Part 67: Victoria

So this was detention. It wasn’t that bad. Victoria didn’t know what she had been expecting, but something more than just sitting in the same boring classroom for an extra forty-five minutes, looking at the same stupid posters and clock she looked at every day for forty-five minutes. Plus Mr. Brown didn’t talk during detention, just sat there and read his stupid book, so if anything it was a little bit better than class. What a silly thing to have been afraid of.

What she had really been afraid of, though, was being a Bad Kid. Only Bad Kids got detention, and Bad Kids also did drugs and stole and drank alcohol and got pregnant (or got people pregnant) and went to jail. But now, the phrase struck her with a sort of thrill.

I’m a Bad Kid, she said to herself dozens of times. I got detention. I’m a Bad Kid who got detention for yelling at a teacher.

She couldn’t wait to tell Hannah - except that she couldn’t tell Hannah, since her mom took away her computer for “literally no reason” (as she told Courtney Collins that morning) and Hannah had run away from home (she and Courtney figured out during math) to escape from her mom and from James (they had decided at Lunch), who was basically stalking her, and who was also an awful lot like a younger version of Mr. Brown (Victoria, solo, had concluded a few minutes into English.)

And then Mr. Brown had done something even more James-like and called on her when she didn’t have her hand up, even though, like, ten other people in the class did have their hands up.

“I don’t know,” she had said.

“Well, will you at least try? Make a guess? It’s okay to be wrong. Actually, there’s no such thing as wrong when it comes to literature.”

He obviously didn’t mean this last part, though, because her answer of “Uh, racism?” got a scowl.

“Alright, let’s backtrack a second. What was the question I asked?” he had asked, still focused on just her, like the rest of the class, with their hands up and/or their smirks, was only background.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.”

“Mm. Well, some people can get away with not listening and still know the answers. But it's time you realize you’re not Hannah.” And now he looked around at the rest of the class, as if they were on his side. “Want me to ask the question again?”

“No, not really.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no, not really. I don’t care about your stupid questions and I don’t care about stupid mockingbirds!”

“Alright, that’s enough. One more word and it’s detention.”

“But I--"

“Oh.” He looked around in mock surprise. “What was that? I thought it sounded like a word.”

Some of the class laughed nervously, and evidently he took it as a sign that they were laughing with him, at Victoria, that he had won the battle. He stood a little straighter, shimmied a little bit, and cleared his throat to signal that they were switching gears back to the book.

Victoria wasn’t sure at that moment if she had detention or not. But all the Jamesiness of the encounter had gotten to her, so she blurted out, “But I thought you wanted me to answer your question.”

Laughter again. This time it emboldened Victoria; it meant her classmates were with her.

“You know, maybe if you weren’t so boring maybe people would actually pay attention.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said again. “You’ve already earned yourself one detention, perhaps you’d like another? Or are you done?”

So she did have detention. So she might as well:

“Almost. Just don’t talk about Hannah behind her back. If you’ve got something to say, say it to her face. Alright. I’m done now.” And she had sat back down, her face red, nearly crying, and it hit her what she had done, who she had been talking to.

But now, having had a whole trip to her locker and then the girls’ bathroom with Courtney Collins to fill her in, she was proud of herself. She had been sticking up for her friend, she had been telling the truth, and she had been making a name for herself - not as Hannah’s sidekick, which is what everyone thought of her as (Courtney informed her via the bathroom mirror they were both staring into) but as her Own Person, which is what she would need to be in high school where the teachers were even worse than Mr. Brown.

*

To punish or not to punish?

Hamlet, after all, never had kids or a job, or else he would have had other things to worry about.

On the one hand: he was an authority figure, and respect for authority and hierarchy was important in this world, especially since the next most obvious target would be her, Mrs. Brixton.

On the other: he was a man, and a man who was trying to force her to read a book (surely written by another man), which was their most obnoxious manifestation.

On the one: her behavior and had been getting worse lately and it was a slippery slope from here to pregnancy or prison, to fulfilling the promise of her genes.

The other: she had already taken away the only thing Victoria actually cared about.

The one: she expected the teachers to pander to her interests and didn’t have any concept of discipline or self-reliance or personal responsibility.

The other: it was English class and the teacher was one of those washed-up college-socialists who said there was no such thing as truth.

The one: the argument was about Hannah, who was a bad influence.

The other: she was defending Hannah, her female friend and role model.

The one: it sounded, from what she could gather, like the teacher had been complimenting Hannah’s intelligence, and Victoria shouldn't be so impulsive, so quick to react.

The other: complimenting Hannah was a way of insulting Victoria.

On the one hand, Elizabeth.

On the other, James.

*

Detention ended at 3:05, exactly 45 minutes after the dismissal bell and, not coincidentally, the time that the GHMS teachers’ contract stipulated that all teachers were allowed to depart school premises. (The result of a fierce debate and icy compromise between the union, who insisted upon 3:00, based on the standard of the eight-hour work day, and the superintendent, whose rationale was along the lines of “back when I was a teacher, we stayed until five, six o’clock in the evening sometimes grading papers, and then we would still have to go home and be parents, these teachers today, half of them don’t even have families, they’re just those, what-do-you-call-them, yuppies, in their twenties, probably out of the profession in a couple of years, what do they need to get home for so quick, huh?”)

But around 3:03, Mr. Brown decided he wanted to Talk to Victoria, and so it was no longer the clock but his words that kept her prisoner.

He looked up at her over his stupid book, with his stupid beard and stupid sweater (the word “stupid” presided over their encounter - it was what he had called her, and Victoria believed in fighting fire with fire) and said deliberately, “Victoria, you know why you are here, right?”

“Yeah,” she replied, hoping this could mean he’d let her go early.

“Okay. Why?”

A test. What was with him and his stupid tests? “Because I was . . . disrespectful?” she tried.

He nodded, accepted the word. But it wasn’t enough for him. “Yes, that’s true. But I want you to try to see things from my point of view. Climb into my skin and walk around in it for a bit, so to speak. How do you think you would have reacted if you were in my shoes?”

“Uh . . ." Skin and shoes was jarring. "The same way, I guess?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He did one of those back-and-forth head-bob things. “Who knows? It’s impossible to say, really. And maybe I didn’t handle things the absolute best way that I could have. So I apologize for that. I shouldn’t have compared you to Hannah. You’re different people with different strengths and different weaknesses, even though one of you may have more of one and the other may have more of the other. You’re still individuals.”

“Yeah.” Could he see the clock from his angle? Was he the kind of guy who wore a watch - yeah, he probably was, wasn’t he, but he wasn’t looking at it, he was still looking at her. What did he want from her? What were the magic words that would release her? “It’s okay. No big deal.”

“You understand though, don’t you,” he continued, placing down his book, face down, the way he told them never to do. (He was one of those things, that word Hannah had taught her.) “Why I couldn’t allow you to get away with talking to me like that? Why I had to give you detention?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Again? It was 3:05 now; she should be free. “Because then I’d think it was okay?” she guessed.

“And because. It sets a precedent. Do you know what the word precedent means?”

No point lying. “No, Mr. Brown.”

He chuckled. “Funny, it was one of our vocabulary words earlier in the year. But that’s alright, that’s alright. A precedent is . . . like . . . well, it’s kind of hard to explain, but let me give you an example. So, if you talked back to me and didn’t get in trouble, well, the next person who wanted to might think, hey, Victoria didn’t get in trouble, so neither will I. You would have set a precedent. You see? You understand?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“You don’t belong here, Victoria. You’re a good kid.”

“Kid?” Kid by itself meant someone male.

“Young person? Young lady?”

“Ew.”

“Yeah, ew.” He seemed to think they were reaching common ground; connecting. Maybe that was good. Maybe that was what he needed. 3:07; her mom, who was always on time, was probably mad that she had to wait so long in the parking lot. On top of the mad she already was from having to leave work. She was the boss so she could leave whenever she wanted, but she loved work. “Well, whatever you are, you’re not a bad one.”

“I know that.”

“And I’m not a bad guy, either,” he went on. “I know you all probably think I’m the devil, but I’m just trying to do my job. You do get that, don’t you? At the end of the day?"

“Sure, I get it.” What would Hannah say here? Hannah would have already been free. No, Hannah would have gotten out of the detention before it started, with the same magic that got them onto the floor of the concert.

“Alright, well . . .” Did that mean she was free to go? No, she had to wait for him to say so. She wanted desperately to ask, to glance at the clock, but the wrong move could make him go on even longer. “Well, I feel like I’ve apologized for my part in our little, uh, misunderstanding this afternoon. But it’s a two-way street, you know.”

Oh, it was like Kindergarten! “Sorry, Mr. Brown,” she said, employing the familiar childhood melody.

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for being disrespectful.”

“And?”

There was more? “And . . . doing a precedent?” she guessed.

He frowned. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you?”

“I can’t help but feel like,” Mr. Brown said, “you’re only apologizing because you feel like you have to. But I want to feel like you’re apologizing of your own voli--free will. Like you’re really sorry. Can I get a little bit more of a sincere apology?”

Victoria didn’t know how to do this. “I’m sincerely sorry?” she tried.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. She took advantage of the opportunity to look at the clock: 3:09! “Alright, Victoria,” he said finally. “I guess that’s the best I’m gonna get from you. You’re free to go. Detention over.” He smiled, as if the detention was some inside joke they had shared - not a detention but a 'detention,' as if they had just been playing school.

She made it almost to the door before he started again, needing the last word: “Hey, Victoria?”

She should have kept going, pretended she didn’t hear him - that’s what a real Bad Kid would have done, that’s what Hannah would have done - but she turned. “Yeah?”

“I hope you don’t feel like you have to take Hannah’s place while she’s away.”

“I don’t.”

“I hope not.” And with this, he closed his book, started packing up his stuff, which meant she was really free to go. He was leaving, too. And if he kept her any longer, that would mean walking out together, which neither of them wanted.

Only one word was reverberating in Victoria’s head. Away!?