Authors: Barry James Hickey
“Hey teach,” Matt whispered, poking at Mr. Battle gently. “Teach...”
Mr. Battle woke up and rubbed his eyes. He was sweating, a slight hint of drool hanging from a corner of his mouth.
“What do we do now? Time’s up.”
The new teacher sat up from his chair in the corridor. Someone had turned on the bright overhead hallway lights. The five Tadpoles stood at attention in front of him.
“Class,
if you can call it a class
, is over,” Amber said sarcastically.
“I'm sorry. I must have...” Battle apologized, clearing his throat.
“Maybe he’s not even a teacher,” Julio said. “Maybe he’s just lazy.”
“You sick or something?” Amber asked Battle.
“I’ll be fine.”
“We read your stupid books and magazines,” Toby said. “Now what?”
Mr. Battle looked at his watch. “Let’s call it a night,” he decided.
The boys stomped up the stairs, but the girls lingered behind, books in their arms.
Amber displayed a novel. “Can I take this with me?”
“By all means.”
“I’m taking a history book, too,” Marie said. “They got stuff about Mexico in it. My family is Mexican.”
“It’s all yours.”
The girls ran up the stairs to catch up to the boys.
Battle let out a long sigh and struggled to stand. He made his way back to the classroom, turned off the lights and locked the door.
Mr. Wirtz appeared in the hallway. “Interesting teaching style,” he said. “Sorry they had to wake you.” Wirtz turned on his heels and climbed upstairs.
By the time John Battle reached the main floor everyone had gone.
Four of the Tadpoles sat on the old log in a straight line; their feet tucked in, arms cradling their upper bodies from the cold.
He pulled a National Geographic and throwaway lighter from his coat and lit the magazine on fire.
“What are you doing?” Amber asked.
“Staying warm.”
Toby set the small torch on the log and rubbed his hands over the flames.
“You stole it from our sub?”
“Yep,” he said fiercely.
Julio pulled out the magazine he swiped and tore pages from it to feed the flames.
“Dude’s got big kahunas saying I'm an alcoholic,” Julio huffed.
“He didn’t say that,” Matt corrected him.
“Okay. He
implied
it.”
Matt held his hands to the flame for warmth. “I think he was hinting at raising your standards.”
“I’m Mexican, man.” Julio slapped Matt’s hands away. “Drinking is our culture.”
He fanned the pages and watched a crescendo of flames rise up in the air.
“That was smart, Julio.” Amber scoffed. “Why don’t you just burn down the forest while you’re at it?”
“Hey, Amber. Give me that book to burn.”
“No way.”
“Come on, it's cold out here.”
Amber stood up and pulled her flimsy coat in around her little pudge. “I’m going home.”
“Back to the orphanage?” Toby said.
“I want a warm bed and some food.”
“Is it me or are you getting fat?” Matt remarked. “I’m getting fat, dumb ass. Good-night.”
Amber walked up the trail into the darkness. Julio chased after her, turning back to make sure that none of the other boys were following him.
“You want me to walk you home?” His voice was almost a whisper.
“We already know what happens when you walk girls home.” Amber reached up and planted a small friendly kiss on his cheek. “Good-night, Julio.”
He blushed and headed back to the log at Shooks Run.
Now Amber hurried down the gravel trail alone, through the grove of small, bending, whispering trees before entering the grassy stretch of the park. It made Amber feel safe, being out in the open. She crossed the baseball field and exited the park, hurrying towards a row of houses lit by streetlights ahead. Amber was hurrying along now, strangely anxious to be in the company of other orphans, misfits and castaways.
An SUV was parked nearby, but Amber didn’t pay attention to the man sitting behind the wheel in the dark. After she passed the car and was well on her way down the street, Mr. Battle started the engine. He put the car in gear and passed the frail little girl hurrying herself home. Battle wanted to lower the window. He wanted to pull over and offer her a ride. But it was too soon. It was only their first day together and he hoped to have many more. He sped up to avoid temptation.
“Be safe little girl,” he spoke in a quiet voice.
Amber glanced at the SUV as it passed, but she didn’t think anything of it. Like her, it was just another ship in the night looking for safe harbor.
Marie Fuentes sat at the counter of the nearly deserted Denny’s restaurant, nursing a hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles in it. She watched her mother, Lolly, working with a wet dishrag to remove stubborn egg stains off a counter stool.
“This is ridiculous,” Lolly complained. “How can somebody miss their mouth with a forkful of eggs?”
Her mother was always tired now. Tired of working, tired of failure, tired of life. She had been this way for a long time now. Her round brown eyes carried dark circles under them and her small body was too skinny. Still, she was Marie’s mother.
Thumbing through her borrowed history book, Marie spoke cheerfully. “My teacher, Mr. Battle, he is even more tired than you, mama… but still handsome.”
“Stop trying to fix me up. I got a man now,” Lolly begged. She stooped over to pick up a dirty napkin that had fallen behind the counter.
“But this one, he sounds smart, mama.”
“Maybe he is. The world is full of smart people. Give me rich anytime.”
Marie held up her book. “I’m starting to read things again.”
Lolly glanced at the cover of the thick textbook and grunted. “A history book no less!”
“It has lots of pictures to help me understand better…” Marie set down the book and took her mother’s hand in hers. “I don't want to be at the center of the universe no more, mama.”
“After a while, it’s a very boring place,” Lolly agreed. She pulled her hand away and continued wiping down the counter. “How are you getting along with Grandpapa and Grandmama? Do you like living with them?”
“They are too old. I’d rather be with you.”
“Not yet, Marie. I'm not ready.”
“That man you're with is no good for you! You don’t say nothin’ no more, but I think he still beats you.”
“Fine. I’ll marry this teacher you got and we can live happily ever after under a mushroom with all your toads.”
“Tadpoles,” Marie corrected her.
Lolly pinched her daughter’s nose. “This is the first time I have heard you talk like this. It is good.”
“I don’t want to be stupid no more.” And then Marie asked, “When can I come home, mama?”
“Not for a long, long time,” Lolly reminded her with a sour voice.
Customers were coming in. Lolly grabbed menus and went to seat them at a table.
Marie looked around the restaurant. She could work here too, maybe. Together they could make enough money for her and mama to be together again. Her hair-styling career could wait a little longer. She smiled at the idea and returned to the pages of the history book, enjoying the pictures and skipping past the hard to read text.
The next few evening classes with the odd teacher were even stranger than the first one.
On the second day, the new authority figure in the Tadpoles’ lives provided a box of crayons and drawing paper. He had them draw something he referred to as
a hero’s journey
. Each student was required to sketch out his or her own hero’s journey. It was supposed to be an adventure that required them to leave their ordinary world for an imaginary one where they had to fight off shape-shifters and enter dreary dark caves in search of a treasure.
Everyone but Amber copied off each other and drew a variation on the same story; a pot smoker steals a garbage truck full of weed and tries to sell it to a big drug dealer. The treasure involved was money.
Amber’s journey was different. Her heroine was strong and individualistic. She set off on a thousand-mile quest to find an oracle to tell her who she was and what her purpose was in life. Her treasure was the discovery of a truth previously hidden from her.
The story nearly brought tears to her teacher’s eyes.
Her friends thought it was overtly melodramatic. Just like her.
On the third day, Mr. Battle showed them how the eight Parts of Speech worked in tandem. He had each student write down a definition of each part of speech and an accompanying sample sentence using that part of speech. Many of the sentences were funny, but that was okay, especially for Julio and Marie, because they could remember the principles of adjectives and adverbs based on the absurdity of the sentence.
But things didn’t always flow for the new teacher in the after school program. Towards the end of one class, disaster struck when Mr. Battle tried getting the students to bring home a questionnaire for their parents or guardians to fill out.
“Listen to this line,” Amber read for the others. “’The purpose of this survey is to help the student’s teacher to foster a positive relationship with your child by giving him the inside scoop on your child's likes, dislikes, and special needs’”
Toby objected to Mr. Battle.
“’Number One,’” Matt read aloud. “’Favorite Subjects:
Point out the subjects that set your child's brain on fire so the
teacher knows how to engage his mind and keep him
challenged in those areas.’”
“My favorite subject is dissecting cats,” Toby said. “Is it on
the list?”
“I like to visit the cemetery with a shovel after a fresh body
has been planted,” Matt said.
“Pot 101 for me,” Marie said.
“’Difficult Subjects,’” Amber continued reading, trying to
sound like a middle-aged librarian with a haughty voice. “’It is
helpful for the teacher to know beforehand what subjects
give your child trouble. This allows the teacher to pay special
attention to those areas and to look for ways to improve
comprehension.’”
“I stink at Math, English, Social Studies, Geography,
Computers and Science,” Julio said.
“I can’t read, write, or arithmetic,” said Toby.
“I’m color blind, dyslexic and paranoid with a fetish about
touching paper,” Matt said.
“I don’t like to get my nails dirty,” Marie said. She was
meticulous about her nails.
“Check it out,” Amber kept reading. “The school
information police want to know if we have allergies or a
medical condition. They want to know if we’re religious…” “Jesus was born, he lived, he died. There. All done. I’m
good with God,” Julio said.
“’What particular foods do we like’?” it asks.
“Pizza. Beer. Mac and cheese. PB and J.”
“Here’s the best one!” Amber laughed. “’Do we have family
issues?’”
The kids cracked a seam on that one.
“Here’s one for Julio,” Amber read. “’Alert the teacher if
your child is self-conscious about his weight or appearance.’” “Kiss my ass, Amber.”
“Followed by another Julio question,” Matt shared the
questionnaire with Amber. “‘Let the teacher know if your
child tends to be cranky in the afternoon or hates to take
naps. Mention any tried-and-true methods you've already
discovered for dealing with less-than-ideal behavior.’” He
looked at Julio. “How does your daddy get you to take a
nappy, Julio?”
Julio reached across the table and yanked Matt out of his
seat with his big paws. Don’t get me started,” he said. “You
don’t want to see me ugly.”
“Okay, Julio. I know you’re big and bad,” said the teacher,
“Now, will you please release the student?”
After the big boy relaxed, Mr. Battle collected the surveys.
“I guess it was a bad idea,” he said.
Mr. Battle promised a different kind of class for their fourth encounter.
“An evening of etiquette.”
“How does this help us get our grades?” Matt asked.
“In time, you will see the method of my madness,” Mr. Battle promised.
When the Tadpole gang arrived for class in the basement the next evening, Mr. Battle was standing at a candlelit table set for two, speaking with a very bad French accent.
“Good evening. Welcome to Chateau Escuela. I am your host, Monsieur Bat El. I need a pair of volunteers. Un boy, un girl.”
Amber quickly took a seat on the left and started to roleplay with her own French accent. It was as bad as his was.
“But where ees my date? Please, Monsieur Matt, seet across from me.”
“Why not?” Matt said as he joined her. “At least there’s food on the table.”
Mr. Battle popped open the cork of a bottle of nonalcoholic cider. “Champagne for madam.”
As Mr. Battle filled their glasses, Matt picked up the cork and offered it to Amber. “Please Amber, take this cork as a symbol of my love.”
Amber tossed it back at him. “Keep your lousy cork and come back with a diamond ring.”
“I fear there is another man in your life!” Matt feigned as he picked up his glass of cider. “But without you, I am nothing. I shall take my own life by drinking this poison so you can be free of me at last!”
Matt drank the poison, pretended to choke and died a miserable, overly dramatic death as he collapsed on the floor.
But the coup de grace was Amber’s nonchalant turn to Mr. Battle.
“Waiter, I'd like to go ahead and order now.”
Julio, Toby and Marie applauded wildly.
“Great improvisation!” Battle smiled. “An excellent ending! And now, together let us learn the fermented history of cheese.”
“Was that a pun, Mr. Battle?”
“Yes.”
He gestured for the others to pull up chairs as Matt dragged himself back to life off the floor.
“I was dying down there,” said the boy. “Another ‘no pun’ intended.”
“Your performance hurt us even worse,” Battle patted Matt on the back.
The teacher opened another bottle of cider and offered filled plastic cups to the students.
“What do we know about cheese? Cheese has been with us since prehistoric times. Solid or semi-solid, it is prepared from the milk of cows, goats, sheep and other mammals. The principal constituent of milk is casein. Spelled c a s e i n. Spell it with me – c a s e i n.”
“CASEIN,” the students repeated loudly.
“Casein is a protein. Raw or pasteurized milk is allowed to stand in a warm place where it sours but the casein is precipitated...”
Marie pulled out a small notebook from her purse, taking notes. “Wait! Slow down! Precapinate...”
“A notebook?” Matt said with disbelief. “What's up with that, Marie? You got a bump on your head?”
“Shut up! Percept...”
“Precipitate,” Mr. Battle said. “It means ‘to come before’.”
Marie scribbled and repeated out loud, “pre sip a tate… to come before.” She looked up, her face clueless. “To come before what?”
“Something else has to happen before the casein is formed. With cheese, it’s the action of harmless lactic acid bacteria. But with pasteurization, the bacterium has been killed so a ‘starter’ must be added. The thick precipitate is what you might know as a curd.”
He scooped out a lump of cottage cheese from a container he purchased at the grocery store.
“The curd is separated from a thin, watery residue known as whey.”
Mr. Battle produced a picture of a caveman making cheese over a fire in the scoop of a large stone.
“Now, this was the earliest method of producing cheese and I imagine it wasn't the most flavorful. Julio, take a guess. How many varieties of cheese are there today?”
“American, Swiss and Velveeta.”
The Tadpoles laughed.
“Come on, guys. Guess.”
“Okay. I’ll say twenty,” Julio said.
“Fifty?” Marie guessed.
“More than we know?” Matt presumed.
“Closer to two thousand,” Mr. Battle said with excitement. “Including variations of the original types such as Julio’s Velveeta. There are two - count my fingers - two categories of cheese - Natural and Processed.”
“Now we’re talking Velveeta!” Julio understood.
“Correct, Julio! Now let's take a snapshot with our minds.”
“Like a photographic memory?” Amber said.
“What’s a photographic memory?” Marie asked.
Julio laughed at her. “Geez, girl. What cave you been in all your life?”
Marie brandished her notebook at him. “I'm out of the cave now, stupid.”
Amber’s voice sounded protective. “Leave her alone, you idiot.”
“You want a piece of me?” Julio challenged.
“I don't eat whale blubber.”
The other kids laughed with Julio. He pointed a warning finger at Amber.
“You better watch your back, girlie girlie. Judgment day's acomin'!”
“I do believe I was interrupted,” Mr. Battle said politely.
“Sorry, Mr. B,” Julio said with respect. “Just taking care of some personal business.”
Battle addressed Marie. “To answer your question, Marie. A photographic memory is a gift for some, a curse for many that have it. There are individuals on this planet that can see a page and remember everything they saw on that page. Like a snapshot. Others can remember every smell, others can remember every detail of every place they have ever been.”
“For how long?”
“Their entire life.”
“That would suck,” said Toby. “There are some things I already want to forget. Like a sour milkshake.”
“I think I have a photographic memory,” Marie decided. “But with the wrong picture sometimes.”
“Like trees?” Matt poked her in the side.
“Deciduous and coniferous,” Marie blurted out.
All the kids looked at her with amazement.
“Was she right this time?” Julio asked Matt.
Matt winked at Marie. “Girl’s got it!”
The kids clapped their hands. “Right on, Marie!”
Battle continued. “Imagine storing all that information into a human brain that is no larger than a pair of combined fists! Okay, let's see who among you has a photographic memory about cheese. Everybody, close your eyes.”
The Tadpoles closed their eyes.
“Ready?” Mr. Battle pulled a list from his sport coat. “You got your Cheddar, Monterrey Jack, Gouda and Edam, Camembert, Muenster, Brick, Swiss, Limburger, Blue, Gorgonzola, Provolone, Romano, Parmesan, Mozzarella, Scamorze, Cottage Cheese and Cream Cheese. Repeat please...”
The kids tried. “You got your…” They butchered the list. Julio added, “cheese for pizza and grilled cheese.” Matt added, “mashed potatoes with a hint of Limburger...” “What’s Limburger?” Amber said.
“The smelliest cheese on earth,” Mr. Battle said. “You don’t want to try it.”
The kids were getting into it big time.
The teacher produced baked potatoes in Styrofoam containers from a fast food sack and distributed them. “Let’s move on to a new food. The potato. One for each, please. I took the liberty of adding sour cream and bacon bits on them. Now, let me explain… Potatoes are edible starchy tubers produced by certain plants of the genus solanum of the family solanaceae. The white potato tuber is a food staple in most countries of the temperate regions of the world...”
“Wait!” Toby said. “What's a temperate region?”
“A place where potatoes can grow.”
“Oh!” the kids hummed.
“Some say
po tah toe
, I say
po tay toe
,” said Battle. “Some American potatoes for you to remember; Rose, Idaho, Cobbler, Early Ohio, Green Mountain, Henron, Rural and Burbank. Freshly dug potatoes contain an average of water, starch, protein and even ash. Three fourths of a dry potato is carbohydrates. We also use potatoes to make adhesives, glues and alcohol!”
“Now I'm starting to relate!” Julio smacked his lips. “Moonshine.”
“So,” Battle asked. “What have we learned so far?”
“I’m feeling really hungry,” Toby said.
“Me, too,” said Matt.
“Let’s eat,” said Battle as he passed out forks.
Word spread quickly among the day students that there was a new teacher at Garfield – a man with imagination that taught without textbooks and tests.
Mr. Wirtz spied on the small class every so often before he went home, surprised that the Tadpoles were still attending.
“What’s your secret?” he asked Mr. Battle.
“Food bribes and conversation,” the new man replied.