Teacher of the Year

Jennifer leaned back against the light pole with a laziness she didn’t feel. She was jittery, crawling out of her skin, the way she got on nights like this. The fog rolled in like some sort of smoke machine and covered everyone in its haze. She liked it, but it made her nervous. She took another drag on her cigarette and waited. She hated the waiting part almost worse than anything. Once that was over it was all gravy, especially when she was “up” like tonight. Just the waiting could kill you, she once told her friend Lorinda. Oh man, she couldn’t think about Lorinda; she really would hurl. And that blow would be for nothing.

A yellow convertable oozed through the haze and slowed when it neared Jennifer. She straightened with a thrill of apprehension and crushed the cigarette beneath her five-inch heel. She almost gagged when she saw what rolled down the passenger window. He was fat, really fat. She figured if this transaction went through she might have to take an oxygen mask along. She’d tell him it was to make her high, when it was really to keep her from feeling crushed beneath his sweat. “Hey, baby,” she cooed with a practiced little drawl, “whatcha doin’ out on a night like this?” She winked a heavily made up eyelid painted several shades of violet that brought out her liquid brown eyes. The fat man licked his lips.

“I’m just cruisin’ little girl,” he responded. He was already panting. “Looking for someone to make my night a little less boring.”

“Well, that’s be me, big guy.” She smiled through thick red lipstick and flipped her hair. “You ready for some fun?”

Now the panting was so pronounced Jennifer winced and thought about the oxygen mask for him, instead. But whatever the customer wants...she remembered Benny’s words and slid into the convertable.

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Sandra gathered all the term papers together and tapped them into an orderly fashion. She sat heavily in the old fashioned, wooden chair behind her and pulled it up to the scarred oak desk. She bent over the first paper, her dishwater hair swinging forward to cover a tired, aging face.

“Mrs. Dennison?” Sandra startled and picked her head up.

“Yes?”

“Um, I was wondering if I could talk to you.” The youth in front of her desk held his books to his chest tightly, shifting from foot to foot uncertainly and staring at her with wide, frightened eyes.

“Sure, Christopher. What’s the problem?” Sandra tried not to make her voice as hesitant as she felt. She should have told him right then and there to go to the counselor.

“Well, um...” he trailed off and looked past her, perhaps making the words release from his throat easier. “I think I need some help. I mean my friend needs some help.” His voice began to quiver. “I think he’s getting into stuff and I don’t know what to do.” The boy heaved a great breath and rushed the rest of his words. “He’s running with some gangsters and I told him to stop, but–Mrs. Dennison, I promised not to go to his parents or the counselor with this, but I heard some of them talk about initiating him tonight, and I’m scared.” His entire body was quivering, now, and he leaned up on the desk for support. “What do you think I should do?”

Sandra pushed her hair back onto her shoulders with a frown and backed her chair away. “Christopher, I’m sorry for your friend, I truly am. But you can’t save everyone, especially if they don’t want to be saved.” The last was emitted with a bitter undertone; she hadn’t meant to let it through. “Now I have to get back to these papers, okay?” She pushed her chair back into the desk and bent her head again. Christopher stared at her for a minute. He quietly left.

Sandra looked up briefly at the empty doorway and shook her head. Best not to get involved. She was only a teacher, nothing more. Hadn’t she learned that lesson in the worst way?

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She gasped and groaned from the weight on top of her, but she was sure the idiot thought it was with pleasure. Like any 16-yr-old girl would find this jerk appealing for anything. Some people are so clueless, Jennifer thought with a smirk of disdain. It was over almost before it started, thank God, and she was on her way with a wad of cash in her palm. After Benny’s cut she still had a nice chunk, so the fat bastard was good for something. A new pair of earrings, maybe. She’d call them her “fat bastards.” She was still giggling when she returned to the corner. Leaned against the pole again and waited. Thought about Lorinda like she shouldn’t. Lorinda was gone, stolen from her by an asshole with a knife. Damn asshole.

Jennifer felt a trickle down her cheek and brushed it away impatiently. If Benny came by he’d beat the crap out of her for crying when a John might show up any minute. She took a shaky breath and flipped her thick dark hair, trying to be as sexy as a 16-yr-old can be on a foggy night in the heart of the city.

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“What’s going on with you?” Charlie Dennison glared at his wife in frustrated anger and pushed her away. “I just told you my brother might be going broke and you shrug your shoulders? He’s got three kids to feed, for God’s sake!”

“I’m not trying to be insensitive,” Sandra turned away and began to unload the groceries she brought in. “It’s just not our problem. We have enough of our own.” She pulled out celery and an onion, fingered it in her hand while she waited for Charlie to move. He was blocking the way to the fridge.

Charlie stared at her, trying to penetrate her blank gaze. He remembered meeting her so many years ago, how he’d been attracted to her compassion, her zest for life. He searched for it in her round face, but it was as blank as her eyes. “Dammit, Sandy. If you don’t snap out of this, I don’t know how much more I can take.” The words were intoned softly, but with finality.

They stood apart from each other, facing like opponents of some duel. Sandra gazed upon the man she had chosen to marry so long ago. His golden hair was thinning at the top, dusky blue eyes lining with more laugh lines every year. How could he laugh, she reflected dimly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He growled, teeth gritted into a frustrated clench, and he whirled away from her. “People die, Sandra. You don’t just shut off. You DON’T!” He stomped away from her. She shrugged.

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Christopher sat on the floor of his room and rocked. Even with his long fingers covering his ears, he could still hear the gunshots. He didn’t even register the wetness on his face as he rocked, music crashing through his body because he turned it all the way up. He ignored the knocks at his bedroom door, ignored his mother rushing in to switch off his stereo, ignored her entreaties to tell her what was wrong. He could still hear the gunshots. Gunshots are loud. He rocked.

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The pain didn’t even register anymore, Jennifer thought with a sort of satisfaction. Benny hit her so much it didn’t matter. He hit bruise on top of bruises. Big deal. She waited on the dusty floor until she was sure he was gone. Unlucky Jenn. He was hopped up when she found him and gave him his cut. He accused her of cheating him, like he did when he was hopped up. The first girl back to him always got it. That was the thing, she’d been so sure she wouldn’t be the first back. Shit. She picked herself up and pulled her tank top down over her blackened stomach. Always careful not to hit where the customers would see. Damn, even when he’s hopped up he’s thinking business, she thought before she fell onto the bed. It stunk, but big deal. Big deal.

For some reason she started to cry. She started thinking about what it was like to be in school and have pep rallies and hide behind the bleachers at football games smoking pot. Walking down the halls and cutting class until Mrs. Dennison caught her and hauled her butt back with a hand on her collar and a firm look in her eyes. Damn Mrs. Dennison. Ever since that deal with Ivy she wasn’t the same, like she didn’t care anymore. Like Ivy jumping off the Chain-of-Rocks bridge had been her fault. Like no one but Ivy mattered. She cried some more, mascara and purple eye paint streaming down her emaciated face. She remembered her last day:

“Mrs. Dennison, my stepdad is coming back and he’s gonna do it again, I know it! Mrs. Dennison, what should I do?”

Mrs Dennison stared at her with blank eyes and told her to visit the counselor. Then she walked away. Damn bitch.
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She cried until she couldn’t cry anymore, then she sat in his armchair and smelled his scent. It was dark but she didn’t turn on any lights. Lights would mean she cared, and she didn’t. Not about anything. She had to keep her resolution, the one she made for the New Year, to get a new start and to keep it away, keep it all away. Don’t get involved, she resolved. Don’t get involved.