Claire and Present Danger

One "Always thought it was kids who were reluctant to go back to school, not teachers." Mackenzie sat on the side of the bed, tying the laces of his running shoes. "Another popular myth shot to hell," I muttered. "The big thrill was getting new notebooks, lunch boxes, and backpacks." "An' I was too insensitive to think of buyin' them for you. Guess I'm not a New Age kind of guy, after all." "I didn't get so much as an unused gum eraser." "But you aren't actually re-entering. You did that two days ago." He meant prep time. A duo of days designed to quash whatever optimism had built during summer. Days of listening to a lazy end-of-summer fly halfheartedly circling the room while Maurice Havermeyer, Philly Prep's pathetic headmaster, droned along with them. The difference was this: The fly's noises were interesting. Our headmaster's spiel was stale from the get-go with the same meaningless jargon-infested exhortations to be ever more creative, innovative, and effective. I fought to keep from putting my head on the desk and falling asleep, and wondered if I could peddle copies of his talks as cures for insomnia. He reassured us he'd be there to offer all the help and resources he could, but he was careful to never define precisely where "there" might be. Maybe he didn't have to. Anyone who'd worked with him knew it would be as far away as possible from the problem or question. Two days of sprucing up classrooms, filing lesson plans with the office, checking bookroom stores against class lists, and creating colorful bulletin boards nobody except our own selves would appreciate. And all of it surrounded by the loud silence of a school without students, which was not, to my definition, a school at all. But now, here we were. The real stuff. Back to school. "Thought you loved teachin'," Mackenzie said. I do, although what love affair isn't a roller-coaster ride? "It isn't that," I said, looking at a to-do list I'd prepared the night before. "It's everything converging at once." I felt stupid even saying that. It wasn't as if anything came as a shock, and it wasn't as if there were that many everythings. What was exceptional was how daunted I felt by my list of obligations. I had to teach. No surprise. I had a part-time job after school to help our personal homeland security, but I'd been working there along with Mackenzie all summer, so that wasn't out of the ordinary, either. Starting to push things over the edge, however, was an obligatory appearance at a ninetieth birthday party for a former neighbor. Given her advanced age, I couldn't rationally beg off and promise to be at her next big bash, even though the only living creature to whom old Mrs. Russell had shown kindness was Macavity, my cat. Her house had served as his summer camp and spa, and it would have been more logical for him to attend the festivities, but I didn't see how to swing that, either. But to really make the day require at least forty hours, I had Beth. My event-planner of a sister was thrilled by my engagement, which she and my mother saw as a victory for their side, capitulation and unconditional surrender on mine. Beth was so delighted and relieved, she was doing her damnedest to absorb me into the world of wives before I was one. At the moment, this translated into attendance at a dinner she had orchestrated and produced, a fund-raiser for an abused-women's shelter. "You&Roberts, Gillian is the author of 'Claire and Present Danger', published 2003 under ISBN 9780345454904 and ISBN 0345454901.