A Lesson Learned
A week passed “slowly, but well” (as Claire told Marvin in a letter.) Everyday was lengthy and strenuous, but she could see progress every night as she laid in bed reviewing that day’s happenings in her mind. Everyday for a week, it seemed that she was doing better and better. Not so much that things around her were progressing in the direction that she had hoped, but the difficult past was seeping away and the conversations had changed more to the upcoming holiday break instead of “what Claire did.” Trudy acted less harshly toward her, whenever they did come in contact, but this was rarely. They were still roommates, but a new student wouldn’t have guessed them to have been called friends. Judith and her “gang” were secretly jealous of the attention Claire had received and so also resolved to ignore her for the most part and have “great fun without her.” Pete Jenkins however was totally changed from the past. He did the opposite (as you may have noticed during history class) as everyone else. He paid so much attention to Claire, following her everywhere she went and acting like a complete gentleman, that Claire became both annoyed and suspicious.
“Claire! Wait for me!” He called Sunday morning.
It had been eight days since Claire’s “incident” and finally they had eaten breakfast without it being mentioned for the first time since. Claire was walking away from the table with her dish and fork. Every student was expected to take their things to the kitchen after every meal. Claire was all the way to the kitchen doors when Pete called to her. She waited for him impatiently until he arrived, out of breath and quite red in contrast to his black hair.
“Can I take that for you?” He asked enthusiastically.
Claire handed him the dishes quite briskly.
“You could’ve offered before I walked all the way over here.” She noted aloud.
Pete looked heartbroken.
“I’m sorry Claire, I really am. I wish I would’ve thought of that. You always have the best ideas Claire. You really do.” Pete said, so sickly sweet that Claire couldn’t help but reveal her disgust facially.
“That’s fine Peter,” She said, looking a little dizzy after his performance. “It is never too late to be a gentleman.”
Pete’s face lit up now. These days his moods and expressions were as fickle as springtime in Texas.
“Do you really think so Claire Dear?” He asked.
Claire’s eyes lit up.
“Pete Jenkins,” She said taking the dishes out of his arms. “I will take my own dishes. You seem to have mistaken me for someone else.”
Poor Pete was left dumbfounded, recapping every word he had spoken.
“Claire! What did I do Dear?” He asked, following her into the kitchen.
“That!” Claire said, setting her plate in the sink. “You called me “Dear”. I am not your sweetheart.” She explained, head shaking so as her sandy hair swung around like the ears of a spaniel.
“Oh, oh I see.” Pete said jaw still dropped in confusion.
“Good morning class!” Mr. Rueben said cheerfully the next morning.
A few students sighed, noting that Mr. Rueben was nearly always in a good mood before he did something odd.
“I’ve been reading,” He continued. “The Weekly Warble.”
The students snickered as their history teacher held up the newest edition of Malvina Dakota’s weekly newspaper. It was a famous rumor-starter and was “basically just gossip jotted down” as Trudy called it.
“I was reading about Claire Winters and Pete Jenkins.” He added.
Everyone made faces, sounds and turned colors, so numerous that I won’t bother listing them all.
“But,” Mr. Rueben said. “Knowing Claire, Pete and Malvina,” He said, looking mostly at Malvina. “I know that it isn’t true that they’ve been, quote, ‘kissing under the pale moonlight, dancing the night away,’ etc. etc. etc.”
And he tossed the paper in the wastebasket with a look of “beware” as the class burst into giggling.
“Now,” Mr. Rueben said straightening his vest. “Let us continue with the lesson and practice more respectable ways to use ink and paper.”
Judith passed a note to Trudy. Mr. Rueben looked up expectantly.
“Yes?” He asked.
Everyone shook their heads.
“We didn’t say anything.” Everyone said truthfully.
“No?” Mr. Rueben asked, scanning the class as he spoke. “I thought I heard a note being passed.”
A few people smirked.
“Ah!” He said after a moment. “What is that in your hand Trudy?”
Trudy bit her lip.
“I note.” She blurted.
“May I read it?” Mr. Rueben asked politely, though everyone knew that there wasn’t an option.
Trudy, who hadn’t even read the note for herself, nodded and got up. As she walked to the desk, she felt as if Judith was going to throw a knife into her back. Luckily she sat back down unharmed.
Tru,
You know how we used to say that Mr. Rueben looked peculiar? Well I’ve decided that he’s rather handsome. He may not be the best teacher…still odd…but he is good-looking, don’t you think?
Judith
Mr. Rueben smiled at Judith, who was hereby, nicknamed “Judith Red-Appleby,” and tossed the note on top of The Weekly Warble. Soon Judith regained her natural color and the class continued.
“Today is an unusual day,” Mr. Rueben began. “Not only is it the first November tenth, 1886 ever, it is also Teacher Question Day.”
Claire’s eyes jolted from her desk to her teacher’s face and a few boys made idiotic faces saying things like “What day?”
“Don’t worry!” Mr. Rueben said, putting his hands up as if to calm a wild dog. “Don’t check your calendar books or think that you were supposed to have anything prepared for this special occasion. Teacher Question Day is simply a day when you can ask whatever question you want. You aren’t all allowed a chance to ask questions during class and sometimes the off topic questions are pushed to the side, so I thought that a day dedicated to those questions might be welcomed.”
A hand appeared in the air.
“Yes Mr. Snow?” Mr. Rueben asked.
Bob fumbled through a history book.
“I have a question, sir; about page…103…paragraph four. What is ‘Black Friday’ referring to?”
Mr. Rueben took some time to locate his own copy of that book and find that particular paragraph and re-read it.
“Mm,” He grunted. “Here it is referring to a gold-speculation financial crisis in ’69. You can see the notes in the back for more information. Thank you for the interest Mr. Snow.”
Mr. Rueben scanned the classroom for more hands.
Another floated up like a hesitant balloon.
“Yes Miss Tyler?” He asked.
“Um, Mr. Rueben, what did you mean the other day when you said that page thirty in this book was wrong?” Wanda asked.
Mr. Rueben squinted.
“I meant what I said Miss Tyler. I don’t agree with page thirty. I told you that you could skip it because it was incorrect.”
Silence fell over the room.
“How many of you read that page after class?” He asked.
Most of the hands in the room were slowly appearing in midair.
“Did you all agree with it?” He asked.
The hands faded back into their laps, nobody wanting to respond.
“But Mr. Rueben,” Came Wanda’s screechy voice again. “The school requires this curriculum.”
“Yes!” Mr. Rueben said. “They do.” He looked frustrated at this thought.
“Anyone else?” He asked. “Miss Yar?”
Poppy who was, as you may remember, a “whiz” asked the next question.
“On page four paragraph one…” She began.
“Doesn’t anyone have any questions besides that involving the lessons?” Mr. Rueben interupted.
Everyone looked a little confused; after all, he was a teacher, not someone to make small talk with.
Finally, after a couple moments, Allen Jacobs, a hefty and blond Scotch boy, raised his hand.
“Why did you want to become a teacher?” He huffed over his plump chest which seemed too close to his chin.
Mr. Rueben didn’t miss a beat. He dismissed the question with a simple:
“I didn’t” And then looked for another hand.
Claire suddenly wondered why she was smiling. She felt proud of Mr. Rueben.
Many of the children raised their hands now like five year olds answering an arithmetic equation which they had memorized.
Mr. Rueben pointed casually to a girl who asked: “Why?”
“Because,” Said Mr. Rueben coolly. “Unfortunately in our modern America, poets are not respected, wealthy or famous. My father told me that I had to at least try to be one of these things…preferable all three. So he sent me to the best schools and told me to become a teacher.”
He was now behind his desk, shoulders and eyelids sagging slightly. He pointed to another hand, suddenly looking as if this class was exhausting him. The conversation went something like this:
Student 1: “You wanted to be a poet?”
Mr. Rueben: “I was a poet.”
Student 2:“My mum says that teaching a fine career.”
Mr. Rueben: “She should try it sometime.”
Student 2: “But aren’t you proud of Beekman?”
Mr. Rueben: “I am proud of each of you if that answers the question.”
Student 3: “Don’t you ever plan to marry?”
Mr. Rueben: “That depends.”
Student 4: “Imagine!”
Mr. Rueben: “Are there any other questions?”
Claire: “Are other classes celebrating “Teacher Question Day”?”
Mr. Rueben (smiling): “Not that I know of.”
That evening Claire sat on her bed and wrote to Marvin, then wadded the letter into a ball and threw it into the waste basket. Sighing, she fell onto her pillow.
“Claire?” Said Trudy, walking into the room.
“Mm?” Claire muttered, a little surprised to be spoken too.
“I want-I want to apologize.” Trudy said with the fearful expression that can be found in the eyes of someone who is repenting on their death-bed.
“What is the matter Tru? You know I’ve forgiven you. You believe my story, I can tell, and I don’t care about how you’ve treated me…we’ve treated each other. You know what they say about bygones…” Her heart was in her eyes, pleading for mending.
“But Claire,” Trudy said sitting down on the end of her roommate’s bed. “I’ve done something terrible.” She poked her face into a cotton handkerchief.
“You weren’t that terrible.” Claire soothed. “You didn’t understand at first…it is alright.”
“Not that!” Trudy said, now crying uncontrollably. “Something just now! I’ve betrayed you…and him.” She looked as if she couldn’t go on.
“What? What have you done? Who is “him”?” Claire asked, inching closer.
“Mr. Rueben!” Trudy wailed. “I’ve told on him…and he was innocent. Jack Cameron asked me to…he said that he and I could be sweethearts if I…if I would be the one to go to Miss Victory. I see now that he was being cowardly and tricking me, but I’ve gone and done it Claire! It’s done! And Miss Victory called Mr. Rueben into her office and I passed him on the stairs…oh Claire! If you had seen his eyes, you’d be crying too!”
Claire looked terrified.
“Has he come down yet?” She asked anxiously.
Trudy shook her head rust-red head violently.
“No, she’s raising her voice at him…shouting. He isn’t saying anything. And Claire…dear Claire! I…I must have exaggerated some things. Jack was listening…I wanted to impress him, show him that I wasn’t a goody-two-shoe. And now Miss Victory is taking it so far…she’s accusing him of things that aren’t true and he’s just, just sitting in there.”
Claire leapt up from her mattress and dashed out of her room, leaving the heavy door ajar.
Trudy followed her only that far, and seeing that she was headed toward Victory Tower, Trudy Richards just stopped in her shoes and cried on the doorframe.
Meanwhile, Claire was running as fast as she could, shoes tapping loudly on the stone steps. She reached the door of the headmistress’ office and stopped, eavesdropping.
“That is all!” Miss Victory was saying. “You are dismissed.”
And so Claire had to dash away again as she heard Mr. Rueben coming toward the door. She ran into her room and pulled Trudy inside before shutting the door. That night they spent a lot of time crying. Claire had cried a lot that semester, you couldn’t blame her, but this time, arm-in-am with Trudy, it was better.
“Claire! Wait for me!” He called Sunday morning.
It had been eight days since Claire’s “incident” and finally they had eaten breakfast without it being mentioned for the first time since. Claire was walking away from the table with her dish and fork. Every student was expected to take their things to the kitchen after every meal. Claire was all the way to the kitchen doors when Pete called to her. She waited for him impatiently until he arrived, out of breath and quite red in contrast to his black hair.
“Can I take that for you?” He asked enthusiastically.
Claire handed him the dishes quite briskly.
“You could’ve offered before I walked all the way over here.” She noted aloud.
Pete looked heartbroken.
“I’m sorry Claire, I really am. I wish I would’ve thought of that. You always have the best ideas Claire. You really do.” Pete said, so sickly sweet that Claire couldn’t help but reveal her disgust facially.
“That’s fine Peter,” She said, looking a little dizzy after his performance. “It is never too late to be a gentleman.”
Pete’s face lit up now. These days his moods and expressions were as fickle as springtime in Texas.
“Do you really think so Claire Dear?” He asked.
Claire’s eyes lit up.
“Pete Jenkins,” She said taking the dishes out of his arms. “I will take my own dishes. You seem to have mistaken me for someone else.”
Poor Pete was left dumbfounded, recapping every word he had spoken.
“Claire! What did I do Dear?” He asked, following her into the kitchen.
“That!” Claire said, setting her plate in the sink. “You called me “Dear”. I am not your sweetheart.” She explained, head shaking so as her sandy hair swung around like the ears of a spaniel.
“Oh, oh I see.” Pete said jaw still dropped in confusion.
“Good morning class!” Mr. Rueben said cheerfully the next morning.
A few students sighed, noting that Mr. Rueben was nearly always in a good mood before he did something odd.
“I’ve been reading,” He continued. “The Weekly Warble.”
The students snickered as their history teacher held up the newest edition of Malvina Dakota’s weekly newspaper. It was a famous rumor-starter and was “basically just gossip jotted down” as Trudy called it.
“I was reading about Claire Winters and Pete Jenkins.” He added.
Everyone made faces, sounds and turned colors, so numerous that I won’t bother listing them all.
“But,” Mr. Rueben said. “Knowing Claire, Pete and Malvina,” He said, looking mostly at Malvina. “I know that it isn’t true that they’ve been, quote, ‘kissing under the pale moonlight, dancing the night away,’ etc. etc. etc.”
And he tossed the paper in the wastebasket with a look of “beware” as the class burst into giggling.
“Now,” Mr. Rueben said straightening his vest. “Let us continue with the lesson and practice more respectable ways to use ink and paper.”
Judith passed a note to Trudy. Mr. Rueben looked up expectantly.
“Yes?” He asked.
Everyone shook their heads.
“We didn’t say anything.” Everyone said truthfully.
“No?” Mr. Rueben asked, scanning the class as he spoke. “I thought I heard a note being passed.”
A few people smirked.
“Ah!” He said after a moment. “What is that in your hand Trudy?”
Trudy bit her lip.
“I note.” She blurted.
“May I read it?” Mr. Rueben asked politely, though everyone knew that there wasn’t an option.
Trudy, who hadn’t even read the note for herself, nodded and got up. As she walked to the desk, she felt as if Judith was going to throw a knife into her back. Luckily she sat back down unharmed.
Tru,
You know how we used to say that Mr. Rueben looked peculiar? Well I’ve decided that he’s rather handsome. He may not be the best teacher…still odd…but he is good-looking, don’t you think?
Judith
Mr. Rueben smiled at Judith, who was hereby, nicknamed “Judith Red-Appleby,” and tossed the note on top of The Weekly Warble. Soon Judith regained her natural color and the class continued.
“Today is an unusual day,” Mr. Rueben began. “Not only is it the first November tenth, 1886 ever, it is also Teacher Question Day.”
Claire’s eyes jolted from her desk to her teacher’s face and a few boys made idiotic faces saying things like “What day?”
“Don’t worry!” Mr. Rueben said, putting his hands up as if to calm a wild dog. “Don’t check your calendar books or think that you were supposed to have anything prepared for this special occasion. Teacher Question Day is simply a day when you can ask whatever question you want. You aren’t all allowed a chance to ask questions during class and sometimes the off topic questions are pushed to the side, so I thought that a day dedicated to those questions might be welcomed.”
A hand appeared in the air.
“Yes Mr. Snow?” Mr. Rueben asked.
Bob fumbled through a history book.
“I have a question, sir; about page…103…paragraph four. What is ‘Black Friday’ referring to?”
Mr. Rueben took some time to locate his own copy of that book and find that particular paragraph and re-read it.
“Mm,” He grunted. “Here it is referring to a gold-speculation financial crisis in ’69. You can see the notes in the back for more information. Thank you for the interest Mr. Snow.”
Mr. Rueben scanned the classroom for more hands.
Another floated up like a hesitant balloon.
“Yes Miss Tyler?” He asked.
“Um, Mr. Rueben, what did you mean the other day when you said that page thirty in this book was wrong?” Wanda asked.
Mr. Rueben squinted.
“I meant what I said Miss Tyler. I don’t agree with page thirty. I told you that you could skip it because it was incorrect.”
Silence fell over the room.
“How many of you read that page after class?” He asked.
Most of the hands in the room were slowly appearing in midair.
“Did you all agree with it?” He asked.
The hands faded back into their laps, nobody wanting to respond.
“But Mr. Rueben,” Came Wanda’s screechy voice again. “The school requires this curriculum.”
“Yes!” Mr. Rueben said. “They do.” He looked frustrated at this thought.
“Anyone else?” He asked. “Miss Yar?”
Poppy who was, as you may remember, a “whiz” asked the next question.
“On page four paragraph one…” She began.
“Doesn’t anyone have any questions besides that involving the lessons?” Mr. Rueben interupted.
Everyone looked a little confused; after all, he was a teacher, not someone to make small talk with.
Finally, after a couple moments, Allen Jacobs, a hefty and blond Scotch boy, raised his hand.
“Why did you want to become a teacher?” He huffed over his plump chest which seemed too close to his chin.
Mr. Rueben didn’t miss a beat. He dismissed the question with a simple:
“I didn’t” And then looked for another hand.
Claire suddenly wondered why she was smiling. She felt proud of Mr. Rueben.
Many of the children raised their hands now like five year olds answering an arithmetic equation which they had memorized.
Mr. Rueben pointed casually to a girl who asked: “Why?”
“Because,” Said Mr. Rueben coolly. “Unfortunately in our modern America, poets are not respected, wealthy or famous. My father told me that I had to at least try to be one of these things…preferable all three. So he sent me to the best schools and told me to become a teacher.”
He was now behind his desk, shoulders and eyelids sagging slightly. He pointed to another hand, suddenly looking as if this class was exhausting him. The conversation went something like this:
Student 1: “You wanted to be a poet?”
Mr. Rueben: “I was a poet.”
Student 2:“My mum says that teaching a fine career.”
Mr. Rueben: “She should try it sometime.”
Student 2: “But aren’t you proud of Beekman?”
Mr. Rueben: “I am proud of each of you if that answers the question.”
Student 3: “Don’t you ever plan to marry?”
Mr. Rueben: “That depends.”
Student 4: “Imagine!”
Mr. Rueben: “Are there any other questions?”
Claire: “Are other classes celebrating “Teacher Question Day”?”
Mr. Rueben (smiling): “Not that I know of.”
That evening Claire sat on her bed and wrote to Marvin, then wadded the letter into a ball and threw it into the waste basket. Sighing, she fell onto her pillow.
“Claire?” Said Trudy, walking into the room.
“Mm?” Claire muttered, a little surprised to be spoken too.
“I want-I want to apologize.” Trudy said with the fearful expression that can be found in the eyes of someone who is repenting on their death-bed.
“What is the matter Tru? You know I’ve forgiven you. You believe my story, I can tell, and I don’t care about how you’ve treated me…we’ve treated each other. You know what they say about bygones…” Her heart was in her eyes, pleading for mending.
“But Claire,” Trudy said sitting down on the end of her roommate’s bed. “I’ve done something terrible.” She poked her face into a cotton handkerchief.
“You weren’t that terrible.” Claire soothed. “You didn’t understand at first…it is alright.”
“Not that!” Trudy said, now crying uncontrollably. “Something just now! I’ve betrayed you…and him.” She looked as if she couldn’t go on.
“What? What have you done? Who is “him”?” Claire asked, inching closer.
“Mr. Rueben!” Trudy wailed. “I’ve told on him…and he was innocent. Jack Cameron asked me to…he said that he and I could be sweethearts if I…if I would be the one to go to Miss Victory. I see now that he was being cowardly and tricking me, but I’ve gone and done it Claire! It’s done! And Miss Victory called Mr. Rueben into her office and I passed him on the stairs…oh Claire! If you had seen his eyes, you’d be crying too!”
Claire looked terrified.
“Has he come down yet?” She asked anxiously.
Trudy shook her head rust-red head violently.
“No, she’s raising her voice at him…shouting. He isn’t saying anything. And Claire…dear Claire! I…I must have exaggerated some things. Jack was listening…I wanted to impress him, show him that I wasn’t a goody-two-shoe. And now Miss Victory is taking it so far…she’s accusing him of things that aren’t true and he’s just, just sitting in there.”
Claire leapt up from her mattress and dashed out of her room, leaving the heavy door ajar.
Trudy followed her only that far, and seeing that she was headed toward Victory Tower, Trudy Richards just stopped in her shoes and cried on the doorframe.
Meanwhile, Claire was running as fast as she could, shoes tapping loudly on the stone steps. She reached the door of the headmistress’ office and stopped, eavesdropping.
“That is all!” Miss Victory was saying. “You are dismissed.”
And so Claire had to dash away again as she heard Mr. Rueben coming toward the door. She ran into her room and pulled Trudy inside before shutting the door. That night they spent a lot of time crying. Claire had cried a lot that semester, you couldn’t blame her, but this time, arm-in-am with Trudy, it was better.
