Lex Pinkston actually brings his football buddies down to The Franks Lair during lunch, my boys merrily play Halo 3 with the enemy, and—to make matters even worse—under Franks’ supervision, everyone seems to get along, which pisses me off, so I go back into the lunchroom and read The Crucible by Arthur Miller.
Now, John Proctor was a man I can admire. Going to the gallows instead of giving up his friends to the witch hunt. Proctor was a man of principles, unlike Prince Tony and my boys, who jumped at the first chance they got to play video games with the cool kids—the same kids who called me a disgusting single-syllable word for a woman and made Ryan Gold cry less than forty-eight hours ago.
It’s all so depressing.
Confusing.
Messed up.
After school I collect Ricky at his locker and go to Franks’ room. Franks usually has to pick up his kids after school—because his wife isn’t a teacher and works regular adult hours—so Franks doesn’t stick around too long after the last bell, but I catch him in the hallway just before he is about to leave for the day.
“Did you even hear about what we did for you last night?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” Franks says, his hands full of folders. “Principal Fiorilli filled me in.”
“And?”
“And?”
I try to shrug off his lack of gratitude, but I can’t control the shocked expression on my face, which says, Aren’t you even going to say thanks?
“I appreciate your speaking on my behalf, Amber. And you too, Ricky.”
“Mr. Jonathan Franks is Ricky Roberts’ favorite teacher.”
Franks gives Ricky a quick but heartfelt high five.
“So why aren’t you like—more touched by our gesture?” I ask.
“Well—I’d like to think I’m keeping my job because I’m a good sales and advertising teacher, and not because you threatened the school board without bothering to ask how I felt about your doing so. Maybe the school board voted the way they did simply because they think I am a good teacher.”
I can’t even believe that he isn’t thanking me properly and freaking out with happiness. I thought Franks would hug me for sure. I really thought this was going to be our moment.
Something inside me snaps.
“What?” I say. “We saved your job, Franks. We did it. Us. Franks Freak Force Federation. Are you even serious with that good teacher crap? You play video games all day and offer kids easy electives so they can pad their GPAs. We saved your butt. Don’t you understand that? They would have fired you if it weren’t for us.”
As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I am sorry.
“Why did you really go to the school board meeting, Amber? For me, or for you? I don’t need saving. Do you?” Franks says very coolly. Then he adds, “If you need help, I’m willing to help you here at school. Anytime between 6:30 AM and 3:15 PM. Just ask. My door will always be open to you. But stop coming to my house. It crosses the line, Amber. It crosses the line.”
And then Franks walks away from us.
“Amber Appleton is crying. Why is Amber Appleton crying? Where is Amber Appleton going? Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying?”
I cry raging tears all the way to Donna’s house with Ricky trailing me.
“Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying? Why is Amber Appleton crying?”
He only stops repeating the question when he opens his math workbook and sits down at the kitchen table.
I let BBB out of his room; he pisses for a full minute—making a yellow river—and then jumps up into my arms.
I give him a long squeeze before I mop up the river with paper towels.
Before I leave, I give Ricky a bowl of pretzels and a can of mandarin orange seltzer, and then I’m on Donna’s bike, BBB in the basket.
“Stop crying,” I say to myself. “You have old people to cheer up. They believe in your ability to keep the tears at bay. They are depressed enough already about being old. Buck up, Amber! Buck up! You can’t battle when you’re crying. You need to defend your title. Stop crying!”