New Excerpt from the Book
Chapter 18
Des Moines, IA - June 15, 2004 -- “Ms. Merchant,” hissed the wall box PA exactly seven minutes into the period.
“Yes.”
Pencils and pens flew as her fourth period class labored on an essay test over Crime and Punishment; interruptions like this poisoned the atmosphere.
“Please send Susan Fatka, Angela Ulvestad, Kathy Thelen, and Ellen Nilsen to Mr. Delaney’s office before they go to lunch,” wheezed the box.
“All right,” Karen said quickly.
“He needs to see them before 11:30,” said the box.
Sixty student eyes were glued to the box as if it were a huge pair of lips.
Trouble! This meant trouble! She had changed from second to fifth lunch period for one day. Second lunch was split—ten minutes of class time, thirty of lunch, then forty-five minutes of class. Fifth lunch had a complete class session with lunch afterward, a full block of uninterrupted test time without a forced march to the cafeteria in the middle. Effecting a change in a lunch schedule, even if for only a day, meant pleading your case with Hattie Reins, who officiated ad hoc in such matters. Karen always left these negotiations feeling she had promised her first born.
“But we’ve changed lunch periods,” Karen blurted. “We’re trying to take a test up here.”
A muffled discussion ensued in the background. She was on hold.
“Well,” came the reply, finally. “I’m sorry, but this is important. These are the Kiwanis students of the month, and they need to get passes for early dismissal tomorrow.”
“All right. All right. I’ll come down and get them.”
She ducked through the door, down a flight of stairs, and flew into Delaney’s office. Students wouldn’t cheat during her absence; this wasn’t that kind of test. She stood impatiently in front of the reception desk in the vice principals’ outer office.
“What do you want?” asked the clerk, a less menacing but equally exasperating version of Hattie.
“I’m here for those passes for the Kiwanis students of the month.”
The clerk dug through her desk. “Well, do you know they have to have parental consent forms, too?” she sermonized as she handed over four pink pieces of paper. “Why don’t you send those kids down here right now? I’ll show them how to fill ‘em out.”
Karen’s mind reeled. “Look, Mrs. Meredith, my class is trying to take a test. I’ll send them down after class.”
“Oh really?” The clerk arched an eyebrow. “If you’re down here, how do you know they’re not cheating?”
Karen grabbed the passes.
She heard a loud voice coming from her room. A young man in the front row jabbed a finger in the air at the wall box. A call-in host hyperventilated about strip joins in greater Des Moines. “Miss Merchant, can’t you shut that thing up?”
Several students holding their hands over one ear continued writing. Others waved both hands, fists clenched, in a frenzy. Some smiled and winked about the topic.
“I’ll try, Jake.” She punched the call button.
“Yes?” demanded the box.
“You left the radio on in my room,” Karen yelled. “Could you please turn it off.”
Click. The noise ended abruptly. Order restored.
She walked the circuit of the desks. Interruptions from the office were not a sometimes things; they were as relentless as water torture-one after another after another. Like the bell just now ringing for second lunch, one of the thirteen bells that tolled during fourth hour defining the five lunch periods.
She dropped into her desk chair and smiled as students checked the clock. This was an opportunity to watch them work. A student wrestling with a complicated idea looked at her with a furrowed brow and turned his eyes away under her gaze. She had crafted this test to prevent the regurgitation of facts; it measured the students’ ability to use the concepts in the work to support their opinions. She was anxious to see how it all came together. Karen glanced at the morning classes’ papers, mentally calculating the hours she’d spend reading.
B-r-r-r-ang. B-r-r-r-ang. The fire alarm bell in the hall jolted them to attention. She grabbed her grade book and peered into an empty hallway-all the other classes in her hall were at lunch. As inept as the office staff was, they wouldn’t stage a fire drill during lunch period. This had to be a fire.
Students trained by years of practice moved toward the door and spilled into the corridor heading for the fire exit.
“Excuse me,” boomed Hattie Reins over the PA. Her voice echoed in the nearly empty hall. “This is not an official fire drill. The alarm system has malfunctioned. I repeat. This is not an official fire drill. Return to your classes immediately. Return to your classes.”
An impish young man walked into the room with Karen. “Who does Reins think she’s kidding? What you have here is a perfect fire drill-Chinese.”
“We’re not going to have enough time to finish,” several students complained.
“You can do it. We have twenty-eight minutes left. Look,” Karen said, responding to the desperate glances, “if you don’t finish, you can stay through lunch. I can give mine up if you can. Don’t talk. You’re wasting time.
She heard the heavy steps of people in a hurry clattering down the hall. The stocky form of Aneyh loomed in the doorway while the bald head of Sam, the head custodian, peered over the principal’s shoulder.
“Any of your students been in the hall?” Aneyh barked before she even reached the door. Sam stepped back and looked up and down the corridor. “Well?”
“When?”
“Just a few minutes ago. Some kid yanked that fire alarm. I’ve got reason to believe it was in this area.”
“We were all in the hall a few minutes ago, Mr. Aneyh, responding to the fire alarm.” She pointed to the alarm lever-untouched-on the wall next to David’s room.
Aneyh gaped over his large glasses. “Well, listen,” he said at last. “I want you teachers to be more aware of what’s going on out here during classes. We look pretty silly when a student yanks a fire alarm and gets away with it. Come on,” he said to the custodian. “It’s got to be in the other upstairs wing.” Aneyh trotted around the corner with Sam drafting behind, skidding around the corner like a character in a cartoon.
Karen sank into the desk chair. This wasn’t a learning environment; this was a zoo.
Click. “Ms. Merchant? Please tell Bill Krause his grandmother left his gym clothes in the office.”
CONTACT:
Kathy Myers
Chapter 18
Des Moines, IA - June 15, 2004 -- “Ms. Merchant,” hissed the wall box PA exactly seven minutes into the period.
“Yes.”
Pencils and pens flew as her fourth period class labored on an essay test over Crime and Punishment; interruptions like this poisoned the atmosphere.
“Please send Susan Fatka, Angela Ulvestad, Kathy Thelen, and Ellen Nilsen to Mr. Delaney’s office before they go to lunch,” wheezed the box.
“All right,” Karen said quickly.
“He needs to see them before 11:30,” said the box.
Sixty student eyes were glued to the box as if it were a huge pair of lips.
Trouble! This meant trouble! She had changed from second to fifth lunch period for one day. Second lunch was split—ten minutes of class time, thirty of lunch, then forty-five minutes of class. Fifth lunch had a complete class session with lunch afterward, a full block of uninterrupted test time without a forced march to the cafeteria in the middle. Effecting a change in a lunch schedule, even if for only a day, meant pleading your case with Hattie Reins, who officiated ad hoc in such matters. Karen always left these negotiations feeling she had promised her first born.
“But we’ve changed lunch periods,” Karen blurted. “We’re trying to take a test up here.”
A muffled discussion ensued in the background. She was on hold.
“Well,” came the reply, finally. “I’m sorry, but this is important. These are the Kiwanis students of the month, and they need to get passes for early dismissal tomorrow.”
“All right. All right. I’ll come down and get them.”
She ducked through the door, down a flight of stairs, and flew into Delaney’s office. Students wouldn’t cheat during her absence; this wasn’t that kind of test. She stood impatiently in front of the reception desk in the vice principals’ outer office.
“What do you want?” asked the clerk, a less menacing but equally exasperating version of Hattie.
“I’m here for those passes for the Kiwanis students of the month.”
The clerk dug through her desk. “Well, do you know they have to have parental consent forms, too?” she sermonized as she handed over four pink pieces of paper. “Why don’t you send those kids down here right now? I’ll show them how to fill ‘em out.”
Karen’s mind reeled. “Look, Mrs. Meredith, my class is trying to take a test. I’ll send them down after class.”
“Oh really?” The clerk arched an eyebrow. “If you’re down here, how do you know they’re not cheating?”
Karen grabbed the passes.
She heard a loud voice coming from her room. A young man in the front row jabbed a finger in the air at the wall box. A call-in host hyperventilated about strip joins in greater Des Moines. “Miss Merchant, can’t you shut that thing up?”
Several students holding their hands over one ear continued writing. Others waved both hands, fists clenched, in a frenzy. Some smiled and winked about the topic.
“I’ll try, Jake.” She punched the call button.
“Yes?” demanded the box.
“You left the radio on in my room,” Karen yelled. “Could you please turn it off.”
Click. The noise ended abruptly. Order restored.
She walked the circuit of the desks. Interruptions from the office were not a sometimes things; they were as relentless as water torture-one after another after another. Like the bell just now ringing for second lunch, one of the thirteen bells that tolled during fourth hour defining the five lunch periods.
She dropped into her desk chair and smiled as students checked the clock. This was an opportunity to watch them work. A student wrestling with a complicated idea looked at her with a furrowed brow and turned his eyes away under her gaze. She had crafted this test to prevent the regurgitation of facts; it measured the students’ ability to use the concepts in the work to support their opinions. She was anxious to see how it all came together. Karen glanced at the morning classes’ papers, mentally calculating the hours she’d spend reading.
B-r-r-r-ang. B-r-r-r-ang. The fire alarm bell in the hall jolted them to attention. She grabbed her grade book and peered into an empty hallway-all the other classes in her hall were at lunch. As inept as the office staff was, they wouldn’t stage a fire drill during lunch period. This had to be a fire.
Students trained by years of practice moved toward the door and spilled into the corridor heading for the fire exit.
“Excuse me,” boomed Hattie Reins over the PA. Her voice echoed in the nearly empty hall. “This is not an official fire drill. The alarm system has malfunctioned. I repeat. This is not an official fire drill. Return to your classes immediately. Return to your classes.”
An impish young man walked into the room with Karen. “Who does Reins think she’s kidding? What you have here is a perfect fire drill-Chinese.”
“We’re not going to have enough time to finish,” several students complained.
“You can do it. We have twenty-eight minutes left. Look,” Karen said, responding to the desperate glances, “if you don’t finish, you can stay through lunch. I can give mine up if you can. Don’t talk. You’re wasting time.
She heard the heavy steps of people in a hurry clattering down the hall. The stocky form of Aneyh loomed in the doorway while the bald head of Sam, the head custodian, peered over the principal’s shoulder.
“Any of your students been in the hall?” Aneyh barked before she even reached the door. Sam stepped back and looked up and down the corridor. “Well?”
“When?”
“Just a few minutes ago. Some kid yanked that fire alarm. I’ve got reason to believe it was in this area.”
“We were all in the hall a few minutes ago, Mr. Aneyh, responding to the fire alarm.” She pointed to the alarm lever-untouched-on the wall next to David’s room.
Aneyh gaped over his large glasses. “Well, listen,” he said at last. “I want you teachers to be more aware of what’s going on out here during classes. We look pretty silly when a student yanks a fire alarm and gets away with it. Come on,” he said to the custodian. “It’s got to be in the other upstairs wing.” Aneyh trotted around the corner with Sam drafting behind, skidding around the corner like a character in a cartoon.
Karen sank into the desk chair. This wasn’t a learning environment; this was a zoo.
Click. “Ms. Merchant? Please tell Bill Krause his grandmother left his gym clothes in the office.”
CONTACT:
Kathy Myers
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