The Academy and Beyond

The Academy and Beyond

“Justin has to get into Carleton.” 

Justin’s father stands in front of my desk after refusing my invitation to sit. He has loosened his Italian silk tie to show he has dashed straight from a highly important meeting to do quick business with his son’s eighth-grade English teacher. He raises perfectly groomed black eyebrows at me.

“I see,” I say as if his statement were a simple fact. Carleton Preparatory School is an elite private high school in Pasadena. It requires an eighth-grade GPA of 3.6 or better for admission, not to mention a list of impressive extracurriculars and a down payment for tuition that exceeds my yearly salary. Justin Rodgers wants to be on the Carleton swim team, I know. It is the best in the area, and its graduates often go on to compete at the college level and sometimes the Olympics. Justin broke the school record for the breaststroke, but he can barely read a full sentence aloud without stumbling over even simple words. 

“Justin needs more experience with literature and composition,” I say. “Does he have a tutor?”

“Of course,” dad says. Wealth oozes from his smooth, tan face. Really. It probably comes from a moisturizer-bronzer facial serum available only to the affluent. Maybe it’s that exclusivity more than the top-dollar hydration that attracts them.

I am no longer surprised by this polished kind of parent. I’ve been teaching at Preston-Greene Academy since August, and I’m almost done with my February conferences. Dads with glowing faces, hair, and nails are common here. Fathers at the public school in Freiburg, Wisconsin where I come from would rather douse themselves in motor oil before considering a facial serum. But like Freiburg fathers, Preston-Greene fathers come to middle school only when necessary – for major sporting events and graduation, or when they need to apply pressure on the administration, sometimes on teachers like me.

Five crisp fifties land on my desk, looking out of place on top of my worn copy of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I blink a few times, trying to keep my eyeballs from falling out.

“Justin’s grades will be better before he applies to Carleton,” says Mr. Rodgers. “That’s in March, right?” He shows his perfect white teeth in an ingratiating grin.

I nod in answer to his question, unable to speak. But I am not nodding to the bribe. At least I don’t think so. I reach for my coffee mug, a Pavlovian response to any classroom stressor. I take a swig of the stale brew and clear my throat, but Mr. Rodgers has turned his back and left. I quickly stash the cash in my lower desk drawer under my giant bag of Starburst and slam it shut. I can’t look at the money or even the candy at this moment.

“I think I was just bribed,” I say when I enter the teacher’s lounge after bolting from my room. I’m glad to see Mel there, sucking on a can of Diet Coke. Her eyes fly open. Also new at P-G, Mel’s become my best friend. She teaches seventh grade social studies, and she’s from Iowa where she once received an enormous pork chop as a teacher gift. Darryl Markham, called “mean Mr. M.”, the geometry teacher, is laughing as he turns around from the sink where he’s washing his coffee cup.

“How much?” he asks.

“Two-fifty,” I say. ”Two hundred and fifty bucks.” I am shaking my head, trying to believe it.

“Not bad,” says Darryl, sounding impressed. “Celebrate with some Bundt cake.” He gestures to the table where half a cinnamon streusel cake sits on a silver platter. Two Starbucks gallon containers with all the accessories are displayed nearby. The PTA already provided a catered dinner from Olive Garden, so this cake is meant to keep us happy into the evening. Darryl puts his cup on the mug rack and leaves the room.

"Whoa,” says Mel, standing up and setting her coke on the table. She glances at the cake for a second or two before turning her amber gaze to me. Mel is short and plump, on a diet every other day. “Two-fifty is a lot,” she says, “I got some hundred-dollar gift cards for the holidays, but never an outright bribe. . . . Are you going to have some of this?” She’s looking at the cake again.

“I don’t know,” I say. “My stomach started doing flip-flops when those bills appeared. I shouldn’t. I have three more conferences yet.”

“I shouldn’t either,” says Mel. “But when will I get another chance to eat something so good? I’ll skip breakfast tomorrow.” She starts to slice a piece of the cake.

“You know,” she says, after her first bite, ”Maybe I don’t get the big bucks because I’m a seventh-grade teacher. I don’t count as much, I guess. You do since the kid has to make a 3.6 this year.”

“Mel!” I say, suddenly grasping my full predicament. “What am I supposed to do? Justin Rodgers’ dad thinks he just bought his son into Carleton Prep! Do I keep the two-fifty? Am I supposed to give Justin higher grades even though he can’t pass my tests? He’s earning a C, only because I’m pretty sure his tutor corrects all of his work out of class, maybe even writes his papers. Anything Justin does in class looks like it comes from a fourth-grader – and not a smart fourth grader!”

Mel is enjoying her cake. She pauses between bites. “I don’t know,” she says. “But I don’t think you should mention the two-fifty to Stempel.”

“God, no.”

Dr. Jacqueline Stempel is the Academy’s head of school. She has been in charge here for many years and according to the lore in the teacher’s lounge, has never let her ice queen image melt in front of anyone, though I enjoy noting some lexical slips in her emails and speeches. We must always call her Dr. Stempel, even though her doctorate, which I discovered after some googling, is from some online university, a diploma mill. Apparently, Stempel taught P.E. in Nebraska in the nineties and decided to move into administration after her triumph coaching a high school cheer squad to a national victory. Word in the teachers’ lounge is that she got the girls to skip classes to attend practice sessions, and yet the whole squad was still able to graduate and go on to become university cheerleaders – with all of the perks of that life to continue thereafter.

Stempel earned nationwide notice for her winning ways. She taught for a few more years while checking boxes to get an Ed.D. and then convinced the Academy’s Board of Trustees that she would continue the school’s tradition of success – meaning that her salary had to cover power suits from Saks and designer stilettos (heads of private schools have to rise for many occasions after long days striding the halls in comfort pumps). On the surface, Dr. Stempel, and by extension her whole faculty, is an exemplar of toughness and high standards. Stempel would appear to be appalled at the idea of any of her teachers accepting bribes and inflating grades. 

But the P-G teachers are certain Stempel herself changes grades on report cards before they’re sent to parents and prep schools. Too many below-average students from the Academy get into Carleton, they say. Stempel’s inflationary tactics ensure that P-G maintains its status as a pipeline to Carleton and keeps up Stempel’s image. It’s part of her job to keep that pipeline running smoothly. Do Carleton teachers moan about the C and D students they have to teach? Nah. They’re probably used to it by now. Carleton’s head of school probably bumps up grades, too, so Carleton kids get into first-choice colleges. After reflecting on this practice over beer at the local dive, the teachers claim that it flows deep and wide in this country.

“It’s how stupid choices are made by individuals in high positions,” postulates Mr. M. one Friday night, gesturing with his Budweiser. “They flunk geometry in eighth grade, yet they get magically promoted through all the hoops to become engineers . . . and then the bridge falls down.”

I thought this was hyperbole, good for a laugh, but those bills in my drawer might be saying otherwise, not to mention a few falling bridges. Maybe I’m naïve thinking that most people are trustworthy, that we all get what exactly we earn by merit.

I am also thinking about some cute boots I saw online and how two-fifty could lighten my debt load this month.

“I’ve got a 7:15,” says Mel, brushing cake crumbs from her ample front. “We can talk about bribes with everyone at beers on Friday.” 

But we don’t talk about bribery on that Friday or any Friday. I am nervous about bringing it up, worried that: A) It’s a common practice that no one ever mentions, or B) It’s never done, and I need to return the cash ASAP. Neither Mel nor Darryl mentions it, and I pretend there aren’t fifties under my Starburst. I don’t want them to disappear, but I don’t want to deal with them either.

I’m starting to have second thoughts about teaching in a private school. I was thrilled when I got this job, thinking I could finally teach to my full potential among bright, ambitious kids from bright, ambitious families. The salary is far better than what I got in Wisconsin, but the cost of living in Pasadena eats up most of the difference, and I have to save up to fly home for holidays. The students were great at first, all well-dressed and friendly. The eighth-grade girls beam with expensive lip gloss, saying, “Thanks, Ms. Russell!” when I hand back their papers covered with red marks. But their eyes disparage my sales-rack wardrobe. I saw one girl titter behind her hand as she surveyed my wrap dress. I immediately felt frumpy.

I moved here for change, fleeing Wisconsin after an especially long winter of snowstorms and an especially awful break-up with my college boyfriend. Pasadena is sunny and rosy year-round with gorgeous mountains towering to our north. I can wear sandals in January! Mel and I bum around L.A. together on weekends, playing tourist at the stunning museums or hanging out at the beach. I don’t feel quite like a native Californian, but I love it here.

Justin’s work hasn’t improved. In March, he saunters up to my desk after everyone else has filed out. He smiles and asks how I am. I am fine though a little suspicious about his motives for such politesse.

“Do you like Disneyland?” he queries. His dark eyes are just like his father’s – glittering with confidence.

“Sure!” I say, startled. “But I’ve never been.”

“We have some extra passes,” he says as he unzips the pocket of his backpack and hands me an envelope. “You can go when you want, but spring is especially nice – lower temps, fewer crowds.” He shrugs, his breaststroke-broad shoulders straining the seams of his Lakers jersey.

I stammer out some kind of thanks since I am holding the envelope and he isn’t.

“Bye, Ms. Russell!” Justin waves and heads out the door.

Four all-day passes to Disneyland. Four.

My parents are flying out to visit me for spring break in two weeks. I’m eager to show them my new state since they’ve never been this far west, and I know they’d love Disneyland courtesy of one of my wealthy students. Mel could come along.

Hmm. I tuck the tickets in my purse and tell no one.

Before break, all of the eighth-grade teachers have to submit current grades for our students’ application files. Announcement day is in early May, when students and their families learn whether they are accepted into their first-choice schools and can celebrate, or whether they have to choose another private option or – horrors! – attend public school. I wonder how Justin’s doing in his other subjects. Maybe he’s succeeding enough to earn a 3.6 despite his C- in English. I realize that it’s not my responsibility alone to get Justin into Carleton. This doesn’t solve the problem in my drawer, however.

“Justin,” I say the next day. “Would you see me after class?”

“I got swim practice,” he says when he approaches my desk.

“I’m wondering if you might work on your skills with me,” I say.

“Um,” he says, looking over my head, “I got a lot of practice. Meets coming up. I’d have to ask Coach.”

“Is that Mr. Harkness? I could email him and see if he can spare you for a little while.”

He nods reluctantly.

In Wisconsin I used to help kids after school almost every week. Until Justin, I haven’t done that here. The students are booked with tutoring, sports, and other planned activities, and extra help from teachers doesn’t seem to be part of this school’s culture. Most of my Freiburg kids feared doing poorly in school, especially those who wanted to go to college. They knew that working hard in school and after school would pay off. I don’t sense that fear here, nor the work ethic. Other teachers don’t seem to press for it. Should I want my P-G students to fear me?

My power here is limited, I realize. In fact, I’ve been intimidated by the wealth in this school and the attitudes projected by the students and parents. They view the whole educational enterprise as something they have to put up with, like a rain shower from 8:30 to 3:30 every day from age five through eighteen. Rain doesn’t present many difficulties if you are covered by a wide umbrella of money.

“How is Mockingbird coming for you, Justin?” I ask when he’s sitting next to me after school. Most students enjoy To Kill a Mockingbird after the tough dialect in Huck Finn. I like comparing themes in these novels, prompting the students to see the wisdom offered by Twain and Lee.

We talk about some of the key scenes in the book, and then he reads aloud haltingly, with several mispronunciations. He looks at the clock when he’s done and sighs.

I sympathize.

“Maybe it would be a good idea to check your notes in class before Friday’s test,” I say.

“I’ll let everyone do that. You can remind me.

“Okay,” he says, and he rises from his chair and hoists his backpack.

“Want some Starburst for your troubles?” I ask, but he’s already out the door.

Then Stempel walks in. Her heavily-penciled eyebrows are aloft.

“Ms. Russell,” she says. “I just saw Justin Rodgers. He said he was working with you.”

“Yes, Dr. Stempel.”

“I see. Are his parents aware of this extra help?”

“I CC-ed Justin and his parents on my email to Gary Harkness.”

“Did they respond with their permission?”

“Not exactly, I mean not by email. . . . At the last conference, Mr. Rodgers and I agreed that Justin needed, um, support.” 

“If you do something like this again, you will need to be certain to have his parent’s permission. The Rodgers are imminent here. Mrs. Rodgers is on the Academy fundraising committee. And meeting alone with students can suggest . . . unproperness.” She blinks her steely eyes.

I want to shout, “Eminent, not imminent, you idiot! Impropriety, not unproperness!” but I don’t. After Stempel leaves, I feel pools of sweat seeping into my blouse – all because I was accused of helping a student learn.

As I’m grading Mockingbird tests on Friday evening, I think about the moral lessons implied in the novel. My students are learning these lessons well enough to pass their tests, but do they apply them to their lives? Have I applied the moral lessons of literature to my life? It’s complicated. I try. I look at my test and the students’ answers. Question four reads:

“I think there’s just one kind of folks. Folks.”

Scout says this after readers have met the wide cast of characters in Mockingbird. What does she mean here?

My students write:

“Scout means that we can’t be divided into separate groups, like rich and poor, black and white.”

“Everyone is equal in Maycomb, and everyone should be treated fairly.”

“There can’t be different rules for different people.”

Justin has scored well enough on this test to earn a solid C, so that’s what I report. Nothing “unproper.” But I also want to keep working with him, and with others like him. Stempel might change his grade, but I can’t control that. Maybe if teachers had better salaries and felt empowered to educate everyone well, we wouldn’t be tempted by bribes. Maybe we could correct grade inflation and put an end the system that boosts up the Justins of this world. I doubt it, though. Money keeps on talking and talking.

I pick up my phone. “Hey Mel,” I text. “Want to go to Disneyland over break? My treat.”