Gavin’s one of those boys who love sports. He’s a football nut, so I was used to him talking like this. I felt bad, because he had really been looking forward to playing with Mr. Mitchell this year. Gav did all his football playing during recess and with me in his backyard. He never got to play on a team outside school. He told all the guys that was because his mom was worried about concussions, but really it was because his family wasn’t in a good spot. His parents were always working because they needed the money, so Gav was forever stuck babysitting Meggie. His mom cleaned houses during the day and bartended at night—she’d been doing that ever since coming to the United States—and his dad was a plumber with as many evening calls as he had daytime ones. That’s actually how his parents met. His father went to a house to fix a leaky toilet, and Carla happened to be there cleaning that bathroom. Imagine falling in love over a toilet! That’s how it happened.
Call me crazy, but I wished my parents had a love story like that. The only thing they were good at was fighting. Really good at it. They’d only had me to try to save their marriage. I guess a lot of people make that mistake. Turns out I just gave them more to fight about—even before I was born. Dad wanted to name me Brandy, but Jane wasn’t having that. She wanted to name me Destiny, claiming I had an important one, but Dad refused. Jane did her best to compromise by settling on Randi for my first name and Destiny for my middle name, but that’s where their compromising ended. They finally called it quits when I was one. The story goes that when Dad split town, he told Jane she could have her Destiny, because we weren’t part of his. I really wish he hadn’t said that to her.
Gavin’s father pulled into the driveway, just getting home from one of his jobs. “What’s wrong?” he asked when he saw the way Gav was sulking.
“Mr. Mitchell isn’t gonna be our teacher anymore,” Gavin complained, handing the letter to his dad. “He had to move away for personal reasons, so now I’ve got some old lady named Pearl Woods.”
“Pearl Woods?” his father repeated. “I didn’t know she was still alive. She’s one tough old bird.”
“You know her?” Gavin said.
“Sure do. She’ll straighten you out,” his father said, taking the mail and laughing.
Come to find out, Mrs. Woods had taught Gavin’s dad back in the day—before he quit school. He knew exactly what we were in for, but Gav and I had no idea. The only thing I knew was that I could kiss the handsome male teacher I’d been dreaming about all summer goodbye. Instead, I was destined to have a wrinkly old woman. Or maybe Gav was right. Maybe this wasn’t destiny, just rotten luck.
NATALIE KURTSMAN
ASPIRING LAWYER
Kurtsman Law Offices
BRIEF #2
September: Firsts
The first day of school is of the utmost importance, much like the opening of a trial. In court you need to meet and feel out the judge, jury, defendant, and other legal counsel. Similarly, the first day of school is all about finding out who your classmates are and determining what kind of teacher you’ve inherited.
I made certain to arrive early on day one to ensure that I made my best first impression. (First impressions are hugely important; you only get one chance.) I wanted my new teacher to see right away that I was her most serious student, though I highly doubted she could ever miss that about me, because I dressed the part. Today I was wearing my new khaki skirt with my Converse sneakers. I had a white polo with a navy-blue short-sleeved cardigan on top, and my hair was pulled back in a tight braid. I looked good. Very professional. My peers, on the other hand, usually looked like slobs with no interest in learning. They knew nothing about proper attire, which was precisely why I was strongly in favor of school uniforms and had written an essay on the topic in fourth grade and again in fifth. If things don’t change, I intended to pen an editorial for the town newspaper.
I stepped into my classroom, eager to meet my new teacher—I even had an apple for her—but she was nowhere to be found. Not what I was expecting, and not a good start. Disappointed, I placed the apple on her desk and turned around to inspect my surroundings. I had to suppress a smile when I noticed that our desks were lined up in rows and not arranged in groups of four. Finally, a teacher who wasn’t going to make me help these immature, and often dim-witted, classmates of mine.
I found the desk with my name on it—first and last—and sat down. In addition to the name tags, Mrs. Woods had also distributed sharpened number-two pencils and sheets of loose-leaf paper. Stacks of textbooks rested next to the windows. The place smelled of work, so I was feeling hopeful, but that changed the instant my colleagues began spilling into the classroom and I learned who I was going to be stuck with for the year.
I’d been in class with many of these individuals at least once before. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say I was particularly excited about any of them. There’d be no shortage of surprises and head-shaking moments with the likes of Scott Mason, Mark Kassler, and Trevor Joseph in my class—that I knew for certain—and Gavin Davids was the last, last person I wanted in my company. The feeling was mutual. Gavin wanted nothing to do with me. He actually hated me—hated me more than he loved his football—but I didn’t care. I couldn’t fault him for his shortcomings and poor judgment. After all, he was just a dumb jock.
Nevertheless, these concerns were quickly brushed aside, because next to arrive—finally—was Mrs. Woods. Suffice it to say that first impressions were not her strength.
She was old. Gray-hair-and-wrinkly old. Her skirt and blouse were from forever ago, and she had on knee-high compression stockings with Velcro shoes. Velcro! Her glasses were fastened to a chain around her neck. I suspected that was so she wouldn’t misplace them.
Let the record show: I could tolerate some absentmindedness, but I did not have the time or the patience for any loony-tune business. If Mrs. Woods was unable to keep these boys in line, then I would be going straight to the principal and demanding a transfer.
—
I simply had no idea how tricky and complicated things would wind up getting.
Woodchuck was the name I came up with for Mrs. Woods. She was plump in the middle like one, dumb like one, and I was ready for her to crawl back in her hole.
“Sit up straight and pay attention.” She rapped my desktop with the yardstick she was holding, and I jumped and banged the underside with my knees. I wanted to rap her one. “We’ve got a lot to do this year, Mr. Joseph. I don’t have time to keep repeating myself.”
If that old lady thought she could scare me, she was wrong. I’d seen a lot worse than she could dish out. But I still didn’t like the way she was trying to intimidate me. That wasn’t cool. She’d find out soon enough there was no way I was going to back down from her. I didn’t back down from anybody.
“If we’re going to become a supportive community, then we need to know a little something about each other,” Woodchuck babbled. “Knowing your neighbor is important—” Blah blah blah. This sounded stupid already. “You’ll be making collages that represent you,” she continued. “I have a pile of magazines up here on the front table, along with some card stock. I’d like you to go through the magazines and cut out pictures and words that tell us about you. When you’re done, we’ll share our collages and I’ll hang them up.”
The only thing stupider than this activity was the magazines Woodchuck had for us to use. Where were the Sports Illustrateds and car magazines? There was nothing but woman stuff, like gardening, fashion, sewing, and cooking. I didn’t have any choice, so I flipped through some of the pages, and that was when I discovered there’s more than just makeup and beauty advertisements in those things. These pictures weren’t exactly like the ones in the magazines my brother kept hidden under his bed, but they weren’t bad. It was time to spice up this stupid activity and get even with Woodchuck. It was time to show her who was really in charge.
Let me tell you, the ugly started with Mrs. Woods. One look at my teacher and I knew she wasn’t headed for the Pro F
ootball Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio, but for the graveyard over on Nelson Road. This was gonna be awful. I was already looking at the clock, wondering how long till the end of the day—till the end of sixth grade.
I didn’t get much time to sit around feeling sorry for myself, though, ’cause as soon as morning announcements were over, Woods got started. Making the collage was okay, but I couldn’t find any football pictures. I was struggling to find anything I wanted to cut out, and I wasn’t the only one.
“She doesn’t have any good magazines here,” Mark complained.
“How am I supposed to make a collage out of this junk?” Trevor griped.
Well, let me just say, he figured it out. A few minutes later he suddenly got excited. That’s when I knew he was up to something. Trevor kept his work hidden from us until it was time to share, so I didn’t know exactly what was coming, but I knew it was trouble. When it was his turn, he stood up with a big grin on his face.
“This represents me because I’m a lady’s man and these women could all be my wife someday,” Trevor said, holding his poster up high so everyone could see it. He’d covered the entire thing with pictures of half-naked women! Pictures of women modeling bras and underwear!
“Ugh!” Natalie Kurtsman groaned. I coulda done without her being in my class, that was for sure. She was the worst. I hated that girl.
“Mr. Joseph, perhaps that poster represents you because you have big dreams,” Woods said. “And that’s good for a boy your age. You should have aspirations. The good news is, I’m here to make sure you work to achieve them. So you’ll spend your recess writing an essay for me about your goals.”
“What? Why? What did I do?” Trevor whined, acting like he didn’t know.
“Way to go, moron,” Mark whispered. “First day of school and you’re missing recess.”
“Mr. Kassler, I advise you to leave Mr. Joseph alone or else you’ll be joining him,” Woods warned.
That was the end of that. Trevor had tested Woods, and now he was paying the price. I was starting to see what my old man meant when he said she would straighten us out. This old lady wasn’t fooling around. I came in thinking Woods was the has-been quarterback long past her prime, but she was still very much at the top of her game.
After Trevor’s poster-of-babes presentation, I listened to Lenny, Rachel, Connor, and Corey give theirs, and then it was Scott’s turn. He was the last to finish his, ’cause he spent most of the time reading the magazines instead of cutting them, and he had more paste on his shirt than he did on his paper, but he got it done.
“I like cats and dogs,” he told us, pointing to his wrinkled pictures. “I hope to get one someday, but my mom says life’s too crazy right now. I also have the best grandpa, and we like playing chess.” He pointed to a different spot on his collage. “And I love cookies and brownies and reading, but I hate writing.” He showed off a pencil picture that had a big X drawn through it.
“Thank you, Mr. Mason,” Woods said, taking his poster. “You might not believe me when I tell you this, but there’ll come a day when you want to write because of something that’s important to you.”
“Not happening,” he said.
Woods had me go next. I’d given up trying to find something in those magazines and decided to draw a couple pictures instead. I had a sketch of Meggie standing in her overalls, and I’d drawn a football.
“I have a little sister, and I like football,” I said.
“Isn’t there anything else you enjoy or you’d like to tell us, Mr. Davids?” Woods asked.
“No.”
“Well, it certainly looks like you’ve got a talent for drawing,” she said.
I shrugged. I sorta liked art, but I kept that to myself. Randi was the only one who knew that about me.
“Wish I could draw like that,” Scott said. “Then I’d never have to write. Those pictures say more than all the sentences I could ever come up with. They’re really good, Gavin.”
I shrugged again. Scott Mason was a goofball. That kid woulda thought a stick figure was something great.
Woods took my collage and hung it with the others. Then her next move surprised me. She held up one last collage and said, “I thought you might like to know a bit about me, other than my being old. I enjoy reading and rocking chairs, paintings—especially those with flowers—and though I can’t run anymore, I still like to watch a good game of football.”
I sat up straight as an arrow when I heard Woods say that. Maybe there was hope? She hung her collage with the rest of ours, but then she ruined everything with her fairy-tale teacher talk.
“I want you to notice how our posters make a beautiful quilt when brought together,” she said. “Each of us is unique and has interests and talents—as our collages show—and we can accomplish much on our own, but when we bring our individual strengths together, we have the potential to achieve something truly special.”
This was the kinda nonsense I let go in one ear and out the other, like I did with my old man. Us coming together to do something special was never gonna happen. Tell you the truth, I was shocked that Woods even bothered pretending it could. An old lady like her shoulda known by now that the real world doesn’t work that way.
NATALIE KURTSMAN
ASPIRING LAWYER
Kurtsman Law Offices
BRIEF #3
September: Mrs. Magenta
For many, recess was a highlight of the day. I could’ve done without it. The obnoxious boys played football in the field, while the non-athletes either goofed off on the playground equipment or stood in their groups talking. I tended to either visit with the adults on duty or stand by myself, silently conversing with my conscience. In my professional opinion, the entire recess concept is a waste of valuable teaching time.
Needless to say, I was delighted when recess finally ended and we got to return to the classroom. I was eager for the next thing on our agenda, which had us meeting Mrs. Magenta, the other teacher on our team, with whom we would be learning math and science this year. It was a favorable schedule, studying reading and writing in the mornings with Mrs. Woods and then exploring math and science in the afternoons with Mrs. Magenta.
“Ladies and gentlemen, clear off your desks and sit up straight,” Mrs. Woods ordered. “Mrs. Magenta will be coming in to introduce herself and talk to you for a few minutes while I go across the hall to do the same with her students.”
“Who’s Mrs. Magenta?” Scott asked. He must’ve left his brain outside on the playground.
“I am,” a sweet voice answered.
No offense, but Mrs. Magenta wasn’t exactly great at first impressions, either. She had a mountain of curls stacked on top of her head and sported pink pointy glasses, a long breezy skirt, and bare feet. Bare feet! I had some eccentric free-spirit hippie for a teacher. I know it’s not fair to judge people by their attire or before hearing their entire testimony, but this lady was not playing with a full deck.
Despite her alarming appearance, the conversation inside my brain was quickly quieted by what I observed next. Typically, when teachers see each other throughout the building, they are cordial and exchange pleasantries, especially if they happen to work on the same grade level. Mrs. Woods and Mrs. Magenta were anything but typical. They were about as warm and fuzzy as opposing lawyers arguing a case in court. They avoided making eye contact and never said a word to one another. I attributed this to their difference in age, Mrs. Magenta being a much younger woman, only in her second year of teaching, but I still had plenty to learn—about both of my teachers.
“Hello, young apprentices. I’m Mrs. Magenta, your math and science teacher.”
“Young apprentices?” And people say I’m weird. Puh-lease. This woman is nuts.
“Do you have a collage to share with us so we can get to know more about you?” Scott asked. “We made collages this morning. They’re over there. Mine’s the one with the X through the pencil.” He pointed. “Trevor’s is the one—”
; “Scott,” I hissed, cutting him off. Honestly, the boy didn’t know when to stop.
Mrs. Magenta stared at our posters longer than I expected. I wondered if it was Trevor’s that she couldn’t stop looking at or someone else’s. “No, I’m afraid I don’t have one, Scott, but I will make one to share with you tomorrow when you come to my classroom.”
“How did you know my name?” Scott asked.
“It’s on your desk, genius,” Trevor remarked.
“Ha ha!” came the laughs from my classmates. Why did they have to egg him on by making him think everything he said was so funny when it wasn’t? I was already sick and tired of him—and it was only the first day!
“We will be doing a variety of activities and projects this year as we explore the beauty of math and science,” Mrs. Magenta explained, “so please come to class prepared to do some thinking and investigating.”
“Math is boring,” Trevor said.
“You can say that again,” Mark added.
“It doesn’t have to be,” Mrs. Magenta remarked. “Not on my watch. You’ll see. After this year your views will have changed.
“I’ll see all of you tomorrow. Please remember to bring your notebooks and pencils. I’ll have everything else you’ll need. Toodle-oo.”
I still had her listed as slightly nuts in my book, but Mrs. Magenta had me curious and looking forward to our first class.
Mrs. Woods knew something about saving the best for last, because she waited until the end of the day to dim the lights and sit on the front table. “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s one thing I can promise you this year,” she said. “You will get to enjoy a number of wonderful books. You’re growing up in a fast-paced world driven by tests and more tests, and sadly, because of that, the magic of a read-aloud is being lost. But not in here. And not on my watch. We’re going to settle in and get lost in stories together.”