have to understand where they’re coming from. There’s so much pressure on them. If they want to get into a top school, they have to perform at a superhuman level. Not only do they need perfect grades in the hardest subjects, but they also have to excel in an extracurricular activity, and that takes time. The system practically pushes them to cheat—it’s almost impossible to meet the requirements any other way.”
Herr Franklin adds, “Instead of severely punishing them, I think we should have them take a Saturday class in ethics. That way, they might learn something from all this.”
“Anyone else?” Mr. Klimchock asks. “Go ahead, this is your big opportunity. Hit me with your best shots. Don’t be afraid—what can I do? Fire you?”
The room goes quiet again. No one dares to speak—except frail, white-haired Mrs. Rose, who comments tremulously, “It’s just a shame the way everything has gone downhill. Just a shame.”
“I agree, Amelia. Things have gone downhill—including teachers’ understanding of right and wrong. Isn’t there anyone else in this room who sees that we have to crush dishonesty?”
Miss Verp, built like a football player but with a pixie haircut and an itty-bitty voice, raises her hand.
“Ah. An ally.”
“I’ve never met a student with a conscience,” she pipes sweetly. “Nothing makes an impression on them except severe punishment.”
Mr. Klimchock rewards her loyalty with praise—though he despises her for currying favor. “That’s the first sensible comment I’ve heard so far. As for the rest of you, your ‘sympathy’ and ‘understanding’ are misplaced. By coddling wrongdoers, you let them thrive and multiply. You might as well fight bacteria by putting them in a damp, warm intestine.”
“But you’re—”
“When you run this school, Timothy, you can run it your way. Until then, disagree in silence.”
“Speaking of running the school,” says Ms. Vitello, “ where’s Mr. Hightower? Why isn’t he leading this meeting? Does he know what you’re doing?”
These are excellent questions. No one has seen the principal in months. Mr. Fernandez, who joined the staff mid-year, right out of college, after Mrs. Langerhans collapsed in the bio lab, has never met Mr. Hightower and isn’t convinced that he really exists. (Mrs. Langerhans is doing better now, thanks for asking, and sends greetings to friends and colleagues from her retirement condo in Pompano Beach, Florida.)
“Mr. Hightower has a lunch meeting with the superintendent today,” Mr. Klimchock explains. “There are certain staffing issues they need to work out. I wouldn’t worry for now—not till we hear something definite. As for your other question, yes, I met with him this week and explained my plans, and he gave me his blessing. I couldn’t do this without his support, could I?”
His forced smile leads Mr. Watney to suspect that Mr. Klimchock may be doing the exact thing he’s denying, i.e., running this whole reign of terror behind the principal’s back. If he could just get the principal alone and ask some questions—
A firm knock knock knock on the door derails Mr. Watney’s train of thought.
“Open that, please, Charlene,” Mr. Klimchock says, frowning at the interruption. Miss Verp obeys.
Standing at the door is a student, someone we haven’t met before. Her hair frames her face in a neat, spray-hardened oval. Her gray slacks, with a straight crease down the front of each leg, seem to have been delivered by time machine from a more conservative decade. She wears too much makeup, more than a girl her age needs, including a thick coat of foundation. This leads the women in the room to assume she’s covering up acne scars, but in fact, there’s nothing underneath the makeup but fierce ambition and a peculiar directness.
“Mr. Klimchock, I’m Samantha Abrabarba,” she announces. (Her voice, loud and grating, reminds Mr. Watney of a car engine, backing up fast.)
Herr Franklin adds, “Instead of severely punishing them, I think we should have them take a Saturday class in ethics. That way, they might learn something from all this.”
“Anyone else?” Mr. Klimchock asks. “Go ahead, this is your big opportunity. Hit me with your best shots. Don’t be afraid—what can I do? Fire you?”
The room goes quiet again. No one dares to speak—except frail, white-haired Mrs. Rose, who comments tremulously, “It’s just a shame the way everything has gone downhill. Just a shame.”
“I agree, Amelia. Things have gone downhill—including teachers’ understanding of right and wrong. Isn’t there anyone else in this room who sees that we have to crush dishonesty?”
Miss Verp, built like a football player but with a pixie haircut and an itty-bitty voice, raises her hand.
“Ah. An ally.”
“I’ve never met a student with a conscience,” she pipes sweetly. “Nothing makes an impression on them except severe punishment.”
Mr. Klimchock rewards her loyalty with praise—though he despises her for currying favor. “That’s the first sensible comment I’ve heard so far. As for the rest of you, your ‘sympathy’ and ‘understanding’ are misplaced. By coddling wrongdoers, you let them thrive and multiply. You might as well fight bacteria by putting them in a damp, warm intestine.”
“But you’re—”
“When you run this school, Timothy, you can run it your way. Until then, disagree in silence.”
“Speaking of running the school,” says Ms. Vitello, “ where’s Mr. Hightower? Why isn’t he leading this meeting? Does he know what you’re doing?”
These are excellent questions. No one has seen the principal in months. Mr. Fernandez, who joined the staff mid-year, right out of college, after Mrs. Langerhans collapsed in the bio lab, has never met Mr. Hightower and isn’t convinced that he really exists. (Mrs. Langerhans is doing better now, thanks for asking, and sends greetings to friends and colleagues from her retirement condo in Pompano Beach, Florida.)
“Mr. Hightower has a lunch meeting with the superintendent today,” Mr. Klimchock explains. “There are certain staffing issues they need to work out. I wouldn’t worry for now—not till we hear something definite. As for your other question, yes, I met with him this week and explained my plans, and he gave me his blessing. I couldn’t do this without his support, could I?”
His forced smile leads Mr. Watney to suspect that Mr. Klimchock may be doing the exact thing he’s denying, i.e., running this whole reign of terror behind the principal’s back. If he could just get the principal alone and ask some questions—
A firm knock knock knock on the door derails Mr. Watney’s train of thought.
“Open that, please, Charlene,” Mr. Klimchock says, frowning at the interruption. Miss Verp obeys.
Standing at the door is a student, someone we haven’t met before. Her hair frames her face in a neat, spray-hardened oval. Her gray slacks, with a straight crease down the front of each leg, seem to have been delivered by time machine from a more conservative decade. She wears too much makeup, more than a girl her age needs, including a thick coat of foundation. This leads the women in the room to assume she’s covering up acne scars, but in fact, there’s nothing underneath the makeup but fierce ambition and a peculiar directness.
“Mr. Klimchock, I’m Samantha Abrabarba,” she announces. (Her voice, loud and grating, reminds Mr. Watney of a car engine, backing up fast.)
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