Liar’s Dice

Sometimes, I just feel like telling a story. This is one of those days.

Around 2005, I was still in the midst of working full-time, laboring in room 133 at Wheeling High School. Most days are pretty routine and forgettable. Once in a while, you remember the day.

Whatever you think you know about high school is likely untrue (unless you’ve toiled in the trenches). A quick primer. Freshmen are the devil. They enter as eighth graders living and reliving the highs of junior high and stay that way most of the year. They should be avoided.

Sophomores are a large cut above frosh and generally tolerable. Give me tenth graders over the nines every day of the week. Still, they are the wise fools. Juniors are a year older and wiser, but still acting like middle management. Old enough to drive and work, which means their toys are better, but they’re not much wiser than sophomores. Seniors vary from arrogance (big fish, little pond) to abject fear at the thought of leaving the cocoon.

One day, I was teaching World Lit, average track for sophomores. Sarah (front row, good student) approached me after class. “Mr. Hurley, can I tell you something?” I nodded. “The guy back there, Brent. He is doing something.”

Pretty vague. I stayed cool, unsure what Sarah meant. I smiled and gestured for more. “Whenever you turn and write on the board, Brent, um, flips you off. Nobody really wants to confront him. I thought you should know.” I thanked Sarah for revealing the secret.

After she left, I pondered my options. I could do nothing, but risked losing the class. I could accuse Brent privately, but I couldn’t prove anything. I could try to collect some witnesses to back me, but that could go south in a hurry. Calling home might work. Might make it worse. Maybe a heart to heart, remind him of the goodness in him, sing a few choruses of Kumbaya? I’m no Michelle Pfeiffer (on so many levels) or Jaime Escalante, and this isn’t a Disney movie.

Brent wasn’t a thug. He was a middling student, big dude, a bit rough around the edges, but no problem. I mean, no problem in addition to flying the Hawaiian good luck sign whenever possible. He didn’t love writing and lit (a member of a very large club). But he worked successfully at a large appliance store, so he had some work ethic. I wanted him to stop without escalating the situation.

I told a few teachers, some experienced folks. They asked if they could come watch.

I chatted with Ramon our dean. He had no record on Brent and no good suggestion either. I asked, “What if I can get him on video? I have a camera. That would be proof, right?” This was before every phone was a camera, every event recorded for public consumption and profit. Video cameras were rarer, larger, and usually obvious.

Ramon laughed. “Sure,” he said. “But if you don’t have his consent to record, I can’t use it.”

Walking back to my room, I hatched a plan. I knew the law, and Ramon knew the law. But did Brent know the law?

One corner of my classroom was cluttered with Debate stuff. The file cabinet, bookshelf, coat closet, all of them served as countertops for trophies and mailboxes and files and books. Students had no concern with my mess. It was the visual equivalent of white noise.

Right before fourth period, I locked the door, climbed a chair, and hit Record. I unlocked the door and welcomed the masses. My biggest challenge was to avoid looking in that direction. Act natural, I kept telling myself. Be cool.

That day, I taught House on Mango Street with my hair on fire. My heart was pounding, adrenal glands firing, I must have turned my back on the class twenty times. I wrote everything I could think of on the board, filling it with mostly worthless commentary.

I had practiced my big finish, and I had only one shot to do it right. In the final few minutes, I lied to the class, explaining to them I had been challenged by my division head to improve my lecturing skills. As I spoke, I inched toward the closet, finally sliding a chair and climbing on it. Yeah, they thought I was nuts.

I pushed a few trophies to the side, grabbed the hidden camera, and stepped down. “To improve my skills, I taped our class today. Surprise! I pointed the camera so I could see my teaching and your reactions.” They were confused. Perfect.

To impress this point, I pushed Rewind. The camera whirred and whirred. During the whole reveal, I glanced at Brent several times. Unhappy and tense, he was wringing his hands. He didn’t know I was a toothless lion.

When the tape fully rewound, I lifted the cassette and held it aloft. “This little baby is gonna make me a better teacher, I hope. I’m actually looking forward to watching this with my boss later. I might even show it to some other teachers, if I can find something worth sharing. Big thank you to everyone.”

I grinned and locked on Brent. He did not return my smile. But Sarah and a few others did.

The bell rang, and everyone filed out. Except Brent. He stood awkwardly by my podium, avoiding eye contact, clearing his throat. “Can I help you, Brent?” I asked.

“Yeah, um, there’s something on the tape.”

“This?” I held it up, just a little closer to him. And I tried not to laugh.

“You’re gonna see it, Mr. Hurley. It was supposed to be a joke.” He looked down and picked at his nails. “Anyway, I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

I looked away, pretending to ponder his cryptic words. “We’re good, Brent. I’m curious, though. I really want to watch the tape now!” He didn’t laugh. I tapped the tape a few times for effect. “Anyway, I’ll hang on to this, ya know, just in case.” He exited without another word.

A few follow-ups to the story. I did watch the tape and Brent flipped me off at nearly every opportunity. He was very committed to his art, emphatic even. I never saw that emotion when we discussed pronouns. And no, I don’t still have the tape.

I showed a few colleagues; they loved it every time. “Ooh, this is my favorite one, when he double salutes you!” Teachers love it when a colleague gets roasted

As the class progressed, I checked in with Sarah a few times. She said he never flew the eagle again in class. She confirmed it with some others too. I thanked her several times.

Every day after that one, my class came in and scanned the room for hidden cameras. Sometimes, they climbed on furniture or speculated where I would next hide my device. Just for the fun of it, I brought the camera and hid it badly, so they could enjoy the satisfaction of finding it. I never taped them again.

I have no moral to the story, no grand application or philosophical musing. I just felt like telling a story.

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