ask the right questions.
“Yes, that’s true, Théo. That does happen. Are you thinking of someone in particular?”
He looked up at me. I could see his pupils dilate in response to the pressure.
Just then, the principal burst into my class without knocking. I turned to him, stunned. I didn’t have a chance to open my mouth before he ordered Théo to go home in a tone that clearly suggested he had no business being there. Théo cast me a final glance, his eyes dark and accusing, as though I were a bank employee who had secretly pressed the panic button under the counter.
He left without looking back.
I followed Mr. Nemours to his office.
Calmly and with a slightly theatrical firmness, he set out the situation for me.
Théo Lubin’s mother had phoned to complain. Not only had I called her in for no reason, but now, she said, I was loitering near her home. Even in her building. Of course, she’d related the conversation we’d had a few weeks back, which she’d called unfair and accusatory. The principal asked her to recall the exact tenor of what I said, which she’d had no trouble doing, judging by the detailed report he set before me.
Besides breaking the school rules and exceeding my authority, I’d failed to mention this encounter at the team meeting about the student. A meeting organized, did he have to remind me, after a first transgression on my part. Why had I said nothing? That was a mistake. A serious mistake. My behavior was damaging the smooth functioning of the public education service and harming that service’s reputation.
Théo’s mother had asked for him to be moved to another class. The principal had told her he would speak to me so that I could explain myself and then make a decision.
He waited for my reaction. My argument. My justification. What on earth was I doing on those stairs? I had nothing to say in my defense, so I stayed silent. Fortunately, he didn’t have punishment in mind. He’s been teaching for over twenty years. He knows the pressure, the stresses that we’re under and the responsibilities we bear. We need to stay united. Stick together. In view of the work I’d done in the school over several years, he wouldn’t be calling for an official reprimand or warning. However, he told me I needed to put things in perspective and get myself checked out by a doctor. Take at least a month. To let everyone calm down. That was a condition; it wasn’t up for discussion.
I emptied my locker and left school with the disturbing conviction that I wouldn’t be going back.
The music from Wheel of Fortune was going around in my head. “I’ll buy an A, how about an L, I’ll buy an O”; I’ve almost got it, I need to think to crack it, to find the right answer. “Oh no, Hélène. Come on. It’s not that simple. Who do you think you are? You weren’t thinking that you could change the direction of the Wheel, were you?”
I haven’t listened to the messages my colleagues have left on my machine throughout the day.
I haven’t called Frédéric, who’s tried phoning several times.
From my window I’m watching the passers-by wrapped up in their coats, hands in their pockets or protected by gloves, their shoulders hunched, hurrying and struggling against the damp air that cuts through their meager defenses. Among them there’s a woman wondering how long an onion tart needs in the oven, another has just decided to leave her husband, another is mentally calculating how many lunch vouchers she has left, a young woman is regretting having worn such thin tights, another has just heard that she got the job after several interviews, and an old man has forgotten why he’s there.