Adequate Yearly Progress

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  For Erica, my toughest grader, my favorite teacher

  LANGUAGE ARTS

  BRAE HILL VALLEY High School did not sit atop a hill. Nor was it nestled in a valley. Nor was it on a brae. When Lena Wright had moved to Texas, hoping it might one day feel like home, she’d noted how many of the streets were named Brae Something, or Something Brae, and looked up the word. Brae was a Scottish term for hill. Lena appreciated the irony of this: like everything else in this sprawling, landlocked city, her workplace rested on level ground, within a few miles of a sunbaked six-lane freeway.

  The school, too, might have been interchangeable with any other school. A marquee in front of the entrance revealed only that school started on Monday. Last year’s graffiti was hidden by a fresh coat of Band-Aid–colored paint. Even the fences and the steel grates over the windows might not, by some other freeway exit, have been that bad.

  But Brae Hill Valley was not by some other freeway exit. That was why Lena had chosen it. The streets that led her to work were ones on which she imagined nervous drivers might subtly lock their doors. Not Lena, though. She’d moved into an apartment just a mile from the school, and her car doors were still unlocked when she pulled into the parking lot, grabbed her ankara-print messenger bag, and hoisted a box from the back seat onto one hip—though her hips weren’t wide enough to be much help. She had a nearly curveless body, punctuated by a head of curls that refused to form respectable dreadlocks, and light skin that sometimes made people ask if she was “all black.” Which she was.

  She steadied the box with both hands as she headed past the practice field toward the school. Coach Ray—winner of football championships, manager of scandals—flashed her a red-faced grin. A nylon flap on his fisherman’s hat protected his neck from the sun as his players zigged and zagged through a maze of orange cones. On the far end of the field, the marching band repeated the first few bars of a song. Lena couldn’t believe they’d been practicing in this heat all summer.

  She waited until a line of JROTC students marched past, then yanked open the door to a welcome blast of air-conditioning. A familiar sign above the office door proclaimed, AT BRAE HILL VALLEY HIGH SCHOOL, FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION!—though this was not an entirely accurate statement. In fact, near the end of the previous year, Lena had often joked that failure was one of the most popular options at Brae Hill Valley. Today, however, she entered the office with no urge to be sarcastic. It was August. Her spark of late-summer hopefulness burned even brighter than usual, and the year ahead shined like the school’s freshly waxed floors.

  Around her, other teachers shared their favorite seasonal greeting.

  How was your summer?

  Too short!

  Ha-ha. Mine, too.

  Lena smiled but hoped she’d be able to avoid the small talk. As a spoken-word poet, she hated wasting words. Plus, there was only one more day to prepare before tomorrow’s marathon of meetings. She put down the box and checked her mail, flinging a summer’s worth of catalogues into the recycling bin. They landed with a loud thunk. Maybelline Galang, who stood sorting her own mail according to some meticulous math-teacher logic, looked up in disapproval.

  “My new filing system,” Lena explained. She grabbed the remaining envelopes and stuffed them into her bag, crumpling them in the process. Something about Maybelline’s aggressively appropriate presence compelled Lena to flaunt acts of noncompliance.

  She turned away before Maybelline could react and spotted Kaytee Mahoney, whose blond ponytail was, as always, a little loose and slightly off center.

  “Hey, you made it back for a second year, huh?”

  A flicker of guilt crept into Kaytee’s smile. She tugged at the bottom of her sweater as if worried it was too small.

  “Girl, I’m just playing.” Lena laughed, trying to backtrack. The truth was she liked Kaytee, an eager second-year teacher from the TeachCorps program perpetually weighed down by an assortment of bags. Kaytee activated a primal feminine instinct in Lena that, put into words, would have sounded something like I could give you a makeover. “But this year, we have to get you to relax a little.”

  Kaytee’s smile returned to its previous wattage. “No way! This year I have to work even harder. I’ve got OTWP classes for the first time.”

  “Ooh. Ouch.” OTWP stood for Open to Wonderful Possibilities, the newest name for the remedial classes whose title changed every few years. Each upbeat term was a new attempt to outrun the previous name’s stigma. “I feel you, though. I’ve got OTWP reading.”

  “No. No, no, no!” clarified Kaytee. “I’m actually looking forward to it. I just have to let them know I don’t expect any less from them because of that OTWP label.”

  “Well, sounds like you’re on the right track!” Lena tried to keep the doubt out of her voice as she bent to pick up her box. Nobody liked teaching OTWP classes.

  “Good morning, Ms. Wright!”

  “Yes, good morning, Ms. Wright!”

  Even before she stood up, Lena recognized the voices of Mrs. Reynolds-Washington and Mrs. Friedman-Katz. The two middle-aged women shared a love of tremendous jewelry, brightly colored pantsuits, and other people’s business that transcended all barriers of race and religion. Their bond was so strong that Mrs. Reynolds-Washington overlooked the fact that Mrs. Friedman-Katz was Jewish and would never be right with Jesus (“At least she believes in God!”), and Mrs. Friedman-Katz barely seemed to notice that Mrs. Reynolds-Washington was black (“Did you know her son is studying to be an orthodontist?”).

  “Good morning, Mrs. Reynolds-Washington. Mrs. Friedman-Katz.” Lena nodded to each of the women, trying not to invite conversation. The two were like bees spreading pollen, gathering material for tomorrow’s gossip as they shared today’s. Lena had little interest in hearing gossip. She had even less interest in being its subject.

  “I see your hair is growing in, hon,” said Mrs. Friedman-Katz, reaching out to pat Lena’s curls. “It looks very pretty now.”

  “Thanks.” Lena ducked instinctively. Ever since she’d gone natural, white people had wanted to touch her hair. It was a topic she often raised when she met other black people with natural hair, though this was regrettably rare. Texas was the kingdom of relaxer and hair weave.

  “We were worried about you for a while there, dear, with that bald-headed look,” added Mrs. Reynolds-Washington.

  That was two years ago, Lena wanted to say, but she settled for “Glad you like this better.” Shifting the box to show she really had better be going, she headed for the exit.

  “I guess you’ve already heard the latest about our friend Nick Wallabee,” said Mrs. Friedman-Katz.

  Lena turned around to push the door open with her back, realizing too late that this made her look interested.

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Reynolds-Washington joined in, believing they’d reengaged their target. “It was in the paper this morning. Or don’t you read the news, Miss Phil-a-delphia?” Her tone suggested she knew all she needed to about Lena’s hometown, some big city Up North where everyone was in a hurry and no one went to church.

  “Thanks,” said Lena, escaping into the hallway. “I’ll definitely check it out.”

  Mrs. Reynolds-Washington’s voice trailed behind her. “I swear, these y
oung people do not pay attention to the news anymore. They’re almost as bad as the kids!”

  Luckily, the office door closed, cutting off the sound. Let someone else get roped into that one. The last thing Lena wanted to talk about right before school started was Nick Wallabee, a national political celebrity who had never worked at a school but seemed sure his other successes gave him all the necessary qualifications. His best-selling book was apparently full of “easy fixes” for education. Any conversation about him quickly turned into a morale-draining gripe session.

  Her footfalls echoed off the empty lockers as she hurried down the hallway. Behind her, more teachers streamed into the school and headed to the office. They toted tote bags, rolled rolling crates, and reached the consensus that summer had been too short.

  She’d almost reached her classroom door when she heard a voice call, “Leeeena Wright!”

  Lena turned to see the tan, friendly face and buzzed hair of Hernan D. Hernandez. “Let me guess,” she said. “Your summer was too short?”

  “Nope—just about the length I expected.”

  Lena laughed, relieved. Hernan was one of the few people in the school with whom conversations didn’t feel like small talk. There was something effortless about being around him that made Lena seek him out at faculty meetings and happy hours. He was even kind of cute, though not exactly her type. She balanced the box on her knee as she dug for her keys.

  “Here, let me get that for you.”

  “Thanks!” Her classroom lights blinked on, illuminating the still-empty bulletin boards. “See you at the meeting tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, see you there.” Hernan put the box on a desk and paused before heading out the door. “Should be an interesting one this year.”

  “Aren’t they always?” Lena rummaged through her desk drawer to find her stapler as the sound of Hernan’s steps faded down the hallway. Under other circumstances, she would have liked to catch up with him, but right now she had decorating to do.

  She spread out the photos she’d collected for her bulletin boards. There were printouts of Mexican festivals and crowded outdoor markets in Kenya, plus her own snapshots of Philly’s crowded streets and brick row houses. Most of the photos, however, were pictures she’d taken near the school: Strip malls populated with Laundromats and liquor stores. Restaurants advertising tacos and Salvadoran pupusas. A man selling rugs from the back of a pickup truck. A bare storefront whose hand-lettered sign read, SHRIMPS YOU BUY WE FRY.

  Her first literature lesson would focus on setting. She’d begin with these photos and add pictures for each story they read, then encourage students to bring in photos of their own. She wanted them to understand that stories didn’t just happen; they happened in a time and place. Stories were inseparable from their settings.

  This was a revelation that had hit her with a jolt over the summer, as she listened to a local spoken-word poet perform at a rally against police violence: Now, more than ever, her students needed to read things that made them question the world around them. They needed to write more clearly, think more deeply, and have more meaningful discussions that gave voice to their reality. And this year she could make it happen. The first two years of her career had taught her that if she stayed under Brae Hill Valley’s administrative radar and seemed cooperative, she wouldn’t have to spend so much time doing test prep. She could finally stop making her students work for the curriculum and start making the curriculum work for them.

  And yet, as she stapled the photos to the boards, something nagged at her. Bits of the morning’s conversations floated back into her memory, sticking like dust on a fresh coat of paint. Hernan had said the faculty meeting would be an interesting one. And there had been a little too much excitement in Mrs. Reynolds-Washington’s voice when she’d mentioned the newspaper, which, in truth, Lena had not read.

  She turned on her sluggish classroom computer and waited for the day’s headlines to load. And then there it was: “Best-Selling Author Named Superintendent of Schools.” Underneath that: the instantly recognizable headshot of Nick Wallabee.

  Suddenly, the stapler hung heavy in Lena’s hand. She couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t reignite the sense of possibility she’d felt minutes earlier. It was as if she’d spent the summer guarding a freshly lit candle, eager to pass its flame on to her students, and now it had just started to rain.

  “Heeeey, guuurl!”

  Lena turned to see Breyonna Watson, who was patting her shiny, shoulder-length weave with a manicured hand. When Lena lamented Texas’s deficit of natural hair, Breyonna was the first example that sprang to mind.

  “Hey, Breyonna. What’s up?” It was a reluctant greeting; Breyonna only stopped to talk if she had something to brag about. She carried a monstrosity of a purse covered with some designer’s initials. The sorority key chain around her neck hung over a sweatshirt from a lower-end college that Lena’s parents would have referred to as an at least I went to college college. This last thought, however, was so snobbish Lena shoved it immediately from her mind. She concentrated instead on hating Breyonna’s purse.

  “What’s up? Nothing… unless you count this!” Breyonna extended her weave-patting hand to display a large diamond, sparkling under the fluorescent lights.

  “Congratulations,” said Lena, though she had trouble getting excited about diamonds, considering the atrocities they caused in Africa.

  “Thank you!” Breyonna let out a happy check out my fat rock screech that died down when Lena didn’t join in. “But enough about me. How was your summer, guuurl?”

  Lena sighed. “Too short.”

  SCIENCE

  HERNAN D. HERNANDEZ slipped in at the back of the auditorium. The back-to-school faculty meeting hadn’t officially started yet, but it felt too late to walk to the front of the room to join the rest of the science department. He slid into a nearby seat, its springs sighing at the year’s first interruption.

  A presenter from the district stood on the stage, grinning at no one in particular. She was one of those heavily accessorized, well-connected former teachers who had long ago retreated to offices within the district headquarters, emerging at the beginning of each school year to give PowerPoint presentations. Behind her, a screen glowed with a picture of a beach at sunrise, hundreds of sea stars dotting the sand.

  All of which suggested they were going to start with the starfish story.

  Hernan pulled a pen from his computer bag. The bag had spent the summer in his closet, and its reemergence was one of many reminders that summer was over—no more soccer games with his nephew, no more helping his father in the backyard or experimenting in the greenhouses of Hernandez Landscaping and Plant Nursery. For the next ten months, he’d spend most of his time indoors.

  “Good morning, y’all!” said the presenter.

  Conversation sounds dwindled as a few teachers returned the greeting.

  “I know everyone is sleepy, but we can do better than that! I said good morning !”

  “Gmrning.” It came out as a grumble. This crowd spent too much time around teenagers to respond to demands for cheerfulness. Plus, everyone now sensed that the presentation would start with the starfish story, which rarely preceded good news.

  The door behind Hernan opened to let in a few more stragglers. He turned in time to see Lena Wright appear in its frame, the light of the hallway behind her. Her silhouette was slim and graceful, topped by an unruly crown of curls extending in all directions. She paused, as if assessing whether it was too late to sit with the English department. Then she turned her attention to the back rows, brightening when she spotted Hernan. His faculty-meeting experience improved considerably as she slid into the seat next to him.

  “Did I miss anything?” she whispered.

  “Not much.” Hernan gestured toward the screen.

  “I’d like to start with a little inspiration this morning!” said the presenter.

  Lena squinted at the beach scene, massaging her temples with one hand as if she h
ad a headache. She had short nails and thin fingers, her bone structure as delicate as the wing of a bat. “Uh-oh. Is she going to tell us the starfish story?”

  “Once, a man was walking along a beach,” the presenter began. “On the beach lay hundreds of starfish.”

  “Looks like it.” Immediately, Hernan lamented the answer’s lack of cleverness. Growing up with two sisters should have given him an edge in talking to women. Instead, it had trained him to make women see him as a brother. Though they didn’t always see him this way, he reminded himself. His younger sister, Lety, sometimes mentioned college friends who’d asked about him, and he knew he wasn’t bad-looking, though he would’ve liked to be taller. He’d inherited the same tan skin and sharp features as his sisters, and a tendency toward outdoor activity kept him in shape. In his classroom, talking to students about biology, he felt confident, interesting—maybe even charming. And yet, around the women who interested him most, he seemed always to miss some crucial opening, some moment of possibility that floated past without his reaching out to grab it. His dealings with Lena were no exception. Even at this moment, her presence alternated between lifting his spirits and intimidating the hell out of him.

  “The starfish had been stranded by the tide!” The presenter’s eyes widened as she read the creatures’ dramatic fate from the next slide. “Soon, the sun would rise and bake them to death!”

  “She seems pretty surprised by this story line,” whispered Lena.

  “Maybe she’s never heard it before.”

  Lena let out a whoosh of breath that might have been a laugh.

  “In the distance, the man could see a young boy going back and forth between the surf’s edge and the sand.” The presenter’s habit of speaking slowly and emphasizing words suggested her past teaching experience had been in elementary school. “He was picking up the starfish, one by one, and throwing them back into the sea.”

  Click. A dancing cartoon starfish appeared on the screen. The pointy-headed figure shimmied on the starfish appendages that served as legs and waved the starfish appendages that served as arms.