If I Could - B. Celeste Page 0,16
I was wrong. So wrong. “You can say that,” I sigh, gripping the back of my neck with my free hand. “Listen, I’m sorry for unloading that on you. You’re already nervous, and I didn’t make it any better. I’m just…”
“Working out some shit,” he finishes for me, shrugging like it doesn’t faze him. “You’ve got a point, as far as I’m concerned. They don’t tell us the reality of some kids’ situations.”
I find myself nodding, still feeling bad about saying anything, but don’t comment on it. At least he doesn’t look like he’s about to run the other way. If anything, he acts like he’s willing to run right toward the problem.
After about ten minutes of comfortable silence, something that usually takes a lot longer to achieve with a practical stranger, he breaks the quietude by saying, “I’ve been told I’m a good listener, if you ever want to test the theory.”
He doesn’t push the matter, doesn’t say another word after that. It isn’t until after we’re done with the front of the house, and one of the sides—again, in silence—that I realize he’s already become a friend.
Someone I can rely on if I need to.
Nobody has accomplished that in years, and this guy did it in a matter of weeks.
Chapter Five
Ren
When I was nine years old, my little league coach told me not to show my fear. They’ll eat you alive, kid, he’d told me. I imagined the opposing team like sharks circling a diver’s cage.
What’s funny about the scenario now, almost fifteen years later, is that the situation hasn’t changed. Kids are still vicious little assholes who can smell your fear. So, I channeled all the pep talks I’ve gotten over the years and put on a brave face as my first class trickled in following the first bell.
Truth is, I’m fucking petrified. My student teaching went fine at the school I was assigned to for it, and those were a bunch of inner-city kids who could care less about being in your classroom, much less learning about all the vital wars fought over the centuries.
Thinking back to Della’s text this morning, I can’t help but crack a smile. All it said was Keep a button or two open on your shirt and you’ll have at least half the class’s attention if they’re girls.
And were they? Glancing around the room at tired faces, I note that they are. I’d say at least two thirds of the room is. Yet, my white top is fully buttoned, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, and the hem professional tucked into the navy pressed pants. I’m not about to mess this up by giving people, students and teachers alike, the wrong impression. The number of lectures we were given before going into our student teaching roles senior year of college told me they’d seen a lot of inappropriate behavior, especially since my adviser made it a point to tell me that there would be “temptations” while I worked, but that I needed to “keep it clean” and “appropriate” if I wanted to succeed.
Jesus H. Christ.
It’s not all surprising, I suppose, when someone crosses a line. For those of us going into the secondary, high school setting, we’re not that much older than the senior class. Still, I’ve never been tempted like my adviser, an angry, beady-eyed old woman who never seemed to like me, thought I would be. Then again, she never had much hope, even sounding surprised that I did so well in my coursework. Apparently, she also thought I was only ever good for sports rather than academics.
Whatever.
With my name written on the whiteboard, I wait until the late bell rings before closing the door and greeting everybody. As expected, it gets about half the students groaning, a third of silence, and a few greetings back. Namely from the female department. Go figure.
The first class goes well, better than I can hope for. Nobody complains. Everyone participates, though a few are reluctant, and I don’t have to yell at anyone. Though, it came close when one of the boys in the back took out his phone and started messing around with it. One hard look and a smack from his friend sitting beside him later, he pocketed the device and sunk into his seat. No big deal.
I have two different World History classes for the tenth grade, one in the morning, the other in the afternoon. Each about twenty-five or so students. It’s small, more intimate than I’m