Quantum Touch Collection

Chapter 8

ABOUT A WEEK LATER, I felt well enough to return to work. But I wasn"t sure I wanted to go back. “Lin at this point, I know this stuff blindfolded. I"m bored. I"m stale as two-day-old French bread. It"s a treadmill.”

“Do something about it,” she counseled. “Stale bread can still become bread crumbs. Go back to school. Go to law school. You"ve always wanted to. Or write a book. You always say that the text misses the essence of history. Write one that captures it. I"ll help.”

I entered my classroom prepared to compete for a corner of my students" brains with my hand still bandaged and the aftermath of my hard landing still with me. The bruise on my chest reminded me that I was glad I was unconscious when the needle entered.

I love the elective course I teach twelfth graders; it"s on the history of Americans at work. It lets me go over some basic economics and sociology and a lot of current events. The seniors are bright and ready to do battle. I never know what they"ll come up with, and they keep me on my toes. That"s why I teach, I thought that morning, overcoming my frustration-laced boredom. Still, I was tired and anxious. I reminded myself it was already Thursday. Just get through today and tomorrow, and I"ll have a chance to get things in order, I remember thinking.

That"s why I teach,Just get through today and tomorrow, and I"ll have a chance to get things in order,As I"d guessed, the students were both concerned and ready to distract me from the task at hand. Some looked sleepy; some like they had just been dry cleaned.

“Mr. Russell, what did it feel like?”

“Is your hand completely OK?”

“Are you ever going to play basketball again?”

I answered all the questions honestly, knowing that anything less would just lead to more questions. It was also the right thing to do. I asked how far they had gotten with the substitute teacher. Not far. To get to where they should be, I laid out the plan for the coming week. “Stop complaining,” I said. “You could have avoided this if you had been more helpful with the subs. Also, you"ll be having pop quizzes on the reading. So do it.”

When the bell rang, clatter and chatter began as the class started to leave. Ashley checked on how I was doing. I told him I felt better, but I"d have a lot of grading to do given the extra homework. At least I knew what Day One Back would be like.

The only class that was less than sympathetic was my last—ninth graders tired and irritable at the end of the afternoon. They had made life miserable for the substitutes. More than most classes, this one tested constantly, always trying to see what they could get away with. Even with me, even this late in the school year. They are especially good at hiding their phones, which they are supposed to leave in their lockers. I told the class they would have quizzes if they didn"t do the work and get caught up, and the grades would count. “You know what they say about payback time,” I grinned when they moaned. As the day ended, and the much quieter ninth graders filed out, Ashley stopped in again to give me a ride home.

“Just about ready. Want to come for dinner?” I asked.

“You know I"d never turn down Linda"s magic masterpiece, whatever it is, and besides, I"m starved.” I phoned Linda to tell her. She told me she needed some stuff at the store, and I wrote down her list. At the supermarket, Ashley bought a chocolate cream pie for dessert.

“Funny, you don"t look hungry,” I said. Ashley loves to eat but never gains a pound. He doesn"t cook much when he"s by himself; he reads and munches. As we left the store, I called Linda to tell her we were on the way. She told me to hurry.

“Hi Ash. Put those things on the counter.”

Depositing the bags on the no-longer-new granite, he asked what we were having that went with chocolate pie.

“Everything. Now set the table.” She stirred in some of what we"d brought. “It needs to simmer.”

Dinner was a treat for both of us, especially Ashley. It always is. Linda had made spicy chicken and pasta. She added garlic bread, and we left only the crumbs. We ate in the kitchen at our oversized hardwood table, the site of lots of conversation over the years. We"ve watched the seasons change in our garden from the large bay window and window seat. Linda asked how the day had gone. I told her I was a little tired. “And I have a little headache,” I added, eliciting a glance. I never have headaches.

Ashley said, “Probably a storm coming.”

After Ashley"s chocolate cream pie and coffee, conversation turned to the school day. I told them that the kids had been predictable for once. They wanted to know what it was like to be hit by lightning. But I couldn"t really answer. “It happened so fast, and I was out cold. All I really remember was holding the door for you.”

“Then you don"t remember that I was beating you,” Ashley said. “Too bad.” Then he told me I owed him three bucks. “My last shot was swish.”

“Yeah, but I was standing by the door,” I argued. “What do you mean, "Too bad"?” We"d been tied when the lightning hit.

As we began to clean up, I noticed a package on the counter. Linda had gotten a new book to edit from the publisher she works for. There was also a pile for a project for her marketing class at Wharton. She was analyzing the bicycle industry and opportunities she could explore when she finished her MBA. Linda has always loved bikes: riding them, fixing them, and writing about them. Her time in Manhattan created her hatred for commuting, although she loved her part-time job at Bicycle Habitat. She likes being her own boss. Bikes and books. I call her a vocabularian. Masterful at choosing the exact word to fit a treasured phrase. She doesn"t edit; she nurtures.

The first time she met Ashley, we"d gone to a Knicks-76ers game at Madison Square Garden. She cheered as loudly as he did. She"d gone to the gym to watch her brother play ball when they were in high school, and she knew her stuff. She, though, was a bike racer. Early on, she and I would go riding. But it wasn"t the same for her with me trailing along.

Ashley began our ritual after-dinner discussion of the world. He"d read a story about oil companies trying to undermine negotiations in the Middle East. He also asked for Linda"s recipe, "though he rarely cooks. I think he takes the directions home, hoping someday he"ll try them out on someone. Evening was passing, and after a few laugh-filled stories, Linda told Ash it was time for him leave. “I"ll pick you up in the a.m.,” he said.

“Sure, thanks, see you then,” I yawned.

Linda stared at the door Ash had just closed. “I"m worried about him.”

PERFECTLY FITTED white dinner jacket, red carnation boutonniere, his prom night had begun perfectly. Pulling the wrist corsage from the fridge … how could she leave with another guy … who was that guy … didn"t know she was leaving, but she didn"t come back with the gaggle gone to the girls" room … Mom said, “There"s more than one fish in the sea.” … But she wasn"t a fish.

PERFECTLY FITTED white dinner jacket, red carnation boutonniere, his prom night had begun perfectly. Pulling the wrist corsage from the fridge … how could she leave with another guy … who was that guy … didn"t know she was leaving, but she didn"t come back with the gaggle gone to the girls" room … Mom said, “There"s more than one fish in the sea.” … But she wasn"t a fish.Ashley laid the book down, glanced at his watch, and went to bed. He had to be at work in four hours.