Fuck! Of all the things I'd been prepared for today – and as a high school history teacher, I have to be prepared for a lot – having my son in detention was not one of them. I gave one more glance at the short note I'd found in my mailbox in the school office at the end of the day:
Dana,
Just wanted to let you know I need Timmy to stay after school with me for a little while today.
Liz
This was so offensive on so many levels, and as I walked down toward Liz's room – the bio lab on the second floor, all the way on the other side of the building – I just got more and more angry.
First off, it was Tim, not Timmy. It was true, he was one of the smallest kids in his twelfth grade class, just as he was also one of the oldest, by virtue of his December 1 birth date. He'd plateaued, according to the doctors, although it seemed to me that he had just recently started shooting up again. He hated to be measured, so I'd had to place a barely perceptible mark on the kitchen door to gauge his height against. Now maybe, just maybe, he'd gotten up to 5'7" and with the weights he'd saved his lawn mowing money to buy, he'd started to bulk up just a little, too. Maybe. I hoped to God it was true. He didn't need his high school nickname, Tiny Tim, to follow him to college.
Second, I couldn't imagine what Tim had done to deserve detention. Tim was a doll, from a parent's standpoint. Neither he nor his older sister, Sarah, currently off at her first year of college, had ever been a problem. It was going to take some convincing to get me to believe that he was suddenly a troublemaker, particularly since we were only two days into the new school year.
And finally, there was Liz Torres. Fucking Liz Torres, as we called her behind her back. For my part, it was probably a little bit of jealousy over being knocked out of the top spot in the sexiest teacher poll that took place ever year. We weren't supposed to know it existed, let alone care about it. But I'd always gotten a little thrill when my name showed up first, especially when I'd turned 35 three years ago. To make it at 36 had been even better. To lose it last year at age 37 to the rookie biology hottie, Liz Torres, was a big disappointment.
The other women on the faculty had their own reasons for disliking Liz, most of them starting with our former principal, Bob Cartwright. He had suddenly found an extra ten thousand dollars in his budget for an assistant principal position right around the time he had been spotted leaving the building with Liz. The terribly difficult job of assistant principal required Liz to administer detention three times a week, and to otherwise "assist" the principal as he required it.
That was when she became "fucking" Liz Torres. Late last year, though, when Bob's heart palpitations forced his early retirement, and Johnny Chisholm took over, it quickly became "goddamn fucking" Liz Torres. Most of the single teachers, and even some of the married ones, would have been happy to assist Johnny. But Liz was already settled in the position. And Johnny soon had her in a number of other positions as well, if you gave the rumors any credence. Personally, I considered myself immune to Johnny's charms. But I was more than happy to join in the name-calling.
I finally reached her classroom and peered through the window in the wooden door that led to the biology lab. Whoa! At least Tim was hanging out with the beautiful people. Liz Torres, of course, was a stunner. A tall Latina with a dusky complexion, she had long auburn hair and deep brown eyes. Not to mention a rack that was, if I was being honest, perhaps a bit bigger than my own. They were certainly younger and perkier than my own, but she had ten years on me; what did I expect?
Sitting in front of her, with bored expressions on their faces, were two girls I knew well: Denise Phillips and Kara Muncie, the captain and assistant captain, respectively, of the Cayuga cheerleaders. Denise was a light-skinned African-American, one of the few girls in our racially mixed school who was equally comfortable with students in all of the groups. She had a tight, compact body, and could easily have passed for a gymnast if not for a severe case of top-heaviness. Denise had a brilliant smile. Maybe it was the perfect teeth in the mocha-hued face. More likely, though, it was that every time she gave you one of those smiles – and by "you" we all understand that I'm talking about the general football game-attending population of Cayuga High School – you had the feeling that she really meant it, that she was really enjoying herself right at that particular moment in her life, and wanted you to share it with her.
Kara was beautiful, too, but it was a beauty that was born of money. The blonde hair was too perfect not to come at least in part from a bottle, and her dad's ownership of the local country club had no doubt contributed to her very athletic body. Her parents were reported to be the wealthiest in the school district, in fact, and it was rumored she'd already had her boobs done. Her face was attractive, certainly, but would have been even prettier if her mouth wasn't constantly turned downward in a pout.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open, and four faces swiveled to look at me. Tim was mortified, an expression of disbelief covering his face
"Mrs. Carlson," Liz greeted me with a phony smile, "perhaps you can help us. Timmy here seems unable to explain why it is that Miss Phillips and Miss Muncie, who were fighting in the girls' locker room today at lunch time, have his name written in their notebooks."
"Excuse me?" I said, trying to keep from smiling. Was she honestly trying to suggest that Denise and Kara were fighting over my son? "Why would this involve Tim?"
"Mom," Tim began to speak. I silenced him with a barely perceptible shake of my head, enough to let him know that he wasn't in any trouble with me.
"Miss Davies broke up a fight between these two young ladies in the locker room," Liz said. "And so far they have proved extremely uncommunicative in helping me understand why."
I gave the two girls a knowing look: the cheerleader code of silence. No matter what happened, a fight over a guy, "borrowing" somebody's makeup – if it involved two cheerleaders, it stayed among the cheerleaders. They were as effective a self-policing force as any group in the school.
"So I got hold of their class schedules and confiscated their notebooks," Liz continued. "The only thing they have in common is fourth period study hall and cheerleading. Fortunately, it's only the second day of class. Here, this is Kara's notebook, and this is Denise's for fifth period."
She tossed me two notebooks. The one labeled "5th Period French" had a few notes on the first page – homework assignments and a few words I vaguely recognized because of their similarity to Spanish, which I'd studied in high school. Right at the top, though, was my son's name, Tim Carlson, with a little heart over the "i" in "Tim." Kara had a single unlabeled notebook. It was apparent when I opened it that she simply used one notebook for all her classes, a system I'd never heard of. She had French first period, then Civics, then English Lit, and there, right before her notes from her fifth period bio class yesterday, was Tim's name again, this time circled with little stars and exclamation points.
"So whatever it was happened during study hall," I tossed them back onto her desk.
"Yes, apparently so," Liz smiled.
"And where were you during fourth period yesterday, Tim?" I asked, emphasizing the nickname that he preferred.
"Gym, mom," he told me. "Phys Ed with Coach Peeler. Mondays and Wednesdays one week, and Tuesdays the next week."
"And you were in class, I assume?"
"Yeah," he sighed.
"Did you, um, did you talk to either of these girls at lunch time?"
I knew when I asked the question how absolutely absurd it was. I knew for a fact that Tim wasn't a virgin; his first, and as far as I knew only, girlfriend, Shana, had confided to me over coffee one morning while she was waiting for Tim to return from a trip to the library, that yeah, they'd finally done it, and that yeah, it had been nice. My assumption, though, was that Shana had been as inexperienced as Tim. That had been during the summer after ninth grade, shortly before Shana and her family had relocated to the West Coast, an event that had Shana crying in my arms for two straight days. Ever since then, unfortunately, as his classmates got taller and bigger, Tim's self-esteem had gotten smaller and smaller. If he had spoken to any girl at lunch time, I would have been very pleased. If he had spoken to either Denise or Kara, I would have been stunned.
He just shook his head in answer, his eyes wide.
"Any other classes in common?" I asked. That, too, was unlikely. Tim's classes were almost all Advanced Placement this year. Denise was a good student, but not AP material. Kara "got by."
He shook his head again.
