From the publisher: “Andy Garber isn’t satisfied with life. Her husband, Dave, is always working late. Her teenage kids, Ashleigh and Aaron, would rather be anywhere but with her. She teaches seventh grade in a mediocre middle school.
When Dave shows up one day and informs the family he’s accepted a promotion that necessitates a move across the state, Andy is forced to examine the source of her misery. It isn’t until her daughter falls victim to a classmate’s aggression that Andy looks deeper and finds the source of her discontent is more than just her specific circumstances.
More Than a Bad Teacher is the story of an ordinary family in a homogeneous exurban American community breaking free of the assimilationist culture that put armed police in schools, accepts ALICE drills as normal, and insists on graduating ideologically identical white folks generation after generation. It’s a story of hope that even the most complacent among us can make a difference…”
About the Author: Joey Lynn Resciniti lives North of Pittsburgh in a township populated by an extraordinary number of pizza shops. She married her high school sweetheart (it still counts even though they went to different high schools) in 2002. They have one daughter and two shih tzus called Luke & Leia. They’re not as into Star Wars as their pet name choices suggest!
Chapter One
She didn’t have much to say to her mother anymore. Or her little sister for that matter. She’d tried for so long to have the sort of close-knit familial bond that seemed to pervade the world around her. Renting a beach house for giant multi-generational vacations. Backyard summer parties where cousins ran barefoot on dewy grass as their parents sipped wine on a porch swing.
“Keep the family together,” her grandma said on her deathbed. Just shy of ninety-years-old and dying from liver failure, she was worried that without her the whole thing would fall apart. Those last earthly anxieties were near prophecy. That funeral was the last time the whole family would ever be together.
Now Andy sat looking at text messages on the cracked screen of her Android phone. “Happy Anniversary,” from her mother. “Hope you do something fun today. Just the two of you.” The little sister wrote, “Happy Anniversary, twenty years is a long time to be married. You two must be OLD.”
She should type, “thanks.” They’d remembered something. She should give them credit for that. Acknowledgement. They both got so pissy when she ignored them as though letting a text or an email or a birthday card pass unexalted was worse than the way they ostracized her in person.
Almost unconsciously, her finger pressed each message until the screen asked, “Are you sure you want to delete this message?”
“Mom,” a voice called from down the hall. “Have you seen my gym bag?”
Her daughter. Andy groaned inwardly and dropped the phone into the front pocket of an oversized sling bag.
“Did you wash your gym clothes over the weekend? Maybe it’s downstairs.”
Feet pounded down the basement stairs, the sound of Ashleigh in a frenzied rush to assemble the necessary equipment for a day of high school. The girl was a wreck.
Andy had a faint inclination to help her, but wasn’t it better parenting to let her make mistakes? How would she ever learn to exist if everything was done for her?
She smoothed the hem of a gray polyester tunic top over the bulge that was her middle-aged stomach. The mirror was not kind this morning. Andy frowned at her reflection, threw on a rather obnoxious medallion necklace and headed for the breakfast table.
Ashleigh, still in her pajamas, was pouring cereal for her little brother. At least she always looked out for Aaron. That must mean something was going right.
The three sat in silence as they shoveled Corn Flakes mechanically into their mouths. A dribble of milk landed in the center of Andy’s tunic.
“You missed your mouth a little,” Ashleigh said.
Andy grunted as her face contorted into an ever-deeper expression of displeasure.
“Your father and I have been married twenty years today,” she said, wiping the milk spot.
“Congratulations,” both kids mumbled.
“Does Dad know?” Ashleigh asked.
“Doubtful,” Andy said.
“I can remind him,” Aaron offered.
“That’s very sweet of you,” Andy said. “It’s just a number though. No reason to make a big deal.”
Bowls and spoons clinked as the three took their dishes to the sink. Aaron poured his breakfast into the disposal, save the two bites he’d managed in the midst of his catatonic staring. The morning moved in a slow ballet of familiar movements.
The kids wandered downstairs to the home’s second bathroom in the basement. Andy stood again in front of the mirror, surveying the damage of the milk mishap. It looked like it would dry and choosing a new outfit was such effort. She squeezed a long blob of Crest onto a battered toothbrush and turned on the tap. As she held her toothbrush under the faucet, a dark lump spurted out in the stream of water.
“Gah,” she screamed.
A stink bug, clearly disoriented, took drunken, sticky steps through the toothpaste. Andy jerked the handle fiercely and sent the minty paste down the drain. The stink bug made slow circles in the water.
After an extended period of disinfection under scalding water, she started again. Eventually successful and aware that it might be time to replace the old timeworn toothbrush, Andy gathered up her bag. She slid into riding boots and walked briskly for the burgundy van in the driveway.
It took only two long honks to bring her offspring forth in their various states of readiness. Ashleigh jogged out with shoes untied, her hands moving furiously to braid jet black hair that at least looked as though it had been brushed. Aaron took halting steps as he struggled to stuff loose papers into a backpack. They slid silently into their usual seats in the van. Andy was reversing onto the road before their seatbelts were buckled.
The school complex where they’d all spend their day was beginning to awaken after its weekend break from student life. Andy maneuvered her van into her assigned spot in the teacher’s lot. The kids disapparated instantaneously as the lever slid into park.
“Have a good day,” Andy said softly as the sliding door closed.
She’d never imagined she would someday be teaching seventh graders. Middle school is the very worst time in human development. Seventh grade, the middle of middle school, is like some twilight zone quasi-horror story. The kids are “dating.” They have very intense feelings about music. Some of them are terrifically mature while others, mainly boys, are still bumbling little kids. Today, Andy had to lead her classes through a “text dependent analysis” (TDA) to prepare for a standardized test they’d take in April. In her eight years of teaching, she’d never enjoyed reading a single TDA. Still, she couldn’t spend much time mourning the loss of instruction time. The language arts curriculum was dismal. They read substandard books and short stories about ethnic kids in stereotypical situations. It really seemed that the students in her advanced classes should be able to tackle something more, but year after year, Andy taught to some mediocre midline.
The bell for first period sent a gaggle of rowdy homeroom students on their way and brought in an equally boisterous collection of twenty-eight boys and girls on the cusp of puberty. Two named Evan and the rest with a mix of common names and ordinary faces that would be mixed and repeated throughout the day.
“Okay class,” Andy spoke from behind her desk. She used to walk around the room, but she realized eventually that nothing she did made any difference whatsoever in the results she’d get. “Today we’re going to work through a TDA together. Do you all remember TDAs? You’ve been doing them since fourth grade, so I hope you do.”
A collective groan and shuffling as the students at the front of each row dutifully rose to collect photocopies from Andy’s desk. They passed the papers down each row and frowned over an elementary story about a boy and his affinity for bagels. Andy smiled inwardly, this group had learned self-sufficiency in under a week. She was not a waitress in her room. These kids were quite capable of getting up and getting things themselves.
“Can I get a volunteer to read today’s story?”
The day wore on with four repeat performances. A blissful break in the teacher’s lounge for lunch, the Algebra I teacher’s divorce providing ample gossip. A dismal non-advanced version of her class. All to get to plan period, that glorious time without students. Nothing but Facebook and Candy Crush for 40 whole minutes. Then a bunch of jokers that should be in a remedial class for a final ninth period class and freedom.
Back at the van, Andy’s phone buzzed several times in rapid succession. She dug it out along with a wad of keys.
“Okay if I go home with Evan to play xBox?” her son typed.
“Steph invited me over to work on our history project.” From the daughter.
Andy sent thumbs up emoticons to each. They’d return home at some point, exhausted and non-communicative. You could invite your friends over here sometime, she’d say. They’d nod, and Andy would remember fondly those days when the burgundy van was the place to be. Kids thrilled with the power sliding door, piling in for impromptu after-school parties. She always had cookies or cupcakes or hot pockets in the freezer. She would microwave defrost snacks and revel in being a mom that really did do it all.
Now she drove home alone to an empty house on her 20th wedding anniversary. The right thing would be to text her husband. She should remind him about their milestone day, have him bring home takeout from that Chinese place near his office. She could light candles and maybe he’d buy a grocery store sleeve of ugly carnations. Andy preferred to set him up for failure. She knew exactly what she was doing. He never remembered anything on his own. There was no birthday, no appointment, no special occasion that meant anything to him. She was his calendar, his day planner, his memory. And she was continually tired of it. Wasn’t he there with her on a sunny September day back when she was little and convinced she loved him? Hadn’t he been coming back to this same country house to sleep and drop off his dirty laundry and eat pop tarts before leaving again for his office while everyone was still asleep? Didn’t he notice they were still married?
She turned on Ellen and opened a bottle of wine. Outside the sky was brightest blue and the porch swing was prickly with paint chips. The life she wanted was nearby, but as always, out of reach. She sipped her cheap red and dozed in front of the TV dreaming of summer parties with a husband that remembered.
This excerpt from More Than a Bad Teacher is published here courtesy of the author and should not be reproduced without permission.
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