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“I dunno.”
And then Tamera looked at Artie and said, her face becoming pink, “I’m so stupid, I don’t even know what a Jewish name is.”
Artie shrugged. “You’ll learn. Or not.”
And then Willoughby said, “Who are you going to vote for in the election this year, Damn-dam?”
Artie leaned against his desk and said, raising a finger, “In all my years of teaching I have never made my political views available to my students.”
“Why not?” Willoughby wanted to know.
All the students seemed to be watching him. Artie stood up straight and said, “Because my mother taught me to never discuss sex, politics, or the state of one’s bowels.”
A few students laughed at this, and Artie clapped his hands and said, “Okay then, let’s get to work, come on.”
“I think you’re a Republican,” said Willoughby.
A young woman turned to Willoughby and said, “No, he’s not, you idiot.”
“Hey!” Artie said this loudly. “Stop that right now. Stop it. He’s not an idiot, don’t go calling people idiots.” Artie hesitated, and then he added, “And if you don’t stop this, I’ll have to tell you about my constipation.”
The two looked down, chastened, and a few of the other students laughed; Artie saw Rhonda turn pink. Tamera said, looking around at the others, “Oh my God, he just said his constipation? Oh my God—”
“Sorry about that,” Artie said. “Now. Let’s get to work.”
Danny Marino raised his hand and asked to leave the room. As he walked out Artie saw him take his phone from his back pocket. And Artie said nothing about it.
—
At the end of the school day, Artie found in his mailbox in the teachers room a note from the principal, Hoover Lakeland. Come see me when you can—HL. So on his way out the door that afternoon, Artie stopped by the front office, and there was Hoover in his inner office, and Hoover looked up, motioning with his hand and saying, “Come in, come in.” Artie sat down across from him, and then Hoover rose and shut the door, which Artie thought was (slightly) strange.
“You good?” Hoover sat back. He looked serious. “After your little mishap?”
“Yeah, great. What’s up?” Through the window Artie could see school buses pulling away and students mingling in the parking lot; he looked back at Hoover.
Hoover let out a big sigh and placed his hands together on the top of his desk. “Look. I know you have a special way of teaching the Civil War. You assign each student a Union soldier—”
“I assign each student a soldier from Massachusetts,” Artie said. “Or a nurse,” he added. The day had become cloudy, and Artie thought that Hoover should turn a light on. A certain gloom sat in the room.
“Right.” Hoover sat back. “Well, anyway. Here’s the thing. A few parents, not many, but a few parents who are worried about this have complained that you don’t also assign the Confederate side.”
Artie shook his head quickly, as though he had water in his ear. “The Confederate side?”
Hoover did not answer, and the two men sat there in silence. In all the years that Hoover had been the principal, and it must have been more than twenty by now, he had only ever had one framed poster on his office wall, a black-and-white photograph of Martin Luther King Jr. giving his speech in Washington, D.C. It was on the wall to the right of where Artie sat, and Artie looked at it now. A sense of unease was moving through him.
Hoover placed both his hands on the desk and said, “I know. I know. But they’ve gone to the school board and complained and said they might homeschool their kids if this doesn’t change.”
“Are any of these students in my classroom?” Artie asked, and Hoover shook his head. “Not yet. Another year.”
“Well, let them homeschool their kids then, who cares.”
“The school board does. Certain members. So just think about it, okay? Just think about it. All I’m asking.”
Again, they sat in silence. And then Artie said, “Okay, I will think about it. But, Hoover—”
“Yep. Yep. I agree. What a hell of a mess this country is headed for. It’s amazing. And we’re all just standing around fiddling while Rome burns.” He added, “I’m thinking of leaving this job.”
“You are?”
