Grade My Teacher: A Short Story, Page 2

  “I was crazy about this guy. He was divorced, too. We ate lunch together every day, went to the movies with a group of other single teachers, even played on a coed softball team. It was a lot of fun.”

  “Was it Mr. Oberman?”

  “Mr. Oberman?” Vicki couldn’t help laughing. Dan Oberman was a slovenly history teacher, a sadsack who lived with his mother and had been wearing the same three sweater vests for the past ten years. “You think I’d have a crush on Mr. Oberman?”

  “He’s not so bad.”

  “Anyway, I got really motivated about walking every day and watching what I ate, and I lost about twenty pounds. I could see he was looking at me in a different way, complimenting my outfits, and you know, just paying attention, and I finally decided to go for it. At the faculty Christmas party, I took him aside and told him how I felt. He said he had feelings for me, too. He drove me home that night and we…” A bit late, Vicki’s sense of decorum kicked in.

  “You hooked up?” Jessica pretended to be scandalized. “Was it Mr. McAdams?”

  “He’s a married man.”

  “Come on, just tell me.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we had that one night together and I was so happy. I could see my whole life laid out in front of me.” Vicki laughed at herself, a short, scornful bark. “But he didn’t call the next day, or the day after that…”

  “Or the day after that,” Jessica continued. “Been there.”

  “Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and I called him. He got all serious on me. You know that voice, like a doctor telling you you’re gonna die. You have to understand, Vicki, I like you a lot but what happened the other night was a mistake. I had too much to drink, blah, blah, blah…”

  “Let’s be friends,” Jessica added knowingly. “That totally sucks.”

  “I’ll tell you what sucks. Three months later he got engaged to a pretty, young gym teacher. And guess who got invited to their wedding? Good old Vicki.”

  “Mr. Turley?” Jessica gasped. “You hooked up with Mr. Turley?”

  “It was just that once.”

  “He’s cute for an old guy,” Jessica said. “Didn’t Ms. Leoni just have a baby?”

  “Yeah. Sweet little boy.”

  “Ouch.”

  Vicki nodded. Ouch was right. She didn’t tell Jessica about how drunk she’d gotten at the wedding, how the bride’s mother found her crying in the bathroom and listened to Vicki’s confession of her love for the groom with surprising compassion, telling Vicki that she understood how hard it must be, that she’d gone through something similar back when she was single. You have to forget him, she said. You have to move on with your life.

  Jessica slurped the last of her Frappuccino and studied Vicki with a look of anxious sympathy. “You think you’re ever gonna meet someone else?”

  Vicki wasn’t surprised by the question. It was something she’d asked herself frequently in recent years. If she’d been honest, she would’ve said that she’d come to the conclusion that Mr. Turley had been her last shot, and that she’d pretty much resigned herself to spending the remainder of her life alone. But it was clear from the way Jessica was looking at her—hungrily, with the kind of focus Vicki rarely inspired in the classroom—that she was asking an entirely different question.

  “Of course,” Vicki told her. “Of course I’ll meet someone. I just have to be patient.”

  * * *

  That night she ate dinner alone, graded some homework assignments she should’ve handed back a week ago, and called her son, who was a junior at Rutgers. As usual, Ben didn’t pick up, so she just left a brief message: Hey, honey, it’s your mom. Give me a call when you get a chance. Love you. Then she watched an episode of CSI: Miami and the first part of the news before finally working up the nerve to turn on her computer.

  She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous. She and Jessica had parted on good terms, joking in the Starbucks parking lot about heading across the street to Bruno’s for a large sausage-and-pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. It was early evening, and the light had seemed unusually soft and forgiving as they said goodbye. Left to her own devices, Vicki wasn’t much of a hugger—she saw how people hesitated sometimes, and it took a lot of the pleasure out of it—but Jessica didn’t share her qualms. Before Vicki understood what was happening, the girl was moving toward her with her arms out, their two bodies bumping together, the sensation so familiar it was almost as if she were embracing herself.

  “So,” Jessica said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” Vicki felt a sudden odd emptiness as the girl let go. She was surprised to realize that she was close to tears. “You have a nice night.”

  Jessica had promised to delete the offensive post on grademyteacher.com, and Vicki was pretty sure she trusted her to keep her word. Still, she felt a vague sense of foreboding as she scrolled down the alphabetical list of Gifford teachers—there was Becky Leoni (6.7) and good old Sam Turley (7.2)—a queasy suspicion that something unpleasant was about to unfold.

  But it was okay. The post was gone, wiped away as if it had never even existed. Vicki felt a moment of pure satisfaction—justice had been done, a crooked thing made straight—as well as a rush of affection for the girl, who really was a lovely person despite the awful things she’d written. Her attack was just a projection, an attempt to displace negative feelings for herself onto someone else. Vicki understood all too well how that sort of thing worked.

  Her relief didn’t last for long, though. Without meaning to, she found herself reading the review that had taken the place of Jessica’s at the top of the Vicki Wiggins’ page on grademyteacher.com. It was several months old, written by a student who called himself “Mr. Amazing”:

  All in all Ms. Wiggins is a pretty good math teacher, except she’s pretty strict about stupid little things. Like she gave this one kid detention cause his cellphone rang in class. Ok he should have turned it off, but was it his fault that someone called him? But like I said she’s not that bad. I don’t care what anybody says there is no way she’s more boring than Mr. Ferrone.

  Vicki had read this post when it first appeared, and had barely given it a second thought. It was actually pretty good as far as these things went—Mr. Amazing had given her a higher-than-average overall rating of 6.0—but right now it just seemed heartbreaking. Was this what she would be remembered for when all was said and done? That she gave some kid detention for a minor offense? That maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t as mind-numbingly dull as Dennis Ferrone?

  I have so much to offer. And no one even notices.

  For a few seconds, she thought about approaching Jessica after class tomorrow, suggesting that she post a new, more generous review on the site just to set the record straight. But it was a lot to ask. And the thought of making such a request was embarrassing beyond words.

  She wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, but it did. It just did. Why wouldn’t it? She was a good person, she worked hard, and it seemed crazy—crazy and wrong—that these things went unacknowledged.

  It turned out to be easier than she expected to register on grademyteacher.com. You just typed in an e-mail address and checked a box that said, I AM A STUDENT AT GIFFORD HIGH SCHOOL. She chose the username Frappuccinogrrrl and wrote the following in the comments box:

  My math teacher Vicki Wiggins is really nice. She’s pretty and really cares about us kids. Like if you were having a problem she’d meet you after school and try to make you feel better because she just wants everybody to be happy. And she knows a lot about math too.

  There was more to say—much more—but space was limited and she decided to stop there. She checked her work, pressed SEND, and turned off her computer. There would be time enough in the morning to wake up and drink a cup of coffee, then maybe google herself before heading off to work. It would be nice, she thought, clicking on her own name and, just for once, finding something that felt like the truth.

  Also by Tom Perrotta


  The Leftovers

  The Abstinence Teacher

  Little Children

  Joe College

  Election

  The Wishbones

  Bad Haircut: Stories of the Seventies

  About the Author

  Author photo courtesy of Mark Ostow

  Tom Perrotta is the author of eight books. His first was a book of linked stories, Bad Haircut, his most recent the New York Times bestselling novel The Leftovers, which is being developed into a series for HBO. Two of Perrotta’s novels—Election and Little Children—have been made into acclaimed and award-winning movies, and he was nominated for an Academy Award for the Little Children screenplay he adapted from his own book. Perrotta grew up in New Jersey and now lives outside of Boston, Massachusetts. Visit the author’s Web site at www.tomperrotta.net.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this Story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  GRADE MY TEACHER Copyright © 2013 by Tom Perrotta. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by James Iacobelli

  Cover photograph © George Marks/Getty Images

  e-ISBN 9781466849112

  First published in Five Points in February 2012

  First E-Book Edition: August 2013