The United States was well established as a world power in the early twentieth century. It was then that President Franklin Roosevelt won the Nobel Peace Prize for negotiating peace between Russia and Japan in 1905.” Mr. Jesse Davila, senior history teacher at Cesar Chavez High School, was lecturing.
The class broke out into snickers and, in a few cases, outright laughter.
Ernesto Sandoval, senior class president, winced as Rod Garcia broke out into loud guffaws. Then Garcia declared loudly enough for the teacher to hear, “Dementia strikes again.” Rod’s friend, Clay Aguirre, chuckled loudly.
Mr. Davila looked mortified. “Did I say Franklin Roosevelt? I’m sorry, I meant Theodore Roosevelt, of course.” Poor Mr. Davila, Ernesto thought. He was a good teacher, but he was dealing with problems at home. Misspeaking was no big deal to Ernesto, but some students in the class were clearly out to get the teacher. The class continued without Mr. Davila making another gaffe.
However, the teacher wasn’t himself lately. Somebody had told Ernesto that Mr. Davila’s wife had Parkinson’s disease. Also, his daughter and her child, a freshman at Chavez, were living with them. Caring for the grandchild, Angel Roma, was largely in the hands of Mr. Davila. Ernesto thought the poor man had good reason to be distracted sometimes. Ernesto couldn’t understand why the kids couldn’t cut Mr. Davila some slack. Why couldn’t they show some compassion for his troubles?
After class, a little knot of students continued to discuss Mr. Davila. Rod and Clay led the discussion. They were saying that the teacher was obviously too old to be at Chavez High and that he should retire. Ernesto, his girlfriend, and his best friend got near the group. They could hear what was being said.
“He’s gotta be in his middle sixties,” Rod Garcia declared. “That’s old.” Rod had run for senior class president, and Ernesto had beaten him. Ever since then, Rod hated Ernesto. Rod felt the office was his because he had headed so many boring clubs during his first three years at Chavez. Then, last year, Ernesto Sandoval, an outsider from Los Angeles, joined the student body as a junior and walked off with the position. Rod considered Ernesto a thief who took what was rightfully his.
“Yeah,” Clay Aguirre agreed. “The old guy isn’t fit to teach anymore. He should be fired. We deserve better.”
Naomi Martinez, Ernesto’s girlfriend, chimed in. “That’s so unfair, you guys. Mr. Davila is an excellent teacher. This is my favorite class this year. Anybody can make a mistake.”
Clay Aguirre glared at Naomi. She was probably the most beautiful senior at Chavez, and she had dated Clay for a long time. But Clay had treated Naomi rudely, and one day he went too far. He slapped her in the face, leaving a bad bruise. That was the end of their relationship. Soon after that, she and Ernesto started dating. Clay hated Ernesto for that. Clay and Rod were united in their hatred of Ernesto Sandoval. They both felt he had taken something precious from them.
Abel Ruiz, Ernesto’s best friend, was the first guy to befriend Ernesto when he came on campus last year. Abel spoke up. “You guys are nuts. Mr. Davila’s a sharp guy. He’s made American foreign policy clearer to me than any teacher ever.”
“But he is awfully old,” a girl piped up. “He’s the age of my grandfather!”
“So what?” Ernesto said. “Any of you know how old Benjamin Franklin was when he helped draft the Declaration of Independence? He was seventy. And when he took part in the Constitutional Convention, he was eighty-one. I wrote a paper on him when I was a freshman. I was blown away by what this guy did in his old age.”
“You’re such a know-it-all, Sandoval,” Rod griped bitterly.
Naomi grinned at Ernesto and winked.
Ernesto, Abel, and Naomi walked on toward the vending machine before going to their next classes.
“Sometimes I think there are people with no hearts at all,” Naomi commented. She pondered the peaches and pears in the machine’s little windows. “Can’t they have a little pity for a good man like Mr. Davila who makes a little slip? We all make mistakes, but they pounce on him like wolves.”
She slipped coins into the slot, chose the peach, and spoke again. “I’m so ashamed of the fact that I actually used to date Clay! What was I thinking? What a mush head I was. And he’d make me write papers for him and get mad when I wasn’t quick enough.”
Abel got an orange drink, and Ernesto got a box of raisins.
“You know what really bothers me?” Ernesto remarked. “All that rotten stuff that those jerks text and tweet about Mr. Davila, it’s gonna get back to the administration. Mrs. Sanchez sitting there in the principal’s office, she’s gotta know about it. I love my iPhone and Facebook, but all that can be a weapon against somebody you’re out to get. In five seconds, you can ruin a reputation.”
Abel Ruiz used to be an average student without any big dreams in life. Then Ernesto encouraged him to develop his talent for cooking. Now Abel was making fabulous dinners for his friends and worked as a junior chef at the Sting Ray, a ritzy seafood restaurant. He planned to go to culinary school after graduating from Chavez.
When Ernesto started a program at Chavez where seniors paired up with atrisk freshmen, Abel was the first to sign up. Abel’s freshman little brother was Bobby Padilla. Bobby was a kid who’d run away from home and was a handful for his single mother.
“How’s it going with Bobby?” Ernesto asked as he popped raisins into his mouth.
“Pretty good,” Abel replied. “He’s a nice kid. I think I’m enjoyin’ it as much as him. Y’know, all my life I lived in the shadow of my big brother. Oh yeah, my brilliant, wonderful big brother, Tomás. But now, at last, I’m the big brother to a little guy who actually looks up to me. I’m tellin’ you, dude, it’s a trip.” Abel took a slug his orange drink.
“I like my little freshman girl too, Angel Roma,” Naomi added.
“Is she an angel?” Ernesto asked wryly.
“Not really,” Naomi admitted. “But then neither am I. She has some problems at home. You know her mom’s Mr. Davila’s daughter, and there are problems there. But she seems to relate to me. Your idea for this senior-freshman deal is really good, Ernie. Like so many kids drop out of Chavez in the tenth grade. If we can keep them interested through that time, maybe they’d make it to graduation.”
Later that day, Ernesto, Naomi, Abel, and his on-and-off girlfriend, Bianca Marquez were sitting together at lunchtime. They were eating what they had brought from home. Eating at the cafeteria was getting too expensive.
“Look!” Bianca announced. “Abel made my lunch today!”
“Wow,” Ernesto remarked.
“Yeah, he made me these ham and cheese tortilla roll-ups,” Bianca explained. “Abel kept the filling in his little cooler, and it’s all fresh. I shouldn’t be eating so much, but it looks so good.” Although she was too thin, she thought she was overweight.
“I’ve got a crummy cheese sandwich with really ugly yellow mustard,” Naomi complained. “I think the bread is kinda stale too. Ernie, I may have to drop you as a boyfriend and steal Abel from Bianca.”
“You guys,” Abel said, “I got enough stuff for two more tortilla roll-ups. Dump your sandwiches in the trash.”
“He’s a saint!” Naomi declared.
“Absolutely,” Ernesto agreed.
Within a minute or so, they each had a freshly made tortilla roll-up.
“Know what?” Bianca said. “I got four text messages about a Mr. Davila. I don’t have him in class. Do you guys know him?”
“Yes,” Ernesto replied. “We have him in United States as a World Power.”
“You poor things!” Bianca said, rolling her eyes. “All those text messages say he’s an awful teacher. He’s so senile he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“That’s a lie!” Ernesto objected. “You’re getting those text messages from some creeps who’re out to make Mr. Davila look bad. He’s a good teacher.”
“What have they got against the poor guy anyway?” Abel asked. “I’ll never understand people. I mean, he hasn’t hurt anybody. He’s a fair grader. He’s easier than most teachers. Why do they just wanna hurt some poor guy who’s trying to get by like the rest of us? Sometimes I think I’d like to go out in the desert and live with the animals. Even if a mountain lion got me, you know, it’d be just because he’s hungry. I can understand that. But people—why just hurt other folks for no reason?”
“I guess,” Ernesto suggested, “it makes some jerks feel good to be putting down somebody else. I’m gonna text my friends about what a good teacher Mr. Davila is.”
“Good idea,” Naomi agreed. “I’ll do it too. Fight fire with fire.”
“What makes me really sick,” Ernesto remarked, “is that this creepy stuff is gonna get back to Mr. Davila. My homie, Julio Avila, he told me he heard Mr. Davila’s wife has Parkinson’s disease. They got a lot to deal with at home.”
“What if you’d tell those creeps the kind of problems he has?” Bianca suggested. “Maybe they’d cut him a break.”
Ernesto laughed. He didn’t want to be cynical, but asking for mercy from Rod and Clay was just not realistic. “The weird thing is,” Ernesto responded, “those guys, Clay and Rod, they come from pretty welloff families. They get everything they need and want. You could understand if they came from some down-and-out family or were getting abused or something. But, no, they got it made in the shade.”
Naomi had finished her tortilla roll-up and started speaking. “Thanks, Abel. That was fabulous.” She thought about her own family, which was not really ideal. Felix Martinez, her dad, had an explosive temper. He used to bully Naomi’s mother and brothers. At one point, the brothers had gotten so sick of his bullying, they ran away. Luckily, the family members were reunited, thanks to Naomi and Ernesto.
At the end of the week, the principal of Cesar Chavez High, Julie Sanchez, slipped into the back row of Mr. Davila’s class. Ernesto’s heart sank. The slander had reached her. She wanted to see for herself how much of it was true. Mr. Davila looked terribly nervous when he saw her. Ernesto glanced over at Naomi, and her eyes were filled with pity too. She shook her head.
But Rod Garcia and Clay Aguirre looked triumphant. They grinned at one another as if to say “Mission accomplished!” Like bloodthirsty dogs, they had treed their raccoon, and Mrs. Sanchez was here for the kill. Ernesto was not a violent person. But at that moment, he dreamed of catching Rod and Clay in some dark alley and knocking them both on their backs. He wouldn’t do it, of course, but he enjoyed the thought.
Ernesto suddenly recalled that Mr. Davila looked his best when a lively discussion was going on in class. Ernesto had an idea.
“We . . . uh . . . dealt with President Roosevelt’s extension of American power beyond our borders last time,” Mr. Davila began.
Ernesto’s hand shot up.
“Yes, Ernesto?” Mr. Davila asked, looking grateful that someone had a question. He was especially pleased that Ernesto Sandoval was posing the question. Mr. Davila sensed that the boy was on his side.
“President Roosevelt really signaled aggressive American foreign policy, didn’t he?” Ernesto began. “He was somebody who wasn’t afraid even of going to war to advance national interests.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Davila agreed, noticing then that Naomi’s hand was up. She had taken her cue from Ernesto. She was now thinking what he was thinking: A lively class discussion would make Mr. Davila look good. They could show Mrs. Sanchez that their teacher inspired his students to get into his subject with enthusiasm. “Yes, Naomi,” Mr. Davila said.
“I remember this one quote from President Theodore Roosevelt that you put in our study guide, Mr. Davila,” Naomi continued. “It really made it clear to me where he was coming from. ‘No triumph of peace is quite so great as the supreme triumphs of war.’ I mean, I don’t think President Roosevelt was a warmonger or anything like that. But he was willing to risk losing the peace if the cause was important enough.”
A boy in the middle of the room raised his hand. Mr. Davila nodded toward him. “I think Roosevelt would be called a hawk today,” the boy stated. “You know, how back in the days of the Vietnam War, they had hawks and doves. Well, Theodore Roosevelt wasn’t any dove.”
A smattering of chuckles showed general agreement with that sentiment.
“Do you think President Roosevelt actually sought war?” Mr. Davila asked. His own nervousness was fading as he got caught up in the excitement of the discussion.
“No,” Abel Ruiz answered. “I think he talked big and tough to scare wannabe enemies. He didn’t act as . . . um . . . as belligerent as he talked. I think the whole deal was to scare everybody into thinking he was a big, bad dude. Then maybe they wouldn’t have to have a war.”
“Very good, Abel!” Mr. Davila responded.
Hands were going up all over the classrooms. More students wanted to express either their admiration for President Roosevelt or their disagreement with his blustering ways.
The class that day was one of the best Ernesto could remember with Mr. Davila. Ernesto stole a quick look at Mrs. Sanchez in the back of the room. She looked interested and engaged. Rod Garcia and Clay Aguirre looked frustrated.
Mr. Davila did not misspeak except at the very end. He called the Panama Canal the Panama Railroad, but the slip went by so fast that Mrs. Sanchez didn’t even seem to hear it. At the end of the period, Mrs. Sanchez stood up and announced, “Thank you, Mr. Davila. And thank you, wonderful seniors. I enjoyed the class, and I’m delighted by how involved you students are in the learning process.”
As the students filed from the room, Rod Garcia approached Ernesto. “You’re really something, Sandoval,” he snarled bitterly. “You and your cronies maneuvered the class to make it look like the old dude was doing great. I gotta admit, Sandoval, you’re good. You’re really good. You can pull stuff off that I hardly believe.”
“What have you got against that teacher, man?” Ernesto demanded.
“I deserve the best education I can get, dude,” Rod snapped. “No demented old man has the right to deprive me of that. My father’s the CEO of a company with fifty employees. He has to cut some loose all the time if they’re dead weight. He says it’s like pruning a bush. You don’t get rid of the dead stuff, the bush doesn’t thrive. A bleeding heart sap like you would keep all of them around until they drove the company into the ground. I’m not done here. I’m gonna make sure the principal finds out what’s really going on in this class.”
After school, Ernesto went down to the used car lot. It was where he had bought his first car, the Volvo he still drove. He had mixed feelings about the big white Volvo. It was maddeningly reliable, costing him very little in repairs. It was a safe car. That was something his parents and Naomi reminded him of almost every day. Once Naomi had seen a photo of a horrible automobile accident. A little sports car had been reduced to rubble. She showed the photo to Ernesto to remind him of what a car looked like if it didn’t have enough protection.
But Ernesto was embarrassed to be driving the old Volvo. Some time ago, he’d pulled into a parking lot and parked. Some nice old retired man came over, smiled, and looked at the Volvo. Then he congratulated Ernesto for having such good sense. It was good too see him, the man said, in a safe, reliable car instead of in one of those “hot rods some of these punks are driving.” Ernesto had smiled cordially, but he didn’t appreciate the compliment. It was like a seventeen-year-old girl being praised for wearing her grandmother’s clothes.
Even Ernesto’s friends wondered why he was still driving the Volvo. Abel Ruiz had a VW Jetta. Naomi had a gold classic American car. Carmen Ibarra had a jelly red convertible. Her boyfriend, Paul Morales, who was Ernesto’s good friend, just recently bought an electric blue Jaguar. The Jaguar was very old—much older than Paul—but it was a Jaguar, man!
Sitting in his sturdy, reliable Volvo, Ernesto felt totally outclassed. He had to do something about the car. Yet, as he drove it onto the used car lot, he felt like a betrayer. He kind of felt as though the Volvo had become a friend. And his friend was now grief stricken. How could Ernest abandon someone who had served him so faithfully?
The used car dealer came smiling to Ernesto’s window. He was rubbing his hands together eagerly. He was not the same man who had sold Ernesto the Volvo. He liked that other guy better.
“Ah!” the man declared. “You’re getting tired of driving your grandma’s car, eh, boy?”
Ernesto swallowed hard and got out of the Volvo. He glanced at the shiny Hondas, Toyotas, Dodges, Fords, all vying for his attention. He made the mistake of glancing back at the Volvo. There it stood, waiting patiently like an old white horse. Even in the dusk, Ernesto thought he saw moisture in the headlights. Ernesto could not rid himself of a silly and impossible thought: Oh man! It’s crying!”
Ernesto Sandoval left the used car lot without trading in his Volvo. He assured himself that he would do it soon, but not right now.