into a prison.
He had to go.
We had to find a way to get rid of him.
I took Mrs. Kline’s yellow pad and her pen. Then I stood up on the back steps and called everybody to order by shouting, “One! Two!”
“Eyes on you!” they all shouted back.
So easy with teachers.
In the quiet that followed, I said, “That memo today made it clear: Nobody is coming to save us. We’re going to have to save ourselves. And save the school.” I looked around at all the teachers. There were at least thirty of us there. Then I said, “We have to get rid of this guy.”
A wine-and-cake-fueled cheer went up.
Of course, nobody really knew how to do that—but that was what this gathering was going to turn into. A full-panic, no-idea-is-too-dumb brainstorming session.
First idea was to get a petition going.
Second idea was writing a group letter to the board signed by as many faculty as we could get—which would be everybody.
Third idea was to refute each of Duncan’s bad ideas, one by one, assigning each to a willing faculty member to do a write-up about why it wouldn’t work. I agreed to take the gray walls; Coach Gordo agreed to take the iron bars; Carlos took the security guards; and Alice took the canceling of field trips. Once all the major affronts had been assigned, we went through the smaller changes, from the changing keypad codes to the recent switch of all campus lightbulbs to blue fluorescents, which were cheaper, yes, but which gave off a morgue-like vibe that was bumming everybody out. Unanimously.
Was I sure it would work? No.
But it was a start.
We’d figure this out. We’d work together. I wasn’t sure how, and I wasn’t sure when, but I knew we’d manage it. We weren’t giving up. We weren’t chickening out. And we sure as hell weren’t canceling our field trip to the beach.
ten
That was another rule of Max’s: Never give anyone bad news without also giving them something to do about it.
We went to the beach to pick up trash every year without fail.
All to say, when Duncan sent out that email, the buses were already ordered, the teacher teams were already organized, the trash bags and rakes and cleanup supplies were already assembled, and the posters to record and celebrate how many pounds of trash we’d removed were already made.
All ready and waiting.
I’d say, in general, I was a pretty obedient person. I didn’t throw recyclables in the trash. I voted every Election Day—even in the tiny ones most people skipped. If a recipe called for a tablespoon of something, I didn’t just eyeball it, I measured it out.
But in response to the beach cleanup being canceled, I had a very nonobedient reaction. Some unknown, fiery part of me rose up from some unknown, fiery place in my soul and created this thought in my mind: I dare you.
I dare you to stop us.
Duncan Carpenter had no right to cancel that trip. It was a tradition much bigger than him. We did a beach cleanup every year. It had been happening since before Duncan Carpenter was even born. Or close enough. It had been Max’s idea long before I’d come here, and we weren’t going to just let it die now that he was gone.
Was this the hill I wanted to die on? Trash cleanup at the beach?
Yes. Apparently, it was.
Here’s what I’m saying: We wound up sneaking the entire third grade out of the building.
Just funneled ’em out the south gate and walked them the three blocks to the seawall. We held hands and we sang sea shanties. It was easy. The teachers had already blocked out the time. Carlos drove over with the shovels and the sifters in his pickup truck. It was fine. We’d be back by lunchtime.
I wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to work that day, and a seashell-printed sarong, and I brought my beach bag with extra sunscreen, in case anybody needed it.
The early part of the day was delightful.
I had the adorable Clay Buckley in my group, and he was full of trivia about everything sea related. He was one of those sweet, serious little boys who seemed somehow more like a thirty-five-year-old therapist than like a kid. Maybe it was the too-big glasses with blue camo frames. Maybe it was his gentle manner, or his impressive vocabulary, or the way he was practically an encyclopedia … but he mostly seemed like he was narrating a nature documentary.
Wise beyond his years.
The