Read Online The Crazy School by Cornelia Read - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cornelia Read
Ads: Link
his back. “Perfectly natural response. One we in fact expect, even strive for. We just don’t want to lose the child in the process of trying to save him.”
Someone coughed behind me.
“I realized,” Santangelo continued, “that the best way to protect them was to set the boundaries close—give them avenues 6 2
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 62
28/5/08 2:44:16 PM
for rebellion that might satisfy their appetite for defi ance but without killing them.”
Tim raised his hand. “Can you tell us what those were?”
“Caffeine and nicotine,” said Santangelo. “I made those the forbidden fruit. Kid hits the road now, I guarantee you his fi rst impulse won’t be to score smack. He’ll feel compelled to get his hands on a pack of smokes and a black coffee.”
Tim nodded as I wondered whether the female students rated a mention.
“Works like a charm,” said Santangelo. “Half the time these days, they don’t even make it to the Mass Pike. We’ll get a call from the night cashier at some gas station mini-mart. Kid will still be standing outside when the school van pulls up—big Styrofoam cup of bad joe in one hand, Marlboro in the other.”
Tim waved his hand again. “So you ask us to give up coffee and everything for, like, solidarity?”
Santangelo nodded. “You have to be doing the same kind of work on yourself as the kids are. If you don’t have as much at stake as they do, you can’t ask for their respect, and we can’t help them.”
Tim beamed in response to that. “That’s so true, Dr.
Santangelo.”
Santangelo beamed right back.
Even then, captivated as I was by Santangelo’s charisma, I fi gured there was more to it.
For one thing, I’d caught a back-window glimpse of the honking big brass-and-copper espresso machine that glittered at the center of the man’s kitchen counter.
As the semester had progressed, I began to suspect that the thousands of petty rules he expected his employees to comply with—not to mention the fear and exhaustion that doing so 6 3
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 63
28/5/08 2:44:17 PM
engendered—were designed to keep us off balance, to break us down. Like, say, boot camp in the Marine Corps, or not being allowed to go to the bathroom during EST seminars back in the day.
He wanted us on edge. Vulnerable. Hankering for a cool chalice sip of Flavor Aid after he’d run us ragged on the Long March.
Good for the program.
Good for the disease.
Good, most of all, for Santangelo.
Lulu barged into my musings. “Want a refi ll?”
“Bet your sweet ass,” I said, lighting myself another Camel before I tossed her the pack.
If nothing else, this place had gotten me well in touch with my inner sixteen-year-old boy.
And he was pissed off.
6 4
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 64
28/5/08 2:44:17 PM
10
By the time lunch rolled around, I was actually hungry after loading my plate with salad and a hunk of lasagna, I joined the other teachers at a corner table.
Lulu patted the empty chair next to her, then resumed her conversation with Pete.
I’d barely peeled off the top layer of dessicated pasta when Santangelo rose from his seat across the room. The sight of him extinguished conversation table by table. He cleared his throat, and the last voice winked out midsentence.
“Today, I want to discuss something of vital importance to all of us as a community. Something that should stand as an emblem of our concern for one another—our mutual respect, our common courtesy.”
His gaze roved across the room, pausing to narrow in on random offenders. “We all—every one of us—need to become more aware of the salad bar.”
He rocked back on his heels, looking up as though petitioning the heavens for the strength to continue. “The level of 6 5
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 65
28/5/08 2:44:17 PM
disrespect . . . croutons in the Thousand Island . . . carrot shreds mixed with the chickpeas and the olives . . .”
Below the table, Lulu began to saw the blade of a butter
Someone coughed behind me.
“I realized,” Santangelo continued, “that the best way to protect them was to set the boundaries close—give them avenues 6 2
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 62
28/5/08 2:44:16 PM
for rebellion that might satisfy their appetite for defi ance but without killing them.”
Tim raised his hand. “Can you tell us what those were?”
“Caffeine and nicotine,” said Santangelo. “I made those the forbidden fruit. Kid hits the road now, I guarantee you his fi rst impulse won’t be to score smack. He’ll feel compelled to get his hands on a pack of smokes and a black coffee.”
Tim nodded as I wondered whether the female students rated a mention.
“Works like a charm,” said Santangelo. “Half the time these days, they don’t even make it to the Mass Pike. We’ll get a call from the night cashier at some gas station mini-mart. Kid will still be standing outside when the school van pulls up—big Styrofoam cup of bad joe in one hand, Marlboro in the other.”
Tim waved his hand again. “So you ask us to give up coffee and everything for, like, solidarity?”
Santangelo nodded. “You have to be doing the same kind of work on yourself as the kids are. If you don’t have as much at stake as they do, you can’t ask for their respect, and we can’t help them.”
Tim beamed in response to that. “That’s so true, Dr.
Santangelo.”
Santangelo beamed right back.
Even then, captivated as I was by Santangelo’s charisma, I fi gured there was more to it.
For one thing, I’d caught a back-window glimpse of the honking big brass-and-copper espresso machine that glittered at the center of the man’s kitchen counter.
As the semester had progressed, I began to suspect that the thousands of petty rules he expected his employees to comply with—not to mention the fear and exhaustion that doing so 6 3
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 63
28/5/08 2:44:17 PM
engendered—were designed to keep us off balance, to break us down. Like, say, boot camp in the Marine Corps, or not being allowed to go to the bathroom during EST seminars back in the day.
He wanted us on edge. Vulnerable. Hankering for a cool chalice sip of Flavor Aid after he’d run us ragged on the Long March.
Good for the program.
Good for the disease.
Good, most of all, for Santangelo.
Lulu barged into my musings. “Want a refi ll?”
“Bet your sweet ass,” I said, lighting myself another Camel before I tossed her the pack.
If nothing else, this place had gotten me well in touch with my inner sixteen-year-old boy.
And he was pissed off.
6 4
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 64
28/5/08 2:44:17 PM
10
By the time lunch rolled around, I was actually hungry after loading my plate with salad and a hunk of lasagna, I joined the other teachers at a corner table.
Lulu patted the empty chair next to her, then resumed her conversation with Pete.
I’d barely peeled off the top layer of dessicated pasta when Santangelo rose from his seat across the room. The sight of him extinguished conversation table by table. He cleared his throat, and the last voice winked out midsentence.
“Today, I want to discuss something of vital importance to all of us as a community. Something that should stand as an emblem of our concern for one another—our mutual respect, our common courtesy.”
His gaze roved across the room, pausing to narrow in on random offenders. “We all—every one of us—need to become more aware of the salad bar.”
He rocked back on his heels, looking up as though petitioning the heavens for the strength to continue. “The level of 6 5
CrazySchool_HCtextF1.indd 65
28/5/08 2:44:17 PM
disrespect . . . croutons in the Thousand Island . . . carrot shreds mixed with the chickpeas and the olives . . .”
Below the table, Lulu began to saw the blade of a butter
Similar Books
