The Color of Hope (18 page)
Marcus glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a million things I need to do, but remember, call Mrs. Walters if you need anything. Her number’s in the packet. You can text me as well. Oh, and the number for security is in the packet too, if you need them.”
“Security?”
He was backing out of the cafeteria. “Gotta run.”
She sucked in a breath, looking around. Kids were leaning back in chairs, sitting on tables, bobbing heads to music in earbuds, calling to one another from across the room . . .
At seven twenty in the
morning
. Weren’t they supposed to be barely awake? What would the later periods be like?
Stephanie put her things down on the table closest to her and began skimming her packet, aware of the eyes that were on her. She used to do that herself, size up the substitute. She wondered how they pegged her.
An influx of students came right at the bell. Stephanie waited for them to find their seats, then saw she needed to help them along.
“Good morning,” she said. “I need everyone to please find a seat and get quiet.”
She immediately recognized she was at a disadvantage. In a classroom, her voice would have a greater impact. There were fiftyfour students, and they were all spread out.
She continued, though there were still pockets of conversation. “My name is Mrs. London, and I’m filling in as your study hall teacher today.” Walking forward, she scanned faces. “I want to welcome you to a new school year. I’m sure you’re excited to—”
A guy’s hand shot up.
“Yes?” Stephanie said.
“Mrs. London, I know you’re new and all, but we don’t need a lecture. This is study hall.”
The guy next to him slapped him on the back, laughing, which got the whole table going.
Stephanie got her class roster. “And your name is?”
He sat back, folded his arms. “Roger Everett.”
“Roger, yes, I’m new, and I’ve never been in charge of study hall a day in my life. But the fact remains, I’m in charge.” She walked closer to his table. “If I need your input, I’ll ask for it. ‘K?”
“Ooooh,” his table chided him.
“As I was saying,” Stephanie said, “I’m sure you all are excited to be back and to catch up with your friends.
But
. . .” She looked around. “Please remember that study hall is not play time. You’re expected to do something productive with your—”
Another hand went up, the guy who had slapped Roger’s back.
“Your name, please?” Stephanie said.
“Ben Willoughby. It’s the first day of school, first period. There’s nothing productive to do yet. This is the only time of year we have
to
play.”
Snickers sounded around the room.
“I understand your plight, Ben.” She injected sympathy. “I take it you finished all your required reading from summer? And any other assignments you were to complete prior to the first day of school?”
“Look, I didn’t have time for all that.” He leaned close to the girl next to him. “Football practice keeps me busy.”
“Totally understandable,” she said. “That’s the benefit of study hall, isn’t it? You can catch up on your work and do your
playing
on the field.”
This time the “Ooooh . . .” came from several tables. She knew it would be next to impossible to keep them all from talking and even playing around a little. Some of them probably
had
finished their assignments. But she wanted to convey the expectation.
“Okay, listen,” she said. “While I take attendance, I want you all to dig around in your backpacks, find something to work on, and get to it.”
She called out each name, looking for a hand or vocal response as she moved around the cafeteria. When she said, “Samara Johnston,” she saw a hand go up to her far left. Stephanie looked closer. How had she missed her? It was Sam from the joint service.
Stephanie nodded, acknowledging that she’d seen her, and
continued with roll call. But her eyes kept drifting back to Sam. Why was she the only one sitting alone?
When she was done, she took another tour around the tables to see if they had the good sense to at least pretend to work. At Roger and Ben’s table, they’d taken out the same novel, presumably for English. Three girls with them at the table were whispering, looking at Stephanie’s feet.
She raised a playful brow at them. “Um . . . do I have my shoes on the wrong feet or something?”
“Those are Ferragamo’s, aren’t they?”
It was the girl next to Ben, Kelsey.
“They are, actually,” Stephanie said.
“I told you, Brittany,” Kelsey said to the girl on her other side. “Those are the ones we pinned on Pinterest.” She looked at Stephanie. “Love those. Really cool.”
“Why, thank you,” Stephanie said.
“And I saw that skirt in the Nordstrom catalog,” the third girl said. “You could be a model for them.”
Stephanie was amused. “Not sure about that, but I appreciate the comment.” She noticed all three had on similar skinny jeans, cute tops, chunky wedge sandals, and fully made-up faces. “Are y’all planning to work in fashion design or something?”
“No,” Kelsey said. “We’re just a little clothes crazy.”
Stephanie smiled. “I was too in high school. Okay, maybe still.”
“Well, you get the most fashionable substitute ever award,” Brittany said.
Stephanie did a slight bow. “Ever so grateful. Now get to work.” She smiled at them, continuing on.
The rest of the period moved surprisingly quickly. Never got completely quiet, but thankfully there were no major fires to put out. It occurred to Stephanie about two-thirds through that since she wasn’t actively teaching anything, she could use the time to pray
for these students. So she did, mostly praying over them collectively. But Roger and Ben got individual prayers, and the fashion girls. And Samara.
The students scurried at the sound of the bell. Stephanie stood, positioned near an exit door as they left. She saw Sam coming toward her, wearing the same jeans she’d had on at the joint service, with an Old Navy shirt dated 2006, and flip-flops. Her big, thick ringlets of ponytailed curls commanded all the attention.
Sam threw up a hand as she left. “Bye, Mrs. London.”
“How are you, Sam?” Stephanie said.
The girl kept moving, backpack bunched on her shoulder. “Fine.”
Two more study hall periods passed, each with its own set of unique personalities, and the cafeteria converted back to its main function. According to her schedule, Stephanie could take her break in the teachers’ lounge. She’d brought a turkey sandwich, baked chips, an apple, and water from home. Sounded like a plan to meet some of the teachers, eat, and relax.
The decibel level soared as students poured in for lunch, some heading straight for the line, others commandeering tables and saving seats for their friends. Stephanie stuffed her things in her tote bag and was on the way out when she spotted Sam entering the cafeteria. Curious, she watched as Sam went to a far side of the cafeteria and sat at an empty table. She took a brown lunch bag and a book from her backpack, and began emptying the contents of her lunch.
Stephanie felt compelled to join her. If teachers weren’t allowed to eat with students, someone would have to come break the news. She made her way across the lunchroom, but before she got to Sam’s table, she heard, “Hey, Mrs. London!”
She turned to see Kelsey, Brittany, and a few others at a table.
Stephanie smiled. “Hey, girls.”
Sam had a sandwich in one hand and a book in the other when Stephanie pulled out the chair next to her. “Hi,” Stephanie said. “You mind?”
Sam glanced up at her. “No.”
Stephanie sat and began taking out her lunch as well.
“You don’t have to feel sorry for me, you know.”
Stephanie looked at her. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re not the first teacher to sit with me,” Sam said. “People feel sorry because I’m by myself. But I’m fine.”
Stephanie opened her chips and ate one. “So you prefer being by yourself?”
Sam shrugged. “Beats the alternative.”
“What’s the alternative?”
She took a bite of her sandwich. Looked like peanut butter and jelly.
“Sitting with a bunch of girls who talk to each other about guys or who’s wearing what or who did what over the weekend.” She shrugged again. “They never include me in the conversation. I mean, why would they? So I might as well be by myself . . . I mean, I’m not
always
by myself. I talk to kids in some of my classes. But like I said, it’s fine.”
Stephanie tried to mask her heart’s reaction. She ate some of her sandwich and took a sip of water. “So, sounds like you’re not into guys or gossip—which is a good thing, if you ask me. What sort of things do you like to do?”
Sam held up her book. “Reading, for one.”
“What do you like to read?”
“Weird stuff,” she said, “like
Pride and Prejudice
and
The Iliad.
”
“Why is that weird?” Stephanie offered her a chip, but she declined.
“It’s just not what kids read, unless it’s assigned. Even then, they get the CliffsNotes . . . or they’ll ask me what it’s about.”
“You mean people who might not otherwise talk to you will ask you for help with assignments? And you give it?”
She shrugged. “Yeah.”
“You have a kind heart, Sam,” Stephanie said. “When I was in high school, if someone never spoke to me but had the nerve to ask for my help with something, I’d tell them to jump in a lake.”
Sam’s eyes got a little wide. “Really? I can’t see you doing that.”
“Trust me,” Stephanie said. “That and a lot more. No one accused me of being nice in high school.” Stephanie took another bite of her sandwich. “I wish I’d been more like you.”
Sam’s little nose wrinkled.
“Why?”
“You’re a nice girl,” Stephanie said, “obviously focused on doing well in school—which I wasn’t. And you don’t seem to be into looking like everybody else or trying to be like everybody else, which is great.”
“Well.” Sam glanced downward. “I can’t, so . . .”
“Can’t what?”
“Be like everybody else.” She stared at her half-eaten sandwich. “We don’t have much money, so my clothes are ratty and . . . I think that’s why they don’t want to be my friend.” She paused. “But it’s fine.”
Stephanie felt the sting of tears in her eyes, but she fought them.
What to say, what to say?
“Can I be your friend?” she said, which had to be the
dumbest
thing to say. Right. Friends. Teacher and student, buddy-buddy. It was probably illegal.
Sam’s brows bunched. “I don’t really see how . . .”
“To be honest, Sam, I don’t see how either. I just know I want to. I’ll leave the rest up to God.”
Oh shoot
. She wasn’t supposed to mention God in school, was she? Or could she? Marcus would probably be firing her by the end of the day.
Sam looked warily at her. “Why do you want to?”
The question took Stephanie aback. “Because . . . I think you’re a unique girl. You’re special.”
Sam put her eyes back to the page, her hand shaking slightly.
“Sam? Is something wrong?”
“No. It’s just . . .” She shrugged. “Only one other person’s ever told me that.”
J
anelle took a pad full of notes to Travis’s office, poking her head in the door. Seeing him with a phone to his ear, she thought to come back, but he waved her in. She took a seat across from him. Every time she’d ventured into his office this week, her eyes went to one place—past the stacks of books, random piles of paper, and scattered sticky notes to a single framed photo.
It was taken in the late eighties in Grandma Geri’s backyard, four ten-year-olds making silly faces at the camera—Travis, Libby, Janelle, and Todd, in that order. When she’d first noticed it, it jogged the memory that Travis was always bugging Libby, always teasing Libby, always pulling pranks on Libby—always
near
Libby. And that was only the times Janelle was there to see it, when she was visiting during summers, Christmas, and Easter. But given that Libby grew up nearby, she saw Travis much more than that.
The picture had been Todd’s, who’d mentioned finding it when he packed to move back to hope springs several months ago. Janelle and Travis had asked for a copy. But Janelle was surprised to
see that Travis had had a notion to frame his and display it on his desk.
He ended his call, looking hopefully at her. “Good news?”
She affirmed with a single nod. “Lots. First this fun part.” She turned to a page of notes. “Did some Googling and found instructions for how to upload your sermons to iTunes so people can download them for free. I’m going to get on that right away.”
“Such a great idea, Janelle,” Travis said. “I thought we were doing something when we started recording sermons and selling the CDs at cost. But iTunes is where our younger members live. They’ll be able to listen wherever.”
“And not just members. People can recommend particular sermons to friends and family, and they’ll be able to download them in seconds. It’s a great way to reach people far and wide. And, of course, so is a website.” She turned to another page. “The web guy from my old church got back to me. He can redesign New Jerusalem’s site for a fraction of the other two quotes you got. And he’s good.” She laid the page of notes comparing price quotes in front of him.