Boaz Brown (14 page)

I stopped for a moment and read her. She’d gotten the message, and she was afraid. She unfolded her arms and threw them helplessly over the sides of the chair.

“You didn’t think about all of this, did you, Ms. Ashton?”

“It’s not like I
meant
to tell them,” she said, “I was just angry about what happened with Chauncey, and…I don’t know what made me tell them all of that. Katelyn’s not even in my class, but for some reason Mr. Butler sent them to talk to me—”

“Mr. Butler told you to talk to them?”

It suddenly occurred to me that she was being used in all this.

“Yes, Miss Smith.” She looked around the room for a second and then established eye contact. “It was weird. Mr. Donovan came up to me and said something like ‘I understand that you know how a person’s grade can get changed around here,’ and I told them about Chauncey and what happened with his grade.”

The light went on in her head. “Oh, my gosh. How could I have been so stupid?”

For the record, I could neither deny nor confirm her suspicion. She balled one of her fists and used the other hand to grab the paperwork that she’d brought in with her. “Don’t worry, Miss Smith. This kind of thing won’t happen again.” She averted her eyes and dismissed herself from the office.

When Mr. Butler returned to the building, his secretary called me, and I went to his office. His shelves were lined with paraphernalia boasting of his golfing and sporting achievements. Nothing recent to show, however. I sat down and listened as he explained that the Donovans were planning to take the issue before the associate superintendent.

“Exactly what grounds do they have to press this issue?” I asked him. “I thought we were all clear on the no-pass, no-play laws.”

“Well, uh. . .“ Mr. Butler sat back in his chair, crossed one leg over his knee, and brought one hand to his chin. “The Donovans are going to pursue it because you, being the seventh-grade principal, have a history of making exceptions for black students.”

I needed more from him. “Go on.”

“Actually, Miss Smith, several incidences have been brought to my attention. I’ve been meaning to talk with you about this myself.” He reached into his top desk drawer and pulled out several files. “This one here, James Woodall, an African-American student. He was sent to your office for not bringing in homework. You sent him on to his next class and called the teacher in on it. Then this one here, Shaniqua Adams, also African-American. Mr. Frazier sent her to you after she had an argument with another student. You only assigned her to two days’ after-school detention. And there are many more. Shall I go on?”

“Mr. Butler, both of those students’ situations were handled successfully. James’s parents were notified of his lack of homework, and that student hasn’t missed an assignment since. And, in addition to assigning detention to Shaniqua, I utilized our peer mediation program to help her learn the skills she needs to talk through her problems both now and in the future. Mr. Frazier hasn’t had any more problems with her. I fail to see how either of those situations, as successful as they were, relates to Katelyn Donovan’s situation.”

“We’re starting to see a pattern, Miss Smith.” He nodded, his eyes darting to avoid mine. “These are not random incidents here.”

“Exactly what
is
that pattern as you see it, Mr. Butler?”

“Seventy percent of the African-American students who come through your office are given rather lenient punishments, while the white students who come before you are not treated as favorably.” He opened up another manila file folder. “This student here, Ashley Taylor, white. She was sent to your office, and you suspended her for three days.” He quickly closed the folder.

“She stole money from her teacher’s desk, Mr. Butler.”

“Like I said,” he breezed past my point and cleared his throat, “this is a pattern.”

“Mr. Butler, has it ever occurred to you that while our student body is less than fifty percent African-American, black students make up over three-fourths of the referrals that come across my desk?
That’s
the pattern we need to be looking into.”

“Miss Smith,” he said, “I have talked to several seventh- grade teachers who feel that they can’t trust you to back them with discipline. Your actions are creating a serious gap between you and those teams of teachers.”

“I will go to the wall for any teacher who has done all that he or she can do to help a student be successful. Ask Mrs. Holloway. Ask Mr. Levian or Miss Gallahan. I have gone through the fire for them all recently. But my loyalty to the teachers does not override a student’s right to be treated equitably. That includes Katelyn Donovan. What kind of message are you all trying to send her—that her father’s money can buy her out of any situation? That grades and teachers and administrators are for sale?”

He turned his head sharply, eyes widened. I watched his face turn from pink to white. “Miss Smith, you are out of line.”

I didn’t say anything. He was waiting for me to go off, I think, but I didn’t. The silence was very uneasy, but I withstood it, waiting for his next words. He thrust his hands into his pockets. I watched him pace twice before his color returned. He sat down at his desk and faced me head-
on.

“If you don’t instruct Mr. Miller to change Katelyn’s grade, I will. And if you have anything to say to the contrary, I will launch an investigation into your administrative practices here.” His last sentence came out slowly, one syllable at a time. “I can make things happen or not happen.”

The look on his face said
get out of here,
so I did. After lunch, it was my turn to go to the administration office for a meeting. I had time to
Sit
down and crunch numbers with my colleagues. The results of the preliminary data showed that our school’s standardized test scores were looking good. We would only be rated ‘Acceptable’ by the Texas Education Agency, but there was some improvement, and I was glad that I’d have good tidings to relay to the staff. Mr. Butler usually left that responsibility to me.

I went back to the campus to close out the day. “How did the meeting go?” Miss Jan asked me.

“Oh, it was fine,” I told her. “Our scores are looking pretty good.”

“That’s great news,” she said, handing me yet another student referral that I’d have to deal with first thing in the morning.

Peaches called me at around five o’clock. “Hey, girl,” she said.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Nothin’,” she said. “I was just calling to see how your day at school went.”

“Crazy as usual,” I laughed as I turned down the volume on my television. “How about yours?”

“Girl, I’m just on white-folks overload right about now,” she laughed. “Tired of
miling
’ and chirpin’ and laughin’ at stupid jokes and observations.”

“And you want me to come work with you?”

“They can’t be any worse than the white folks at your job,” Peaches remarked.

“I hear you.”

“You want to go running tonight?” she asked.

“Girl, please. You know I don’t run. I might
walk
with you.”

“I’ll meet you at the track in half an hour.”

My poor little athletic shoes were longing to be worn. Exercise was not high on my list of priorities. I knew, however, that I needed to get into some kind of routine to preserve my body. The best things I did for my body on a regular basis were to get my checkups and take a women’s daily vitamin.

Every so often, Peaches got onto me about exercise. I was thankful for her perspective on health. Because she had made a change in her diet and exercise, it affected what we ate when we were together. That alone probably added another ten years to my life.

Peaches pulled up in her Mercedes and waved as she got out. Her short, cropped haircut was perfect for the active lifestyle she led. Dressed in Nike from her hooded fleece to her cross-training shoes, she looked like an advertisement.

Eric ran straight to me and gave me a big hug. “Hi, Auntie Shon.”

“Hey! You almost knocked me over, man.” I took a few steps back, exaggerating his strength. He looked up, laughing, and then ran to the playground within view of the track.

Peaches started stretching, and I followed suit. She looked as if she were releasing the weight of the world as she inhaled and exhaled slowly to the silent count of eight. I let her lead me in the counts and the movements. Then she pushed a button on her stopwatch, and we took off walking.

“So what happened today?” I asked her.

“My team and I had to work up a settlement package to sever an employment contract due to embezzlement,” she said. “The kind of stuff a black man would have gone to jail over.”

“Why would you need to offer a settlement package for an employee who was stealing?” I asked.
“The company would have spent twice as much in attorney’s fees and court costs if he hadn’t accepted our offer to leave uneventfully. It’s white-folks’
–
world stuff. Happens every day. What’s new with you?”

I filled her in on the latest details with the Donovans. “What do you think I should do?”

“Write her up,” Peaches said with a straight face, puffing air between strides. I gave her a puzzled look. “Trust me— write it up, leave it in her file for however long you have to leave it in there, and then discard it when it expires. If she does it again, you’ll have a paper trail of her patterns, and a leg to stand on when you get ready to fire her. If she doesn’t, there’ll be no additional harm done. Furthermore, she won’t be able to say that you knew she had this problem but didn’t inform her that it was inappropriate.”

“Do you think it’s that serious?” I asked Peaches. “That I could end up in court behind it?”

“Pulleaze! Girl, people go to court every day wishing they’d documented their evidence more carefully. If I were you, I’d get in touch with one of those union attorneys and cover your behind completely.”

The thought of having to call an attorney for legal defense frightened me. I’d never needed to call an attorney before. The only time I’d ever really mention the word “attorney” was when someone was joking about whiplash. I guess I always figured that if I did the right thing, I would never need counsel to defend me.

“You ready to jog now?” Peaches asked.

“You go ahead. I’m gonna walk today.” I was already panting from trying to keep up with her warm-up. She went ahead of me, her hood flapping in the breeze produced by her speed. Her “jogging” always looked like running to me.

After talking with Peaches, I knew I had a lot to do.
Call the union. Write up Ms. Ashton. Pray.

Chapter 7

Peaches sat on the floor, and I sat behind her on my bed, brushing, pulling, and pinning her hair into a French roll. The style was far too elevated for my taste, but Peaches liked her French rolls as high as I could possibly get them. She said the higher it was, the skinnier she looked.

In a minute she’d take her turn behind me, sitting on the polish- stained bedspread beneath my poster of Michael Jackson. I liked my hair set with mousse so that my curls would dry quickly and I wouldn’t have to sleep with all that hard plastic in my head.

“Hold your head down,” I told her.

“Look—here’s an article about finding the right kind of guy for you,” she said as she thumbed through the pages of a
Young Miss
magazine.

“Find something else,” I mumbled through the bobby pins I’d carefully placed between my lips. I pulled one from my mouth and placed it at the base of the French roll, shoving it in as far as it would go.

“Here’s one about that guy in that movie
Risky Business,”
she said.

“Tom Cruise?” I asked, peeking past her shoulder.

“Yeah. Says that he is the number one heartthrob according to last month’s poll,” she summarized. “You want me to read it to you out loud?”