The Great Expectations School (34 page)

Marvin nodded. I decided to go for broke. “You told me that you're not smart, but that's wrong. You are smart. You're just in a class with kids who have been doing some things for years that are brand-new to you. Let's say I went to astronaut school to learn how to be a spaceman, and they put me in a class with other astronauts who have been studying space science for three years, would I do well in that class? No, they would all know more than me. But does that mean I'm not a smart guy? No! I just need someone to take me aside and work with me, so I could catch up on the stuff that the other astronaut students have been learning for the last three years. It would be
hard to learn it all, but if I worked hard and had a good teacher, I could do it. That's you! You're in a class where you need to catch up a little, and this is your chance. Do you understand what I mean?”

A long pause passed with all eyes on Marvin. He mumbled, “You want to be a spaceman?”

“I think you should go to special ed is what I'm saying.”

Everyone again looked at Marvin. “I don't want to leave Mr. Brown's class!” he moaned, bursting into blubbers.

“Aww,” the three special ed ladies sighed.

Mrs. Winslow cradled Marvin to her bosom while he sobbed. The ladies and I clamored to explain that this was all for
next
year, and he would be in 4-217 for the rest of this school year.

“I want to be with Mr. Brown next year! Please!”

Marvin's outpouring caught me off guard. I thought he despised me. A part of me had thought at times that I despised him. This was the second crying request by a student to stay with me.

“Everyone has a new teacher next year. No one in your class gets to stay with Mr. Brown,” the third lady explained.

“Mr. Brown, will you be here for summer school?” the second lady asked.

“No.” Budget cutbacks had abolished summer school at P.S. 85 anyway, allotting no teacher positions and a handful of student spots at nearby P.S. 9 for critical cases.

The first lady turned to Marvin. “But you'll be able to visit Mr. Brown all the time next year. You can talk to him all about how you're doing in your new class. I'm sure Mr. Brown would be happy to see you whenever you want. Right, Mr. Brown?”

“Right,” I said, swallowing hard. My hand went to the signed letter of resignation in my pocket.

Marvin looked pacified, and Mrs. Winslow signed the requisite forms.

I had been looking forward to submitting recommendations for my students' future teachers, mentally matching up personalities for
months. I wanted Lito Ruiz and Destiny Rivera with Jeanne Solloway for her maternal manner. I envisioned Eddie getting along with Evan Krieg. Evley and Gloria would mesh well with mild-mannered Scott Riesling. Lakiya was prime for Marc Simmons's perennial hell room. Both Hamisi's and Gladys F.'s mouths and pens needed a dose of writing fanatic Paul Bonn. But what to do about my top three: Sonandia, Jennifer, and Seresa?

“I want them,” Karen told me. “There are some open spots in PAC.”

The Performing Arts Class traditionally operated on a rigid track with the same batch moving from Boswell in fourth to Berkowitz in fifth.

“It's my class now. I'll push it through,” Karen said. She did.

My mom had quietly resisted visiting 4-217. I think my recountings of students' violent outbursts and disrespect made her worry that she wouldn't be able to control the kids if she came, blemishing my image of her as a master teacher.

“The kids will love it,” I told her on the phone. “They've been asking over and over for Amanda, too. This will be more memorable than anything else you'd be doing on that Monday.”

“You're right,” she said after a pause. “I'll get some things together.”

On Sunday night, June 20, my mom and sister slept in my bed and I crashed on the futon. At dawn, the three of us set out for P.S. 85.

The surprised kids were ecstatic when they entered their classroom to discover two bonus members of the Brown family. “Amanda!” Tiffany cried, running over for a hug. The two of them had quickly developed a rapport during Amanda's icy January day at P.S. 85. “And Mr. Brown's mom!”

After a special “Brown Family Math” edition of my Mental Math Mornings (teachers essentially invented their own math curriculum after the Test), my mom gathered the kids for a read-aloud
of Barbara Kerley's
The Dinosaurs of Waterhouse Hawkins.
I was mortified that Dennis, Lito, and Joseph refused to move forward to sit with the listeners. However, within minutes of hearing Marcia Brown's voice, they crept to the front to join their classmates. The kids were mesmerized by Hawkins, an Englishman who constructed the first life-sized models of dinosaurs, some of which remain buried in Central Park. Then Mom brought out the…

“Chocolate chip cookies!”

“Homemade?”

“Oh snap, Mrs. Brown!”

I took out my camera to capture the scene. While Mom was taking a picture of Amanda and me with group five, Marvin Winslow tapped her shoulder.

“Mrs. Brown, can I please take a picture with the camera please?” Marvin meekly asked.

I glared as covertly as possible, shaking my head slightly, mouthing, “Not him. Don't do it. No.” A moment later, Marvin Winslow was handling my camera, something I had truly expected never to happen again. Images of a spiteful camera thief spiking my Nikon into the tile floor flashed in my head. My mom put her hand on his shoulder as he steadied the frame.
Click.
He handed the camera back to her. He shot one of the best pictures in the roll.

During my prep, I brought Mom, Amanda, and the regular Ms. Bowers tutors to the auditorium to watch the kindergarten graduation ceremony. Allie's beaming class performed an adorable dance routine to “Under the Sea,” choreographed and led by Trisha Pierson. When the little mermaids and mermen took their bows, my group went bananas with applause.

After lunch, Mom overruled my advice not to read aloud to the keyed-up afternoon crowd. “The read-alouds are the best way to calm them down,” she said, and performed Judy Sierra's
The Dancing Pig,
a Balinese version of Hansel and Gretel. The kids were angels.

The smorgasbord of prizes thrilled even Lakiya Ray. Mom brought goodies large (more stuffed bears from Macy's, posters, tote
bags collected from reading conventions, and enough books for each kid to pick three) and small (pencils, dinosaur figurines, notepads, candy). As each delighted student carefully picked out gifts, I stood and marveled. Our class may have had a thousand ugly moments, but this was beautiful. I couldn't believe Sonandia and Jennifer were absent, attending their older siblings' middle school graduations.

Lito looked forlorn when he inspected the table. “There are no more bookbags?” he asked.

“It doesn't look like it… oh, wait.” Mom grabbed her personal teacher tote and emptied the contents. “This one has a little dirt on the bottom. Is that okay?”

“Yeah! Thank you!” Lito lit up with his new treasure.

Gloria Diaz hugged Love Bear to her neck. Tough Lakiya cradled Hope Bear like a delicate cub. Athena declared she was going to read her copy of
The Dinosaurs of Waterhouse Hawkins
to every member of her family. (A promise she kept several times over, according to her fifth-grader brother, Alvin.)

“You're good. I'm impressed,” Mom said afterward at a diner. “Just remember not to let things lag for a second. Everything you do needs to draw them in. You started to lose them when you played with the dinosaurs too much during math.”

“You're right. You were amazing.”

“It's easy to give out presents and be a success for one day,” she said, sipping her chamomile tea. “To be with them, pushing them, day in and day out, that's a whole different ball game.”

Wilson Tejera called my extension. “Mr. Brown, sorry to bother you. I was wondering if one of your students could come over to my room to help me box up some things. Is Hamisi in the middle of anything?”

Hamisi was currently seething in the back of the room since I had just confiscated his Game Boy again. Following the Math Test, Hamisi's behavior had nosedived to intolerable, mean-spirited levels. He smirked when reprimanded and cursed a blue streak. After
starting September as my line leader, his contribution to 4-217 was ultimately a disappointing one. But why did Tejera, the October face-grabber, want him?

“Hamisi, do you want to help Mr. Tejera in his room?”

“Oh yeah!” He couldn't scurry out of his seat fast enough.

Later, at lunch, Hamisi showed off the five-dollar bill that Tejera paid him for his services. Tejera said to me, “Hamisi really is a good kid. Temperamental, but a nice kid.”

I arranged a 4-217 walking field trip to the New York Public Library branch on Bainbridge Avenue for June 24, the second-to-last day of school. Despite the end-of-school antsiness and June heat, the kids walked in a neat line, with our only snag coming in Clara's sudden disappearance on our way out of the building. (“I had to tell my sister something,” she attempted to explain.)

The librarian, Ms. Crenshaw, drew thrilled disbelief when she explained the free Internet access and book/video checkout limit of an unfathomable
ten items.
Everyone took books home except Eric Ruiz, who, arms full of automotive-themed storybooks, was turned away for owing over ninety dollars in outstanding late fees, dating back to a similar class trip last year.

Walking back, I froze a picture in my memory of Dennis, Joseph, Lito, and Eddie swaggering down sunny Marion Avenue toward school, their arms slung around each other's shoulders. A moment later, Cwasey opined on how black and Latino kids shouldn't walk like that. I cut him off and hoped that no one else heard his ugly remark, preferring to remain in that image of four friends walking together.

Following the final full day of school, the Visual Arts Club gathered for its swan song and the world premiere of
Teacher Dance Party.
After several early-June attempts, we had finally shot the movie over two afternoons, agreeing to delete the final dancing teachers scene (for lack of participant interest) and replace it with freeze-frame reaction
shots of the kids' discovery of the secret shindig. As a special finale, I cut together individual end-credit curtain calls, with each kid's name in white-on-black screen text synched with the second verse of Johnny Rivers's “Secret Agent Man.” We ate snacks and, by request, watched the four-minute video nine times. I returned Lito Ruiz's phenomenal roll of pictures to him and shared his neighborhood documentary work with the group. Lito had started showing up at the Visual Arts Club after my return from France (“Don't go away again, Mr. Brown”), and I made him an official member.

On Friday, June 25, my alarm buzzed and I tumbled out of bed for the last time as the teacher of Public School 85's class 4-217. Before noon, it would all be over. I threw a bathing suit in my bag for the after-party at Elizabeth Camaraza's backyard in New Jersey.

Karen and I chattered on the D train about the summer. I had an August 18 plane ticket to London, where an open-ended European jaunt would begin. She was mulling a crossroads with her boyfriend, who was already off working at an overnight camp up-state.

At Lee's Deli, I bought a slew of Little Debbies and eight bottles of orange Vitamin Water.

Everyone was present and punctual at lineup, radiating nervous energy. Seresa gave me a “Happy Retirement” Hallmark card. Seeing this, Sonandia and Gladys Ferraro sprang on me with gifts. Sony gave me a wallet and Gladys F. had an oversized periwinkle golf shirt in a gift-wrapped box. I put the shirt on over my tie and wore it the rest of the day.

In the room, the kids finished cleaning out their desks and I emptied mine, trashing many papers I wish I had kept. I called each student to the back of the room to review the report cards' final marks and comments. By popular demand, we played “Baseball,” a trivia game my high school mentor Mr. Truitt had played with us on casual days. The team's batter picks a category and requests his question's difficulty in terms of a single, double, triple, or home run. The
most popular categories were “Names” and “P.S. 85,” where batters needed to come up with the first names of teachers (infinitely amusing to elementary school students), name all three assistant principals in alphabetical order, or the like. Gladys Viña notched a home run when she named six first-grade teachers, earning the girls' team massive bragging rights.

During an abbreviated prep period, I delivered copies of
Teacher Dance Party
to all eleven Visual Arts Club participants and Mrs. Boyd's mailbox. While in the office, I checked my teacher rating. I was satisfactory, but placed on extra-observation probation for the next two years.

Mrs. Boyd was in the office when I swung by. “I received your letter,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you want to leave?”

Minutes ticked down on 4-217. Lunch was scheduled for 10:55, with a direct dismissal from the cafeteria at 11:30. At 10:30, with Mr. Lizard tucked under my arm, I summoned the collective to the back corner for a meeting (the former site of my Reading Chair, which was literally ripped apart while I was in France), where I doled out five-ounce plastic cups. Eyes went wide when I withdrew the large Vitamin Water bottles from a grocery bag.

“I always wondered what that stuff was,” Sonandia said. It was true that I taught all year with chalk in one hand and a mysterious orange health drink in the other. I poured each kid a cupful of Vitamin Water.

“Members of 4-217,” I began.

“Jay-Z ain't in G-Unit!” Cwasey yelled, just forming the rebuttal for a previous dispute.

“Jay-Z ain't in G-Unit,”
Tayshaun mimicked in a mumble.

“Hey! Quiet!”

Cwasey frowned. I estimated twenty seconds until he pushed someone. My sensitive moment needed to happen fast. I raised my
cup. Instantly every other cup went up and silence spread, in sudden reverence for this grown-up ritual.