Thursday, Senior English Reading and Composition
The bell rang and the students took their time finding their seats, still chatting while the teacher gathered some papers and her thoughts. The teacher, Ms. Callahan, was wearing a black pencil skirt and cobalt blue button-down shirt with matte black pumps and had her auburn hair in a tight, braided bun to keep it out of her face. She was a short and petite woman with a few curves that she kept hidden under demure clothes. This was only her second year of teaching and she loved inspiring young pupils. She felt as though she could relate to her students better than most teachers, she had only graduated high school six years ago.
"Alright class, take your seats and pass up your homework," she said, pushing her cat-eye glasses up from the tip of her nose, vintage silver bracelets jingling slightly. "How did everyone enjoy the reading last night?" she queried, "Chris, why don't you give us a synopsis," she requested.
A tall, gangly young man in the middle of the class stood up and began stammering, "Well, uh, Jurgis found out that all the tainted meat is ground into sausages. His son kept getting sick and his wife is pregnant again." Chris fidgeted with his shirt and put his hands in the pocket of his jeans. "And he took up drinking to drown his sorrows," he pieced together from the bits he remembered reading the night before, Upton Sinclair's 'The Jungle.' He ran his fingers nervously through his dark brown hair, brown eyes scanning the room, before the teacher motioned for him to take his seat once more.
"Good, now what else can we get out of all of this? How can this relate to modern times?" Ms. Callahan had continued her discussion with the class and Chris felt relieved that she had moved on from him. He had read the chapters, the descriptions of the atrocities in the meatpacking industry, the graft, the corruption had intrigued him and he had even read more chapters than he was assigned. It wasn't the reading that was causing him to fail class, it was the composition. He had so many ideas but couldn't convey them without, as he said, 'sounding stupid'.
He had wracked his brain last night trying to come up with a topic for his writing assignment, a letter home as Jurgis or Ona, explaining what was happening in their lives. It was a way to summarize the chapters and get the class to work on their writing skills but it only served to frustrate Chris further.
Ms. Callahan had continued to converse with the class about the book but Chris' thoughts were elsewhere. He stared vacantly at the painted cinder-block walls as his mind wandered. Noticing her pupil was no longer engaged in the discussion, Ms. Callahan decided it was time to put him on the spot. "How did that make you feel, Chris?" she asked, being as vague as possible.
"What?" he faltered.
"How did that make you feel?" she repeated, just as obscurely.
His face turned red and she gave him a knowing look and moved on to another student. This time he forced himself to pay attention.
The bell sounded a short while later and Ms. Callahan shouted last-minute homework instructions over the din of students packing up their books, "Read the next three chapters and be prepared for our regular Friday quiz tomorrow!" Everyone filed out of class, most kids going to lunch next. "Mr. Gaiten, can you hold up for a second?" she said as she herself packed her things to go off to enjoy lunch.
Chris sighed and knew he was going to be chided for his inattentiveness, "Yes, Ms. Callahan." He took his time packing up, avoiding eye-contact with his teacher. She had this way of making the strongest man feel one inch tall sometimes and meeting her gaze only made it worse. The red-haired woman came to his desk and sat at the seat next to him, crossing her legs, her black skirt riding up ever so slightly.
"Chris, I'm concerned about your grades in class," she began softly. "I know you are a very bright young man, but you seem to be struggling with the writing assignments," the woman observed. "This class is a graduation requirement. If you don't pass, you will not be walking across that stage in June with the rest of your classmates," she stated rather matter-of-factly. Chris pushed his wire-framed glasses further up his nose, fidgeting, avoiding speech. Ms. Callahan tried to avert further uncomfortable silence by continuing to speak, "I know I'm new at this," she started, "but I am willing to give you some tutoring if you can find time. I think with some work, we can definitely get you up to a passing grade, maybe even more," she said excitedly. The other teachers told her not to get overly invested in her students. They warned her that it would only lead to disappointment and cause her to burn out sooner. She ignored them. "What days are good for you?" she asked.
Chris' brown eyes met her green ones and he nodded, "I have work on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, but I'm free the rest of the week."
Ms. Callahan pulled out her day planner and flipped the pages until she got to this week. The entries were written in several different colors. "Looks like my week is pretty full this week. Every Tuesday I teach night class for GED students so that's no good. Wednesday I have an appointment I have to keep. Monday I have the cable guy coming between three and god-only-knows-when but if you want to come over to my place, we can wait for him together and I'll tutor you in the meantime!" she said excitedly.
Chris nodded, "Thank you Ms. Callahan. Should I follow you home after school?"
"Give me your cell phone," she requested, offering her hand. He placed the phone in her hand and she pulled out her own. She brought them close together, pressed a few buttons and they sounded simultaneously. "There, my contact info is in your phone and vice versa." She pulled out a pen and jotted a note in her planner on Monday in black ink. Tuesday was blue and a few different names were written in red ink on Wednesday along with a few more names in red on Saturday.
"How many people do you tutor?" Chris questioned, pointing to the names in red ink.
"Lots of people need my help Chris, I'm a very busy woman," she stated plainly, closing her planner to his prying eyes, "I hope that you see that and will keep your appointment."
"Thanks again Ms. Callahan. I will see you tomorrow!" He shook her hand and left the classroom in a hurry to try to catch the last few minutes of lunch.
The rest of the day seemed to drag on for Chris; presentations in World History and another boring lecture from Mrs. Olsen in Biology. After the last bell he made his way to his locker, stashed his books and grabbed his backpack and headed briskly to his car. He unlocked the doors on his old Toyota Tercel and threw his bag in the back where it promptly got lost amongst all of the mess strewn about. Key in the ignition, engine turning over, seatbelt on; he pulled out of the parking lot before too many of his classmates choked the exit.
Chris turned up the music in his car and rolled down the windows to let in the warm spring air. The restaurant where he worked was not too far from school and didn't take him more than fifteen minutes to arrive. He parked out back near the loading dock and rummaged through the back seat of his car for a moderately clean chef coat. He got dressed as he strolled in through the doors and headed over to clock in.
"G-Man!" came a greeting from a jovial middle-aged man with dark hair, mustache and a pot belly. He was wearing a stained apron and crab-themed chef pants, "How was school, man?"
"It was okay," Chris responded as he tucked his hair under a baseball cap that said Black Bear Hotel on it. "What are you making today, Mark?" the apprentice queried as he washed his hands. Mark had worked in the restaurant industry for over two decades and it showed. His hands were rough, worn and callused from all the years of hard work. The man knew his stuff though. He could make some killer food seemingly effortlessly.
"Just cutting mirepoix for the Osso Bucco," Mark said, piles of carrots, onions and celery on his cutting board. "I think Chef's in the office, she said something about having you cut fifty pounds of potatoes."
"Fuck!" Chris exclaimed, "Dude, my hands still haven't healed from last week!"
