Authors: Matthew Quick
Everyone began writing.
I saw my plane fall from my hand like a dead rat—I couldn’t wait to let go of its tail so I could wash my hands of it—straight down to the grass below. I remember being very proud of my rat simile, as trite and inaccurate as it sounds now. I also remember
writing failure in big capital letters too, almost as if I were proud of my own perceived incompetence.
“Skip a line and write the number five followed by a period,” Mr. Vernon said. “When I say go, I want you to stand—remembering that if you talk, you fail—and take your paper airplane over to the window, stick your arm out into the sunlight, give your plane a throw, and watch it fly. Keep watching until it hits the ground. Make a mental movie of it. Then I want you to go outside and retrieve your airplane quickly—without running—return to your desk, and describe your airplane’s actual flight in great exact detail. Remember, you are not being graded on the flight, but on the degree of honesty you employ while describing the flight. If you are honest, you will receive an A. Go.”
No one moved.
“What are you waiting for?”
I remember James Hallaran standing first. He always wore a black leather jacket, drove a late 1970s Camaro painted aqua, and kept a pack of Marlboro Reds rolled in his T-shirt sleeve. Outside of school he’d have a cigarette tucked behind his left ear like he was John Travolta in
Grease
, although he looked more like Billy Idol.
This cliché of a rebel walked to the window and threw his airplane.
I remember him grinning as he watched it sail through the air.
Then he laughed in this curt way, like he had just gotten away with smoking a joint in front of the principal, and made his way to the door.
“Very good, Mr. . . .”
James spun around, pushed his lips together, locked them with an imaginary key, shrugged comically, and then spun around on the heel of his left boot quickly enough to make the chain that connected his wallet to his belt loop rise.
“You and I are going to get along,” Mr. Vernon called after him, smiling.
James lifted a thumb over his head as he walked out the door.
Then many of the other boys began giving their paper airplanes the gift of flight, and soon many of the popular girls did the same.
Being neither male nor popular, I was one of the last to stand.
It felt good to be moving in class, and the sun warmed my skin when I extended my arm out of the window, although my plane didn’t fly, but spun and sadly seesawed its way to the ground.
I was embarrassed as I exited the classroom, walked down the hallway and the stairs, and found Portia Kane Airways’ first female manned aircraft stuck in a bush.
Does a female pilot make it an un
man
ned plane? I thought, and smiled.
Back up in Mr. Vernon’s classroom, I wrote exactly what I had seen, likening my plane’s flight to that of an oak leaf plucked free from a tree by a gust of September wind, and feeling more than a little proud of the metaphor.
“Pencils down,” Mr. Vernon said. “Now I want you to reread your answers. Put a plus sign next to the answers that seem optimistic and positive. Put a minus sign next to the answers that seem pessimistic and gloomy. Remember, you are being graded on your honesty.”
As I reread my answers, I realized that I would be giving myself all minuses, because all of my answers were “pessimistic and gloomy.” And this made me angry, because I wasn’t a pessimistic and gloomy person.
Or was I?
Mr. Vernon had tricked me somehow. I wanted desperately to put little plus signs next to all of my paragraphs, because I had always thought of myself as a reasonably optimistic person, but it would be dishonest, and we were being graded on honesty.
“Pass your papers forward. You may keep your airplanes.”
We did as he asked, and once he had all of the papers in his hand, he tapped the pile straight. “How did you feel when I announced that you were going to be tested today? What did you write? Be honest. You may speak when called upon.”
A few kids raised their hands and said they felt betrayed, scared, worried, annoyed, anxious—mostly what I would have said. When Mr. Vernon asked, “How about you?” and pointed to me, I shrugged.
“You can tell the truth, Ms. . . .”
“Kane. I just told you that ten seconds ago.”
“Forgive me. I have more than a hundred new names to learn, and it’s only the first day of school. But how did you feel when I announced the test today, Ms. Kane?”
“Angry,” I said, too quickly.
“Why?”
“Because it wasn’t fair.”
“Why wasn’t it fair?”
“Because you didn’t give us a chance to study. We didn’t even know what the test was about. It wasn’t fair.”
“Would studying have helped you today?” he asked.
I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I didn’t like it.
“I could have read up on how to make paper airplanes.”
“Do you think that would have improved your grade, considering the fact that you’re being graded on honesty today and not your ability to make paper airplanes?”
I felt my face turning red.
Mr. Vernon picked another victim—and in my memory it’s Danielle Bass. I see her red hair teased out wildly and stiff with hair spray, like Axl Rose’s in the “Welcome to the Jungle” video.
“It was just different,” she answered.
“And different is bad?” Mr. Vernon asked her.
“Usually,” Danielle said. In my memory, she’s wearing black lipstick.
“Why?”
“Don’t know. Just is.”
“Don’t give average answers,” Mr. Vernon said. “You’re better than that. I can tell. Try to be articulate. You can do it. You’re smarter than you think. All of you are. Trust me.”
Danielle squinted at him.
“Is it safe to assume that everyone found the idea of a pop test on the first day of class unpleasant?”
We all began glancing around the room.
“Don’t be such sheep!” he yelled. “Think for yourself. That’s the problem. Consensus kills art and intellectual progress! I could see it in your eyes. You were all terrified by the word
test
. Just four little letters. Ridiculous. But let me ask you this question: Have you ever taken one of
my
tests before? No, you haven’t. So how would you know what that experience entails, let alone if you would like it? Why did you all think it was going to be a bad experience?”
James Hallaran called out without raising his hand. “We assumed it would be a bad experience because all of the tests we’ve been taking since kindergarten have sucked—emphatically
.
”
Mr. Vernon smiled and nodded. “I like your use of the word
emphatically
. Yes, I do. But if you are going to use sexual metaphors in my class, Mr. Hallaran, please be more original. Also, raise your hand when you want to speak, okay?”
James nodded back, and I noticed that he too was smiling. I could tell he liked Mr. Vernon, and it was then—right at that very moment—that I began to realize we all were going to like him. That he was in complete control, and he had tricked us. James Hallaran was the first to figure it out. Maybe I was the second.
Mr. Vernon slowly waved his index finger over the class. “You limit yourself with a bad attitude. Those of you who are lazy will blame the system. You’ve been conditioned to retch at the word
test
, no matter what the actual testing may involve. But it’s a choice too. You don’t really want to be Pavlov’s dog, do you? And that’s the point of today. When was the last time you got to make paper airplanes in class and then throw those airplanes out the window?”
He looked around at us, but no one raised a hand.
We were on unfamiliar ground, and while most of us were smiling at this point, we were still reluctant to speak before we knew what sort of game was being played here.
“How many of you wrote scathing reviews of your plane and its flight? Even worse—how many of you envisioned your planes crashing and burning before you even gave them a test flight?”
He seemed to be searching all of our eyes at once, scanning us for lies.
“You gotta believe once in a while, kids. That’s what I’m trying to tell you here. The world will try to crush that belief out of you. It will try its damnedest. ‘If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.’ Does anyone know who wrote that?”
I raised my hand before I could stop myself. “Ernest Hemingway. It’s from
A Farewell to Arms
. We read it sophomore year.”
“Very good. And do you believe that the world wants to break you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“This is your senior year, Ms. Kane. Next year you will be squarely in the real world. It’s important for you to understand these things. Imperative.”
“What things?”
“The cost of being strong.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You will,” he said, looking directly into my eyes. “You will, Ms. Kane. I promise. You all will,” he said to the class. “And I know before I even begin that many of you will be consensus people. Herd members who will cower at the word
test
. People who look around the room before speaking or doing anything. But you can free yourself. There’s still time, kids. To be free. To tell Pavlov that you are not a dog. Do you want to be free? Do you?”
Mr. Vernon paused too long—it made all of us feel uncomfortable. You could hear the red second hand ticking on the standard school clock hanging next to the American flag.
“You all scored one hundred on your tests today. Every one of you starts the year with one hundred percent. And I’m a man of my word. That’s twenty-five percent of your grade already perfect. No homework tonight either. And no boring average predictable syllabus outlining what we may or may not do. Instead I offer you adventure. Who knows what lies around the curve for us? I promise you one thing only—it won’t be boring.”
The bell rang, but no one made a move for the door.
“When your head hits the pillow tonight, when you close your eyes, just before you drift off into your dreams, I want you to ask yourself these two questions, and answer honestly: Doesn’t Mr. Vernon give the best tests? And if day one was so interesting, what the hell will the rest of the school year be like? What was that word you used earlier, Mr. Hallaran? Assume? Makes an ass out of u and me, is the old cliché. Check your assumptions at the door tomorrow
before you enter my domain. Ms. Kane, see me after class. The rest of you are dismissed!”
I swallowed hard and remained seated as the rest of my classmates filed out.
Mr. Vernon walked over toward me slowly, and then, with the fingertips of his right hand resting on my desk, he said, “Are you a fan of Greek drama?”
“What?” I said.
“Your T-shirt. The masks. Comedy and tragedy. Classic symbols, thousands of years old.”
I looked down. “Um, this is a Mötley Crüe concert shirt.
Theatre of Pain
. ‘Home Sweet Home’? Mötley Crüe is a band.”
“Those masks represent tragedy and comedy. Been around a lot longer than your assorted crew. Look it up. You’re smarter than you realize, Ms. Kane. You don’t have to pretend. Do you like Hemingway?”
I shrugged, but inside I was pissed about the “smarter than you realize” comment. He didn’t know me. And he sure as hell didn’t have the right to talk to me like this—like he was my father or something. It was bullshit.
Mr. Vernon said, “Do you find him sexist? I mean, Papa was a bit of a pig when it came to women, but goddamn could he write. Do you agree?”
I just stared up at Mr. Vernon.
No teacher had ever talked to me like that.
“You don’t know what to do with me, do you?” He laughed. “You don’t like me yet either.
Yet
. But you will. I can look into all of your eyes on the first day and know which of you will get my class. You will get it, Ms. Kane. I can tell. You’re free to go now.”
I grabbed my backpack and left as quickly as I could.
When I was far enough down the hall, I whispered, “
Freak.
”
But in my heart, I didn’t mean it.
I went to the library during lunch and looked up Pavlov, learned about the conditioned reflex, and how you could make dogs salivate when they heard a bell ring even when there was no food in the room, if only you’d rung it enough times previously while the dog was eating.
I sort of got what Mr. Vernon was saying about us.
I didn’t want to be anyone’s dog.
Maybe I
had
been conditioned.
That night when my head hit the pillow I caught myself smiling and realized I was doing as Mr. Vernon had instructed—I was thinking about him and his class. I wondered what the rest of the school year would be like, and if any of the other kids in my class were also thinking about Mr. Vernon before they drifted off to sleep. I bet they were. And then I wondered if he was doing to us what Pavlov had done to his dog. Would I think about Mr. Vernon every time my head hit the pillow for the rest of my life?
Back in the Crystal Lake Diner, Danielle says, “One with whipped and one without,” as she plops plates of waffles down in front of Mom and me.
“I’m invisible,” Mom whispers.
I blink a few times, and Danielle says, “You okay, Portia?”
“What happened to Mr. Vernon?”
“Here,” Danielle says, and then slips me a piece of paper. “Enjoy your meal.”
I unfold the paper and read it.
Can’t talk here. Boss is a Nazi. Off at 6 pm. Dinner? Call at 6:20?
Her phone number is underneath.
“Mom,” I say.
“Invisible.”
“You haven’t heard anything bad about a teacher at Haddon Township High School, have you? Mr. Vernon? My senior-year English teacher? Anything at all? It could have been a few years ago?”
“Can we leave yet?” Mom says, covering her eyes with her right hand and then gritting her teeth convincingly enough to make me believe she is really truly suffering through this.