“Faking diarrhea is a specialty of mine,” he said, and with that, we laughed so hard I had to pull over.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“WHY WOULD YOU TEACH the American Revolution at the same time as the Vietnam War?” asked Headmaster Stanton, frowning.
Ten of us—the Headmaster, Dr. Eckhart, seven trustees and me—sat around the vast walnut conference table in Bigby Hall, the main administrative building of Manning, the one that was featured on the cover of all our promotional brochures. I was making my presentation to the Board of Trustees, and I felt ill. I’d been up till 2:00 a.m. perfecting my talk, practicing over and over till I thought I had it right. This morning, I’d gotten up at six, dressed in one of my Wyatt outfits, taking care to combine conservatism with creativity, tamed my hair, ate a good breakfast despite the churning stomach and now was wondering if I should’ve bothered.
It wasn’t going well. I’d finished my talk, and the seven members of the board, including Theo Eisenbraun, Ava’s reputed lover, stared at me with varying degrees of confusion. Dr. Eckhart appeared to be dozing, I noted with rising panic.
“That’s an excellent question,” I said in my best teacher voice. “The American Revolution and the Vietnam War have a lot in common. Most history departments teach chronologically, which, to be honest, I think can get a little stale. But in the Revolution, we have a situation of an invading foreign army up against a small band of poorly armed citizens who won the war through cunning, use of the terrain and just a simple refusal to give up. The same can be said for Vietnam.”
“But they happened in different centuries,” said Adelaide Compton.
“I’m aware of that,” I said, a bit too sharply. “I feel that teaching by theme and not simply by timeline is the way to go. In some cases, anyway.”
“You want to teach a class called ‘The Abuse of Power’?” asked Randall Withington, who’d been a U.S. senator for our fair state some time ago. His already-florid face seemed a bit more mottled than usual.
“I think it’s a very important aspect of history, yes,” I said, cringing internally. Senator Withington had been ousted on charges of corruption and, er, abuse of power.
“Well, this is all very interesting,” said Hunter Graystone III, who was Hunter IV’s father and a Manning alumnus.
He indicated my fifty-four-page document—curriculum for all four years, required courses, electives, credits, budget, field trips, staffing suggestions, teaching strategies, the role of parents, meshing the history curriculum with other subjects. I’d color-coded it, included pictures, graphs, charts, had it printed up and bound at Kinko’s.
Mr. Graystone had yet to open it. Damn it. I’d given Hunter a B on his midterm (quite fair, let me tell you), and Mr.
Graystone had reminded me of this very fact when I introduced myself a half hour ago. “Why don’t you just sum things up for us, Ms. Emerson?”
Dr. Eckhart looked up—not asleep, thank goodness—and gave me a little nod of encouragement.
“Sure,” I said, trying to smile. “Well, here it is in a nutshell.” Taking a deep breath, I decided to give it all I had, my blank-faced audience aside. “I want Manning students to understand the impact of history on where we are today. I want the past to come alive for them, so they can appreciate the sacrifices that have gotten us to this point.” I looked around at each board member in turn, willing them to feel my love for the subject. “I want our students to learn from the past in a way much more profound than memorizing dates. I want them to feel how the whole world shifted because of the act of a single person, whether it was Henry VIII creating a new religion or Dr.
King calling for equality on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.”
“And who is Dr. King?” Adelaide asked, frowning.
My mouth dropped open. “Martin Luther King, Jr.? The civil rights activist?”
“Of course. Right. Go on.”
Taking a steadying breath, I continued. “So many kids today see themselves as isolated from even the recent past, disconnected from their country’s policies, living in a world where there are too many distractions from true knowledge. Text messaging, video games, online chatting…they all detract from living in this world and understanding it. These kids have to see where we’ve been and how we got here. They have to! Because it’s our past that determines our future—as individuals, as a nation, as a world. They have to understand the past, because these kids are the future.”
My heart pounded, my face was hot, my hands shook. I took a shaking breath and folded my sweaty hands together. I was finished.
No one said anything. Not a word. Nothing, and not in a good way. Nope, it was fair to say there was the proverbial sound of crickets.
“So…you believe the children are our future,” Theo said, suppressing a grin.
I closed my eyes briefly. “Yes,” I said. “They are. Hopefully, they’ll have the ability to think when the fates call on them to act. So.” I stood up and gathered my papers. “Thank you all so much for your time.”
“That was…very interesting,” Adelaide said. “Er…good luck.”
I was assured that I’d be notified if I got through the next round. They were, of course, looking outside Manning, yadda yadda ding dong, blah blah blah. As for making it to the next round, my chances were dubious. Dubious at best.
Apparently, word of my impassioned speech got out, because when I ran into Ava later that day in the Lehring staff room, she smiled coyly. “Hello, Grace,” she said. Blink…blink…here it comes…and, yes, blink. “How was your presentation to the board?”
“It was great,” I lied. “Very positive.”
“Good for you,” she murmured, washing out her coffee cup, singing as she did. “‘I believe the children are our future…teach them well and let them lead the way—’”
I gritted my teeth. “How did yours go, Ava? Did the push-up bra sway the board in your favor, do you think?”
“Oh, Grace, I feel sorry for you,” she said, pouring herself some more coffee. “It’s not my cl**vage they loved, hon. It’s my way with people. Anyway. Best of luck.”
At that moment, Kiki stuck her head in the door. “Grace, got a minute? Oh, hi, Ava, how are you?”
“I’m fantastic, thanks,” Ava half whispered. Blink. Blink. And blink again.
“You okay?” Kiki asked when I came into the hall and closed the door behind me.
“I’m crappy, actually,” I said.
“What happened?”
“My presentation didn’t go very well,” I admitted. All that work reduced to a Whitney Houston song. To my irritable disgust, my throat tightened with tears.
“I’m sorry, kid.” She patted my arm. “Listen, do you want to go to Julian’s Singles’ Dance Night this Friday? Take your mind off your troubles? I still haven’t met someone. God knows why. I’ve been trying those methods from Lou like they were sent from Mount Sinai, you know?”
“Kiki, that class was dumb, don’t you think? Do you really want to trick a guy into dating you by pretending you’re someone you’re not?”
“Is there another way?” she asked. I sighed. “Okay, okay, I know. But come to the dance with me. Please? Just to distract yourself?”
“Yick,” I answered. “I don’t think so.”
She lowered her voice. “Maybe you’ll find someone to take to your sister’s wedding,” she suggested, evil, blackhearted woman that she was.
I grimaced.
“It’s worth a shot,” she cajoled.
“Satan, get thee behind me,” I muttered. “Maybe. I’m not promising, but maybe.”
“Okay, great!” She glanced at her watch. “Dang it, I have to run. Mr. Lucky needs his insulin, and if I’m late, he craps all over the place and then has seizures. Talk to you later!” And she was off, running down the hall to the medical disaster that was her cat.
“Hello, Grace.”
I turned around. “Hi, Stuart! How are you? How’s everything?”
He sighed. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
I bit down on a wave of impatience. “Stuart, um…listen. You need to do something. I’m not your intermediary, okay? I want very much for you guys to work this out, but you need to take action. Don’t you think so?”
“I just don’t know what action to take,” he protested, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes.
“Well, you’ve been married to her for seven years, Stuart! Come on! Think of something!”
The door to the teacher’s lounge opened. “Is there a problem here?” Ava’s chest said. Well, her mouth said it, but with the amount of boob she was showing today, who could pay attention?
“No, no problem, Ava,” I said shortly. “Private conversation.”
“How are you, Stu?” she purred. “I heard your wife left you. I’m so sorry. Some women just don’t appreciate a truly decent man.” She shook her head sadly, blinked, blinked, blinked, then sashayed down the hall, her ass swaying.
Stuart stared after her.
“Stuart!” I barked. “Go see your wife. Please.”
“Right,” he muttered, tearing his eyes off Ava’s butt. “Will do, Grace.”
LATE THAT EVENING, I sighed, triple circling would of in red pen and writing would HAVE in the margin of Kerry Blake’s paper. I was correcting papers on my bed, as Margaret was using the computer to play Scrabble downstairs in my tiny office. Would of. Come on!
Kerry was a smart enough girl, but even at the age of seventeen, she knew she’d never have to really work for a living. Her mother was a Harvard grad and managing partner at a Boston consulting firm. Her father owned a software company with divisions in four countries, which he often visited in his private jet. Kerry would get into an Ivy League school, regardless of her grades and test scores. And, barring some miracle, if she did decide to work instead of take the Paris Hilton route, she’d probably get some high-paying job with a great office, take three-hour lunches and jet around to meetings, where she’d do a negligible amount of work, taking credit for the grunts who worked under her. If Kerry didn’t know a past participle from a preposition, no one would care.
Except me. I wanted her to use her brain instead of coast on her situation, but Kerry didn’t really care what I thought. That was clear. The board of trustees might well share her ennui.
“Grace!” Margaret’s voice boomed through the house, making Angus jump. I swear, my older sister was becoming more and more like Mémé every day. “I’m making whole grain pasta with broccoli for dinner. Want some?”
I grimaced. “No, thanks. I’ll throw something together later on.” Something with cheese. Or chocolate. Possibly both.
“Roger that. Oh, shit. Stuart’s here.”
Thank God. I leaped to the window, Angus bouncing merrily behind me. Sure enough, my brother-in-law was coming up the path. It was almost dark, but his standard white oxford glowed in the dimming light. I moved out into the hallway to eavesdrop better, shutting the door behind me so Angus wouldn’t blow my cover. Margaret stomped to answer the soft knock. I could see the back of her head, but no more.
“What do you want?” she asked ruthlessly. I detected a note of pleasure under her tone…Stuart was finally doing something, and Margaret appreciated that kind of thing.
“Margaret, I think you should come home.” Stuart’s voice was quiet, and I had to strain to hear. He didn’t say anything else.
“That’s it?” Margaret barked, echoing my own thought. “That’s all you’ve got?”