Read Online Helen Hath No Fury by Gillian Roberts - Free Book Online
Authors: Gillian Roberts
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thoroughly I tend to plan out a week’s lessons. This is not done out of competency, but pure terror of what else might fill the yawning vacuum of summer-hungry adolescents. Luckily for me, the week was mostly in place, and nobody noticed—or at least commented upon—my robot-like behavior or the irony of teaching a unit on clear communication while I broke my silence with a mumble, and that, only now and then.
Yesterday, they’d each been given the picture of a complex quilting pattern and had written a description of what they saw. Today, their descriptions, minus the pictures, had been redistributed, and the class was trying to follow their classmates’ written directions. The results were entertaining and exotic patterns that had nothing to do with the originals. A lesson in miscommunication, but with good humor. There were occasional groans, but more often giggles.
Only a small part of my mind awaited the results of the exercise. The rest, most of it, was divided between Helen’s plunge from her roof and the thought of Petra arriving and finding me without answers.
My second-period class was also midway through a writing project. Theirs was called Abnormal Psychology. They’d recalled or invented vignettes of odd behavior, which they first described on paper and then for theclass. We had many raised eyebrows, laughs, and nods of recognition—every family has someone who’d qualify—but after a discussion yesterday, the class was moving on from thinking of these people as merely “weird.” Now, they were to describe the behavior and then “analyze” its causes. They were making up histories and situations for their characters, and they seemed fairly captivated by the process. Except, of course, when interrupted by the PA system.
This time, the urgent! flash! stop the presses! interrupt every single room in the building! message was that Littering Was Bad.
My jaw clenched painfully, but it took all that pressure to keep me from saying what I wished I could say about the interruptions.
Dr. Havermeyer and his mouthpiece Helga lacked all impulse control. He had a thought—littering is bad—and boom! He had to announce it to the world. In the head, out the mouth. He must have been a joy of a student.
Then it was time for Petra’s class. They arrived, but she did not. I stood in my doorway, hoping to see her race in, and fearing it at the same time.
While I stood there, a girl came to my classroom door and, with no expression on her face, scanned the room.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She pressed her lips together, looked at me sideways, then tilted her head in an attitude of consideration, started to shake her head, stopped, and bit her bottom lip. I wondered how my last class would have described and analyzed her behavior.
“You’re Miss Pepper,” she said.
I already knew that.
“I’m Bonnie Kramer. Petra’s friend.”
“Do you expect her?”
She shrugged. “Not exactly. Well, I wish, actually, Iwish, but I thought she might be here, that’s why I came over, but—”
“She isn’t.”
Bonnie half turned. “Well, then, I guess I’d better be—”
“What’s going on?”
Bonnie looked at me appraisingly. “She told me that you know. That she talked to you. Told you. That you would help her.”
“Where is she? She promised not to do anything till we talked,” I said. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”
“I went there this morning, like always. I live around the corner, and she’s nearer the bus, so I always stop and ring the bell and we take the bus together, but this morning, Mrs. Yates answered the door and asked me why I was there. I didn’t know what she meant—I go there every day, and I said so. And Mrs. Yates goes, ‘She said she was sleeping at your house.’ And I realized I just made a real mess, so I tried to make it better. I said sure, she was at my house but she forgot her notebook, and could I get it. I couldn’t think of anything good.” Bonnie
Yesterday, they’d each been given the picture of a complex quilting pattern and had written a description of what they saw. Today, their descriptions, minus the pictures, had been redistributed, and the class was trying to follow their classmates’ written directions. The results were entertaining and exotic patterns that had nothing to do with the originals. A lesson in miscommunication, but with good humor. There were occasional groans, but more often giggles.
Only a small part of my mind awaited the results of the exercise. The rest, most of it, was divided between Helen’s plunge from her roof and the thought of Petra arriving and finding me without answers.
My second-period class was also midway through a writing project. Theirs was called Abnormal Psychology. They’d recalled or invented vignettes of odd behavior, which they first described on paper and then for theclass. We had many raised eyebrows, laughs, and nods of recognition—every family has someone who’d qualify—but after a discussion yesterday, the class was moving on from thinking of these people as merely “weird.” Now, they were to describe the behavior and then “analyze” its causes. They were making up histories and situations for their characters, and they seemed fairly captivated by the process. Except, of course, when interrupted by the PA system.
This time, the urgent! flash! stop the presses! interrupt every single room in the building! message was that Littering Was Bad.
My jaw clenched painfully, but it took all that pressure to keep me from saying what I wished I could say about the interruptions.
Dr. Havermeyer and his mouthpiece Helga lacked all impulse control. He had a thought—littering is bad—and boom! He had to announce it to the world. In the head, out the mouth. He must have been a joy of a student.
Then it was time for Petra’s class. They arrived, but she did not. I stood in my doorway, hoping to see her race in, and fearing it at the same time.
While I stood there, a girl came to my classroom door and, with no expression on her face, scanned the room.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She pressed her lips together, looked at me sideways, then tilted her head in an attitude of consideration, started to shake her head, stopped, and bit her bottom lip. I wondered how my last class would have described and analyzed her behavior.
“You’re Miss Pepper,” she said.
I already knew that.
“I’m Bonnie Kramer. Petra’s friend.”
“Do you expect her?”
She shrugged. “Not exactly. Well, I wish, actually, Iwish, but I thought she might be here, that’s why I came over, but—”
“She isn’t.”
Bonnie half turned. “Well, then, I guess I’d better be—”
“What’s going on?”
Bonnie looked at me appraisingly. “She told me that you know. That she talked to you. Told you. That you would help her.”
“Where is she? She promised not to do anything till we talked,” I said. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”
“I went there this morning, like always. I live around the corner, and she’s nearer the bus, so I always stop and ring the bell and we take the bus together, but this morning, Mrs. Yates answered the door and asked me why I was there. I didn’t know what she meant—I go there every day, and I said so. And Mrs. Yates goes, ‘She said she was sleeping at your house.’ And I realized I just made a real mess, so I tried to make it better. I said sure, she was at my house but she forgot her notebook, and could I get it. I couldn’t think of anything good.” Bonnie
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