At the End of the Day

It was an aptitude she had, never to look half finished; when she was really exhausted, as she often on her return to Hetton after these days in London, she went completely to pieces quite suddenly and became a waif; then she would sit over the fire with a cup of bread and milk, hardly alive...

-Evelyn Waugh, A Handful of Dust

A few times a week, I fall into a trance at the end of the day, staring into space and trying to forget the last fifty minutes. These dazed minutes come on the days when the last class drives me to distraction, when I spend more time in the hallway, talking to individual miscreants, than inside teaching anything at all. At the end of such a class, especially on a Friday, no amount of grading, planning, or preparing on the horizon can drag me from the meditative state, nor can I get anything done until I've spent a few indulgent minutes reading movie reviews on the Seattle Weekly web site. No, the Times will not do. The real paper is for when I'm mostly alive and awake--times like these call for cynicism to match my own.

It is two boys and a teacher who interrupt me today. I look up slowly, carefully, and take in the presence of guests. I'll have to pull myself together enough to have a conversation. With the teacher, I discuss plans to attend the basketball games this afternoon, which sounds less and less attractive with each passing Friday minute. Then, our conversation turns to the two students who are obviously waiting for my attention. One of them is quiet and sweet, and he sits pleasantly in a desk to wait while I scowl at his companion.

The friend is tall and lanky, the captain of the freshman basketball team, and had contributed to the demise of my third period today, which crumbled to chaotic ruin about halfway through. He now bounces on the balls of his feet eagerly.

"When's the last JVC game?" my colleague asks him. He shrugs. Typical, I think with scorn.

"Can I use your computer to check, Ms. D?"

I raise my eyebrows skeptically, and shake my head. "Nope."

He laughs. "She thinks I'm going to eat her computer, or something. Just cause I got sent out today."

"Well, just let me know when you find out," my fellow teacher is saying. I consider the captain, standing there with his hands in his pockets, and I know he'll ask about his grade in a minute and request some assignments I've already given him. Still, it's just a computer, I hesitate. Maybe I'm being a little protective. With an overly-dramatic sigh--a teenager sigh--I stand up and motion to my wooden desk chair.

"Oh, you're going to let me use it!"

"Wait, stop! Are you taking a bite?" the other student jokes.

Fifteen minutes later, after I've given the good grades lecture to both students and the other have gone, the team captain lurks at a desk while I stand up to straighten up the tornado disaster of my classroom. I still have papers to grade, a spreadsheet to create, and an assignment to write before I leave today, but I can carry on a conversation while I clean. And it's clear that he has more to say. We begin to talk about the varsity team, which seems to fall apart toward the end of every season as its players' grades dwindle.

"You just need to promise me that you will still have good grades when you're a senior," I say, picking up dropped pieces of paper from under a desk.

"Oh, I know. We'll be great." There's something amiss in this answer, though, coming from the tired captain at the end of a losing season, some disappointment at the prospect of three more seasons like this one.

"No, really, you're great people," I insist, tossing the paper in the recycle bin and poking at the media projector on the ceiling with a broom to turn it off.

I hope he understands, that he can see far enough ahead to realize why it might mean something that he has a collection of outstanding gentlemen on his basketball team. For me, it means not worrying that we are training athletes only, grooming them for a life on the court that they can't sustain beyond it. It means knowing that they are stellar all-around. For him, it will mean four years with the same team, with boys who grow to young men of responsibility and consistency. I'm not a coach, but I would have great hopes for this team if I were.

He nods, but does not reply. After a minute, he looks up at me, watching me chase fragments of paper around the classroom floor with a broom.

"Hey, can I help? Like, can I sweep, or something?"

As I hand him the broom and begin gratefully to sort the assignments scattered across my desk, I'm thinking that the freshman basketball team has a great deal of potential with this sort of leadership. But I'm mostly considering the ways I feel kindness. This act of service has redeemed the day and brought me back from the brink of cynical despair. I remember a few months ago saying that I didn't mind that no one ever brought be flowers or took me out for opulent dinners; the most romantic gesture I could think of was someone coming and mowing my lawn or fixing my car. At the end of this dreadful day, the boy who is silently sweeping the floor, without being asked or offered any extra credit, has given me something worth a thousand bouquets of flowers.