Two Words

The day was shaping up to be a miasma of mediocrity, a mind-numbing morass of sameness that threatened to put me in a coma. 

Be on time. Respect yourself and others. Put away your phones.

It’s not that the teachers were ogres—they were just the opposite. They had their rules, yes, but mostly they were nice, supportive, there for you. We’re going to have a great year. You have so much potential. My door is always open.

I would almost rather hear: Be on time or I’ll slam the door in your face and send your butt home. If I see a phone I’ll smash it to pieces and dip the remnants in acid. At least I’d know they meant business.

Every first day is the same. It only gets worse on the second day, when “learning” actually begins. It’s not that I hate school—it’s really neither good nor bad. It’s just there, like a beige-colored wall.

When I walked into 9^th period, there was no teacher in the room. We were supposed to have Mrs. Morrison, who would be starting her fifth decade this year—I wasn’t sure if that meant she was starting her fortieth or fiftieth year. I could have found out but didn’t have the energy. She had had a stroke a few days ago and likely wouldn’t be returning. 

As soon as the bell rang a man emerged from the prep room, thick and heavyset. He looked to be about fifty but could have been forty or sixty—I was bad at guessing ages. He was balding and wore glasses with thick dark frames. His black bushy eyebrows made me think of beetles. He wore a short-sleeved shirt with a striped tie that was too short. He looked like he should be behind the counter of a bodega, or maybe a butcher shop.

He strode to the board and printed his name—Mr. Szekeres—pressing down so hard that chips of chalk broke off as he wrote. Underneath it he scrawled: English 10. 

“Good afternoon boys and girls,” he said, without turning around. “Today we learn parts of speech.” He began writing them out: noun, verb . . .

“Hey, mister-whatever-your-name-is,” a red-haired student with braces called out, “are you our real teacher, or a sub?” 

He kept writing . . . adjective, adverb . . . still pressing down very hard, as though trying to write through the blackboard and reach the other side.

“Why won’t you answer my question?” the kid asked . . . preposition, pronoun . . . “Why are you writing this? You know we learned all this in fifth grade. Do you even know how to teach?”

Szekeres continued writing. When he was finished he turned around. Even though the room was frigid from the air-conditioning—I had only worn shorts and had been shivering all day— there were dark circles of perspiration under his armpits and beads of sweat on his forehead. He retrieved a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped his brow.

He held out his arm and beckoned the red-haired boy to come forward, giving several impatient waves of his fingers. His forearms were massive, a silver-banded wristwatch peeking out from a thicket of coarse black hair. 

The boy pointed to himself in mock incredulity, looking at his friends and smiling. “Me? You want me to come up front?”

Szerkeres continued with the small, jerky waves of his hand. 

“All right, I’m coming.” He walked slowly to the front of the room, looking at his classmates, several of whom were laughing. He was clearly enjoying the attention.

As soon as he reached the front of the class, Mr. Szerkeres grasped the boy’s arm, placing his other hand on his shoulder. The boy’s eyes opened wide. The smirk evaporated. 

“What are you doing? You can’t touch me. What is this?” He tried to move away but Mr. Szerkeres had him in a death grip.

He inched his face closer to the boy, who arched his back and turned his head in an attempt to get away. Mr. Szerkeres took his hand off his shoulder and cradled the boy’s face, turning his head to face him. 

The class held its collective breath. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Nothing exciting ever happened.

Mr. Szerkeres let go of his chin but not his arm. “Name, please?” 

“I’m not telling you my name—ouch! What are you doing?!” Mr. Szerkeres had tightened his grip. The boy winced in pain, his face redder than his hair. “It’s Dylan, okay. Now let go!”

“You not talk while I teach, Dylan. Understand?”

“Whatever. Get away from me.”

“Wrong answer.” Mr. Szerkeres moved a step closer. He leaned in and said something in his ear. 

Dylan’s face turned pale. His bottom lip quivered, as though ready to burst into tears. Mr. Szerkeres loosened his grip and took a step back.

“I’m sorry,” Dylan said to the floor, softly. He wiped away tears with his sleeve and took his seat. No one in the room moved.

I didn’t know who to feel sorry for. Dylan was no doubt a jerk, and even though he had it coming it was hard to watch. Mr. Szerkeres would surely get fired, maybe even arrested. I was surprised Dylan didn’t make a beeline to the principal’s office as soon as he was set free. His dad would be on the phone with a lawyer before dinnertime.

I was dying to know what Mr. Szerkeres said to Dylan. But I’d never find out, at least not from him. His kind didn’t talk to me. Maybe the douchebag had finally gotten what he deserved.

“Take out sheet of paper,” Mr. Szerkeres said. I had forgotten we still had the entire class period ahead of us. The little scene with Dylan had only lasted a minute or two. “Write a sentence on your paper. Two words only. A noun and verb.” He held up two fingers. “Two words. No more. When done bring to me.” He sat behind his desk. Its surface was bare, devoid of even a scrap of paper.

After about five minutes I looked around. Everyone was finished but no one had the nerve to approach Mr. Szerkeres. I decided I would be the first. I took a deep breath as I scooted back my chair and walked up to the side of his desk. My heart was pounding. 

He took the paper from my hand and placed it on his desk. He studied it for perhaps five seconds before taking a red pen from his shirt pocket and placing a big X over my words. 

“This no good,” he said, handing it back to me. “Come back when you have sentence that sings.”

Sings? In two words? Was he out of his mind? 

I thought what I had written was pretty good: Jimmy jumps. It had good alliteration. But I wasn’t going to argue with Mr. Szerkeres—I wasn’t suicidal.

Once I had broken the ice, a line formed in front of Mr. Szerkeres’s desk. From what I could hear, no one else was faring any better. 

“Terrible.”

“Who taught you to write?” 

“No good.”

When Dylan made his way to the front, every eye was on him. Mr. Szerkeres’s treated him no differently than anyone else. 

All twenty of us worked in silence. It was strange to be in a class where no one talked. No one even coughed. Asking to use the restroom would be like signing your death warrant. 

For my second try I wrote: Jack cried. It earned another red X, and a gruff, “This no better than your first—maybe worse.”

My next creation I was sure would be a winner: Howling mutt. “This not even a sentence,” he said, pointing at the board. “Noun and verb.”

I apologized as I felt my face go hot with embarrassment. I could have kicked myself for being so stupid. Evidently those fifth grade lessons hadn’t stuck.

I was on the back side of my paper when I finally won Mr. Szerkeres’s approval. He stared at my latest attempt longer this time, finally saying, “This good. It sings.” He put a roughly drawn star next to it. 

I had never been prouder of two words.

Sinner repents.

It was depressing to think that Mr. Szerkeres might not be back tomorrow. The odds were certainly stacked against it.

But one can hope.

Hope sings.