time I took the bus home it was seven o’clock and time to do my homework before turning in. And after such a miserable evening last night, too: Douglas and Lily tense as hell over some offstage fight, a whiny, inappropriately plump Ophelia, Gabriel not showing and Kate, coyly and significantly, refusing to tell me why and a blunt and obvious fake plaster skull. Plus Flora sat between Adam and me and talked Records to him from curtain to curtain. Dammit, Flora, why do you always ruin everything?
A prophetic remark. I hope you picked up on that.
Vocabulary:
ALLEGED PHOSPHOLIPIDS VENDETTA PSYCHOSEXUAL DISTRAUGHT PROPHETIC TÊTE-Á-TÊTE BELLIGERENT
Study Questions:
What would you do in Flan’s shoes, if you received an A you didn’t really deserve even though you were a really good student, but you just didn’t care very much about biology, and if you got it as sort of an apology or a bribe from a sleazy biology teacher that you probably couldn’t do anything about? Consider the issues before deciding, and remember that you can’t really imagine what it would be like to be in the shoes of Flannery Culp because you’re not her.
What functions do you think are biologically important for the sustenance of a living system?
What is the best experience you have had at a high school dance?
Monday September 20th
After such a refreshing weekend, I am looking forward to starting another week of being pushed to the limit academically, athletically and socially at Roewer High
School. Go team! The bus was forty-five minutes late this morning.
I’m sitting on the lumbering late bus, thinking about the way I’m going to start my Monday: by filling out an unexcused absence form for the cranky secretary. The last time the bus was late she actually told me, “Don’t tell me the bus was late. That excuse won’t work anymore today. About ten kids ahead of you said that
their
bus was late, too.” I tried to explain that we all took the same bus, but there was no pulling the wool over
her
eyes. She wasn’t born yesterday.
LATER
When I walked into the building I thought for a moment I had mistakenly come in on Sunday. It was time for homeroom to be over but no one was in the hallways. I ran into some grumpy gym teacher who barked “Go back to homeroom!” so I went to homeroom, opened the door and everyone was sitting silently at their desks. Dodd was standing formally at the front of the room with his hands behind his back like he was waiting for the firing squad. Written on the blackboard, underlined, was the phrase “MOMENT OF SILENCE.”
No kidding
, I thought, and found my seat. Even Natasha looked respectful; that’s when I
knew
some- thing serious was up. It didn’t seem right to ask during the MO- MENT OF SILENCE, so I waited it out. Finally Dodd cleared his throat and everyone relaxed and talked quietly. “Now you know why you shouldn’t be late,” he said to me pointedly.
“What in the world?” I asked Natasha. She sighed and took my hand, and that’s when I knew someone was dead. I feel really guilty when I write this, but it was something of an anticlimax when Natasha told me it was Mark Wallace. Of course,
anticlimax
is
not
the word for
how Mark’s death was rewritten later. Dr. Eleanor Tert, of course, was the biggest culprit. I quote extensively and without permis- sion from her
Crying Too Hard to Be Scared
:
The tragic death of Mark Wallace, one of the most visionary students I have ever had the privilege of analyzing, was key in Flannery’s development of her apocalyptic anti-religious fervor. Seeing her ex-boyfriend punished so immediately with a vengeful lightning bolt in the form of an automobile accident undoubtedly added to Flannery’s God-wish. Mark Wallace was killed by an act of God, she reasoned; therefore, anyone who ever did her wrong in her tumultuous love life was doomed to die, and maybe God needed a little help. Hence the ritualistic murder.
And from Peter Pusher’s
What’s The Matter with Kids Today?: Getting Back to Family Basics in a World Gone Wrong
:
Flannery Culp saw in her high school’s rather limp-wristed reaction to the inevitable result of juvenile delinquency, particularly among minorities, a chance to exploit the free- loading humanist environment to which her educational system had fallen. It should come as no surprise that a school whose honors poetry class studied “ignored geniuses” like Anne Bradstreet and Emily Dickinson but not Keats or Shelley would soft-pedal the moralistic side of the death of the Negro teen Mark Wallace, or that a teenager, being edu- cated in a moral vacuum, would see these soft-pedaling
surroundings as the perfect environs to hide the almost- perfect crime. [Wake up, America!]
Inaccuracy, inaccuracy, inaccuracy
. Oh, and please note: That last sentence isn’t at the end of that particular paragraph, but is at the end of so many others in the book that I couldn’t resist adding it. I can’t even begin to address the
inaccuracy
, but suffice to say that the reason we weren’t studying Keats or Shelley in my
AMERICAN
Poetry class should be self-evident, even to Mr. Pusher, and that one cry of “nice tits”–are you listening, incident- ally flat-chested Dr. Tert?–does not an ex-boyfriend make. Not to mention that the good Dr. Tert did not “analyze” Mark until he was already dead.
Here is what actually happened, from Flannery Culp’s
Journal of a Woman Wronged
:
Sometime Friday night, Mark Wallace, a boy no one liked very much, neither for his generally nasty behavior nor his self-righteous up-from-slavery politics he used to justify it, after getting smashed and making a slimy pass at me, stole a car with some buddies and smashed it into a telephone pole while Roewer High School slept. When Mark Wallace woke up, his buddies had fled into the night and he was dead. When Roewer woke up, Mark Wallace was a noble young martyr, killed for being, as Principal Bodin said over the squawking PA, “in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Doesn’t everyone die by being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Bodin droned on and on, praising Mark’s mischievous sense of humor and his artistic skills. Last
year he had spray-painted an unflattering portrait of Vice Prin- cipal Mokie, with a speech bubble containing his annoying motto–“the last word in principal is
pal
”–coming out of his crotch like some sort of auto-erotic ventriloquist’s act, for which he had been suspended despite the fact that he claimed he was protesting Mokie’s racism. Dodd walked around the room with a shellacked frown on his face, occasionally putting a gentle hand on people’s hairdos. He started to do it to Natasha but she bared her teeth at him.
It was in choir that things got ridiculous. They stopped audi- tions so we could rehearse the special number for tomorrow’s Memorial Assembly. Tipsy John Hand actually took the helm and went on and on about Mark, of course, telling some stories that must have been about somebody else, and finally passing out copies of the gospel song “Ride the Chariot,” which Mr. Hand had heard was one of Mark’s favorites. Uh-huh. I can’t believe that tomorrow (actually, today–it’s after midnight as I write this, sitting in my room with Darling Mud on low) I’m going to get up at an assembly and sing “I’m gonna ride the chariot in the morning, Lord,” in memory of someone who died in a car acci- dent. The only good thing about choir was that Adam, deposed from conducting by the boozy eulogist, was standing in front of me in the skimpy tenor section and I didn’t have to face him.
Biology was a travesty–no surprise there, I guess, but Carr talked about being able to trace the end of a life to an ultimate cause.
“Mark died from a blow to the head, but that isn’t scientifically complete,” he said. He began to draw a car on the chalkboard, and everyone’s eyes widened. “After all, any one of us can go up to a telephone pole and bang our heads on it.” I sat and hoped for a demonstration, but
no dice. “We’ll get a sore head, maybe a lump, but we don’t die.” Carr stared at the car on the board like he had no idea what to do with it. “So obviously the speed of the car had something to do with it. Now, I haven’t seen any official reports of the accident, but let’s assume that he was going at around eighty miles per hour, or ‘mph.’” He put it in quotes in that annoying gesture that makes each hand into a little bunny. Prosecutors use that gesture all the time. “So we could say that Mark died from going eighty mph, but even that is not scientifically complete.
Why
was he going eighty miles an hour? Everyone knows that eighty miles an hour is not a safe speed at which to travel. But his judgment was impaired–by alcohol.” Suddenly tomorrow’s assembly was looking quite tasteful. “Therefore, we can scientifically determine that the ultimate cause of Mark’s death was alcohol, and I think there is a stronger moral lesson when we have a scientifically complete explanation than if we just were to say that Mark died due to a blow to the head.”
“But that isn’t scientifically complete,” some student said. I slouched down lower in my desk. Great, after a tacky monologue now it’s time for a tacky discussion. “
Why
did Mark have alcohol? He was at a chaperoned school dance, with adult supervision. Perhaps those adults failed because they were too busy
flirting with the goddamn cheerleaders
!”
“You may recall, Flannery,” said Mr. Carr, “that as a chaperon I was busy chasing down other people who were breaking the rules, such as yourself.”
Everybody was staring at me. One girl snapped her gum. “
I
happen to be a cheerleader,” she said. “Do you have a problem with that?”
The teaching assistant poked her head out of the office, curious about the commotion. “There’s something
you should all know about the good Mr. Carr,” I said, and the bell rang. Everyone scattered except me and Carr and the teaching assistant. We had a MOMENT OF SILENCE.
“I know you’ve been upset lately,” Carr said, “but your beha- vior in class today was absolutely unacceptable.”
“
My
behavior?” I said. I heard the fury in my voice, but I didn’t quite feel it. It was like I could hear the real Flannery, telling me to calm down because this was a very important semester and if I blew up at Carr my chances of an A would be greatly reduced, and all the while this angry, violent Flannery went on and on. “
My
behavior? You’re making passes at your assistant, you try to bribe me by giving me a good grade I don’t deserve, and you let a student die because you’re so busy making moves on–”
“I think you’ve said just about enough,” Carr said in a deadly voice. “You’re obviously very upset about the death of your boyfriend, so why don’t you take it easy instead of taking it out on your teachers.”
“My
boyfriend
?” I said. “You and Dr. Tert
both
!” I stalked out of the classroom and right to Bodin’s door. The situation was obviously escalating, and I needed outside help. My temper was getting out of control, and Carr had dropped in my eyes from a slightly sleazy teacher to an absolute monster. I was going to tell all and let the chips fall where they may. In short, I was going to ask to transfer to a different Advanced Biology class.
Principal Jean Bodin’s secretary is a perfectly nice woman, ex- cept for the fact that she has snakes for hair.
“
What
?” she snarled immediately when I entered the room. “I need to see Mr. Bodin.”
“
Principal
Bodin’s schedule is full today.”
“Well, I have an appointment to meet with him right now.”
Suspiciously, she opened her appointment book. I could see that it was blank, had been blank forever, world without end. Who ever needs to see a high school principal? “And who are you?”
“Superintendent Culp,” I said, drawing myself to my full height (not much). I forgot to say that it’s always apparent that this sec- retary’s stone-turning gaze had apparently been directed long ago at her own brain.
“Principal Bodin,” she said into the phone, “Superintendent Culp is here to see you.”
Jean Bodin, large as life and twice as fat, opened the door. “Superintendent Culp!” he boomed, like an aging sports hero. Then he saw I was just some kid. “You’re just some kid,” he said.
“Who needs a new biology teacher,” I said.
“I’m busy,” he said, raising his hands in an A-Student!-Usher- Her-Out-Immediately! gesture.
“Maybe you can find a few minutes before the superintendent shows up,” I said, and Bodin sighed and led me in to the inner sanctum. Medusa scowled; she always hates it when Perseus shows up. Check it out, Peter Pusher! A limp-wristed humanist who knows the classics!
Principal Bodin sat in his big chair and put his hands in back of his head like he was about to do sit-ups, though given his size he’s probably never done any of those in his life. As a footnote, he must have gone on some radical diet a few months ago–in the press conferences at which he spoke extensively about new measures the San Francisco Unified School District had taken “virtually to ensure that teen-to-teen murder would be kept at an all-time minimum,” he looked positively slender. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Nothing
seems
to be the problem,” I said, “There
is
a problem. The problem is that Mr. Carr and I are mutually incompatible. I need a new biology teacher. Give me Mrs. Kayak (even though she sleeps behind dark glasses during class at least once a week). Give me Mr. Hunter (even though he displays at best a passing knowledge of biology). Give me anybody. I can’t stay in there any longer.” I bit my lip, hoping it was trembling. I figured the Teary Approach was a good opening strategy. I could always go for the Unstable Approach if things got too rough. It was too bad it wasn’t gym; all I’d have to do was look at my lap and begin a sentence and the Man In Charge would let me do anything I wanted.
“I can’t help you,” Bodin said. All three chins moved as he spoke. “As you know, all of our classes are filled to capacity. If I let
you
move”–he gestured in my direction, presumably to remind me who I was–“I’d have to let
everybody
move, and
then
where would we be? Everybody would be coming in every few minutes, claiming that they were
mutually incompatible
. Everybody would catch it. The school would be a mess.”