A Hole in Juan Read Free

earth.”
    Mackenzie nuzzled my ear. “I love it when you get all teach-ery,” he whispered. “Tell me more about Mischief Night.”
    Pedagogical seduction.
    Intriguing.
    Interrupted.
    A voice from the sofabed shouted, “Radical! We don’t have Mischief Night at home. I love this city!”
    I stared at the lanky boy in pajamas, remembering C.K.’s mother’s big-hearted acceptance of any child who needed a home. I didn’t want to seem cruel. I liked Pip. I like children. I’d like to someday have children—but not have them arrive as sixteen-year-old high-school dropouts with spiked hair.
    “I’m gonna stay here forever!”
    Tuesday was not looking good. Not yet eight a.m., and I was ready to crawl back into bed, to try to enjoy the comforts and serenity my cat took for granted.
    Two
    The October morning was brighter than I was, and not yet as cold as it would surely be by the weekend. My childhood memories of Halloween are of the miracle of being transformed by a costume. With my homemade ballgown on, I wasn’t dressed as Cinderella—I was Cinderella.
    Unfortunately, my mother could read the thermometer.
    That transformative magic of disguise is endangered in Philadelphia in late October. Would the prince have fallen for Cinderella if she’d had to wear a bulky coat atop her gown or layers of sweaters underneath?
    Year after year, I left to trick-or-treat—swaddled, disgruntled, and unhappy—and then I forgot all about it as the other 13
    A HOLE IN JUAN
    adults, who’d also sent out disappointed, insulated children, pretended to be amazed by my disguise.
    In any case, today was brisk and invigorating, and I was glad I’d decided to walk. School is only a few miles away, and city miles are interesting.
    This is probably a blot on my English-teacher-as-upholder-of-our-cultural-legacy report card, but I’m not a great fan of Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. It’s enjoyable reading, and it has many wise observations, and the countless times I’ve taught the book, I’ve shown proper reverence. But I knew myself to be a hypocrite.
    I, too, want to know, as did Thoreau, “what . . . is the chief end of man, and what are the true necessaries and means of life?”
    But given that desire, why hightail it away from community and variety to hole up in the woods? I’d stay in the city because one of the “true necessaries” of life is other people, and where better to study life than in the thick of it?
    My book wouldn’t have been called Walden. It would have been called Philadelphia.
    Besides, I’d read that Henry David took one of the “true necessaries” of life—his dirty laundry—home to Mom during his famous time of roughing it. As far as I’m concerned, there goes the integrity of life in the wilderness.
    My route to school always involves a taste of history whether I walk through Independence Mall or veer slightly to the north and pass the new Constitution Center, which is a visual pleasure even from the outside. I enjoy its combed and manicured green swath of lawn—my kind of nature—sweeping up to its sleek façade, and I’m proud of the city for creating this deserved and elegant celebration of an amazing piece of writing and thought.
    We’d tried making the place part of our communal outings, but Pip never looked excited by the idea, not even when we pointed out that the law was a part of the criminal justice system.
    GILLIAN ROBERTS
    14
    I’m not sure he was happy that civilization had found a way to settle disputes without fists or guns.
    I hoped my students would be more enthusiastic when I presented the idea. I wanted to join forces with the social studies teacher, Louis Applegate, for an interdisciplinary unit that hinged on a trip to this center. I made a mental note to speak to him about it today. I knew we taught many of the same students.
    And with that thought I was into a teaching mode, and I mentally rehearsed the day. Anxiety about the seniors remained, but I was excited as