A Short Story

The air didn’t move. It hung heavy with something other than oxygen, or so it seemed. Plastic seats cupped buttocks like warm Tupperware hands which is why some stood.

As soon as I saw Marvin leaning against the support pole, daring me to tell him to stop shaking the canopy, I knew he was the one to watch. If it all came down in the middle of my lecture, that was it. I was done.

I didn’t dare tell any of them to sit in their seats. It was too soon. There were sparks in their eyes, flashes of conversations left behind. Those talks about ‘choices’ and ‘future’ and ‘don’t make your mother cry’. And now it was my turn.

“Okay everyone, listen up.”

Not a head lifted. Eyes stayed on forbidden phones I wasn’t supposed to see. Two were entwined ready to make out like they were in a dark closet instead of an open-air classroom.

I started my regular presentation; power point slides on a wavy pull-down screen, lists of the steps towards self-control; the basics with a few cartoons to draw out some laughs. I watched as they turned me off like light bulbs blinking out. They hadn’t burned bright to begin with.

Sweat dripped under my shirt. Half these kids were wearing next to nothing so why was I dressed like a forest ranger? They were probably thinking the same thing. I took off the tan jacket. Under the jacket I was supposed to have a polo shirt. My version of the staff dress code was a cami, modest enough to keep the testosterone saturated eyes at bay but way cooler than the polyester garb compliant counselors wore. Marvin watched as I took off the layers.

“Now that I have your attention.”

Marvin snickered. “Nice try,” he said. “I’m out of here.”

Quick, predictable words, meant to send me into dejected defeat.

“Not so fast,” I said as he gave the pole one last shake. Everyone looked up as the canopy shuddered, but it steadied and boredom cloaked faces again.  “Leave and it will mean another week added onto your stay.” I called after him.

He stopped in his tracks.

“Your choice.”

“You’re not a judge. You can’t do that.”

“Didn’t you read the fine print? Your parents did and they signed off on it.”

He spewed F bombs that landed among the others setting off secondary explosions of curses on moms and dads, the system, life.

Great. Keep it coming.

Marvin took another step.

“Oh, and I can extend that to the rest.”

I explained that if Marvin continued to walk away, everyone in the class would also get another week. I held up my tablet and pointed to a screen with their names and check boxes. It was the attendance roster. They didn’t know that. They couldn’t see anything but the fiery pyres of my words.

An uproar burst out. I added fuel to the fire, saying how other privileges would be taken away if everyone didn’t settle down. No desert. No pool time. No internet access. Ouch. The air under the canvas fomented with energy. They pulled at Marvin. He shoved his captors away. One crashing into another who pushed back in anger as her foot was stomped on.

It seemed for a moment their fury teetered on the edge of becoming a mob, ready to charge me and and then he did it. Marvin strode over with the purpose of a lion, and pulled the pole with unbridled anger. The whole thing fell, catching the rest underneath, flopping about like fish in a net. I stood one step away from the edge and pressed ‘play’. The screen lit up.

It took a few minutes for the screaming and yelling to dissipate, a little time to realize the tent had not crashed completely down on them but collapsed to just five feet from the ground. They emerged, faces red, hair awry, scratches on arms, sweaty and spent. The mayhem played before them, beginning to end with full stereo sound broadcasting their anger in all its force. Some shook their heads, turned away, cried, put their hands over their faces. Some stood stone-faced but riveted.

“Now let’s talk about how you feel right now.”

I led them to a place under the trees.

We sat on the grass, a breeze whispered over us, soothing, cool like the trees were comforting us.

Marvin, climbed into the “Y” of one, perched like a vulture over the scene, his face blank but his eyes on me as I offered words of encouragement to those admitting their pain. Finally, he called out.

“Why are you doing this job? Doesn’t it suck? I bet they don’t pay you more than minimum.”

“Thanks for asking Marvin. It’s community service,” I said.

“Community service? Right.” He laughed, sarcastic.

I nodded.

His laughing stopped. “You mean like a sentence?”

I swallowed hard wishing I had just countered his laughing with my own. Too late to back out now. “It was.”

He stared. They all stared. This was not part of my usual script. I took a deep breath.

“Once, I let my anger take me over while I was behind the wheel. I drove like I was in a video game where no one got hurt and life hearts would come back. But for the lady I hit as she crossed the street, it was not a game. She didn’t know that I just found out my boyfriend was cheating with my sister. I was on my way to his job to break up with him. I never drove under the influence of alcohol or drugs, but I was intoxicated with anger that night.”

“Did you kill her?”

For a split second I thought he meant my sister. “No.  But she was in and out of the hospital for months.”

I told them my story. How it wasn’t the first time someone was hurt by my loss of control, but mothers don’t take their children to court. Mothers cross their fingers and hope it didn’t mean anything. I told them that rage was my energy. It made me feel alive. It felt like my right, a weapon to use against all the wrongs done to me. But it was a weapon that turned against me, ruled me, left me in a ditch on the side of the road with emptiness I could not curl up next to and feel safe with.

“I showed you the ugly of this taskmaster you are serving.”

Marvin hopped out of the tree.

“Not the ugly,” he said. “We’ve seen that before.”

“Then what Marvin? Please enlighten us all.”

He gave me a deadpan, pained look. “You are what freedom looks like.”

I did not expect those words from his mouth or how they dropped into my soul, sending out ripples of self-forgiveness. It was a summer to remember. A summer to forget. A summer when teacher and students learned together, and we all went our ways with a little more peace, a little more dignity, and a lot more hope.