Ms. Watson

Jake sat on an uncomfortable wooden bench in the waiting area outside the Haverford Prep Headmasters office, on the fifth floor of the administrative building. He stared out two large west facing windows, long overdue for a cleaning, watching the late afternoon sun lose its daily battle with the moon. Despite the warmth of the late autumn day, he felt cold and the grime on the windows ensured only a greasy, weak light cut through into the room from outside. Providing neither warmth nor comfort this dim light was immediately absorbed into the abundant dark wood paneling lining the office.

Haverford Prep was built into 1836 with the mission to “Turn Fine Boys Into Gentlemen” and apparently this was accomplished through rigorously enforced tradition, abuse from classmates and excessive amounts of wood paneling. While the school’s exterior had the look of a stereotypical boy’s school, imposing stone buildings and sprawling manicured grounds with plenty of flagstone, the interior was filled with dark wood. It was literally everywhere, even the bathrooms where it was frequently scrawled with decades old graffiti and off-color insults about students and teachers who were long since deceased. 

Jake recalled going on the tour of Haverford with his father during a prospective weekend 2 years prior. At the time, he was overwhelmed by the grandeur of the place, it smelled of history and opportunity and he could easily picture the generations of boys who had attended before him. Many of these students would grow up to become senators, doctors, and CEO’s and other professions Jake was vaguely aspiring to pursue. But wood polish brings out the shine and seals in the secrets. He would not discover the latter until much later.

Jake rubbed his increasingly swollen eye with his non injured hand. Ms. Watson the receptionist looked on with mild concern mixed with a hearty dose of annoyance. “Can I get you some more ice for that? It will swell less if you keep it cold”. Jake absentmindedly looked at the ice pack sitting next to him, picked it up and placed it lightly against his eye. He had somehow forgotten he was not alone.

“I’m good, thank you Ms. Watson”. The receptionist made no reply but quickly returned to her computer screen where she was busying herself with a game of Hearts.

Miss Watson had been the Haverford Prep receptionist for as long as anyone could remember, and she very much looked the part. In many ways she was the perfect embodiment of the school; old, traditional and proud but with a palpable sense that her best days were behind her. She was still able to project the image of the tough, unyielding matriarch but if you looked closely the windows were dirty, the paint chipped, and possibly something had been broken and not properly mended.

Jake had been in this office numerous times, but never paid much attention to his surroundings. The room was decorated quite simply, a few portraits of alumni all of whom were white men, typically mustachioed with a conquering hero vibe about them. A bit like the artist thought all portraits should resemble Teddy Roosevelt. Side note, T.R. did not attend Haverford, though his cousin did. That cousin went on to found a major investment bank and later die in an opium den in China Town in the company of an alleged male prostitute. 

Ms. Watson’s desk was set in front of the large, dusty window and the uncomfortable wooden bench sat facing it at the other end of the room. Between the two was an ocean of dark blue carpet, Jake suspected it had once been light blue, so thick and deep if you dropped a penny you may not find it again. On Jake’s right, the North side of the room, was a heavy wooden door with a brass embossed “Headmasters Office” plaque at the top. There was a faint air of cigar smoke in the air, even though smoking had not been allowed in the main building for a decade some things tend to linger.

A phone rang on Ms. Watson’s desk and she picked up the receiver. It was an old phone, with a ring like he remembered from his grandparent’s house. Rings like that usually bring bad news.

Ms. Watson answered the call “Yes, Mr. Slinger. Of course, I will tell him. I’ll move tomorrow’s 9:00 back to 10:30. Thank you.”.

Ms. Watson looked up from her desk and caught Jake’s eye. “Mr. Slinger will be with you in a few moments Mr. Garcia”. Jake nodded and smiled slightly, wincing as the action reminded him of the pain in his eye.

Ms. Watson kept her eyes on Jake, “Are you really sure I can’t get you some more ice.”

Jake thought he detected a note of genuine concern in her voice, something he would not have expected from Watson, who had a reputation for being even more stoic than the portraits surrounding her.

“Thank you, Ms. Watson, but I’ll be fine”, Jake replied.

Silence fell again.

Then, out of boredom or a need to break that silence, Jake asks “Ms. Watson, how long have you been working at Haverford?”.

Ms. Watson removes her glasses and looks Jake square in the eye “Longer than you’ve been alive Mr. Garcia”, then goes back to her screen. 

His eyes settled on Ms. Watson’s desk. It was a large, solid dark wooden desk with decorative carvings and ornate claw feet supporting very sturdy legs.  It looked incredibly heavy and Jake wondered if the desk or Ms. Watson, had longer tenure in this office. He wondered what that desk had seen. How many kids just like himself, sitting here waiting to learn their fate. Kids who had been beaten down by Haverford, kids who never quite found their way here. What happened to them?

Jake, coming out of his daydream, realized with a start that he was staring directly at Ms. Watson. She coolly returned his stare.

“Mr. Garcia, do you need something?”

“No, ma’am”, Jake replied his voice audibly quivering.

Ms. Watson put down her pen and looked at Jake. She let out a breath and her face softened; her eyes seemed to grow kinder. “Mr. Garcia, can I ask you a question?”

Jake had never uttered more than two sentences to Ms. Watson, and he was intrigued yet slightly terrified about where this was going. Ms. Watson was the receptionist not the headmaster, but she was tough, and her opinion mattered in this school. She could make life difficult if she wanted to, it was important to stay on her good side.

After waiting a beat too long he replied, “Of course ma’am.”

“Mr. Garcia, it’s only September and this is the third time I’ve seen you in this office. Last year you were a regular resident of that seat as well. What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m sorry?”, Jake’s surprise was impossible to hide. This was not a direction he expected this conversation to take.

Ms. Watson rose from her desk and walked to a large set of filing cabinets along the wall. She opened a drawer and swiftly selected a thick file and retreated to her desk and opened it, quickly perusing the contents.

“Mr. Garcia, you have nearly perfect marks, but you miss too many classes to qualify for the honors program. Ms. Crawley your English Literature teacher says quote “Jake is one of the best writers I’ve ever taught”. Mr. Putney your debate instructor says you have a “gifted mind and could be a world class debater if he exhibited more focus”. “

Ms. Watson paused letting her comments sink in. “Jake you’ve been in this office 10 times in slightly more than 1 year” Ms. Watson plucked a sheet of paper from the file, “Let’s see, we have “defacing school property, fighting, swearing in chapel, fighting, stealing from a fellow student…”

“I…I didn’t do that. I never stole anything, Robinson lost his own shitty watch and blamed it on me”. Jake blurted out.

“Be that as it may,” Ms. Watson replied, “you haven’t exactly been using your time here wisely. Do you know how close you came to losing your scholarship and not being invited back this year? Two votes, two votes saved you.”

Jake looked at the ground, both ashamed and tired of this lecture.

“Who saved me? Who were the votes that kept me here?”

Ms. Watson replied curtly, “It is Haverford Prep policy to keep student expulsion discussions anonymous”.

The sun had now dipped just below the horizon and the greasy light was nearly gone, the primary illumination coming from a small desk lamp highlighting the wrinkles on Ms. Watson’s face.

She looked at Jake again, “What it doesn’t say in this file, but I know, is that you’ve lost your mother recently. I am sorry for that. It is hard to lose a parent, especially a mother when one is so young, I lost my own mother at thirteen. I also know from speaking with your former guidance counselor that your father has also taken this loss extremely hard, that he’s lost his job, that he may be drinking again, and that part of the reason for your attending boarding school is that he and your family thought you would be better off here, away from bad memories and the sadness enveloping your father. I am sorry for all of that too.

Mr. Garcia, I apologize for my bluntness , but your mother isn’t coming back and you can’t run away from bad memories. I have no idea if your father will pull himself together but you have to assume he will not. You must assume you need to make it without them. It is a sad reality but it is your reality. The sooner you accept that and act accordingly the better off you will be”

Jake sat stunned, this woman whom he had spoken a total of 50 words to over the past year had just ripped the scab off wounds he was working so hard to conceal. He tried desperately not to cry but he felt it start to well up in his throat, his eyes watering. Don’t Cry, Don’t Cry, DO NOT CRY, Jake screamed in his head.

Ms. Watson takes a tissue from a box on her desk, then wordlessly walks towards Jake and hands it to him, placing her other hand lightly on her shoulder. Jake noticed it felt light and very bony, like a tiny bird perched there.

“I’m sorry to upset you, but I’m glad it happened. You are a good student, you have the potential to do something amazing with your life, do not waste the chance because life dealt you one …shitty…hand. It’s a long game, better cards will come. Be ready when the do”.

“Thank you.” Jake replied weakly, still on the verge of tears and fearful that a longer utterance will let them out.

“A few words of advice, I’ve been here a long time and I’ve seen a lot of boys in that seat.” Ms. Watson took a deep breath and looked directly into Jake’s eyes.

“First, make some good friends. Yes, a lot of the boys here are entitled pricks but not all of them. Wealth and potential are often inversely correlated. Those who have wealth and privilege from an early age, often spend their time on keeping that wealth rather than making their own mark in the world. The pricks are not like you, they are jealous of what you have, and you can use that jealousy to your advantage. Talent, spark, passion, potential, whatever you want to call it is like the flame and they are the moths. They want to be associated with someone with genuine passion if they can get past their jealousy. The boys who are not pricks are out there, give them a chance. You will need each other, now and later.”

“Secondly, seek out allies on the staff. Many of your teachers respect your intellect and want you to do well, pay them and their efforts respect and they will return the favor.”

“Thirdly, and this is the most important, talk to someone. If you have a problem or just want to talk, it is OK. The school has counselors for this or talk to a friend, a teacher, even me if you need to. You are not alone here. Please remember that.”

“Jake, this school is not perfect. Its old and elitist and a little frayed at the edges but it can still help a good kid get a solid start in life. Do not waste your opportunities.”

Jake looking with wet eyes at Ms. Watson replies, “Thank you, I’m not really sure what to say”.

“Don’t say anything, you are a good kid, you remind me of my son.”

“Now, remember what I said about talking to someone. If you need to talk to me, stop by anytime. I am always here, I practically live here. Now get back to your dorm, it’s getting late”.

“But what about Mr. Stringer? He wanted to see me.” Jake asks.

“I’ll take care of that, don’t worry”, replies Ms. Watson with a smile.

Jake stands to leave as Ms. Watson returns to her desk, diving immediately back into her game of Hearts. “Ms. Watson? I know you aren’t supposed to say anything, but do you think you could tell me who voted for me to stay at Haverford”?

Ms. Watson, her eyes changing from kind to steely in an instant. “Mr. Garcia, I am not permitted to share that information” …”But given that we’ve all had a pretty trying day, perhaps I can make one exception”. “Ms. Crawly and Mr. Stringer spoke up in your favor”.

“Mr. Stringer? Really?” Jake looks back incredulously.

Ms. Watson looks coyly at Jake, “I’ve known Robert Stringer a long time, Mr. Garcia. Let’s just say I put in a good word”.

Jake walks out of the administrative building and through the quad, with the sun below the horizon the first chill of autumn was in the air. He finds his roommate, Jon Friedman, waiting for him when gets to his dorm room. Jon is a bookish young man with glasses, small for fifteen and his habit of hunching over when sitting made him look smaller still. Jon was a third generation Haverford student, but without any of the usual social standing that came with that distinction.

“How did it go? Are you getting kicked out?”, Jon blurts out

“No, but I’ve been formally warned. It was not too bad”.

“Hey, I wanted to say, don’t worry about those guys. Robinson and those other clowns are a bunch of rich douche bags. Try not to let it bother you”.

“Thanks for the tip, but it’s hard not be bothered by being punched in the face.” Jake says with a smirk.

Jon, looking at the ground replies “Right, sorry about that. What I mean is, next time maybe we can team up. You know, not literally fight them, but stand up to them together. I’ve spoken to a couple of other guys about it”.

“OK, we can try that. Thank you, Jon.”

Open displays of emotion were rare for these two fifteen-year-old boys and they were both aching to change the subject.

“Hey Jon, did you know Ms. Watson had a kid? I always assumed she was an old lady who had worked here for a hundred years and never left or got married”.

Jon cramming his T-shirts into an already overstuffed drawer replied without looking up “Yeah, my Dad told me her kid went to school here. Her son was a junior when my Dad was a freshman. I guess if you work here, your kid can get in for free or something”.

“What’s her kid doing now? He must be in his 40’s or 50’s, right?”

“He killed himself. Apparently threw himself out of the big windows right behind her desk. Pretty awful. Supposedly, you can still see the blood stain near the fountain below, I’ve never seen it myself but that’s what people say.”

“Holy shit Jon, that’s horrific. Why? Why did he do it?”

“Dad wasn’t sure, though he thought he got bullied pretty bad. But who knows what else may have been going on with him.”

Jake sat stunned, why didn’t Ms. Watson mention anything. Though, would it be any better if she had?

Jon picked up the conversation again, “Even stranger, my Dad said she never mentioned it and the school just pretended it never happened, they didn’t even put his picture in the yearbook that year. After the funeral she came right back to work. She was back at her desk before they replaced the glass in the window.”

The two boys stopped talking after that, each lost in his own thoughts.

Fifteen minutes later, Jon perked up “It’s time for dinner, you coming? It’s lasagna night”.

Jake, swimming back to the surface of conscious thought, “Sure, let me grab my jacket. It’s getting chilly.”

“Hey Jon, maybe we should walk with some of the other guys too. You know the ones you talked to about Robinson.”

Jon, “Sure, we can stop by their rooms on the way out.”

Both boys stepped out into the hall, Jake reaching back in to switch off the light as they left.