"Good Austin, Ninja Austin" by Shannon McLeod
Originally published in Teacher Voice, “Good Austin, Bad Austin” is an excerpt from Shannon’s forthcoming novella, Whimsy, available for preorder from Long Day Press
I don't know if you ever recover from the feeling of thirty pairs of eyes all staring at you in concert, especially when they’re watching you during your first day on the job. Thankfully, it’s not a feeling a teacher needs to get used to. By the third day of school, you only have half of the class’s attention at any given time. It’s a relief once the pressure’s off. By Halloween you’re at the bottom of the kids’ lists of interests.
In the morning, students were sizing each other up in the hallways, concerned with their decisions about whether or not to dress up. Most of the seventh graders hadn’t worn costumes to school. They were too “mature.” But they would inevitably beg for candy with their younger siblings that night. A few unfortunate ones assumed this year would be no different from sixth grade—when they were in the elementary school and marched alongside the kindergarteners in the Halloween parade. Angelo was dressed as a clown, with full makeup, a rainbow wig, and what must have been his dad’s red Converse sneakers. He was dragging a stuffed dachshund behind him on a leash, chuckling uneasily as his classmates laughed at him from the sides of the hallway. The clique of girls from the volleyball team all wore mouse ears. I watched McKenzie drawing whiskers on each girl’s cheeks in front of her locker. Three of them were in my first-period English class, where I’d intentionally split them up. Their assigned seats marked three corners of the room, so they weren’t close enough to throw glances at each other when I’d make a pop culture reference they disapproved of.
The warning bell rang and I left my hall post outside of my classroom door. I was convinced they’d given me (the newbie) this room because of the undesirable location. Here, the hallway bent, and my classroom door was set in a semi-hidden alcove, so students sought out this location for fights and make-out sessions. I had a broom by the door for when I needed to break up physical altercations of either variety.
Inside, the kids were already eating candy. Someone must have swiped a bag from their parents this morning because almost a dozen of them were gnawing on mini Snickers at their seats when the final bell rang, peanuts and crumbles of chocolate falling to their laps and onto the floor.
Austin W. sauntered in late, as usual, with his backpack slung over one shoulder. The other day, I’d heard the department chair in the teacher’s lounge say, “This year they’re all named Austin. I can hardly keep track of all the Austins. A few years ago they were all named Hunter. Do you remember that?” The art teacher she’d been talking to nodded with her mouth full of noodles. And she was right. There were three in my first period, alone. Austin W. was barely five feet tall. If a group of people were to approximate his age, I’d wager the average guess would be seven and a half years old. He had a baby face, baby-thin blond hair, and wore thick glasses that magnified his eyes to Disney-character proportions. The first week of school, after I’d sent him to the office four days in a row, Judith, the vice principal, told me I had to start disciplining him in class. “He’s just so cute that he gets away with murder,” she said. “And you need to show him he can’t pull that crap.”
Wasn’t that her job? I thought. I was still learning.
Austin W. often talked to himself in an argumentative tone. I had a theory that he was trying to trick his classmates into thinking he had friends. Maybe he thought if he spoke aloud among groups, onlookers would think he was having a real conversation with someone nearby. A conversation where hewas the intimidating one. Austin W. was wearing a ninja costume. One of the mouse girls made a crack about Power Rangers, and he responded by lunging his little hooded head toward her; “Beat yer ass,” he mumbled. At the beginning of the year, it was alarming to witness a seven-year-old-looking child speak this way. Eventually, I learned to ignore it, like his classmates more or less had. I couldn’t send him to the office for these offenses anymore. Until I figured out how to deal with them, I decided to pretend I had a hearing impairment.
I began my lesson on apostrophes. We started each day with grammar. I was looking forward to getting this mandatory chore out of the way so that I could present the Halloween-themed creative writing prompts I had prepared as a special treat. I was excited to do something fun and festive with the kids. I’d written a short story inspired by a macabre illustration I’d found on the internet. The plan was to turn the lights off and play the “Sounds of Halloween” screams track while I read the story, with the image of the old woman and her decapitated child projected on the board. After I modeled the activity for the kids, they would choose from a selection of other scary images and write their own stories.
On the board I wrote three sentences that needed apostrophes. The students copied them down. Austin W. sat at his corner seat closest to the door and karate chopped the air. In early September, I’d placed him in the front of the room. During my student teaching, my mentor advised me to put the troublemakers up front, so they would be more likely to focus on the lesson. But being at the front just meant Austin W. had the whole class as his audience behind him. And it was harder to ignore him when he was up front. Now, I’d strategically placed him with two vacant desks surrounding him: one to the side and one in front of him. He was isolated, and that was the best I could do for classroom management. The student closest to him was Austin G. (or “Good Austin,” as I called him in my head), who sat kitty-corner to Austin W. Austin W. leaned over and pretended to karate-chop Good Austin’s head. After a few slices of Austin W.’s hand through the air, Good Austin must have felt the slight breeze, because he swatted above him and the two slapped hands. “Heyyy,” Good Austin whined as he swiveled around in his chair.
“Austin G., why don’t you come up here and fix the first sentence on the board for me?” I said to distract from a potential hissy fit. He was always eager to show how good he was, so he walked up to the board, took the dry-erase marker from my hand, and added the apostrophes to the correct possessives and contractions. Next, I called on Liam and then Ciara.
I instructed the students to put away their grammar and get out their journals. I turned off the lights and laughed maniacally. A few students giggled. Brody feigned a girly shriek and laughter erupted. I put on the Halloween music and turned on the projector, revealing the gruesome illustration. In the low light, I could see the whites of most of their eyes, their attention rapt. I began to read my story, in a low, creepy voice. I got that giddy feeling in my abdomen: the rare sensation I feel when my lesson is going as planned and the students are all engaged.
“He was a bad little boy,” I read in my creepy voice. “Each day, he woke his grandmother from her afternoon nap with some kind of prank.” I looked up from my paper and scanned the students. Good Austin was turned around again, swatting away Austin W.
“Miss Quinn, Austin isn’t supposed to be wearing a hood. No hoods or hats!” Good Austin called.
I walked down the aisle of desks, reading the next paragraph, so as not to lose the attention of the other students. I kept glancing at the clock, hoping the students would have enough time to write their stories and share with partners.
“Miss Quinnnn,” he whined.
I did not respond to Good Austin, but I paused my reading once I reached Austin W.’s desk. I leaned down and whispered, “You need to take off your hood, Austin.”
He folded his arms and turned away from me quickly, like a toddler who hasn’t gotten their way.
I read another sentence. At this point, all of the students had turned around. They were more interested in my feud with Austin than the decapitation of the little boy in the story.
“You can have this back when you take off your hood.” I began to slide Austin’s cherished Transformers lunchbox off his desk. He grabbed it and pulled back. I sighed and let go. The class’s learning was more important than this, I decided. I walked back to the board as I read the next sentence of the story, “Granny knew the way to teach the boy.” I glared at Austin. I couldn’t see his eyes, because his glasses reflected the light from the projector. I hoped he was looking. I hoped he could tell what I was communicating to him with my stare.
Austin W. smirked. He lifted the lunchbox from his desk. His smile widened as he threw it at me. The hard corner hit my shoulder. I heard gasps and a lone guffaw, probably Brody. I looked up at Austin, his glasses like little lasers below his polyester ninja hood. My face turned hot, my ears scalding. I reached down to pick up the lunchbox. My arm began to throw it back toward him, but my brain interfered and instead I pulled my aim to the floor. The tin lunchbox clattered against the linoleum. Chloe sped from her chair to the back of the room. She took the emergency bathroom pass off the hook on the wall on her way out the door. I watched her ponytail flop down the hallway.
I decided to keep going. There was only one paragraph left in my story, and damn it if I would let Austin W. ruin my lesson plans. I heard whispers among the students. I cleared my throat and read louder, not realizing I’d ditched my theatrical voice. I was speeding through the story now. I had reached the point where the grandmother was tying a thin metal wire across the boy’s play areas, soon to call him in to build blocks with her. I looked back at the image on the board, remembering to read in my shrill old lady voice. “Come here, boy! Come play with me!”
The light flicked on. In the doorway stood Judith, her mouth agape. Chloe cowered close behind her. The class was silent. Only to be interrupted by a shriek from the CD player on my desk.
###
During my planning period I walked down to the office. Judith wanted to see me. I hadn’t spoken to the principal since he’d hired me, but I was becoming quite familiar with Judith. I felt the tension in my chest—which had become part of my regular state since the school year started—intensify. As I approached the main office, I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants and opened the door. I peeked into Judith’s office. She was eating fundraiser caramel corn from its plastic pail with one hand and typing an email with the other. Her desk was cluttered with decorative picture frames. They held several photos of her standing among groups of students: in the halls on “wacky hair day,” in the gym at a basketball game, in front of the science center during a field trip.
Judith popped a kernel into her mouth and then held up one finger in the air. I took a seat at the small table. This was where she had her talks with students who’d been sent to her. Where I’d sent Austin W. on so many occasions.
I wondered about the likelihood that she would fire me. Maybe leave me home the rest of the week and dock my pay. I had fantasized about quitting, but I didn’t really want to leave. Starting all over again would be a nightmare. If I could even find another teaching job.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, instinctively, not thinking. It was Rikesh, with whom I’d had a first date a week ago, followed by radio silence. I’d been waiting for his call for days, obsessively checking my phone at two-minute intervals.
“Is that an emergency or something?” I looked up from the screen to see Judith’s left eyebrow hitched, taunting me. She had spun around in her office chair. Ready to confront me.
“Uh, no.” I put the phone back in my pocket.
“This is the thing about teaching.” She leaned back in her chair and it squeaked. “It needs to be the most important thing in your life. Otherwise, you’ll be mediocre. Anyone can be a mediocre teacher. I don’t want mediocre teachers here. Mediocre teachers do damage to children’s development and harm their tenuous attitude toward school.” She paused to inhale, then leaned closer to me again, her breath sugary and cloying. “Middle school is the make it or break it time when it comes to a child’s relationship with education.”
“Right, and I—”
She held her finger up again, and I closed my mouth.
“As I was saying, anyone can be a mediocre teacher. But it takes almost all your energy to be a great teacher. Because it takes up all your patience. All your commitment. If your mind, and your commitments, are elsewhere, you won’t make it to year two.”
That was it: a lecture. It had been enough for me, though. I left her office shaking, intent that I would do better, be better.
As I walked down the hallway, I fingered my cell phone in my pocket. I headed to the only single bathroom, which was tucked behind the band room. This was my safe space, where I’d gone to cry enough times that I could no longer count them on one hand. I locked the door behind me. The light flickered—bright, then dimmer—making the tiles appear varying shades of yellowish, then off-white at its brightest. I carefully laid toilet paper on the seat, and then sat down. I heard the brass section on the other side of the wall. The buzzing of trumpets. The awkward sliding tone of the trombones.
I looked at my phone. It really was Rikesh who’d called. I was worried I’d imagined it, or misread the screen during that quick glance in the office. He’d left a voicemail. My stomach felt like an elevator car. I remembered Judith’s words, and, in an impulsive moment of self-punishment, I deleted it.
I felt what I thought was triumph. I could choose to be less selfish, to escape mediocrity.
The percussion section thundered a climbing drumroll. I placed my free hand against the tiled wall, feeling for the vibration. I imagined the instructor lifting his hands up, directing a crescendo. I pictured the students’ eyes following him, all heeding his command.
I wiped my face with a damp paper towel, the scent of the recycled pulp like mulch. Lunch duty awaited me.
In the cafeteria, I stood by the trashcan, directing students to pick up the balled napkins that had missed the rim. Then a pressure bore down on my head. I reached up to feel the thin plastic rim of a witch’s hat. Judith was beside me, smirking. She smoothed out the tip, lifting it straight. “Show some Halloween spirit!” She shook my shoulder. “It’s for the kids.”
Shannon McLeod is the author of the essay chapbook PATHETIC (Etchings Press). Her novella, WHIMSY, is forthcoming from Long Day Press (March 2021). Her writing has appeared in Tin House Online, Necessary Fiction, Hobart, Joyland, Cheap Pop, and Wigleaf, among other publications. She teaches high school English in Virginia. You can find Shannon on twitter @OcqueocSAM or on her website at http://shannon-mcleod.com.
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In collaboration with our friends at @MythicPicnic, Malarkey Books is proud to publish Teacher Voice, an anthology of writing by teachers. Edited by DeMisty D. Bellinger and Alan Good, both college teachers, this book features stories, poems, and essays by thirteen talented teachers.
We are taking preorders now, and the first copies should ship in December. Please select Media Mail or First Class for shipping.
The cover was designed by Stuart Buck (@stuartmbuck on Twitter).
Featured writers:
Tomas Moniz
Shannon McLeod
Maya White-Lurie
Scott Garson
Wandeka Gayle
Noah Cain
Derek Heckman
Carman C. Curton
James Tate Hill
Chloe Yelena Miller
Siân Griffiths
Clarence Barbee
Jonathan Persinger
