Excerpt: Cascade

C.J. Marty. Jesse. The only three reasons Libby Lawson felt she could go on trudging through this life, dragging herself out of bed early each morning to prepare a semi-healthy breakfast and then head out to face a semi-insane supervisor who was daily wearing her down like a dirty eraser on the end of a really bad writer’s pencil. Libby soldiered on through the drudgery for them.
C.J. Marty. Jesse. Also the three biggest reasons she was about to yank out straggly patches of her own hair.
“Mom, I need you to sign this for my math teacher.” Fourteen year old C.J. thrust a piece of paper and a pen between her mother’s still puffy-eyed face and the egg-filled skillet in her hand.
“Sweetie, set it over there on the desk for me and I’ll sign it in just a minute.” Libby leaned across the table to fill Marty’s plate with scrambled eggs. The steaming skillet teetered dangerously over poor Jesse’s sandy blonde head. C.J. expelled that small puff of air so well known to parents of teenage daughters everywhere. A simple breath of air, amazingly loaded with meaning... speaking oh so eloquently of frustration, irritation and, apparently, a mother who never gets anything right.
“Mom! I’m afraid you’ll forget. You always do.”
“But C.J., can you not see that I have a hot skillet and a spatula in my hands? I can hardly whip out an extra set of arms and sign your paper with a flourish right this minute. Marty, get your elbow off your plate. You’re getting eggs on the table.”
“Like I’m asking for a flourish! Whatever! I just want you to sign it before you forget. It was due yesterday!”
Libby felt her lips tighten in her struggle to respond as maturely and calmly as possible without resorting to the pat parental sayings of her own childhood (which she often did and usually regretted.)
“I’m sorry your paper is late, C.J. If you would give me these papers to sign in the evening, like I’ve asked you to do, this wouldn’t - -“
Before she could finish, C.J. exploded with,
“Oh, like you have time to sign papers in the evening! All you do is sit around and watch Dancing with the Stars!” She stomped off just as Libby was finally setting the skillet back on the stove. Libby could no longer contain herself, either. She shouted after C.J.
“Hey! I don’t have the energy to do anything else after my day! Get back here and eat your breakfast!”
A door slammed and a muffled voice yelled, “I’m not hungry!”
Libby stood at the threshold between the kitchen and living room and shouted across the house, “I can sign your paper now!” The response was silence and Libby turned to see the two boys, Jesse and Marty, making sickened faces at each other, as if somewhere nearby there was a campground outhouse emanating offensive odors.
“What? What’s the matter with you two?”
“We don’t like scrambled eggs.”
“Are you kidding me? Since when?!”

With her purse over her shoulder and her little travel cart loaded with books and graded papers, Libby was ready to head out to school. She paused at the front door to give a few last minute reminders.
“Now, C.J., don’t forget to take your house key.”
“Yeah, I do it every day without being reminded,” C.J. muttered in a fake singsong voice strangled with sarcasm and resentment.
“I’m sorry, I know you do.” Libby reached to give her daughter a kiss on the cheek which was reflexively wiped off. In response to her mother’s hurt look, C.J. muttered, “Well, your lips are wet.”
“Sorry,” Libby sighed. “Okay, boys, are you coming with me now or do you want to come later?”
Libby taught first grade at the neighborhood school. In the past years, they all went in to school together. Libby liked to get there nice and early to stay caught up with her work, so the kids hung out in her classroom until teacher supervision began on the playgrounds. However, now C.J. was catching the bus later to the junior high. The boys were now old enough to stay alone with her in the morning until she let them know it was time to start walking to school.
“Oh, can’t you just take them now?” C.J. whined.
“No! We’ll come later!” Marty insisted, “I’m watching cartoons.”
“Well, then can’t you at least take Jesse?”
“Hey! If Marty can stay, I can stay! I wanna’ watch cartoons, too!”
“I’m going to let them stay, C.J.” Libby said as she bent over the couch to kiss the boys goodbye. “It’s not like you have to actually babysit them or anything.”
C.J. emitted an elongated form of that notorious breath of air and marched off to her bedroom.
Libby stood at the front door looking weary, then whispered with an exaggerated, cheesy smile, “Thanks! And you have a wonderful day, too, honey!”
The boys laughed. Libby stepped out the front door with a final wave goodbye into the September morning, already burning with Arizona heat. Most days, she battled even three-alarm weather to walk to school, pulling her pile of books and papers behind her in a plastic crate strapped to a travel cart. Maybe she looked a little nerdy but she was past caring. Walking took more time than driving and she loved that. The walk to school was almost literally the only time she had to herself in a day. That is, when the boys weren’t with her, yammering her ears off with endless re-enactments of cartoons or video game adventures. So when Marty and Jesse chose to head out to school later in the morning, which they did more and more now, she absolutely luxuriated in the thirteen whole minutes of blissful solitude. Since her divorce five years ago, she had been overwhelmed with raising three young children almost entirely alone...except for the weekly Father-knows-best phone call from Scotland where Martin was working as a contractor. Doing some computer stuff, she didn’t even understand what, exactly.
Libby had just passed the next door neighbor’s driveway when she heard C.J. calling after her.
“Mommy!”
Suddenly, Libby’s heart ached lovingly. Her baby didn’t hate her after all. C.J. wanted to say good-bye properly. She twirled around to graciously accept her daughter’s apology.
“Here, you forgot to sign my paper.”

Ah, yes, alone time. Libby walked slowly and tried to enjoy the morning air, despite the heat, despite the dingy surroundings, despite the occasional graffitied message on a block wall, despite the pitbull mix (an unbelievably popular choice throughout the neighborhood) snarling and barking in a backyard, despite the garbage truck that just rumbled by, leaving that last trash bin lying tipped over on the sidewalk with some leftover garbage spilling out of it. Libby stepped around it with a sigh. She found herself slowing her pace even more. She had passed the half way point. Now, instead of soaking up the solitude, she was trudging closer with every step to Tuppence Turngreen Traditional Academy.

“And so, Staff, after reviewing our test scores from last year, you can see that the scores have improved consistently since the parents and school board voted to make the transition to a back-to-basics format two years ago.” The principal of Turngreen Traditional Academy, Dr. Janet Strictmeyer gave her teachers a forced smile. “Congratulations on your success.”
Mona leaned slightly toward Libby, whispering, “And by that she means, ‘You’re welcome for your success.’” Libby repressed a giggle, breathing out shakily through her nostrils and choking slightly. She knew every teacher in this meeting was thinking the exact same thing, that their principal believed herself to be solely responsible for the improved test scores, for every little success at Turngreen.
Dr. Strictmeyer’s dronings had turned to more playground restrictions. “We can no longer allow students to kick rubber balls on the playground. This may seem extreme but some of these kids are on regulation soccer teams. They can really kick a ball. A student could get hit in the head with a rubber ball moving at high speed and a kid with a head injury now is certain litigation on the horizon. So no more kicking playground balls. Students may throw the ball, gently, back and forth...but only while standing in place.”
Dr. Strictmeyer gestured to the new fourth grade teacher, Blithe Daring. “Ms. Daring will be in charge of monitoring the adherence to these new regulations. Do you have anything to add, Ms. Daring?”
A petite, blonde, thirty-something teacher, sitting alone, smiled as if she were trying to swallow a mouthful of Kaopectate. She was wearing an orange and yellow smock type blouse covered in a bold flowered pattern.
“Just that I’ll be putting a form in everyone’s mailbox to ask how the new regulations are working out,” she said quietly, nodding in conclusion, “Thank you, uh, Dr. Strictmeyer.” The normally spirited Blithe had quickly developed a strong aversion to being singled out at a staff meeting. When the poor woman was first introduced at the initial back-to-school meeting after summer break, she had made the serious mistake of calling the principal, Janet. Dr. Strictmeyer corrected her immediately in front of the entire staff much to Blithe’s embarrassment.
“What do you mean, Ms. Daring? I don’t recall you having any form approved by me. What is the purpose of this form?”
Blithe’s eyes grew wide and she spoke slowly, hoping to avoid saying something wrong.
“It’s sort of a questionnaire asking whether or not the new regulations are accomplishing our goals for increased safety on the playground...you know, to see if we need to make any adjustments.”
“There will be no adjustments, Ms. Daring.” Dr. Strictmeyer sighed impatiently. “I can see I’ll have to be careful to give you more guidance in the future. Your assignment was not to ask if teachers LIKE the new regulations but to report to me if they do not adhere to them. Okay, finally, I would like to speak to you all regarding the length of class bathroom breaks.”
All eyes were cast down uncomfortably as the bright colors of Blithe’s blouse faded in comparison to the burning pink of her face.

“I felt so sorry for her!” Mona leaned on a counter in Libby’s room while Libby deftly tossed graded papers in student “cubbies” shortly after the staff meeting had ended.
“Gosh, I know! Poor thing. She doesn’t really seem to have made any friends here yet, either. You and I should really try to, you know, reach out to her.”
Mona made a face. “Ah, I don’t know. She’s far too young and pretty. And I don’t trust anyone with that much fashion sense.”
Libby laughed out loud as she started sharpening a can full of pencils. “Okay, maybe friend is too strong of a word,” she joked, “Maybe we could shoot for just friendLY.”
“I’ll tell you who I’d like to make friends with. That Mr. Nimowa. Dang, he’s a cutie.”
“Yeah, and almost young enough to be your son or mine!”
“Understood but there’s nothing wrong with appreciating a little Polynesian beefcake in gym shorts.”
“Polynesian? Is he Polynesian?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Nimowa sounds Polynesian to me.”
“But he totally looks white.”
“Well, that dark, curly hair...”
“No, I think Nimowa sounds Japanese.”
Libby’s first grade teammate, Jamie from next door, walked into the room. The younger woman was carrying a small stack of books.
“Here are your apple books back. Thanks for letting me borrow them. Where do you want them?”
“Well, you can tell by looking at him that he’s not Japanese,” continued Mona.
“Thanks, Jamie. Just set them on my desk. Maybe he was adopted.” Now Libby was sweeping loose papers into neat little stacks and putting them away.
“Well, he could’ve been adopted by a Polynesian couple as well as a Japanese couple.”
Jamie, who had been heading back to her room, paused in the doorway. “What are you two talking about?”
Mona started laughing and Libby answered, “Oh, we’re being ridiculous. We’re just wondering about the origin of Mr. Nimowa’s last name.”
Jamie’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yeah, Ron Nimowa! Talk about eye candy! But I’d say Nimowa is definitely Native American. Like Inuit or something.”
“I’d better get going,” Mona said glancing at the clock and springing toward the door. “The bell’s about to ring and I have to make some copies but I still maintain that there’s nothing wrong with appreciating a little ethnically undefined beefcake in gym shorts!”
“Beefcake!” Libby snorted, “Does anyone even say that anymore?”
“Are you calling me old fashioned? What am I supposed to say?”
“You’re supposed to say sex on a stick,” Jamie informed them as she and Mona headed out the door together.
“Don’t say that!” Libby shrieked after them, “My class has P.E. today and I’m going to be all embarrassed to see him!”

As a teacher, Libby Lawson felt like a big bowl of Rice Krispies. She started out each morning full of energy, crackling and snapping away, with a satisfying crunch but by the end of the afternoon, she was an unpleasant mound of soggy mush. Every morning she had the pleasure of being greeted cheerfully by cute, little faces with often toothless smiles. Most of her students were well behaved and enthusiastic and those who might not be responded well to her calm, respectful classroom management style. She and her students worked together, laughed and sometimes cried together, and mostly learned together. But at the end of the day, she was drained by all of the rules, regulations and requirements. The adhering, the monitoring, the testing. Almost every little part of the day, every lesson was scripted for her. She had to say and do what was provided for her as part of the back-to-basics curriculum. It left very little room for any fun. And the kids needed fun. She needed fun! At least the kids had P.E!
“Okay, First Graders, make a choice for your hands before we go into the hallway.”
Mrs. Lawson’s students quickly straightened their line, some linking their hands behind their backs, some putting their hands in their pockets, others crossing their arms in front of them.
“Good job, everybody. Thank you.” They moved in a quiet single file line into the hallway as Tashaad importantly held the door open for everyone. As they continued down the hallway, some students forgot their choices for keeping hands still and a few arms started flailing. Libby was weary so near the end of the day and, as she redirected the students with flapping arms, the impatient tone tingeing her voice was evidence that she was more than ready to leave these little cuties with someone else for a while.
“Well, hello there, Mrs. Lawson.”
“Hi, Mr. Nimowa. How are you today?” Libby did not hear his response as she was eyeing him carefully for any evidence of Native American heritage. His creamy complexion was definitely a little dusky. Nimowa couldn’t be Italian, could it? French was certainly out of the question.
“Okay, boys and girls, let’s head out to the sports court and get in our squads.” He glanced at Libby. He was used to teachers high-tailing it out of there to go make copies or track down some chocolate. She started with a laugh.
“Oh, ha! Long day! Have fun, kiddos.” She hurried away embarrassed. Yes, he certainly looked good in a pair of gym shorts but he was a mere boy, she reminded herself. She went off in search of some much needed chocolate.
Instead of turning down her hallway, Libby headed toward the hallway housing the third and fourth grade classrooms. She and Mona had taught first grade together a few years ago but Mona had moved up to third grade. Mona would be teaching right now but Libby knew her friend wouldn’t mind if she snuck in silently and snagged some chocolate from her jar of rewards for good students.
As she turned the corner, Libby saw Blithe Daring, the new fourth grade teacher, in the hallway with her students. There was a quiet commotion going on, students were actively engaged in something intriquing. Libby slowed down and watched. A enormously long piece of butcher paper was attached to the wall. Students were covering it with colorful strokes of paint. When Blithe turned and saw her, her already bright smile brightened by a watt or two.
“Hello, Mrs. Lawson. How do you like our mural?”
“It’s cool. What’s this for?” Libby was confused. Had Dr. Strictmeyer emailed a memo demanding that classes create some kind of a mural? Was there a community night coming up that required hallway decorations? How had she missed this? She’d better find out and get started right away.
“Oh, we just read Holes.” Blithe explained, “Do you know that book? The kids LOVED it and we’re creating a mural as a culminating project. See, Callie and Elizabeth are painting Mr. Sir right here.” She walked along the mural pointing out the characters, “Nate and Danny are in charge of Zero. Here’s Caveman. Nice job, girls. I love this kind of project because it shows the kids’ level of comprehension plus it gives them a great creative outlet.”
It really was a great mural. Libby was enthralled by the wide expanse of white paper, the shining swirls of wet paint, the fat and skinny brush strokes formed into a mass of curly hair or mysterious initials on a tube of lipstick and the wonderful story it all joyously worked together to tell. It stirred something within her. She assumed it was jealousy, that Blithe Daring had the nerve and creativity to do something so off script. At that moment, Libby saw Dr. Strictmeyer coming down the hallway, ever present clipboard gripped in her hand, apparently for taking note of any wrongdoing. Suddenly, Libby was thankful that she did not possess Blithe’s creative abandon.