Dave either revered or reviled the teachers in our Big Brown Box. There was no middle ground.
Among the teachers he revered was Goodman, our English teacher. He was about as anti-establishment as you can get without actually going to jail. Dave and Goodman were two of a kind, and it was the only class where Dave paid rapt, wide-eyed attention to every word our teacher said, like a first-time altar boy or something. It probably helped that they both had impressive beards and were “big-boned” guys. Maybe Dave saw himself in Goodman thirty years from now, although Dave once said he would rather drill his own teeth than be a teacher. Still, plans and people can change, and if Dave ever did find himself in front of a class of high school kids, I’m sure he would carry on Goodman’s take-no-prisoners attitude.
The other reason Dave liked Goodman was because Dave discovered early on that he could steer the classroom discussion to political issues pretty easily—in fact, Goodman not only seemed to encourage it, he looked positively delighted when Dave “reminded” us how corrupt politicians were, or bankers, or billionaires, or some other bourgeois group. Just a few words from Dave along those lines usually meant that whatever else we were discussing went out the window for the rest of the class. Dave usually tried to find a link between whatever author we were reading and some current issue—whether there was a connection or not—and Goodman was more than willing to go along until the bell rang. While their lively discussion often had nothing to do with Hemingway, Steinbeck, or Faulkner, the main advantage was that not only did Goodman forget to collect the homework assignments, he often forgot to give one as well.
Needless to say, not only was Dave getting a triple A-plus from Goodman, he was really popular with everyone in the class for making the class such a breeze. I think quite a few of us actually stopped reading the books we were supposed to, knowing that Dave would save the day by getting Goodman to launch into some anti-government tirade for half an hour or more.
The exact opposite of Goodman was Jorgenson, our Geography teacher.
To describe Dave’s relationship with Jorgenson as sort of antagonistic was like saying Captain Ahab didn’t much care for that particular white whale. Not only did Dave hate Geography, but Jorgenson’s style of teaching went back to medieval times, when students were flogged (I think) for giving wrong answers or not showing up on time. What really got Dave in trouble with Jorgenson and the other strict teachers was the usual problem with Dave—he was a pusher. No, not drugs. What Dave pushed were boundaries. And rules, regulations, and everyone’s patience. Dave seemed to find it highly amusing to be not a totally destructive force, but a vaguely disruptive one, just enough to be hauled in for general misbehavior every now and then but not enough to be suspended or expelled.
“Do you ever stop with the sarcasm?” I asked him once, after a particularly annoying needling from him just because I had blanked out for a few minutes over what my locker combination was.
He grinned his devious grin. “Of course not. It’s an art, a specialty. A calling, if you will.”
“Well, whatever it is, someday it’s really going to bite you in the butt.”
He merely shrugged, as I might have expected.
One day Dave, Onion, and I were tooling around town in Dave’s car, doing nothing in particular. Onion in front, me in the back behind her, our usual traveling configuration.
It was one of those nights without a breeze, the trees standing perfectly still as if holding their breaths, and flags head down, bat-like, as if asleep on their poles. If time could be frozen, it might look like this. The only thing moving was Dave’s car as we rolled through the neighborhood, making our own brief breeze and commotion as we went by, like a time machine just passing through.
It would have been a shame to stay at home on a night like this and study for a history test, even if it was tomorrow.
Dave was in one of his usual moods, talkative and sardonic.
“Onion. What do you know about Jorgy?”
I had to think a few seconds before I realized Dave was asking about Jorgenson. Dave was the only one who called him that.
“I had his class. He’s okay, I guess.” Onion said. “He can be full of himself and pretty boring, but I’ve had worse.”
“He’s a jerk,” Dave said. “A real jerk.”
“Why?” Onion and I asked together.
“Because I’m getting a D-minus and deserve at least a B, that’s why.”
I was taking Jorgenson’s class with Dave and didn’t know until right then that Dave was on the verge of flunking, although I couldn’t say I was surprised.
Onion half laughed and half gasped. “That’s your fault. Do the homework. And turn it in on time.” She gave Dave a scornful look. “Jorgenson hates late homework. You should know that by now.”
Dave shrugged as if that shouldn’t matter. He was notorious for turning in assignments late, with every excuse imaginable and a few that were hard to imagine.
Some teachers didn’t care; others, like Jorgenson, apparently did.
“Why do we have to learn about those obscure Pacific land masses, anyway? It’s not like we would ever want to live in the Marquesas Islands or some weird foreign place like that.” He made the whole idea sound preposterous.
Half the time I couldn’t tell if Dave was jesting or if he was semi-serious. This was one of those times.
Onion laughed. “So all you really care about is the United States? Or maybe just our state? That’s pretty narrow-minded, Dave.”
His devious grin appeared, and I realized Onion had fallen for his ruse.
“Yeah, that’s it! The good old U S of A! We don’t need no stinkin’ foreign islands. Away with foreign islands, that’s what I say! America for Americans! Don’t tread on me! Love it or leave it! We’re number one, we’re number one! USA! USA! USA!”
Onion sighed and looked away, aware now that she had been had.
Dave continued, like a bobblehead in a particularly good mood. “It’s amazing how seemingly intelligent people can be so naive, isn’t it, George? You know, those overly studious types who, despite their tremendous book knowledge, deep insights, and outstanding grades, can still be so gullible in such a cute and charming—”
Onions arms went up in the air. “That’s it! Stop the car.”
“What?” Dave seemed genuinely surprised.
“You heard me. Stop. Right here!”
Dave obeyed, a little faster than he had to. I grabbed the door handle to stay in place as the tires screeched. All Dave’s books and junk slid off the seat next to me onto the floor.
Onion got out, slamming the door behind her.
Both Dave and I stared at her in astonishment as she marched to the sidewalk and walked away.
Dave pulled closer to the side of the road and kept pace with her.
“Hey! What’s wrong with the USA?” he asked. “Are you a godless commie or something?”
She kept marching along, silent, head down.
I watched her walk, her knee-length skirt swaying, her calf muscles flexing with every step. A faint breeze had stirred up, and wisps of hair swirled behind her neck.
I thought she looked beautiful under the streetlights as she entered and exited them one by one, like spotlights on a runway for models, although I wouldn’t have dared tell her so. That would have changed too much between us, and I didn’t want anything to change.
Dave stuck his head out the window and spoke in an aged, creepy voice. “Say, little girl. Would you like a ride? How about some candy? How about both?”
She slowed, then stopped and turned to face him.
“You know, that’s your whole problem right there, isn’t it? Anything for a cheap laugh, even if it’s disgusting.” She put her hands on her hips.
He looked nonplussed and his creepy voice continued. “Hey, I’m not cheap. I’ll have you know I have very expensive tastes. Like you.” Then his normal voice returned and he sounded serious. “Look. We’re in the middle of nowhere, Onion. You can’t just walk home. It’s way too far. You’ll never make it.”
She hesitated, then relented and got back in the car.
Dave beamed, as if proud of himself. “I really ticked you off, didn’t I?”
“Yes. You can be rude and crude. And mean, too.”
We sped up away from the curb, back to our mindless meandering.
“I’m not mean. I’m just charmingly pointless and witty.” He grinned his big fake grin again.
“More like witless,” Onion countered. “Or a halfwit.”
“Better a halfwit than a nitwit.”
She laughed a little, and after that, things returned to normal. Or at least what passed for normal among the three of us.
We were in Jorgenson’s class the next day, waiting for him to show up. Dave sat next to me in his usual chair in the back row, randomly tapping his pen on his desktop. “Five more minutes and I’m out of here,” he said.
There was supposedly some unwritten rule that if a teacher was fifteen minutes late to class, you could bail without any repercussions. I had never known anyone who actually took advantage of that rule—if it even really existed—although it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if Dave was soon to be the first.
A minute later, Dave sighed exceptionally loud. No one paid any attention.
He cleared his throat as if to make a serious pronouncement. “You know, Jorgenson keeps telling us he’s an original thinker. I wonder how original he really is.”
That was true. Jorgenson often said he could have done a better job writing our textbook than its author since he had “better insights” into the material. It did seem rather boastful in an unabashed sort of way.
Dave went on. “You know what? I think that Jorgenson is so original, if he ever owns a male and female dog, he’ll probably name them named Adam and Eve!” Dave beamed a fake look of adoration.
A few in the classroom tittered softly.
“Better yet, if he ever gets married and has three daughters, I’ll bet he names them April, May, and June!” Dave banged a fist on his desktop. “Now that’s original!”
The class tittered a little louder.
Dave slumped a bit, still bored despite his effort to amuse himself, and then slipped off his new class ring to take a look at it. We had gotten our rings last week and most of us were wearing them, at least until the novelty wore off.
Dave gave me a sly grin the way he always did when something mischievous occurred to him.
“Watch this, George.”
He set his ring face down on the desktop and gave it a twirl. It spun and wobbled in a small circle.
“My name is of no consequence,” he said, mimicking the line in The Movie.
I laughed in spite of myself. Dave had nailed the voice. “Very funny.”
Then Jorgenson burst in the room, his face flushed and contorted in anger.
A few people jumped in their chairs. Dave jammed his ring back on his finger.
“Sorry,” Jorgenson said. “Everything that could go wrong did on my way here this morning.”
“Everything?” Dave asked, eyes mockingly wide. “You mean you hit somebody with your car and kept on going? A hit and run?”
Two or three people in the class covered their mouths.
I winced. Dave seemed totally oblivious to people’s moods whenever he spoke up. As flustered as Jorgenson was, this was a particularly bad time for Dave to be pushing his luck.
Fortunately, Jorgenson ignored him as if he hadn’t heard. I was hoping for Dave’s sake that Jorgenson realized by now that Dave seldom said anything serious in class unless he was the one leading the conversation.
Jorgenson pulled a handkerchief of his pocket and dabbed at his shiny forehead. “All right. Let’s make up for lost time. Pull out your homework. I want to hear what you wrote last night.”
There was a flurry of activity all around as backpacks unzipped, books opened, and papers rustled into view.
I winced again. Jorgenson had given us this ridiculously pointless assignment to compare and contrast South Pacific islands, even though they seemed pretty much all the same to me. I had only managed to write a few sentences before giving up. Then I glanced around and realized that I wasn’t the only one to have less than half a page of answers. Normally that would have been reassuring, but under the circumstances it didn’t seem like such a good thing.
Then I noticed that Dave had nothing in front of him at all.
When I questioned him with a puzzled look, he gave me a little shrug and grin.
“Mr. Wells!” Jorgenson stared straight at me. “Name one of the most significant differences between the Pacific islands we studied.”
Surprised to be singled out so quickly, I looked down at my scant handwriting.
“Um, some are volcanic landscapes while others have more vegetation?”
I had actually written that answer, but I wished I hadn’t said it in the form of a question.
Jorgenson seemed satisfied. “Good. That’s one answer. Kathy?” He looked across the room at one of the few girls in the class.
“Uh, some are more mountainous than others?”
She answered in the form of a question, too. I was beginning to hope I hadn’t started an unfortunate trend.
“Correct,” Jorgenson said curtly. “Let’s hear some other answers. Raise your hands, people.”
No hands went up. Jorgenson waited, scanning the room. His frustration quickly returned, not that it seemed to have ever really left.
“Oh, come on, people! You’ve had all week to work on this. There are at least a dozen more.”
Still no hands went up.
Jorgenson took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll call on someone.” He looked about for his next victim.
Please don’t call on Dave, I thought. Dave sat perfectly still, still nothing in front of him.
Jorgenson stepped forward, focused now on Dave’s empty desk. “Mr. Baker. That’s odd. You don’t seem to have the assignment in front of you. Where is it?”
“Oh. The assignment,” Dave said, as if he just understood what it was the rest of us had on our desks. He raised an index finger. “Just a sec.”
To my surprise, Dave reached down and pulled a sheet of paper out of his geography book on the floor beside him.
It was all I could do not to react when I saw that the paper was blank; Dave was going to try to fake his way through it.
“Well!” Dave said brightly, staring at the empty sheet. “I believe some islands are much prettier than others, with double rainbows when it rains.” He positively beamed.
There was a faint, collective inward rush of air throughout the class, a kind of mass gasp in reverse, then silence.
Jorgenson eyes narrowed, his lips pursed so tight it looked like he didn’t have any.
“No?” Dave said, apparently too stupid to see that Jorgenson was on the verge of going ballistic. “Well, then, maybe some of the islands are better tourist traps than others. They might sell carved coconuts, refrigerator magnets, key chains, paperweights . . . why, just all kinds of touristy junk!”
The silence was now deafening.
Dave blithely continued his suicidal commentary.
“Still no? My, you’re hard to please. Okay, how about Gilligan? You know, that three-hour tour. Gilligan and the Skipper, too. The millionaire and his wife. The movie star. The professor and Mary Ann. Maybe they’re on one of those islands. But hey, they’ve all gotta be skeletons by now, right? That was way back in the sixties!”
Everyone looked like their heads were going to explode from trying not to laugh, their eyes bugging out.
Jorgenson came down the aisle toward Dave, walking slowly with a stiff gait like a mechanical man or something, like he was so angry his knees wouldn’t bend.
“Let me see that paper.” His voice was surprisingly soft and calm, even though I noticed with alarm that his hands were trembling.
For some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off those hands. They were fascinating and terrifying at the same time.
Dave balled it up tight. “You can’t. It’s . . . incomplete. I’m sure I can do much better.”
Jorgenson arrived at Dave’s chair, breathing hard through his nostrils, and actually pried the balled paper away, although Dave didn’t put up much of a fight.
Jorgenson carefully opened it and glanced at both sides.
“This paper is blank. It’s a blank paper.”
It was spoken more as a statement of fact than an accusation.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Guilty as charged, Your Honor. I throw myself on the mercy of the court. Or something like that.”
Jorgenson didn’t respond for what seemed like an eternity.
“You think this is all a joke? That this class is a joke?”
The last word was spoken so loud, everyone flinched. Except Dave.
“No, sir. Not at all. I’m sure we’ll all find what you’re teaching immensely useful someday. I’m just not sure when.”
If I could have disappeared straight through a hole in the floor I would have.
There was another long pause.
“Get out. Pick up all of your belongings and get out. I’m talking to Principal Morgan right after class about having you suspended if not expelled for your endless, mocking behavior.”
Dave nonchalantly gathered up his stuff and looked at Jorgenson as if contemplating yet another snide remark.
“Dave,” I said, my hands folded politely in front of me on my desk. “Shut. Up.”
Jorgenson shot an angry glance my way. “Quiet, Wells.”
Dave wisely took my advice, got up, and brushed by Jorgenson on his way out, seemingly hardly troubled. He didn’t even look back to see the class’s frozen-in-disbelief reaction.
Jorgenson lumbered back to the front of the room, his knees still not cooperating.
He turned to face us. Even in the back row, I could see veins in his scrawny neck throbbing. He swallowed hard, refusing to look directly at us.
“All right. That’s fine. Since no one completed the assignment, take out your textbooks. I’m going to patiently explain the differences between those Pacific Islands since you can’t seem to figure it out for yourselves.”
There was an explosive flurry of activity as books appeared in record time on desktops.
A faint grin appeared at a corner of Jorgenson’s mouth. Dave might have been a rebel, but the rest of us were clearly meek sheeple. Including me.
The remaining thirty minutes crawled by painfully, Jorgenson’s droning voice like Chinese water torture, which I’ve heard is supposed to be really bad. As soon as the bell sounded, I resisted the urge to burst out of the room in search of Dave to ask what he possibly hoped to accomplish by belittling Jorgenson in front of his own class.
For a really smart guy, at times Dave could be really dense.
The class filed out of the room in subdued, orderly fashion. I picked up my pace when I was sure Jorgenson wasn’t behind me, convinced that I knew exactly where to find Dave.
I turned the corner to the cafe and stopped. Sure enough, there was Dave at our table, calmly drinking some obscenely large drink with a straw as if the imminent possibility of being expelled didn’t bother him in the slightest.
I approached him cautiously, as if the trouble he was in might jump and infect me somehow. Guilt by association, I figured.
He beamed his usual fake beam when he saw me.
“George! Good to see you! Have a seat. Just taking a nice long break here between classes. I usually don’t get this opportunity.”
I sat down heavily to emphasize my agitation. “What is wrong with you?” I said softly, even though no one was near enough to hear me.
Dave cupped an ear. “What? I can’t hear you. Did you say something?”
I spoke up. “Are you trying to get expelled? Is that your goal in your senior year, just a few weeks away from graduation? You saw what happened to me when I tried to prank you by the football field, and I wasn’t even looking to cause trouble. You were so concerned I was going to be expelled, yet you aren’t the least bit concerned about your own future? What’s going on?”
Dave took a loud slurp from his drink. “Okay. So maybe I got just a little carried away back there.” He wagged his hand as if to emphasis the “little.” “It took on a life of its own, that’s all. Sometimes it’s hard to stop when I’m on a roll.” He slurped again. “Besides, the assignment was stupid. Admit it.”
I sighed. “You just don’t get it, do you?” I lowered my voice again, just in case. “We have to play their game, not ours. We’re on their turf, remember? We’re the pawns here, just passing through. Nothing more.”
Dave set his drink down. For the first time that morning he looked serious.
“Maybe you, but not me. It would stink to go through life thinking you’re a nobody.”
“You know what I mean. We toe the line, get the grades so we can graduate, then say adios and arrivederci. You don’t ever have to come back here again or even admit you were a student here if you don’t want to. If people ask, ‘Say, Dave, where did you go to high school?’ you’re free to say, ‘Gosh, I don’t remember.’”
Dave looked away. “That still stinks.”
“Maybe so. But you know what? You get a job and treat your boss the way you treat Jorgenson, you won’t have a job.”
Dave was quiet a moment. “Guess I’ll have to be my own boss then.”
“Whatever. Just don’t throw everything away, okay?”
Dave eyed me with suspicion. “And all along I thought you embraced your individuality. Sorry to hear you’re just one of the sheeple now.”
I leaned forward across the table. “You know what? This close to graduation, you should be one of the sheeple, too. Or at least pretend to be. What you do after your graduate is your business.”
“So basically you’re telling me to sell out, like you have?”
“No. I’m telling you to be practical. There’s nothing wrong with that. Your whole anarchy thing is not just wearing thin, it’s getting you nowhere fast.”
Onion appeared by my side. I hadn’t even heard her approaching.
“Hey, Dave. Heard you got kicked out of Jorgenson’s class,” she said. “I’d say sorry to hear it, but you probably had it coming. You can be so stupid and stubborn at times, can’t you?” She shook her head in dismay.
Dave looked her up and down.
“Wow. Way to gang up on me. And here I thought you were my friends.”
The static-filled intercom system sputtered to life over our heads.
“David Baker, please report to Principal Morgan’s office. David Baker.”
Dave took one last, long slurp, belched, then stood up.
“Gotta go.”
I stood, too. “I’m coming with.”
“Me too,” Onion said.
“What for?”
Onion and I glanced at each other.
“For moral support if nothing else,” she said. “We are your friends, Dave. You know that.”
He shrugged. “Fine. Suit yourselves.”
Dave strolled down the hall as if still unconcerned about his fate, waving to the people he knew, stopping briefly to chat with someone in our English class. When we arrived at Morgan’s office, both Morgan and Jorgenson were waiting.
To my surprise, I saw Goodman waiting, too, hanging back a bit from the others. Then I remembered that Goodman was on the dreaded Student Disciplinary Committee, as was Principal Morgan and—extremely unfortunately for Dave—Jorgenson.
Of all people.
“Hey, Dave. George.” Goodman fist-bumped both of us. He nodded at Onion. “Nancy,” he added.
Neither Morgan nor Jorgenson looked pleased.
“What are you doing here, Wells?” Jorgenson asked. “This doesn’t concern you.” Not surprisingly, he didn’t question why Onion was there. Probably because not only was she a stellar student, she never caused any trouble.
I decided to try the “I’m on your side” route to weasel my way into the meeting.
“Well, Mr. Jorgenson, Principal Morgan, Mr. Goodman, I’ve been trying for some time now to talk some sense into Dave, here. It’s important that he understand that school rules and regulations are made for a reason, a lesson I learned last semester the hard way, as you well know.” I gave my best hat-in-hand appearance, even though I didn’t have a hat. “I think I’m finally getting through to him and thought my presence could be beneficial.”
Morgan’s cold expression warmed just a bit, but Jorgenson’s looked unchanged.
“That’s very admirable, Mr. Wells, even if a bit contrived,” Jorgenson said coldly, “but this matter still doesn’t—”
“No, wait.” Morgan cut Jorgenson off. “Maybe a couple of his more sensible peers could make a difference here. George did learn a valuable lesson last semester, didn’t you, George?”
I nodded vigorously, like a good little schoolboy.
“And what about you, Nancy?” Morgan said, finally acknowledging her. “Why are you here?”
She smiled faintly. “I’m here to keep both of them in line. You know me.”
“Fair enough,” Morgan replied. “Do you mind if George and Onion—I mean, Nancy—join us in our discussion, Mr. Baker?”
Dave seemed to take a cue from me and straightened up, serious-looking now for a change.
“No, Principal Morgan. I know and trust both of them. If anybody can talk some sense into me, they can.”
Morgan nodded, pleased. Jorgenson still looked skeptical.
“Wait a minute,” Jorgenson said. “They can’t join us. There are all kinds of confidentiality laws involved with student discipline.”
His eyes glued on Dave, Morgan didn’t even glance at him. “Oh, let me worry about the confidentiality laws, will you, Floyd?”
For some reason, the way Morgan said that gave me pause. I had to wonder if he was up to something, if we weren’t making a big mistake.
Standing quietly in the background, Goodman had an amused look on his face, as if in on our scheming ways, which didn’t surprise me in the least.
We all entered the one room in the school everyone hoped never to go to: Principal Morgan’s inner sanctum, his private conference room. As we entered, I wondered how many students had been suspended or expelled here, their futures altered forever, how many tears had been shed, how much trauma and drama had played out over the years in between these four unadorned walls.
Again I wished I had a time machine so I could go back and see for myself.
We took our seats, Morgan at the head of the table. He put his hands together as if in prayer, which made me wonder who—and what—he was praying for.
“Mr. Baker. Everyone is well aware of your . . . propensity . . . to question authority on just about every occasion. While a healthy dose of skepticism can be a good thing in moderation, your habit of challenging convention at every turn is becoming highly disruptive and counterproductive to the primary mission of this institution, which is to educate our students in a safe and secure environment, free of unnecessary distractions. Today’s inexcusable incident in your Geography class is yet another prime example of your perpetual insolence that is completely at odds with our stated goals. Would you agree with that basic assessment, Mr. Baker?”
Dave blinked, his glazed eyes focusing again as he roused himself.
“Uh, sure. Yes, sir.”
“Good. What do you think we should do to solve this problem, Mr. Baker?” Morgan’s hands remained folded, as if praying now for the right answer.
Dave hesitated. “I would imagine some kind of corrective measure is in order.”
Morgan immediately pressed his palms on the tabletop as if his prayer had been answered. Jorgenson sat back in surprise, and Goodman raised an eyebrow.
“Excellent! I’m glad you can acknowledge the need for discipline in this matter. If we let it go unpunished, what kind of message would that send to the rest of the student body?”
“Not a good one,” Dave replied, even though I was pretty sure Morgan was asking and answering his own question.
“Precisely.”
For an awkward spell, no one said anything more.
“Well, then.” Morgan said finally, breaking the awkwardness. “What do you think that ‘corrective measure’ should be?”
Dave looked thoughtful in a rather forced way. “Detention,” he said firmly, as if resigned to that fate.
Morgan didn’t respond.
“For quite some time, of course,” Dave added hastily.
Morgan glanced down. “Mr. Baker. If this were an isolated instance, I might agree. But given that this has been an ongoing problem that shows no signs of abating, I’m afraid detention would be an ineffective solution. My records show that you’ve served multiple detentions over the years for exactly the kind of infraction we’re discussing here today, yet here we are still trying to resolve the problem, still trying to put a stop to your endless insurgency. Do you really think another detention—regardless of its length—will result in a different outcome?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I disagree.” Morgan stared hard at Dave, who finally flinched.
Jorgenson’s hand flew up to his mouth in a failed attempt to hide a sudden grin.
“What do you think, Nancy and George? Mr. Baker allowed you to participate in this discussion. What do you have to say?”
Onion and I glanced at each other. Neither of us said anything. I was immediately aware that our inability to answer only made it seem we had to agree that detention was pointless. That made me wonder what we had hoped to accomplish by being here; if we weren’t going to jump to Dave’s defense, then our presence was doing him more harm than good.
Maybe—it occurred to me too late—that this was Morgan’s intention all along. He had allowed us in on the meeting to help him make his point. The trap had been set and sprung.
Morgan drew in a deep breath. For the first time since we sat down, he looked genuinely concerned, sympathetic even. “Mr. Baker, as much as it pains me to have to do this to a student so close to graduating, I’m afraid I have to—”
“Can I say something?” Goodman interrupted.
Morgan paused. “Yes. Of course,” he said, still staring straight at Dave.
I hoped whatever Goodman had in mind would prevent Morgan from saying what I was certain he was going to say.
“I think we have to consider the possibility that David is a very troubled young man.”
Jorgenson gave out a single, high-pitched, derisive laugh as if that were the funniest thing he had ever heard. “No kidding! Tell us something we don’t know!”
“I am. I think there could be psychological issues here that need to be addressed, ones we should have recognized long ago. That was our failure. The rules regarding how we administer to students with special needs are very specific, you know.”
Special needs? I thought. Dave?
I glanced at Dave, who looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights at that remark.
Morgan’s expression changed to one of growing apprehension, his mouth slightly agape. He sat back.
Jorgenson’s smug grin vanished.
“So you’re suggesting that before we do anything, Mr. Baker should have a psychological evaluation?” Morgan asked. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he tapped his chin, eyes narrowed.
“Yes, I am. The procedures for that are quite clear, as are the penalties for non-compliance. If he’s suspended or expelled before an evaluation, we would be held liable if it’s determined he fits the criteria for an Individualized Education Program as outlined by the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act.”
Jorgenson practically exploded in his chair. “Oh, for . . . he’s nothing more than an undisciplined troublemaker! Don’t try to hide him behind all this special needs nonsense!”
Goodman turned to him, spoke in a measured tone. “Are you suggesting that special needs students don’t exist? Are you a psychologist or a behavioral therapist or any kind of mental health professional qualified to determine David’s particular needs?”
Jorgenson looked perplexed. “Well, of course not! It’s just that . . . we can’t . . . how can we . . .”
He wavered a bit and then slumped, glowering in defeat.
When Goodman turned back to face us, I swear I saw the same twinkle in his eye he had when I had bluffed our way into the meeting.
Morgan cleared his throat and spoke even slower than he normally did. “Unfortunately, now that the issue has been raised, we can’t ignore the possibility that Mr. Goodman’s assessment is correct. Discrimination against those with disabilities is not tolerated by the school district, nor should it be.”
He looked at Dave now as if Dave had just morphed into someone brand new.
“Mr. Baker, I am going to send you home with a letter for your parents requesting that you make an appointment for a thorough psychological evaluation as soon as possible. They are to call me right away to discuss the matter. Depending on the results of that evaluation, we would need to move quickly to set up an IEP meeting.” He pulled his phone out of his suit pocket and began to tap on the screen. “Let’s see now. There’s a lot to do and not much time to do it in.”
Goodman winked at me, and I suddenly understood.
Jorgenson abruptly stood up. “Excuse me. I think I’ve heard enough. Am I still needed here?”
Morgan glanced up at him. “No, Floyd, you’re not. You may go.”
Jorgensen stared hard at Dave, then Goodman, then Dave again before he strode out of the room.
Morgan looked up at the three of us. “You may leave as well. Mr. Baker, wait outside my office. Nancy and Mr. Wells, if you have class starting soon, go there now.”
Only too happy to oblige, the three of us were gone in a flash.
We stood in the hallway outside Morgan’s office.
“What just went on in there?” Dave asked.
“I think Goodman saved your skin, that’s what,” Onion said.
“By calling me a special needs student?”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” I said. “You weren’t suspended or expelled.”
Goodman came out into the hallway, as chipper and bright as could be.
“Gentlemen!” he said. “And lady. That went about as well as it could have, didn’t it? Here. This is for you.” He handed an envelope to Dave. “It’s a letter saying that you require a psychological evaluation due to ongoing disruptive behavior, with the results to be made available to the school counselor ASAP.”
Dave took the envelope gingerly, staring at it as if it might detonate any moment.
“Great. Now I have to see a psychiatrist or psychologist or somebody like that. Just my luck.”
“A small price to pay, don’t you think?” Goodman said.
Dave sighed. “I appreciate you helping me, but special needs? I hate to break it to you, but I think Jorgenson’s right. I’m just a troublemaker. You were just gaming the system in there.”
Goodman’s chipper appearance faded fast. He got right into Dave’s face, real up close and personal.
“Yeah, I’m gaming the system. We all game the system at some time in our lives. I’ve known you since you were a freshman, Dave. You can be a real pain sometimes, but in all my years of teaching, I’ve never had a student who’s made me question my own assumptions about life and politics and literature like you do. If you were suspended or expelled, my class would suffer. I can’t let that happen. I can always count on you taking me down a notch if I get too full of myself, but not everybody appreciates that like I do. The problem is, you still haven’t learned how to play nice with people. I don’t think it’s because you don’t care—it’s because you’re tone deaf when it comes to recognizing that not everyone likes your brand of sarcasm. You’re like a bull in a china shop, only a very clever bull. Maybe you do need an evaluation to figure out why you can’t notice that sometimes you take things too far. You understand?”
Dave nodded.
“Good. So get your evaluation, which will undoubtedly claim you do need help because there’s lots of money to be made in that business and they’re always looking for new customers to come walking through their doors. In the meantime, Morgan is in there trying to figure out how to place you in an IEP program before you graduate, which is impossible with only a few weeks left, only he doesn’t realize yet or won’t admit it. What I really did in there was buy you enough time to get your butt out of here with your diploma without having to repeat half your senior year or finish it somewhere else. Got it, my friend?”
Dave nodded again.
Goodman took a step back. “Great! See you tomorrow in class.”
His chipper face returned, and he strode merrily down the hall.
I started to laugh, keeping it as soft as I could. Onion joined in, undoubtedly thinking what I was thinking.
“What’s so funny?” Dave asked.
“A clever bull,” I replied, still laughing. “I’ve never heard a better description of you. Sorry.”
Dave looked resigned. “Glad you like it, George.”
He stared down at the envelope again as if still not sure exactly how it ended up in his hands.