Suddenly many of the younger teachers were talking at once, sharing phone photos, eagerly recounting travel experiences, talking about the lure of Iceland or other exotic locales, and bragging about various offbeat plans for their upcoming summer. In the past, George might’ve engaged in this sort of enthusiastic banter—even sharing some of his own travel stories—but since he’d made no plans for the upcoming summer ... or the past several summers for that matter, he kept his mouth closed and simply collected papers from his mailbox and checked the staff bulletin board. Then, without looking back, he quietly exited the noisy faculty room.
As he walked toward the Language Arts Department, George felt old. Not in a stiff, sore, achy sort of way—although he knew the spring had been missing from his step for some time now. He felt old as in outdated—like the dinosaur of Warner High. It was no secret that he was the oldest teacher on staff, or that the administration had been encouraging him to retire the last couple of years. But now he was nearly fifty-five, which sounded dangerously close to sixty, and budgets had been cut once again. His principal knew she could save money by hiring a less senior language arts teacher. George had resisted her in the past. But this year, he’d caved.
After a bad bout of flu last winter, George had given in, announcing that this would be his last year to teach. And now, in less than a week, he would be officially retired after more than thirty years. Not that anyone appeared to putmuch value on experience nowadays ... or even care that he would soon be gone.
More and more, George had begun to feel invisible at this school, as if each year diminished his presence. Even the students looked right through him at times. Not that it was so unusual for a teacher to be ignored. As an English instructor he was accustomed to his students’ general lack of interest in academia. He tried to impress upon them the need for good writing skills—and sometimes they got it. But thanks to this electronic age, which he detested, there was a complete disregard for spelling and grammar and structure. As hard as he’d tried to make his favorite class—English literature—relevant and appealing, most of his students didn’t know the difference between Chaucer and Shakespeare. Even more, they didn’t care.
He sighed as he clicked the pass-code pad numbers beside his classroom door. He remembered a time when no doors were locked inside of campus. Now everyone had pass-codes for everything. Security cams and uniformed police abounded—so much so that he sometimes felt like he was teaching in a prison. And to be fair, some of his students might be better off in a prison. He flicked on the fluorescent lights then walked through the stale-smelling classroom. Not for the first time, he wished the high windows could open and get fresh air in here. He’d raised this issue before, pointing out how it might actually help to wake the students up. But thanks to budget challenges, no changes had been made.
As George punched the number code into his office door, he remembered what this school had been like back in thedark ages—back when he’d been a student in this very building,back when dinosaurs roamed freely. What a different world that had been. Although the building, which was new and modern back then, hadn’t changed much.
But then some things never changed. Over the years he’d observed that teens from every decade bore striking similarities. Peel back the veneer of current trends and fashions and you’d usually discover a frustrated mix of rebelliousness and insecurity. To be fair, his generation had been no different. He remembered the late seventies well. His class had its share of druggies and dropouts and slackers, yet his peers, even all these years later, felt more real to him than today’s youth. Of course, it was possible that his memory was impaired by his age, but when he looked back he saw an authenticity that he felt was missing from kids nowadays.
Maybe it was because his generation hadn’t been plugged into all these electronic gadgets and devices ... pads and pods and phones that were attached at the hip of all his students. Even though the school had a policy of no personal electronics during class time, most of the students managed to bend the rules. It really made him feel crazy at times. What happened to connecting with your friends by looking into their faces while conversing? Or using a phone and hearing a real voice on the other end? He didn’t understand these shorthand messages they exchanged, with bad grammar and silly little pictures. And the complaints he got when he explained a letter-writing assignment to his class! You’d think he’d asked them to gouge out their eyeballs—or to destroy their mobile phones.
He’d recently looked out over a classroom only to feel that he was gazing upon a roomful of zombies. It was as ifthey were all dead inside—just empty shells. He knew he was old-fashioned, but he honestly believed that computer technology had stolen the very souls of this generation. Of course, this had simply confirmed what he knew—it was time to quit.
two
Willow West felt unexpectedly nervous as she pinned the visitor’s pass onto her lace-trimmed, tie-dyed tunic top. Her grandson, Collin, called this a “hippie shirt,” and now she wondered if she should’ve changed into something more conservative for this visit. Or not. Anyway, it was too late now and she’d already procrastinated coming here for long enough. Really, she should’ve taken care of this a month ago. But hearing that Mr. Emerson was about to retire put fire to her feet. If she wanted to secure this recommendation letter, less than one week’s notice was cutting it close.
Feeling like a fish out of water—or at least swimming upstream—Willow pushed a trail through the hoard of noisy students eagerly pressing toward the school’s exits. The smell in the crowded hallway was a combination of sweat, stinky tennis shoes, cheap cologne ... and what she could only describe as adolescent angst. Or maybe it was just teenage hormones running amuck.
She hurried on, feeling intrusive for being on their turf and desperately hoping Collin wouldn’t spy her and getembarrassed or worried that something was wrong. She hadn’t even told him of her plan. Well aware of Collin’s type A personality and tendency to obsess over small things, she didn’t want to disturb him with what he considered her “eccentricities.” Her grandson’s cautious approach to life was both sweetly endearing and slightly troubling.
As she went past the trophy case, Willow was surprised at how little appeared to have changed inside Warner High. Even the posters looked the same. Other than dropping Collin off here occasionally, she hadn’t been inside this building in ages. Not since her own stint here decades ago. She hoped it wasn’t a mistake to show up without an appointment. Schools had never been this formal back in her day. Having to produce photo ID and getting her oversized macramé bag checked by a security guard was a real wake-up call. It made her sad to think this was what Collin was subjected to every day, although he probably took it in stride.
Willow paused by the administration area, considering whether or not to ask someone for help, but everyone looked busy and preoccupied. She probably still knew her way around this place anyway. Unless the layout had drastically changed, which she doubted, she knew the Language Arts Department was up the main stairs and directly to the right.
At the top of the stairs, she noticed a young security guard curiously eying her. Willow smiled at him, then felt a surprising wave of anxiety—almost as if she expected to be apprehended for breaking a rule. It was probably just a guilty flashback from her youth—perhaps from the time she and Shelly Hanson got caught smoking weed in the restroom right around the corner. Good grief, what had they been thinking? She suppressed the urge to giggle as she walkedpast the uniformed guard and entered the Language Arts Department. She knew she was being ridiculous. That silly weed incident happened in 1980! And fortunately, her pot-smoking era was quite short-lived. She hadn’t touched the stuff in more than thirty years. She felt shocked to think it had been that long since she’d been young. Maybe she was delusional, but most of the time she felt like she was still young—more like her late thirties than her early fifties. She smiled to think how many times she’d been mistaken for Collin’s mother and had to explain she was his grandma.
She hoped she hadn’t come on a fool’s errand as she searched for Mr. Emerson’s classroom. She probably should’ve called ahead to be sure he was here. And if he was here, she hoped she wouldn’t appear to be a fanatical grandmother by bursting in on him like this. Yet, she knew if there was anything Mr. Emerson could do to help her grandson, it was well worth any amount of humiliation. She finally found the classroom, and peering through the narrow glass window beside the door, she could see that the lights were on. She felt hopeful. Maybe he was still here.
She tried the door but was dismayed to find it locked. What was it with schools these days? Was everything and everyone under lock and key? Feeling intrusive but desperate, she knocked then pounded on the metal door. She could see the door to the office area opening and then, to her relief, a dark-haired man emerged. He was medium height and slender, looking toward her with his head cocked to one side. But now she wondered if she’d gotten the wrong room. For some reason, she’d expected a bald and portly elderly man. But this guy, dressed in a tweed jacket, light-colored shirt, and narrow tie, looked younger. In fact, he resembleda character from a 1960s TV show—or maybe he’d been an extra inMad Men.
“Hello?” He opened the door with a curious but kind smile.
Willow noticed slight touches of gray hair at his temples and fine lines around his eyes, suggesting he was older than she’d just assumed. But there was a youthfulness about him too. “Mr. Emerson, I presume?” She smiled nervously, hoping he’d get the joke.
“I am.” His nod was somber as he opened the door a bit wider. “May I help you?”
“I hope so.” She stood up straighter. “I’m here to talk to you about Collin West. I understand he’s one of your students.”
“Yes. Collin is in two of my classes. A fine young man. Are you his mother?”
She beamed at him. “No, no, but thank you. I’m actually his grandmother. I’ve been raising him for most of his life. We just moved to Warner last winter.”
“Yes, I know that Collin is new to the school.” He waved her into the classroom. “He’s impressed me as an outstanding student. You should be very proud.”
She felt a wave of relief. “Oh yes, I am. I think he’s absolutely brilliant. But I’ve been concerned after transferring here from the Bay Area in California. We moved so abruptly, and it’s recently occurred to me that Collin won’t have all the letters of recommendation that he might need, you know, to start applying for college. I’m afraid I’ve been negligent.”
“He hasn’t applied already?” Mr. Emerson frowned. “I thought Collin was a senior.”
“Yes, he is a senior. And you’re right, he should’ve beenapplying long before this, but Collin doesn’t see the need to attend a big college. He insists on going to community college for his first year.”
“I see. Well, that’s a sensible plan.”
“Maybe so. At least for his first year. But I don’t want him to set his sights too low. I’m hoping he’ll start applying to some bigger schools soon. Maybe after fall term.”
