The Other Way Around Read Free

inspection. Ms. Tuttle may be a teacher, but she’s no dope. “Does it have anything on it?” Her voice is patiently sarcastic. I can’t believe it’s only November. Usually it takes teachers at least six months to figure out that I’m a terrible student. I smooth the card open and show her. It’s titled
Romeo and Juliet Theme Essay.
Underneath that are the words
Individual versus Society,
followed by
Romeo versus society
and
Juliet versus society.
    â€œIt seemed like kind of an obvious theme so I didn’t think I needed a lot of notes,” I say without meeting her eyes.
    â€œWell, you’ve got about twenty minutes left of class time, and I can’t wait to see what you come up with once you conquer that first sentence.” Again with the sarcasm. I just nod and make like I’m going back into the room. Ms. Tuttle must have a moment of weakness, because she puts her hand on my shoulder and asks in a softer tone. “Is this about your meeting this afternoon?”
    Honestly, I had forgotten, but I know an opening when I see one. “I guess I am a little distracted.”
    â€œWell, I suppose if you need more time on your essay,” Ms. Tuttle relents.
    No! I want to shout. Don’t do it! I thought for a minute you were different, but you’re a sucker just like the rest of them. “Yeah,” I say. “That might be good.”
    â€œI’m not going to hang you out to dry, Andrew,” Ms. Tuttle assures me.
In front of your mother the Dragon Lady,
I think. Iwonder if Ms. Tuttle is afraid of my mother the way so many teachers are. It’s pretty much the reason I passed first quarter. Nobody wanted to piss off the new headmistress early on. I don’t hate my mother, but I hate when she plays the headmistress. I’m smart enough to know when she’s throwing her Ivy League vocabulary in someone’s face, and it makes me want to vomit and run in the opposite direction from whatever future she has in mind for me.
    â€œWe just want to find a way to help you be successful,” she adds. It’s hard not to cringe. I remember this is Ms. Tuttle, not Mom, but it seems like I’ve heard these words a hundred times over the course of the last three or four years. This is not my first parent-teacher meeting, nor will it probably be my last. On my way back into class I catch another smirk from Alex. I manage to at least write a passable introduction to my essay before the bell rings at the end of the period.

TEACHER MEETINGS
    My first teacher meeting was a result of my first-ever trip to the principal’s office. We were living in Geneseo, New York, so Mom could finish her Ph.D., and I attended the local elementary school. I remember this first teacher meeting quite clearly. Every other one since then kind of blurs together.
    The unit was called Understanding Handicaps. Each week several well-meaning volunteers came to our school and provided a lesson designed to better help us understand what life was like for people with different disabilities. We liked it because it interrupted a rather tedious social studies unit that involved the mass memorization of all the land forms in Europe and Asia. Our teacher, Mrs. Wilcox, liked it because she got to sit at her desk and let the volunteers run the class. After a few initial head nods, probably meant to underscore the importance of whatever we were learning, she would grade papers and drink her Lemon Lift tea.
    The first week we got to push each other around the hallways in borrowed wheelchairs. The second week we were paired off and had to lead one another around the school blindfolded. We were given several tasks, such as opening a locker orwashing hands in the bathroom. Roz Parker chipped her front tooth when her Seeing-Eye friend let her lean too close to the fountain while getting a drink. Pushier parents, the kind who send their daughters to St. Mary’s, might have investigated the