Somewhere Between Black and White

One

“Hey,
Miss!” Jose called from his computer when he witnessed Sophie texting. “How
come you’re allowed to text and we’re not?
That ain’t
fair!”

“Jose, stop worrying about me and do
your work.” Sophie headed toward the classroom door, in hopes of getting a
decent cell signal. The reception in the building was God awful, forcing her to
plaster herself to the window in the entryway. Today she had the room opened up
due to the heat.

“Aw Miss, don’t be a hater,” the
heavyset eighth grader replied. “It’s because I’m Mexican, right?” That was the
students’ favorite thing to say.
It’s because I’m
Mexican. It’s because I’m black. That’s racist.
It
was always said in jest, but tiresome just the same. The other thing they liked
to say was:
That’s
what she said.
The opening line almost always referred
to a lagging computer or a missing file, but pubescent boys are unable to
resist making the most innocent comment sexual.

“I keep looking, but I can’t find it!”

“That’s what she said.”

“Why is this taking so long?”

“That’s what she said.”

Sophie’s all-time favorite was when she
passed out study packets to the students. “I know it’s long and thick,” she’d
told them, “but we’ll do this together.”

“That’s what she said,”
a
voice called from the back of the room. Never a dull moment.

Sophie finished sending her text and
sighed. “Jose, do you need help? ‘Cause you’re just sitting there.” She made
her way across the computer lab.

“Miss, what do I do next?”

She peered over his shoulder and saw
that he was partway through the Dreamweaver web page they were creating, which
required them to share photos and information about a country they would like
to visit. Although she provided print instructions daily, Jose’s reading level
was so low that she had to walk him through each task. At least he tried,
unlike his buddy who sat two chairs over playing video games.

“Jerome, if you don’t get off that game
and finish the assignment. . . .”

“Okay, Miss, just one more minute. I
almost beat this level.” Jerome tapped away furiously on his keyboard. There
were a handful of boys in this particular class who drove her insane on a daily
basis, but each one of them had her wrapped around his finger. They knew it,
and she knew it.

“Jerome. . . .”

“Okay, okay, okay!” His absorption in
the game continued.

Sophie reached over and turned off his
monitor, causing him to squeal out his discontent like a little girl. “Miss!
How could you
 
do
 
that?”
She bit her lip to keep from smiling.

Two things saved Jerome—his affable
personality and his disarming grin. To her dismay, he was forever sharing his
girl troubles and all sorts of other stories with her—anything to avoid the
work. Yeah, he knew how to work the charm, this boy with a lightning bolt
shaved into his scalp.

“Do the assignment,” Sophie ordered, “or
I’m pulling you from the computer.”

“Miss, did I tell you how beautiful you
look today?”

“
Psh!
Just do it, Jerome.” As she
gave the room a once over to see if anyone had questions, she wandered back to
her desk to check the school email. Her expectations had been so unrealistic
when she took this position. Making the move from fifth grade, she believed
that by teaching web design, the students would
 
want
 
to
learn because it was an elective.
Wrong
. She later learned that kids who
took her class were the ones who didn’t have the background for guitar,
orchestra, or jazz band. There were a few who actually enjoyed her class, but
many of them whined and complained as if they were in math or reading. Whatever.
It was still far more enjoyable than teaching elementary school. Even if the
kids had no interest in the subject, Sophie loved it. 

Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket.
She had received another text from her sister, Evelyn.  “
I’m fine. Stop
being a worrywart
,” it read.

“There you go, Miss,” Jose said. “On
your phone again.”

“Jose, put a sock in it. You know my
sister is sick.” 

“Alright, alright,” he conceded and
turned back to his work.

Evelyn had lupus; she had good and bad
days. As the older sister, Evelyn didn’t like to let on about it, but Sophie
could always tell when she was having a bad day. After what seemed like an
eternity of unexplained symptoms that almost debilitated Evelyn when they were
young, she was diagnosed in her sophomore year. What made things worse was that
she had a husband who expected her to take care of him, rather than the other
way around, which Evelyn faithfully did. It frustrated Sophie to no end.
Granted, Christian had some sort of mood disorder, but he refused to take meds,
making Evelyn’s predicament more arduous.

“
Let me take you to dinner tonight
,”
Sophie texted. “
We can bring something home for Christian
.”

“
I’m
fine! Another time. Love
you
,” was her reply.

Sweat trickled down the back of Sophie’s
neck. The air conditioning units were broken again, so it was only a matter of
time before the computers started to overheat and lose connection to the
server, leaving her in a room full of teenagers with nothing to keep them busy.

O’Connell Middle School was located in
North Las Vegas, and was a bit of a contradiction.  It was in a very nice
neighborhood, with beautiful landscaping and houses that looked to be three
thousand square feet and above. However, forty percent of the attending students
were on free or reduced lunch; much of the population was bused in from less
affluent neighborhoods, and predominantly Hispanic.

Sophie prayed that the computers would
hang on for the last couple of hours. The thought of having to resort to an alternative
plan of action made a knot form in the pit of her stomach. Sure, she could keep
some worksheets on hand. She’d tried it a couple of times before, but the
struggling students often refused to do anything that required reading. She
could barely get them to read the directions for her projects. Every lesson
Sophie gave consisted of a demonstration of what the students would be doing,
and how they would do it. She spent hours making detailed, illustrated
handouts, showing how to do all the things she had demonstrated in class. But
they wouldn’t use them. Instead they begged, “Miss, I need help!”

“I’m helping someone right now,” Sophie
would say. “Use your handout.”

“I don’t want to. It’s too much
reading.”

“Miss Cook,” another student would call.
“I don’t know how to—”

“Excuse me; do you not see I’m helping
Kashayla? Use your paper. It’s right on the sheet.”

“No, it isn’t. I already checked.”

“Did you actually look at the paper?”
Sophie wondered. “Or did you look at the ceiling?”  

A puzzled expression was often the
response.

It was a question her mother posed
whenever her late father couldn’t find something in the kitchen cabinet. “Abby!
Where’s the peanut butter?” he’d call to her mother.

“It should be on the third shelf!”

“No, it isn’t! I looked.”

Then her mother would come to the
kitchen, move her dad aside, and pull the peanut butter from the pantry. “Were
you looking at the ceiling?”

Sophie
leaned over the small fan she had propped up on her desk and let it blow down
her shirt, her thoughts drifting to the man in the store the night before. So
juvenile, to be preoccupied with someone whose proximity lasted no more than
thirty seconds. Nevertheless, memories of the brief encounter called her away.

Running on fumes after dropping a friend
home, Sophie had been relieved to find a gas station in an unfamiliar part of town.
When she entered the convenience store, she laughed inwardly at the two teenage
boys in the candy section, their belts resting below their butt cheeks. What
was the point of the belts? She shook her head, marveling at how they walked
around like that. Her hip hugging jeans drove her crazy enough. She sort of
missed mom jeans; at least during the nineties she had never felt like her
pants were falling down.

She planned to grab a soda and rounded a
corner to see a man standing there, studying the selection. She paid little
notice to him until he glanced her way. Warm hazel eyes. An unexpected wave of
something—something she couldn’t identify—faintly rippled through her.

Normally she would have called it your
run-of-the-mill physical attraction, but this was somehow different. He was
actually pretty ordinary, with dark brown hair that receded slightly in front,
forming that little “M” at his forehead. He wasn’t very tall, a bit shy of six
feet, with a small build. Not skinny, though—just right for his height. Sophie
guessed him to be about her age, early to mid-thirties.

He offered her a quick smile and
returned his attention to the refreshments. Immediately his eyes darted back,
as if he recognized her. The smile lingered a few moments before he turned
away. She felt uncertain about what to do next; he was standing in the way of
her beverage choice. She debated getting a coffee instead.

He had nice arms. The sleeves of his
flannel shirt were rolled up to reveal a small tattoo on his forearm that was
some sort of Asian symbol. Realizing that she was waiting on him, he moved
aside. “I’m sorry.” He laughed. “Go ahead.”

“Excuse me,” she said under her breath.
He reached to open the refrigerator door for her at the same time as she, and
their hands touched. Eyes meeting once again, Sophie was unnerved by her
reaction. Why did it feel like she knew him? She was certain she had never seen
him before in her life. She ducked in to grab her soda and reemerged. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” he said. “Have a good one.”

“You
too.” As she headed for the counter, she glanced over her shoulder, making one
last attempt to place him. He was still gazing back at her.

“Bee! There’s a bee!” A girl’s panicked
shouting startled Sophie into the present.

It wasn’t the first time a bee had found
its way into the room; the plants in the courtyard attracted them.

“Okay, just calm down,” Sophie said.
“Whatever you do, don’t swat at it.” So what did they do? Anytime the bee came
remotely close, they flailed about as if they were on fire, jumping from their
seats with annoying screeches. Some of the boys were worse than the girls. “Oh,
my gosh,” Sophie exclaimed. “I am too hot and grumpy for this. Leave the stupid
bee alone!”